The Seal Read Online Free PDF Page B

calm heart.
    He showed the
outer guards his ring and they nodded and ushered him in.
    The inner guard
was released and he entered the room.
    Inside stood
Marcus, these days made Grand Commander of the Order. Beside him the marshal,
Ayme d’Oselier, holding himself in as tight as an overwound lute that at any
moment would let loose its strings.
    Both men were
surrounded by an activity of the soul that burdened the air in the cell.
Etienne was given a notion and a thought came to him.
    This looks like
a council of war.
    Jacques de
Molay, in contrast, was full of grave serenity. He stood by the window, dressed
in white mantle and chain mail with hands crossed behind him, staring outwards
to a black sky and beyond with his face into the breeze. Rain fell upon the
stone of the floor at his feet and was lit by reflections of gold that, coming
from below a cloud, communicated something too important to be interrupted.
There was a flash, the room filled with light and died away.
    The cell was
sparse. A chair, a table crosswise the window, with a rough wooden cross above
it were all the adornment.
    How the man has
changed since Acre!
    As Etienne
thought this, Jacques half turned to him. He was thin-lipped, his mouth relaxed
and brow cut straight across, bridging eyes that were no longer furrowed. Those
eyes did not look sharply at the world, but had loosened their hold these last
years. They no longer darted here and there; they were unguarded,
contemplative, and what was beyond, perfectly revealed and acknowledged. To
Etienne he looked like a dying tree, naked in the light that threw his shadow
less big and drew his shoulders in.
    ‘Etienne,’ he
said.
    ‘My Lord,’
Etienne gave a bow.
    He turned once
more to the window. ‘We have waited. It is beautiful, this storm and that sky!’
    Etienne took a
glance beside him. Marcus raised a brow as if to say, ‘I know no more than
you.’
    Ayme d’Oselier
stared ahead stiffly and would not meet his eye.
    The Grand Master
turned and stood facing his men fondly and then his expression was once more
grave. ‘We have been summoned to Poitiers . . . Raimbaud, Preceptor of Cyprus,
has already left and awaits us there . . . It is said the King puts pressure on
Pope Clement and once again there is to be a discussion on a union of the
Orders. The Templar Order and the Hospitallers, I have argued, have different
tasks, but Clement has asked that I form a defence for my opinions and I have
been composing a letter, with great difficulty.’ He smiled. ‘It has been long
since I have had to set down my thoughts on parchment. I am afraid that I am
not eloquent. I have called you to hear your thoughts . . .’
    Marcus made a
gesture, a tremble on the left side of the face that pulled it as if by a
string – a relic of the knife wound to his face at Acre. He shifted his
feet and his voice sounded as though it came through gravel. ‘For my part,
Jacques, I hear an old line. King Philip has ever seen himself like his
grandfather, leading a Crusade. His vanity tells him that in a united Order he
may find a way to make himself Grand Master . . . but what good is a Grand
Master who is a coward and will never set foot on a field of battle?’
    Jacques de Molay
nodded, pensive. After a moment he began. ‘A coward with many friends can be
made suddenly brave.’ He looked at them, measuring his next words. ‘This day I
have had a terrible revelation.’ He waited to hear their silence, then he stared out to sea again. ‘While prostrate before the
sacred space, contemplating our Lord’s sacrifice, I was taken up into a dream.
In this dream the banner of the Order is consumed by flames and I see the face
of the King, Philip Capet.’ He returned his gaze to them. ‘And I am among that
burning banner, I am consumed by fire.’
    Silence swept
the room and darkness began to settle over the men. Marcus’s teeth worried his
lip, Ayme’s head dug into his chest.
    Etienne had
expected something and now it