More whodunits, p.15
More Whodunits, page 15
“Really?”
Ambrosin nodded his head. “The King wanted Papa Clemens to sign some document or other regarding those Templar people, which he finally did, because I had to witness it, and King Philip thought I couldn’t read.” He chuckled to himself. “Those great men never thought very much of me, just because I was born a peasant. They would talk around me like I wasn’t even in the room. All except the Holy Father.
“But the Pope continued to worsen, and the following Spring he decided to go home to his family in Gascony. Just after starting out from Carpentras he received a letter that upset him greatly, and he took to his bed that evening, never to rise again. They were able to carry him to Roquemaure-on-the-Rhône before he expired. Oh, sir, I tell you he died in God’s good grace.”
My Master was appropriately somber. “Brother Ambrosin, was there anything about his final illness that seemed at all unusual?”
The majordomo said: “Now that you mention it, sir, I tended the Holy Father during his last days, and I did notice his fingertips becoming somewhat discolored. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because he was so clearly failing. Also, I combed his hair daily, and it began to come out in clumps during that final week. But he had a fever, and sometimes sick people do lose all their hair. So, I don’t know anymore.”
“You mentioned a letter that Papa Clemens received near the end.”
“Yes, sir,” said the monk, “but it was never found after he died, and I have no knowledge of who sent it or what it contained.”
“Thank you, Brother Ambrosin,” Master William said. “You have been most kind.”
We next interviewed the Chief Cook, one Master Manosque, a rather thin fellow who looked as if he’d never eaten a good meal in his life. His whole face was a frown.
Again Brother William introduced himself and asked Manosque about his service.
“I cook for Clemen-Pope six years,” he said. “I cook good.”
“I am quite certain that no one would criticize your cuisine,” said my Master, “But I would like to know about the Holy Father’s stomach problems.”
“Bad, very bad,” Manosque said. “Tummy make noise all time. Pains, gas, loose turds. All bad. Sometime no can eat. Not my food. My food good. My food fresh.” He waved his arms around like a windmill, obviously much agitated.
Master William stifled a smile. “I have heard nothing but praise about your fine dinners. Now tell me, who prepared the Pope’s meals when he left Avignon?”
“Pope leave ’Vignon?” asked the cook.
“Yes, you remember, the year before he died, Papa Clemens went to his nephew’s castle.”
“I fix. I fix all Clemen-Pope’s food. No one else fix,” Manosque said.
“And was he well there?” asked Master William.
“No, no, very bad at Montus. Eat little, burp much. I fix good food, but....” The chef’s shoulders lifted in resignation.
“What about when the Holy Father left Carpentras to go to Gascony?” my Master inquired.
“I follow. Pope eat bad. I bring good food, but he all white. He have paper in hand. Hand shake. He fall on floor. He cry for God. God come.” He crossed himself, and we followed suit. “Very sad. He good master. New master mean. Very sad.”
And that was all we were able to get out of the eloquent Master Manosque. We talked with several other members of the Pope’s staff, but they could add little, until we reached Brother Daniel Jacquelot, a man in his forties shaped like a pear, with bulging stomach and normal-sized chest and arms.
“Brother Daniel,” my Master said, “Can you tell us anything about Papa Clemens’s passing?”
Jacquelot had a way of answering every query with another question. “Well, he’d been ill for some time, hadn’t he? I didn’t have daily contact with him, no one did, despite what they might say. When he was sick, which was often, he eschewed the company of everyone except a few relatives and confidantes, and he had promoted so many of the former into the latter that there were always several cousins and nephews about.
“I think what brought the crisis on was the business over the Templars. The Pope was a good man, don’t misunderstand me, but he wanted to be loved, and King Philip le Bel utterly dominated him. In the last year of his life he became increasingly unhappy about what he had been forced to do with these knights. He never believed the stories about their supposed misdeeds. On several occasions he told me that he just hoped Molay and his cronies would die peacefully in prison and solve his problem. After all, they were all old men, as old as the Pontiff.
“But they didn’t die, and finally the King came to him at Carpentras and demanded that Molay and Charnay be publicly tried. You see, under the law, Philip had to have the Order suppressed and its leaders condemned by the Pope for the Templar property which the King had already confiscated to remain legally in his hands, supposedly for a new crusade, a crusade that never materialized.
“Then the King’s man, that snake Nogaret, came to him after we had left Carpentras for Gascony, and gave him a message, perhaps from his master. The Pope yelled something at him, then collapsed and never recovered.”
Master William paused for a moment before replying. “Did the Holy Father experience any unusual symptoms during his final days?”
“Who could say for sure?” Daniel said. “I only saw him once or twice that week, and he looked pale and very ill. I do remember that when we prepared his body for transport a few days later, it seemed to me somewhat discolored, at least compared to others I had seen, and this quite shortly after death; but each corpse tells its own story, doesn’t it?”
Brother Daniel had nothing further to add, and we could find no other servants or staff to provide us with new details about the long-ago passing of Clemens V. Later that evening, my Master asked me about the day’s proceedings.
