Our journey across France was an adventure the likes of which I had only heard in stories. We lived as knights errant, begging for our bread whenever we came to a town, or going to the church for distribution of alms. Several times as we traveled through lonely places, we were accosted by robbers, but as we had no money, they let us go. Somehow, they never found Pete's sword wrapped in its blanket. Pete said God was protecting us, for they surely would have taken the sword if they had found it.
Pete had a most uncanny talent for picking out safe houses along the road. He could tell at a glance whether or not the people would be friendly to us. It was possible that he had learned a secret list of such places in the past, but how he knew which ones were still safe and which had been discovered, I never found out, and he wouldn't tell me. I suspected some kind of mark on the door, but I couldn't see it. The people we met in these houses seemed always to know that we were renegade Templars, for they called us 'Brother' when they spoke to us. In the poorer houses, we slept with the families all in one room, even with their goats and animals; it made me homesick for my old home in Albi. Other times, we slept in stables or barns, and one night we passed in an orchard.
Wherever we went, wherever we stayed, we learned what had been passing in the outside world after our arrests. We learned of the Hospitallers' taking of the isle of Rhodes as base from which to fight the Turks. Since their loss of Krak des Chevaliers, they had not had a home. In many places, we heard troubadours singing of the deeds of William Wallace, for his tale had grown quite popular. We gathered news of the Templars. It was said that some had escaped, and that when the king's men took the Temple in Paris, they found the treasury gone; some said it had been smuggled out a few days before the arrests. The entire Templar fleet at La Rochelle, the ships with which we had transported pilgrims to and from the Holy Land, had vanished without a trace! We learned that in Spain and England, Germany and Cyprus, the Order had been found innocent of the charge of heresy. Only in France, and in some of the papal provinces in Italy, were our brothers still being persecuted.
In one of the house where we stayed, we learned that a large group of knights was gathering in the forests around Lyons, but for what reason no one knew. Pete decided that we had better go there, for he suspected they were planning an attack of some sort on Vienne, as it was only twenty miles south of Lyons. He speculated that they might even be planning to kidnap the Pope. Pete knew that such a rash act must be stopped, and as we lay one night in a cave, he told me of his plan to go to Lyons to stop them. “If we attack the Holy Father,” he said with great passion, “our cause is lost forever. We must trust in the rule of Law.”
On the roof of the cave, someone had painted pictures of animals: bulls, horses, and strange beasts with long noses, which looked like elephants. "Who do you suppose painted these?" I asked Pete. "Romans?"
"Possibly. Hannibal had elephants in his army when he crossed the Alps," Pete answered. "Perhaps these were painted in remembrance of that event by people who witnessed it."
"The elephants had mighty tusks in those days," I commented, noticing the great sweeping curves of their ivory. "Have you ever seen an elephant?"
"There were many in Rome when I was there, but none so large as these, nor so shaggy."
*
A light dust hung above the road as we traveled, and wood smoke from the cooking fires curled among the treetops in the evening. Willy, the gray ass we had borrowed from our brother Templars, was as fine a mount as a poor crippled man could want; he was so patient and kind and had so sweet a disposition that I suspected him of being descended of that famous ass that had carried Our Lord in Jerusalem so long ago. However, Pete insisted on naming the poor beast Willy, after William de Nogaret, the king's counsellor and architect of our arrests. It was an insult to the ass, to be sure.
The summer was growing old. The leaves of the trees were turning to yellow and scarlet, and the slanting rays of the afternoon sun turned the white walls of the houses to gold. Out in the countryside, with the ripe fields and the long sinuous lines of the vineyards crawling across the hills, and the laughter and songs of the peasants in the evenings and the dirty faces of the children, I was reminded of home in Albi. It was years since I had seen my old village, and a great longing came into my heart to return there when this was done.
