The Tale of the English Templar

“Your Holiness, I was myself a Templar novice, and I fought beside Saint Louis in Egypt. At Damietta, I was wounded and at Mansourah, I was knighted by Saint Louis himself.” He thrust his leg forwards and indicated the spurs with the lilies of France. “I did not join the Temple, but I fought and lived with hundreds of Templars. I am convinced that the charges against them are groundless. Even the English knight I found on the road repeated again and again — in his delirium — that he was innocent of these charges. He claimed to have confessed only because he could not bear the torture any longer. Surely the words of a dying man must be given credence, Your Holiness? What did the English Templar have to gain by lying in the last moments before he faced God? Only true repentance could save him at that moment, and he died with the Lord’s Prayer on his lips.”

The room was deathly still, and Geoffrey could sense that he had managed to move most of the men around him.

“It is...” the Pope started rather hesitantly, “certainly possible that the Englishman was innocent. Possibly the poison of heresy, sodomy and corruption has not yet spread across the Channel or the Pyrenees. But am I to believe that all the hundreds of confessions — including that of the senior officers of the Temple —are all lies?”

“I can remember the feel of Greek fire upon my skin, Your Holiness, and I know that I would have said anything to make the burning stop. Anything!” Geoffrey stressed. He was staring straight at the Pope, their eyes fixed on one another and the rest of the room was forgotten.

“Leave us!” the Pope ordered abruptly, sitting up and gesturing irritably to all the cardinals, bishops and abbots.

“Your Holiness —” Father Elion tried to intervene.

“Especially you, Father!” Clement hissed.

Geoffrey turned to Louis and gestured for him to withdraw as well. Muttering and whispering, they all withdrew through one of the various doors until the Pope and Geoffrey were utterly alone. The Pope then gestured for him to come closer.

Geoffrey mounted the first two steps of the papal throne and waited. He was separated from Clement by no more than a yard. He could see that the Pope wore white powder on his face and a touch of rouge. He smelled of sweet bath water. He remembered that this was a man who openly kept a mistress, a noblewoman thirty years younger than himself.

“Monsieur de Preuthune,” Clement opened slowly, “you are a courageous man. You fought against the Saracen for your faith—”

“As did the Knights Templar for nearly two hundred years!” Geoffrey’s fervour combined with the unexpected hope that he might be able to influence this weak man made him forget himself. Ardently he argued, “I was trained in the Temple, Your Holiness. More God-fearing and devout men cannot have been born. They abhorred greed and vanity and simple pleasures and devoted themselves only to the service of God. It is impossible that these charges of heresy and idol worship are anything more than false accusations designed to discredit them.”

The Pope scowled and lifted his hand in startled reproach. He had not expected the same impudence from this nobleman he had had to suffer from the King and his ministers. Geoffrey bit his tongue. “As we were saying, you fought against the Saracen for the sake of your faith, and we know that the Saracens outnumbered the army of Saint Louis many, many times. You are undoubtedly courageous,” the Pope conceded. Geoffrey sensed, however, that this was not entirely a compliment. Clement continued, “You are also a man of simple, straightforward faith. A man of the sword, you are not used to intrigue and the need for discretion. So let us help you, my son.” He paused, looked Geoffrey straight in the eye, and then said slowly and deliberately. “You are a subject of the King of France, and if you do not wish to hang for treason, then you would do well to forget your Templar past.”

Geoffrey could not tell if he were being warned or threatened.

The Pope leaned towards him and whispered. “We too are in great danger. We are the King’s prisoner. The King would not hesitate to charge us with the same crimes as the Templars and our predecessor. We are powerless against him. Neither excommunication nor any other spiritual sanction impresses him. Do you think we haven’t tried? Haven’t you noticed how the city swarms with his soldiers?” Since the arrival of the King in Poitiers, Pope Clement lived in daily fear of kidnapping or outright murder. Hadn’t Nogaret seized Boniface VIII by force and driven him to an early grave? Probably with poison.

Geoffrey saw the fear in the Pope’s eyes and the trembling of his thin hands. This self-indulgent, frightened old man was supposed to be Christ’s vicar? Geoffrey’s disbelief gave way to contempt. This old man cared only for his own survival — and his comfort and the trappings of power. He was not even willing to fight for the substance of his authority. He was prepared to live a sham. He would be content as long as all his creature comforts were met and people pretended to respect him.

Geoffrey chose his words with deliberation, and he spoke softly but distinctly, his eyes fixed on the watery, pale eyes of the Pontiff, “If you had not allowed the King to arrest all the Knights Templar in this kingdom, you could have called upon an army!”

The Pope recoiled. His pointed nose was running and a drop of water hung between the nostrils. “What —”

“The Templars owed their allegiance to no king, only to you. You could have surrounded yourself with the best-trained knights in Christendom, and then you could have challenged Philip — or any king — to any test of strength you liked. They would have died for you, Your Holiness, with the same elan and devotion with which they died for Jerusalem and Acre. You could have made kings dance to your tune or set them aside — instead of letting them treat you like a pawn.”

Clement had gone pale as he stared at Geoffrey. Hastily, he brushed the drop from his nose with the back of his gloved hand and looked away. He swallowed. Geoffrey could see the Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny throat.

“With your permission,” Geoffrey said coldly, and he backed off the dais.

“Wait!” Clement cried, and Geoffrey waited, but it was too late. They both knew it was too late.

The Pope swallowed and wiped again at his running nose. Finally, he muttered in a tone of defeat, “Go with God.” Clement hastily gave a hint of blessing, and Geoffrey made a suggestion of a bow. Then he turned his back on the frightened man occupying the Shoes of the Fisherman and strode out of the audience chamber.