“Well, sir,” I said, “It’s obvious to me that the Pope had been sick for many years, and that he probably died of his ailment, whatever other factors may have contributed to his death.”
“Perhaps,” was all Master William would say. “But still I find it curious that his persistent illness seemed to produce such contrary symptoms near the end.”
* * * *
We spent a day settling our accounts in Avignon, then journeyed north to Paris to interview the King and his ministers concerning the death of King Philip IV and the Templar treasure. When we arrived, we took quarters at the Franciscan Monastery of Saint Tiron, and sent a note to the Palace requesting an audience, which we received three days later. Charles IV, called le Bel after his father, was then about thirty years of age, and like all of his family, strikingly well formed. He had succeeded his brother, King Philip le Long, in 1322, and was now calling himself Holy Roman Emperor, following the deposition of Emperor Ludwig by Pope John just two months earlier. Common gossip held that great sums had changed hands for this little favor.
We were led to a private antechamber, where we made our obeisances, and my Master gave our warrant to His Majesty, who passed it to his minister for consideration. They conferred for several minutes before returning the document. “What do you seek, Brother William?” the King asked.
“Only the truth, Sire,” my Master said. “His Holiness wishes to know the circumstances of your father’s passing ten years ago.”
“Does he indeed. There are many truths, Frère Guillaume, some of them truer than others. Our late father died cursed by that devil-worshipper Molay, and he suffered greatly for his sins. But did you know that he also died cursed by his three sons? Ah, now that surprises you.
“Early in the year 1314 Philip the un-Fair arrested our wife and the wives of our two royal brothers, accused them of adultery on the false witness of our sister, Isabella of England, and then had them imprisoned. Our lovely Blanche was scarcely eighteen years of age. She was pure and innocent and guileless, and there was nothing we could do to save her. She was taken away to a nunnery at Maubuisson, and we had to divorce her. So, do not ask us of our father. He died unlamented by his family.”
Master William considered his next words carefully. “But what were the specific circumstances of King Philip’s passing?”
“You vex us, Frère Guillaume, you do not listen to what we say,” the King said. “Yet, out of respect for the Holy Father who has given us so much, we will answer. Nota bene: the King our father had gone to hunt at Pont Saint Maxence in early November, and he took ill in the woods there on the fourth day of that month. We saw him stop suddenly beneath a tree, turn white, stiffen, clutch his head, and slump over his saddle. There was no doctor present, but his aide, Master Rodolphe, went to him immediately, and said he had no pulse. However, he soon recovered his wits, and was taken by boat to Poissy, thence by horse to Essonnes, and then by litter to Fontainebleau. By this time he had suffered a second attack, worse than the first, and he finally succumbed there on the twenty-ninth.”
“Who visited him in extremis?” my Master asked.
“Those of the lords temporal and lords spiritual who arrived in time came to his bed to receive his blessing,” King Charles said. “They included the Archbishop of Bourges, the Cardinal Bishop of Avignon and Porto, the Abbot of Cluny, the Count of Poitiers, the Archbishop of Embrun, the Viscount of Lomagne, the Cardinal de Got, and a few others of lesser rank. He then called our brother, Louis X of blessed memory, to his side, and told him: ‘Ponder these words, young Louis: “What is it to be King of France?”‘ Much of what he said during that last week made no sense. A few days later he perished, and his body was returned to Paris.”
“Your Majesty mentioned Lomagne and Got. Were they not related to the late Papa Clemens?” asked Master William.
“They were. Lomagne was his nephew, we believe. As you may have already heard, the Pope had a certain affinity for his own family,” the King said with the flash of a smile that quickly vanished. “Now, we have other duties to which we must attend. There is nothing further we can tell you about this matter. We wish you bon voyage, Frère Guillaume.” And he waved us away.
Later that afternoon we questioned the Court Physician, Odonar d’Artevelde, who had served the Kings of France for a quarter century. The Doctor was a pompous little toad of about sixty years, with a long gray beard, balding pate, and flamboyant robes. I would have thought him a magician or wandering actor had I not known otherwise.
“You were not present when the King suffered his first attack?” my Master asked.
“Indeed, I was not!” Odonar said. “The King was on holiday, and I was in Paris. Of course, when I heard that His Majesty had fallen ill, I left immediately, and reached Fontainebleau on the same day that the King’s litter arrived.”
“And what was the King’s condition when you first examined him?” Master William asked.
“His humors were clearly out of balance, particularly the choler, giving his skin a yellowish cast; and as a result he had suffered a slight paralysis in his left side, making it difficult for him to sit long in the saddle, although he could speak and reason without impairment. I was told that the first attack had affected his heart, and this I could confirm with my trained eye, that there was still a weakness of limb and shortness of breath common to those afflicted by such ailments.
“Yet, even with all of these difficulties, he seemed in very good spirits and on his way to a good recovery. Overall, his body was still strong and virile, and I felt that he had an excellent chance of living at least another five or ten years, if he could avoid excessive strain and excitement; and I did not hesitate to tell him so. However, being the prudent man that he was, he updated his will and made his confession to the Cardinal.”
“The Cardinal?” Friar Occam said. “Oh, do you mean Got?”