We found Lyons nervous and agitated, like a town on the frontier of war. Everyone, simply everyone, knew of the knights in the forests around town, and they knew that some bold action was being prepared. Wagonloads of supplies went out to the forests every day. But it was some time before we could get any information from anyone, not until they were absolutely convinced we were truly who we said we were. The people seemed to have developed a great affection for 'their knights', as they called them, and they didn't want anything bad to happen to them; they were protecting them from the spies of King Philip the Fair, the monarch they openly despised. At last, the elders of the town accepted us, and we were led out to the place where the leaders of the knights met. A small Italian boy was given to us as a guide, and as he rode on Willy with me, I noticed him continually looking at the ground to either side of us, as though he were following a track. So I asked him, "What are you doing?"
"I am looking for where you have hidden your feet, sir," he answered in his own language. I had some difficulty understanding him, for I had not spoken Italian since my youth.
"I have no feet," I said.
"Where you come from, does God not give the people feet?" he asked.
"God gave me feet," I told him, "but the king of France burned them off."
"The king of France is not a Christian," he said. Such was that people's hatred of Philip the Fair. He had annexed Lyons not very many years before.
After an hour or so, we entered a large tract of forest south of the city, not too far from the Rhone River. Just before we entered the forest, we could see a great bend of the river sweeping into the trees. The woods were most thick and darksome, for they were very old, a remnant of that same old forest where the Gauls fought the Romans, where Celt howled and werewolf prowled as they used to say, and which used to cover the whole of France and most of Europe. The boles of the trees were black and huge, and the branches overhead were woven into such a thick mat of leaves that little light reached the brown leafy mould below. The boy knew the path well, else we surely would have become lost. Willy grew nervous and switched his tail; his ears turned this way and that. Endless rows of dark trunks stretched down and away as we descended toward the river, and the path meandered between them. Soft furtive noises arose to either side of the path as we passed, and black squirrels scampered about in the canopy above us, shaking the leaves and dropping acorns onto the trail. One dropped into my lap, frightening me more than if it had been a snake. The forest was old, old, older than France, older than Christianity; it was as old as Noah and sprang up in the strange and mysterious time when few men knew God. I was terrified, but Pete only laughed at me. The boy seemed at home.
"Why are you afraid?" he asked me. "God's own knights live here, but nothing evil."
At last, the path began to rise as it climbed onto a last knoll or ridge before the land made its last descent to the river. The trees began to thin, sunlight peeked through the roof in spots, and the place became less dark and lonesome. We heard birds singing ahead as we climbed up toward the sun. Soon, we came upon an encampment of knights. Pete cried out and ran ahead, and the knights rose and turned to look. They wore red crosses.
"See," the boy said, pointing. "There are the Knights of God."
*
That night, a general chapter was held. They led us to the top of the hill where we found a clearing, a grassy knoll surrounded like a tonsured pate by a ring of huge ancient oaks. In the center of this high place there was a flat slab of blue stone as big as a bed; there they placed me and told Pete to sit beside me. At the head of the stone there was a narrow, diamond-shaped hole surrounded by crystals. One of the knights showed it to me, and he said that according to the local people, this was the stone where Arthur drew Excalibur. He told me that the place was called Arthur's Crown. Frankly, I thought the place looked more like an old druid's temple, and I shuddered to think of the pagan rituals that had been practiced there. Then Pete pointed out how similar in design the place was to the Temples in Paris and London. "Stand a cross on this slab," he said, "and you have almost exactly the standard Temple design."
Pete would have been the ranking member at the chapter had he been a true knight, and he was by far the oldest person there other than me. All the knights who had gathered were young, not one older than thirty. As they slowly filed past, each greeting me with a grave reverence which made me feel most uncomfortable, it occurred to me that, almost by design, the youth and vitality of the order had somehow avoided the arrests and tortures we were forced to endure. It seemed only those with the greatest experience and wisdom were chosen to undergo the trial, while the young men who would be the future of the order were set aside, protected, so that they could carry on.
