Michael JECKS: The Last Templar

The platform held his horrified attention. It seemed to symbolise the absolute failure of the Temple as it stood stolid and unwavering in front of him, as if it mocked the transient nature of the Order’s honour when compared with its own strength to destroy it. This was no place of confession, it was a place of execution; it was the place where his Order would die. All that he and the thousands of other knights had stood for would die at last – here, today. As the realisation sank in, it seemed physically to hit him, making him suddenly shudder as if from a blow. There was no protection, no defence against the implacable tide of accusations that would destroy them all. It was inevitable; the Temple’s absolute destruction could be the only result.

But even as he realised it, even as he felt the finality of it, the certainty, he felt the hope struggling again within his breast, trying to break free of the shackles of despair that bound him so rigidly.

He was so engrossed in his own misery that he did not notice at first when the noise of the crowd changed. There was shouting, then jeers, from the mob as the convicted men were led forward, but it soon died down to a subdued murmuring, as if the people all around recognised the awesome implications of the occasion. The hush grew until the square was almost silent, the crowds standing and waiting for the men as they were led forward, the leading actors in this sad drama. The men were not in full view of the witness yet, they had not arrived at the stage, but he could tell that they were coming by the way that the people in the crush in front of the platform started to jostle, pushing and shoving to get a clearer view. Meanwhile, more people came into the square and tried to force their way forwards, attracted by the sudden quiet and increased movement. He found himself having to control his fury, smothering his anger that these common men and women should push against him, a knight, but soon the sight in front made him forget all about the people around him.

Over the heads of the crowds he could just make out the four figures as they were pushed and manhandled up the small gantry to the floor of the platform. Then, at a sudden almost tangible heightening of tension in the crowd, he stared, feeling a rush of optimism buoy his spirits. They were all wearing their robes! It was the first time in the long years since the thirteenth of October in thirteen hundred and seven that he had seen men wearing their Templar uniforms; could this mean that they were to be reinstated? He leaned forward with a surge of renewed hope, his mouth open as he strained to see their faces, the desperate wish for the Order’s recovery tightening his features, the desire an almost exquisite pain.

But then even that last dream was dashed, leaving him feeling empty and broken in his dejection. The quick lifting of his spirits fell away as soon as he peered over the heads of the people in front, and he had to struggle to control the cry that fought to break from his throat. It was obvious that the four were only wearing their robes so that they could be identified more easily; as they were pushed to the front of the platform and made to stand there, gazing dully at the people all around, he could see the heavy manacles and chains that smothered them. There would be no reprieve.

He felt himself shrinking back, sinking behind the people in front as if he wanted to melt away, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand to prevent the hot tears from springing back with his anguish and desolation, bowing his head as if in prayer as he hid from the stares of the men on the platform, not wanting to catch their gaze in case he could be associated with them and thereby broken as they had been. He did not want to see the despair in their eyes, the fear and the self-loathing. He could remember them – he wanted to remember them – as the strong men he had respected, as warriors; he did not want to remember them as they were now.

For they were wrecks; they stood shaking in their fear and dread as they surveyed the crush of people that had come to witness their downfall. Gone was the glory of their past. Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master, stood a little in front, looking small and insignificant somehow in the great white robe which hung from his shoulders formlessly, making him look as if he was wearing a shroud. He was over seventy years old and his age showed as he stood, ashen-faced, bent and swaying under the weight of the chains, mutely watching the people in the square, looking both nervous and frail.

The man in the crowds stared at him, horrified by the difference. When he had last met de Molay, seven years before, he had been a strong and vibrant man, secure in his power and his authority as the leader of one of the strongest armies in Christendom, responsible to no man but the pope. He had spent months producing a report for the pope and was convinced that with another crusade it would be possible to take back the Holy Land. His report showed how it would be possible to reconquer it and then keep it permanently safe. He had been confident of his ability to persuade the pontiff to begin planning for it and was already making his soldiers prepare, organising and training them all, reinforcing the strict Rule of the Order and making them all comply with the original codes of conduct. Now he was completely broken.

He looked like a tired old man, shrunken and withered by the pain of seeing his Order ruined, by his inability to defend it, as if he could feel the failure of all that he had tried to achieve. In thirteen hundred and seven he had been the supreme ruler of the oldest and greatest military order, able to command thousands of knights and foot soldiers and answering to no lord or king, only the pope. Now, stripped of his rank and his authority, he looked merely old and tired, as if he had seen too much and was ready for death. He had given up; there was nothing left for him to live for.

In the crowds, the silent observer pulled the cowl of his hood over his head, blinking and frowning to stop the tears that threatened to streak the dirt on his face. Now he knew it was all over. If they could do that to Jacques de Molay, the Order was ended. He retreated into the seclusion of his cloak as the depression took him over, blocking out all sound of the announcements and hiding from the final humiliation of his Order – and his life.

Unaware, not heeding the ritual going on at the platform, he turned slowly and started to push his way through the crowds. He had seen enough. He could bear no more. He just wanted to get away, to leave this scene of horror, as if he could leave his despair and sadness behind in this accursed square.

It was difficult to move. The crowds were too thick, with people struggling to get in and move forward to see the men on the stage. It was like pushing against the tide, and it took an age to go only a matter of yards. Shoving desperately, he tried to move around the people to escape, barging into men and women as they tried to hold him back until, at last, he found himself in front of a broad, swarthy man who would not move aside to let him pass but stood rooted to the spot and glared at him. Then, as he tried to move around the man, he heard de Molay’s voice. With a shock he suddenly realised that it was not weak and quaking, as he had expected, but powerful and strong, as if the Grand Master had found a hidden reserve of strength. Startled, he stopped and whirled back to the platform to listen.

“… Before God in Heaven, before Jesus his son, and all the earth, I confess that I am guilty. I am guilty of the greatest deception, and that deception has failed the honour and the trust of my knights and my Order. I have confessed to crimes that I know never happened – and all for myself. I confessed to save myself, from fear of torture. My crime is my weakness and it has led to the betrayal of my people. I declare the crimes attributed to the Order to be false. I avow the honesty, the purity and the holy sanctity of the men of the Temple. I deny wholly the crimes ascribed to the Order.