Even at this spectacle Philip the Fair’s huge cold eyes were unblinking.
And suddenly the Grand Master’s voice sounded out of the curtain of fire. As if addressed to each one present, it affected everyone individually. With great power, his voice sounding as if it were already coming from on high, Jacques de Molay spoke again as he had done at Notre-Dame.
‘Shame! Shame! You are watching innocents die. Shame upon you! God will be your Judge.’
Flames whipped him, burning his beard, turning the paper hat in one second to ashes, setting his white hair alight.
The appalled crowd had fallen silent. It might have been a mad prophet who was being burned.
The Grand Master’s burning face was turned towards the royal loggia. And the terrible voice cried, ‘Pope Clement, Chevalier Guillaume de Nogaret, King Philip, I summon you to the Tribunal of Heaven before the year is out, to receive your just punishment! Accursed! Accursed! You shall be accursed to the thirteenth generation of your lines!’
The flames seemed to enter his mouth and stifle his last cry. And then, for what seemed an age, he fought against death.
At last he bent double. The cord broke. He fell forward into the furnace and only his hand remained raised among the flames. It stayed thus till it had turned entirely black.
Terrified by the curse, the crowd remained rooted to the spot. Nothing could be heard but sighs, murmurs of foreboding, consternation and anguish. The weight of the night and its horror seemed to lie over it; the shadows gradually gained ground against the dying light of the pyre.
The archers were trying to drive the crowd before them, but the people could not make up their minds to leave.
‘It wasn’t us whom he cursed; it was the King, wasn’t it?’ people were whispering.
People looked towards the loggia. The King was still standing by the balustrade. He was gazing at the Grand Master’s black hand sticking up out of the red embers. A burnt hand; all that remained of so much power and glory, all that remained of the illustrious Order of the Knights Templar. But the hand was motionless, raised in a gesture of imprecation.
‘Well, Brother,’ said Monseigneur of Valois with a nasty smile, ‘I suppose you’re happy now?’
Philip the Fair turned round.
‘No, Brother,’ he said. ‘I am not happy. I have committed an error.’
Valois was already preening himself, ready to enjoy his triumph.
‘Yes, I have committed an error,’ Philip repeated. ‘I ought to have had their tongues torn out before burning them.’
Still impassive, he left to return to his apartments, followed by Nogaret, Marigny and his Chamberlain.
The pyre had now turned grey, with here and there a spark of fire suddenly glowing only to die as quickly again. The loggia was full of smoke and a bitter stench of burning flesh.
‘It stinks,’ said Louis of Navarre. ‘I really think it stinks. Let’s go.’
Young Prince Charles was wondering whether even in Blanche’s arms he would manage to forget what he had seen.
ON LEAVING THE TOWER OF NESLE, the brothers Aunay, walking to and fro in the mud, gazed into the darkness with some indecision.
Their ferryman had disappeared.
‘I told you I didn’t like the look of the fellow,’ said Gautier. ‘I ought to have acted on my suspicions.’
‘You gave him too much money,’ Philippe replied. ‘The scoundrel obviously thought he’d made enough for the day and went off to the execution.’
‘Let’s hope that’s all there is to it.’
‘What more could there be?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t like the look of it. The fellow came and offered to take us over, pleading that he hadn’t earned a penny all day. We told him to wait; instead of doing so, he goes off.’
‘But what else could we have done? We had no choice; he was the only one there.’
‘Exactly,’ said Gautier. ‘And he asked rather too many questions.’
He stopped, listening for the sound of oars; but there was nothing but the rustling of the river and the widespread rumour from the crowd going back to their homes in Paris. Over there, upon the Island of Jews, which people from tomorrow would begin to call the Island of the Templars, the fire had gone out. A smell of smoke mingled with the dank stench of the Seine.
‘There’s nothing for it but to go home on foot,’ said Gautier. ‘We shall get muddy to the thighs. But after all it’s been worth it.’
Arm in arm to avoid slipping, they made their way by the wall of the Hôtel-de-Nesle. As they went, they continued to search the darkness. There was no sign of the ferryman.
‘I wonder who can have given them to them,’ Philippe said suddenly.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The purses.’
‘Oh, you’re still thinking of that, are you?’ said Gautier. ‘For my part, I must admit I don’t care a damn. Of all the presents they’ve made us, we’ve never had finer ones than these.’
As he talked he stroked the purse at his belt, feeling the precious stones in relief beneath his fingers.
‘It can’t be anyone connected with the Court,’ Philippe went on. ‘Marguerite and Blanche would never have risked their being recognised on us. So, who can it be? A present from their family in Burgundy perhaps? It’s so odd that they didn’t want to tell us.’
‘Which do you prefer,’ asked Gautier, ‘to know or to have?’
Philippe was about to reply when they heard a low whistle in front of them. They started, and at once put their hands to their daggers. They had no other weapons with them, having decided to leave their swords behind as they would be in the way.
An encounter at this hour and in this place had every prospect of being a dangerous one.
‘Who goes there?’ said Gautier.
They heard a second whistle, and had barely time to draw their daggers.
Six men surged out of the night and hurled themselves upon them. Three attacked Philippe and, holding him back to the wall with arms outstretched, prevented his using his dagger. The other three were not so fortunate with Gautier. The latter had managed to knock one of his attackers down or, more exactly, the man had slipped in trying to avoid a dagger-thrust. But the other two caught Gautier d’Aunay from behind and twisted his wrist till he dropped his weapon. Philippe could feel that they were trying to take his purse from him.
It was impossible to shout for help. If the guard from the Hôtel-de-Nesle came to their aid, they might be questioned about their presence there. They both had the same instinct not to shout. They must get out of it by themselves, or not get out of it at all.
Philippe, spread-eagled against the wall, fought with all the violence of despair, and, since he could not use his dagger, kicked out with his feet. He did not want to lose his purse. It had suddenly become his most precious possession in the world, and he intended to save it at all costs. Gautier was more inclined to come to terms. Let them take their money but leave them