And carry on they did. That night, three young men from Lyons begged to join the order and were accepted. When this was done, Pete stood and told of the papal inquiries and his plans to defend the Order before them. Each point of the accusations was discussed in full, and all in attendance were asked to tell whether they had seen or heard of any acts similar to the charges leveled against us: namely -- worshipping an idol in the shape of a head, revering Satan in the form of a black cat, lewd kissing of the grandmaster or preceptor - particularly on the anus or in virga virili - at any reception of new members, had anyone been required to deny Christ or God or the Virgin, spit on or trample the Cross, or been enjoined to commit sodomy by any member of the order. Everyone roundly denied all these charges. Then Pete told of deaths of brother Knights both by torture and by fire. He told of the burning of the fifty-four near the Porte de Saint Antoine, and at this there was much angry shouting, while others wept openly. I was then called to tell what had happened to me. I had little enough to say. My feet were burned off in a slow fire, and I was condemned to life imprisonment because I had not confessed. They cheered me so vigorously that I blushed; I thought my heart would burst with love for those good brave men.
Then we heard more of what had been passing in the world. We learned of the escapes of brothers from France and of the trials in other countries. In Germany, a trial was held at which the preceptor of Metz, Hugo von Grumbach, appeared suddenly in full armor, backed by twenty knights, and demanded the right to trial by combat to defend the Order. As neither the archbishop nor anyone else was prepared to accept the challenge, the Order was absolved of all charges. We also learned of places where Templars were not only accepted, they were welcomed and even eagerly sought: in Aragon, Castille, and Portugal knights were needed to fight the Moors; in Germany some had joined the Teutonic Knights, others joined the Hospitallers at Rhodes and in other countries; but the most promising place seemed to be Scotland, where Robert Bruce was seeking knights to help him in his fight against England. Robert was excommunicate, so his lands were considered the safest place for other excommunicates, such as ourselves.
Some of the men were in favor of leaving France entire, and most of these seemed eager to sail for Scotland right away. But the vast majority were all for a repeat of Hugo von Grumbach's success at Metz; they wanted to march into Vienne in force and demand justice from the Pope, and if his holiness refused, they would take him captive. The knights' representatives at the chapter reckoned there to be between fifteen hundred and two thousand knights scattered around Lyons, more than enough to take the city of Vienne and all its dignitaries and hold them until the charges against the Order were dropped, our brothers still in prison released, our leaders returned, and our lands and treasures restored. According to our spies, twenty cardinals, four patriarches, and over a hundred bishops and archbishops were already in Vienne, awaiting the beginning of the Council on the morrow. For fighting men trained in a long tradition of capture and ransom, this seemed too rich a prize to pass up.
Only by drawing upon the deepest reserves of his persuasive powers did Pete manage to forestall their designs. For two days and nights, the general chapter dragged on and on in endless argument, until word reached us that the representatives of the Council in Vienne had called for defenders of the order to appear, with full guarantees of protection. This finally swayed them to pursue the cautious course advocated by Pete. In the end, it was decided that seven should go to Vienne, but they should be fully armed. Pete, of course, wanted to be one of the seven, but this only started them arguing again. In the meanwhile, I was to be sent ahead, and there they would call me as a witness if they needed me, once they arrived.
I truly did not wish to be separated from Pete. We had been through so much together, but they rushed me away, and I never got to say good-bye to him. I saw him briefly through the trees across the camp as I was leaving; he held up his hand in token of farewell, and though he did not call out to me, our eyes touched and there was a cord passed between us that all the leagues and all the years would never cut. Then the trees closed round me and I thought I would never see him again.
*
They gave to me a mute from Macon named Reynauld to guide me to Vienne. Once again, I rode upon Willy, while Reynauld walked beside me. Reynauld was a big strapping fellow with a shock of black hair as thick as a horse brush. He liked for me to tell him stories from the Bible, so I told him the tale of Samson because I thought he might like it. It took us a day and a half to travel to Vienne, and the closer we got the more people we met on the road. Knights, pilgrims, and peasants, lords and ladies and their entourages, troubadours, jugglers and their trained animals, merchants, traders, thieves, and highwaymen, all crowded the way, jostling for a place in the tiny city by the Rhone.
