‘Our order is no more,’ Ausel declared. ‘We need every friend we have.’ The protests faded away.
Simon Destivet, their leader, called what he termed their ‘parliament’ to order. He knelt on the dais before the crumbling altar, and made the sign of the cross as we gathered behind him and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. The refrain was taken up, powerful voices calling through the dark. Once it was finished, Demontaigu nipped my wrist as a warning to remain silent. Two candles were lit, the iron spigots being brought from a chest concealed in a corner; these were placed on the altar. A coffer, ironbound and secured by three locks, was put between them; Destivet, Demontaigu and Ausel each produced a key. The coffer was opened. Meanwhile lanterns, thick coloured candles gleaming behind the horn covers, were also positioned along the altar. A roll of linen was taken out of the coffer and stretched between two wooden frames. The cloth must have been a yard long and the same across, ancient but very well preserved. The lantern horns behind it were moved closer. I gasped in amazement. The more I stared, the better I could distinguish the face of a man. I could make out his tangled hair and beard, the half-closed eyes, a disfigured, bruised face, yet also gentle, a soul-searing vision of deep suffering. The Templars immediately bowed, foreheads touching the ground as they intoned a prayer: ‘Ah my Jesus, turn your face towards each of us as you did to Veronica. Not that we may see it with our bodily eyes, for this we do not deserve, but turn it towards our hearts so that, remembering You, we may ever draw from this power and strength the vigour necessary to sustain the combats of life. Amen.’
I bowed with them, realising this must be the Mandylion, the cloth that had covered the face of the crucified Christ. My uncle, Sir Reginald, had often obliquely referred to this, whilst in their hideous allegations against the Templars, Philip’s lawyers had accused them of worshipping a disembodied head. Now I saw the truth! We all knelt back on our heels, and Destivet began a mournful prayer, a quotation from scripture: ‘It is close, the day of their ruin, their doom comes at speed.’
‘No, no.’ Ausel’s voice rang clear. ‘No, no, let us not be dismayed or downcast, brothers. Let us not seek vengeance on our enemies but leave that to God. Let us be triumphant.’
Destivet nodded, even though, kneeling behind him, I sensed he was crying. Ausel was determined to lift the pall of gloom. In his lilting Irish voice he chanted a beautiful Celtic prayer. I later asked Demontaigu to copy it down for me:
‘I offer you, Lord,
Every flower that ever grew,
Every bird that ever flew,
Every wind that ever blew.
Good God, every thunder rolling,
Every church bell tolling,
Every leaf and every bud.
Multiply each and every one.
Make them into glories, millions of glories.’
Others took up the prayer. I felt a slight chill, not of fear but of awe at those men, hunted and harassed to death, still determined to pray, to fight, to proclaim their message. Afterwards, they all joined Ausel in a Celtic hymn:
‘Be thou our vision, Oh Lord of our hearts. .
Be thou our first thought in the day and the night,
Waking or sleeping your presence our light,
Be thou our shield, our sword for the fight. .’
The chant finally finished, and Destivet made the sign of the cross. The candles were doused, the sacred roll relocked in its coffer. Destivet turned and sat on the edge of the dais. The rest of us grouped around him in a circle. Each reported what had happened. One tale of gloom after another. In France, the Templars were being accused of the most heinous crimes: intercourse with demons, spitting on Christ’s image, urinating on the cross, administering the kiss of shame to the penis, buttocks and lips of superiors, or engaging in other homosexual acts.
‘According to one of Philip’s lawyers,’ a Templar spoke up, ‘the allegations against us are “a bitter thing, lamentable, horrible to contemplate, terrible to bear, almost inhuman, indeed set apart from all humanity”.’
‘But are they believed?’ Destivet asked.
The speaker shrugged. ‘A very few of our comrades escaped, but most of them were tortured: weights hung on their genitals. They were strapped to the rack, ankles and wrists, dislocated through winches, wrenched from their sockets. Others were pulled up to the ceiling by ropes which would suddenly go slack, their fall broken by a violent jerk. Burnings and scaldings are commonplace. The brothers are confessing; they have to for a moment’s peace.’
The Templars prayed for these unfortunates, then moved swiftly on to other business, including King Edward’s reluctance to allow papal inquisitors into the realm. Some of the Templars knew about the troubles at Westminster and the presence of French envoys. Destivet raised the possibility of attacking these, arguing how the assassination of Marigny and his coven would be ‘a righteous act’. Demontaigu disagreed, pointing out how the French were well protected, whilst such an attack might alienate Edward. Moreover, the Noctales were a malevolent, ever-present menace. They would continue the hunt whatever happened. Demontaigu’s argument was accepted. Various Templars related how the Noctales, armed with descriptions and information about hiding places supplied by spies and informers, had already captured and imprisoned a number of their brethren. The whereabouts of Templar treasure was discussed, its hiding places and worth. I was particularly intrigued by the references to gold and silver held by Langton, secretly hidden away before his fall. Destivet was of the mind that they should gather all such treasure, memoranda and relics, move swiftly into the northern shires and open secret negotiations with the Scottish rebel Bruce. This was being hotly discussed when the wail of a hunting horn immediately created silence. Candles were doused, war belts strapped on, arbalests winched back, bows and arrows seized.
‘Our lookouts!’ Demontaigu hissed.
A second horn echoed through the darkness, followed by the sound of running feet along the hollow nave above and a furious pounding on the crypt door. Demontaigu hastened up the steps. He asked the password and was given it. He drew back the bolts. Two men almost threw themselves down the steps, tumbling and tripping over each other.
‘Noctales!’ one of them declared. ‘Not just a few; perhaps all of them. They are in the cemetery, guarding every entrance.’
Demontaigu immediately re-bolted the door and stood on the top of the steps banging his sword against the wall for silence.
‘They know we are here!’ he declared. ‘We could break out through the church and take whatever opportunity exists in the open fields around, but they are on horseback. God knows how many there are and what other rogues they’ve hired for tonight’s work. They think they have us trapped; we will prove them wrong. Crossbowmen and archers, you stay.’