The Tale of the English Templar

Corbiere handed him a silver chalice already moist with perspiration from the chilled wine. Corbiere seated himself in the chair opposite, and remarked, “I was in the ante-room while you had your audience with His Holiness.”

“Yes.” Geoffrey sipped the wine, at once on the alert.

“Clerics who witnessed your audience with Clement reported that you had given refuge to an escaped Templar.”

“Yes.”

“That was a courageous thing to do.”

Geoffrey shrugged.

“Yet everyone agreed that even you, my lord, would not have had the courage to admit what you had done to His Holiness — in the presence of officers of the Inquisition — if the Templar you rescued had not long since been dead and buried.”

Geoffrey hid his face behind the chalice. That is what he wanted them all to think.

“But what,” Corbiere continued, leaning closer to him and lowering his voice, “if the Templar had still been alive and in your care? Would you not then have chosen to condemn the Temple loudly — as our Marshal did?”

Geoffrey started so violently that he splashed wine on his face and had to wipe it hastily away with the hem of his surcoat. After he’d restored his dignity, he looked over and studied the Hospitaller. He had an elegant but well-tanned face and a salt-and-pepper beard that spoke of experience.

“All across France,” Corbiere told Geoffrey in a low voice, “Templars who had for one reason or another evaded arrest on Friday the 13th, turned to their families or — if they had none — to their brothers in other Orders. Lay brothers and priests were given refuge by the Augustinians, Cistercians, Benedictines and Franciscans. But sergeants and knights turned naturally to the Hospital.”

Geoffrey felt the words warming and comforting him. “Thank you for telling me this.”

“Perhaps we could publicly express scepticism about the charges against the Templars without endangering the individuals we have helped, but are we not vulnerable to similar charges for similar reasons? Are we perhaps already next on the list? King Philip must covet our lands no less than the Temple’s. I suspect he only postponed an attack on us because he knows that we have indebted ourselves for the next thirty years to finance the operations against Rhodes. King Philip could indeed seize our properties — but they are devoid of cash and heavily mortgaged. Seizure of our land would bring more harm than benefit to his treasury.” This made sense to Geoffrey, and he nodded his understanding.

“You can accuse us of being timid,” Corbiere admitted. “But it is the opinion of my superiors that the existence of our Order is at stake and cannot be endangered by a defence of the Temple.”

“Surely that is the very reason you should protest! If the other Orders would stand together against the King...” Geoffrey did not bother to finish. He knew that nothing could get the other religious orders to come to the Temple’s defence. There was too much jealousy. The Temple had robbed them of too many fat bequests and wealthy recruits over the past two centuries. Oh God, how petty it all was.

“No one is prepared to risk the anger of King Philip for the sake of an Order that made many enemies with its privileges and its pride. For the Hospital, the decision has been made that, once Rhodes is secure, we will make haste to remove as many men and valuables from the French King’s grasp as possible, but we will not risk his wrath so long as we are vulnerable.”

Geoffrey nodded and set aside his chalice. Rationally, he understood the decision. He suspected the Templars would not have behaved differently if the roles had been reversed. Still, he no longer had the stomach for the sweet wine. “Forgive me. I am exhausted.”

Corbiere at once got to his feet and helped Geoffrey stand. “I will send a brother to attend you, my lord. Feel free to be my guest as long as you wish.” He rang a silver bell.

Geoffrey was led to a spacious and well-appointed guest chamber, evidently intended for high-ranking visitors. There were two double-light windows admitting the low afternoon sunshine. Wainscoting encased the walls to the base of the windows and the plaster above was decoratively painted with flowers and birds. Geoffrey went to each window and unlatched the small, iron-framed casement to let in fresh air from the garden below. Then he sank on to the window seat and gazed towards the setting sun, already orange and shapeless on the horizon behind a copse of trees.

A knock on the door brought him back from his directionless reverie. The middle-aged man who entered was dressed in the robes of a sergeant Hospitaller. He bowed to Geoffrey and offered his services. As he knelt to remove the knight’s spurs, Geoffrey noted that he was missing three and a half fingers on his right hand. “Were you in the Holy Land?” Geoffrey asked automatically.

“Yes, my lord, until the fall of Tripoli.”

With the stub of his forefinger and his thumb, the man deftly released the buckle of the spurs, but he hesitated a moment as he went to slip them from Geoffrey’s heel, studying the diamonds set in the enamel fleur-de-lis. Geoffrey unbuckled his sword as the sergeant removed the second spur. He slipped the heavy sword belt off his hips with a sigh of relief, and it hung heavy in his hand as he held it out to the sergeant. Instead of taking it, the sergeant recoiled at the sight of the hilt and almost fell backwards off the steps of the window.

Their eyes met. “Do you recognise it?” Geoffrey asked slowly. The man hardly looked old enough to have known Sonnac.

“The... the... there was a legend that old Templars told...”

“Go on. And there is no need to fear it.” Geoffrey held it out insistently, his arm tired.

The sergeant timidly took the belt in his hands, careful to avoid touching the hilt, as if it were too sacred to touch. He stared at it.

“You were saying. There is a legend?” Geoffrey pressed gently.

“There was a sword that held a finger bone of Saint John the Baptist in the hilt.”

“There is such a sword, yes.”

“No, this sword belonged to the Master of the Knights Templar.”

“To William de Sonnac, yes.”

“But when he died before Mansourah, he was wearing a different sword. The sword with the Baptist’s hand had ... disappeared. Master de Beaujeu did not have. It was said that if he had had it, we would not have lost Acre...”

“The legend, as I heard it, said that no man could be killed so long as he held the Baptist’s hand in his. The man who held that sword at Acre is still alive.”

“Are you...?”

“No. I was not at Acre. I was at Mansourah. Master de Sonnac buckled that sword around my hips personally — just days before his own death.”

“And were you... ? Are you...?” The sergeant licked his lips, his eyes almost pleaded.

“I was a novice of the Temple; I did not take the final vows.”

“Do you believe these lies?” The sergeant’s eyes flashed up angrily, and his cheeks reddened with outrage above his thick, curly beard.

“How could I? My son was with Beaujeu. You wear false colours, don’t you?”

The sergeant swallowed and then he bent and kissed the cross in the pommel of the sword. He lifted his eyes challengingly to the old man. Geoffrey drew himself to his feet and then embraced the sergeant. “What is your name, Brother?”

“Giles, my lord.”

“Corbiere says you are not alone.”

“What do you mean? I am the only Templar here. All my brothers were taken! All of them! I saw seven of them taken in chains to the royal dungeon in Chauvigny. Knights who had spilled their blood for the Holy Land chained together like criminals!”

“But Corbiere tells me that all across France there are others. I myself found a knight who escaped while being transported from Albi to Poitiers. He is... safe. Come, help me out of my armour. I feel it is nearly smothering me.”