Vienne was too small for the Council. The people were packed in like birds in a pie, and the people of Vienne were starving. Pope Clement V could not have chosen a worse place. Demand sent prices soaring. By the time I arrived, there was not a bed to be had in the entire city. A loaf of bread coast three day's wages for some. But inside the palaces, they ate lark's tongues and Flemish toast with cotignac of Orleans.
Each morning, Reynauld set me near the gates of the city. While I begged for alms and displayed my poor legs to the public, he scoured the city for news, and each night he returned and wrote for me what he had discovered. Someone had taught Reynauld to read and write Latin, and he did it very well, but he had little enough to tell. There was no news from Lyons. No one knew when the knights would arrive. Luckily, news of the gathering of the Templars in Lyons had not reached the church officials in Vienne. In the meanwhile, in those two days my begging only earned us one silver denier, and we were forced to sell poor Willy just to buy bread.
Finally, on the morning of the third day, not long after he left me by the gate, Reynauld returned with a letter. It read:
Brother,
The knights will arrive this afternoon. Be ready. Reynauld has a letter of passage which will get you into the Council chambers.
And it was signed only with a cross.
The guards at the doors were reluctant to allow us inside, despite the letter of passage which Reynauld showed them. In the end, they did let us go; I suppose they thought I might be some sort of holy man, a hermit from Italy perhaps, like venerable old Celestine who was made Pope against his will (I prayed I would not share his fate). Inside, there was a sea of red such as I had never before witnessed. Cardinals, bishops, archbishops, and abbots thronged the floor thick as fleas on a dead bear. At the far end of the chamber, another table was set up on a dais, and sitting in a golden throne at this board was none other than Pope Clement, a small balding man with a weak chin and narrow lips, a long Norman nose and an angry wrinkled brow. He waved off nearly everyone who approached him. He looked to be in pain, for he habitually rubbed his stomach beneath his vestments.
A meal was just beginning as we entered. Long tables were set up along either wall, with a great open space between, where servants bustled about with laden trays and goblets of gold and silver brimming with wine. In the center of this space was a great table piled high with food of every sort imaginable; it seemed ready to break at any moment. In the center of the table was a great white swan, with two peacocks in full feather to either side, all in a great nest of green herbs. At either end of this banquet table were two great huge pies, each with gradually smaller pies piled atop it, all wrapped in red cloth, forming a sort of miter. The largest of these pies each contained a whole roe-deer, a whole goose, a capon, seven chickens, ten young pigeons, fourteen starlings, and three rabbits, flavored with two pounds of bacon, two dozen hard-boiled eggs, saffron, cloves, and cinnamon. Large tranchoirs of bread were passed round to all and sundry, even myself. We had no seat at table, but Reynauld and I found a place near wall. And although we received none of the main course from the table, we were given slices of roast boar and plenty of salt, and a rich gravy was poured over our bread.
When the repast was complete, the Council began where it had left off, first with another call for defenders of the Temple to come forward, and then with discussions about arranging a new Crusade. Other than the Pope, no one seemed very enthusiastic about the prospects of retaking the Holy Land. While Clement harangued them in his high thin voice, most of those gathered ignored him completely. They carried on with their own petty conversations, complaining about their accommodations, arguing about matters of rank and hierarchy, discussing the possibility of various hunts in neighboring provinces, but no one seemed to hear a word the Pope said.
This continued for more than an hour. Gradually, conversations tapered off to an uneasy silence, and people began to watch the door, but the Pope continued unabated. Finally, even he stammered to a stop, and he stood up. "Guards, what is going on out there?" he asked.