“No, no, the other one, you know, Duèse. He and the King were old friends, and he had hurried up from Avignon when he heard about le Bel’s misfortune. Ha, he must have ridden a few horses to death to get there as quickly as he did, and he a man of seventy.” He chortled to himself, then sobered very quickly. “It was a funny thing, though. After that, the King just seemed to lose heart. Within two days it was obvious he was dying, and he called his children around him to give them his final blessing. I did everything I could. But he broke into a rash and the phlegmatic humor overwhelmed the others, filling his lungs with fluid. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. He should have lived.” The physician’s shoulders slumped.
“And then his sons followed him to the grave one by one, all young men, too, first bold Louis and then Philip the Tall, with little Jean squeezed in between, just five days old at his death. The family is cursed, no doubt about it. It was those thrice-damned Templars. Molay jinxed the King and his sons as the flames claimed him. I was there, and I still have nightmares about it. I remember Molay politely inviting the Pope and King to join him before God’s throne by year’s end, and then the Preceptor Geoffroi de Charnay shouting out: ‘The shroud shall claim you, my Lords, you cannot escape the shroud.’ It was chilling, I tell you.” He shuddered.
Master William thanked him graciously for his time, and we retired to our cells at the abbey for the evening.
“Master,” I said, after we had eaten our simple meal, “I don’t understand. Both of these men appeared to have died natural deaths, and yet the Holy Father seems much concerned about the circumstances.” This, one must remember, was decades before the terrible scourge of the plague had made death a commonplace visitor to our households. “I also don’t see how we will ever find these Templars, if indeed there are any members of that Order still living.”
My kind and wise teacher just smiled, startled from his musings, and said: “As the Lord said to Job: ‘Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?’ Never fear, dear Thaddæus. All things come to those who wait.”
* * * *
Sometime in the middle of the night I came suddenly awake, shivering for lack of a cover, and abruptly realized that I was lying on a rough animal skin spread carelessly on the cold stone floor of a strange room, a place that I had no recollection of reaching. My Master lay supine beside me, snoring gently. The last thing I remembered from the previous evening was drinking a cup of wine freshly spilled out from a newly-tapped skin, and then toddling off to bed. Now my head ached abominably, as if Satan himself were stabbing it with a large pin, and I found it hard to gain my bearings. Nearby, a solitary candle barely illumined the area where we had been placed.
“Master,” I said, “Master, wake up.”
Friar Occam groaned and tried to sit up. “Where are we?” he asked. “What is this place?”
A voice behind us replied, “Welcome to the Paris Commanderie of the Military Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. I regret that our accommodations are not what they were, but we were never slaves to comfort. I regret also the deception used in bringing you here, but no one must ever know of this place. However, we did obtain a set of your robes for your comfort.”
While we quietly dressed, several of the brethren beyond the sphere of illumination began lighting the torches placed around the walls of the room, and I gasped when I realized that it was the same place that I had seen several weeks earlier in my vision. Gradually the figures became distinguishable, and I realized that they wore the same piebald standards as before. Their faces were covered with plain black masks.
“Brother William, I believe you have some questions to ask us,” said their leader.
“Who are you?” my Master asked.
“You will excuse me, sir, if I limit myself to saying that I am the Grand Master of the reconstituted Order, duly elected by its surviving membership.”
“The Templars were officially suppressed by Pope Clemens twelve years ago. By what right do you claim that usage?”
“By the rule established by the Council of Troyes, and by the traditions established by Hugues de Payens and the Nine Founders. Although we respect the Holy Fathers, past and present, they are only men, subject to the fallibility of the flesh or even, on occasion, to the wiles of the Devil. The evil that was done to us seventeen years ago was not the work of God, but the actions of two such men, one a King eager to fill his coffers, the other a Pope eager to curry favor with the King. God could not have sanctioned actions so abhorrent to everything taught us by our Lord Jesus Christ.
“This being the case, the Holy Father was in error, and his suppression of our Order, while legal under the canons of the Church, was contrary to God’s will. Therefore, those of us who survived the King’s depredations have continued the traditions of our brothers, and have re-established the Order as a secret society devoted to maintaining our special knowledge for the benefit of mankind. In this we have the blessing of Almighty God and his son Jesus Christ. We shall not again be destroyed.”
Master William rubbed his eyes in weariness. “What of the charges levied against you?” he asked.
“Lies and fabrications,” said the knight. “Oh, we do not claim perfection, sir. We are sinners all, imperfect vessels at best to be filled with God’s grace. But we are innocent of the accusations made against us, as proven by the actions of our Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, who died the martyr’s death with his Preceptor, Geoffroi de Charnay. God has punished the instigators of these crimes, and he will continue to punish them unto the thirteenth generation. Yea, I tell you that this Kingdom shall soon pay a fearful price for the iniquities of its kings, and like the ancient land of Egypt under the Pharaohs, it shall suffer a hundred years of plagues and wars and famines.
“As for the so-called Supreme Pontiffs, your young companion shall live to see two men calling themselves Pope, each supported by half the civilized world, one residing in Avignon, one in Rome. That schism shall forever destroy the power of the Popes.”