Outside in the courtyard, there seemed to be some sort of a fight. I heard a lot of violent shouting, and the clatter of hooves and angry snorting of horses. One of the guards approached the doors, but as he laid his hand on the bar to open them, the doors burst wide. In clattered seven Knights Templar upon their horses fully armored, resplendent snowy white mantles glorious as the sun, radiant crosses of scarlet glowing upon their shoulders. Tears welled up in my eyes at their beauty. With hands upon hilts and visors lowered, they rode in standard wedge formation into the center of the chamber. Pope Clement called for his guards and cowered behind his throne, and armed men with pikes and halberds rushed between the knights and the pontiff, blocking the way with a wall of sharp steel. The knights cantered to a stop.
"We have come to defend the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon," one of the knights shouted to the silent assembly. Because they all wore their bascinets with visors lowered, it was impossible to tell which knight spoke, but to my ears he sounded much like Peter de Boulogne. The second knight from the back on the right seemed smaller than the others, and he rode his horse more awkwardly than the rest.
"We represent a force of two thousand knights encamped in the forests around Lyons," the knight continued. This news set up ripples of astonished murmuring which circled the chamber. Pope Clement paled.
"We have come to prove the innocence of the Knights of the Temple and to free our leaders and brothers held in the prisons of the king of France and elsewhere. May we speak?" the knight asked.
"Arrest them!" was the pope's answer.
This caused a tremendous uproar. The knights drew their swords. The papal council had guaranteed the safety of any who wished to defend the order. "They must be allowed to speak!" one of the cardinals shouted. But at a gesture from the pope, guards rushed in behind the knights and barred the doors.
"Your holiness," shouted the Bishop of Bayeux, who had been part of the council ordered to conduct the investigation in France and whose work was thwarted by the Archbishop of Sens when he ordered the burning of the fifty-four. "You Holiness, how can we expect to discover the truth in this matter if those who would defend the Templars are too afraid to step forward and speak? We have granted them safe passage, and now you would revoke it?"
"The question of their guilt has been answered," the Pope said. "Arrest them. We will recess until tomorrow." He then fled the room, shouting as he went, "Double the guard, and post watches on the road to Lyons!"
*
Two hundred years of glorious Templar history ended with the flight of the pope from the chamber. Our brothers did not fight, of course; even then, they could not bring themselves to raise their weapons against their fellow Christians, for at Peter’s urging, they still hoped to save the Order from oblivion. But it was too late. I realized the Pope had never meant to allow us defend ourselves. The Order had died on 13 October, 1307, but it had taken this long for the blood to stop flowing. They took my brothers away, including Pete, but they dared not try to take their arms from them; this much, at least, we gained. The room eventually cleared, and Reynauld and I were left alone with the scraps of food and the silence. A hollow place opened inside me, a cold place in my belly; I felt like I had drunk a bottle of vinegar. "Hold my hand, Reynauld," I said. "I feel like I might come apart." But he grabbed me and held me close in his arms, and his body shook with sobs, though he made no sound.
We slept the night in Vienne, finding accommodations in a loft. Below us, a merchant spent most of the hours of darkness cavorting with a half dozen lewd women that his filthy silver had purchased. God’s will was worked though, for when we woke that morning, we found him murdered and his women disappeared.
Reynauld carried me out of Vienne on his back like a cross, and though I begged him not to, he would not set me down until he had transported me across the mountains and all the way to Albi. I found my home much as I had left it, and after shaving my beard, I took a job with the bishop who lived nearby. Reynauld remained as my servant until the end of his days. And the king’s soldiers never found me, as I had the bishop’s protection.
But a few days after I arrived in Albi, I had a visitor. I found him at my window as I was preparing for bed. By my bones, I was glad to see him alive!
Pete told me that Clement had recessed the Council until April of the next year. He and the other knights were never allowed to speak in defense of the Order, but they did manage to escape one night. The king sent an army to Lyons, but they found the forests empty and the residents apparently ignorant of the supposed Templars in the forest.
Bernard would not tell me where he was going. “It is best you remain ignorant, Brother,” he said, taking my hand for the last time. “They’ve already burned up the better part of you. I’d like to leave knowing the rest was safe.”
©1998-2008 Jeff Crook
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