The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

the Templars’ increasing wealth, and in 1205 their growing concern threatened to undermine the order’s state of grace. The dispute worsened to the extent that in 1216 Pope Honorius III excommunicated Comte Geoffroy IV, who was intending to prohibit the Templars at Arville from driving their convoys outside the Mondoubleau estate, from owning a bread oven, from selling their merchandise at the marketplace and from harvesting bracken for animal fodder. Geoffroy IV had finally yielded to papal authority, but not before leading a small uprising.

      The knights’ activities had soon attracted an extended population as, in exchange for a nominal rent and a few services, they offered bread and dwellings with a smallholding.9 In the year of 1304 seven hundred souls lived outside the commandery’s stout ramparts.

      The sun was high up in the sky when Francesco de Leone emerged from Mondoubleau Forest, which was adjacent to Montmirail Forest. The old mare he had hired at Ferté-Bernard moved along at a sluggish pace. The poor animal had already walked so far carrying his weight that he hadn’t the heart to goad it on to arrive more quickly. His growing stomach pangs were a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since the previous morning when he had finished the bag of provisions his aunt, Éleusie de Beaufort, had handed him just before he slipped away unseen from Clairets Abbey. Leone would never have allowed himself to describe what he felt as ‘hunger’, out of respect for the ravages of true hunger. He knew he would be offered food upon reaching his destination. This was the one Christian act no monk-soldier could disregard, despite the difficult, not to say hostile, relations between the Knights Hospitaller and Templar.*

      Of course Leone could not ask the Templars to help him in the quest that had driven him for so long, a quest brought to him from the underground tunnels at Acre moments before the bloody defeat that heralded the end of Christendom in the Orient. Before joining the slaughter raging above their heads, a Knight Templar, sensing his imminent demise, had entrusted Leone’s godfather, Eustache de Rioux, with a journal containing a lifetime of research, questions and unsolvable mysteries. He had spoken of a papyrus scroll written in Aramaic – one of the most sacred texts in all civilisation – and indicated that it was safely hidden at one of the Templar commanderies.

      Under no circumstances must the commander at Arville suspect Leone’s true motives. As for any hospitality he might receive, Leone was certain that it would be minimal and circumspect. Before his journey had even begun, Leone predicted that it would end in failure. Vain hope was not enough to explain his determination to carry on regardless. He wanted to breathe in the atmosphere of the place, and was convinced that once inside the church he would feel the presence of the secret, the key, that was hidden there – perhaps the papyrus.

      He walked up the pebble path leading to the towering ramparts encircling the various buildings. The drawbridge was down over the surrounding moat, fed by the nearby river Coëtron. To the left stood the stables – reportedly large enough to house fifty or more horses, destined to be transported to the Holy Land on special vessels, which they would board via a drop-down door in the transom. Beyond the stables lay the kitchen and physic garden that supplied the Templar community with a few of its vegetables and most of its medicaments. To the right of the gateway, squeezed between the church and the utilitarian buildings, a smallish dwelling with tiny arrow-slit windows was most likely the preceptor’s10 abode. A little further on stood the church’s circular watchtower, built of dark chalk-stone – a mixture of flint, quartz, clay and iron ore. This Temple of Our Lady, whose name invoked the Templars’ cult of the Virgin, had been set apart from the ramparts, allowing the villagers to attend services without entering the commandery, thus respecting the Templar monks’ cloister. In turn, another, smaller door permitted the monks to enter without ever leaving the enclosure. The two-tiered bell tower was supported by a pointed arch with its three rounded arches symbolising the Trinity. At the centre of the enclosure was the tithe barn, where a tenth of all the local harvests collected as taxes were stored. Behind the barn another stout watchtower stood guard over this amassed wealth. Close by, the bread oven – the focus of so much acrimony – defied the Vicomtes de Châteaudun with its presence.

      Leone approached what he took to be the commander’s dwelling.

      His black surcoat with its eight-pronged white Maltese cross did not go unnoticed. A young equerry glanced up at him and the colour drained from his face. He looked around frantically as though searching for help from some quarter, and Leone half expected him to flee. He smiled sadly: how often they had fought side by side, come to one another’s aid, laid down their lives for each other without a thought for which colour cross the other wore. Templars and Hospitallers had died together by the thousands, their mingled blood seeping into the soil of foreign lands. Why in times of peace did they forget their brotherhood during those bloody conflicts?

      He called out to the young boy:

      ‘Pray, take me to your commander, Archambaud d’Arville.’

      ‘My lord …?’ the young man stammered.

      Sensitive to the boy’s discomfort, Leone added:

      ‘Tell him that Francesco de Leone, Knight of Grace and Justice of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, is here. Hurry. My mount and I are both weary.’

      The equerry ran off and Francesco dismounted. Nearly half an hour passed, during which time Leone began to doubt whether the preceptor would in fact receive him. Of course he must. To send him away would be a very unwise move on his part in view of the delicacy of the current political situation.

      The man who walked through the gateway had an imposing physique, emphasised by a white mantle adorned with a red cross with four arms of equal length, and a long tunic reaching down to the floor. A sword hanging from a wide leather belt swung against his calf. It was difficult to guess the age of the furrowed face, framed by a thick mane of hair and a grizzled beard; forty, forty-five, older perhaps. The commander smiled politely and Leone thought he saw the man’s eyes light up as he made his introductions. Indeed, he enquired:

      ‘Are you the Francesco de Leone who was expected to become one of the pillars of the Italian-speaking world in your order?’

      Leone was not overly surprised by a commander knowing of the Hospitallers’ internal affairs; both military orders contrived as discreetly as possible to find out what they could about the other. But that he should acknowledge it so openly was perplexing.

      ‘It was an honour and a responsibility of which I considered myself unworthy at the time, and which I consequently declined.’

      ‘Proving that, in addition to your reputation for piety and bravery, you are a wise man. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, brother?’

      Leone had decided to offer a simple excuse in order not to arouse any suspicion. Since he was unable to request a bed for the night at a Templar commandery he had no other choice but to content himself with a brief visit.

      ‘To the need for prayer, a halt for my weary horse and a rumbling stomach, I confess. I am on my way to Céton and do not expect to be there before nightfall,’ he lied.

      Leone had no way of telling whether Archambaud d’Arville believed him. Nevertheless, he replied:

      ‘You are a welcome guest. One of our people will attend to your mount. As for you and I, we shall begin by sharing a meal.’

      ‘I must leave soon after none* if I am to find lodgings at Céton. I shall visit the abbey there tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Your visit will be a brief one, then, I fear,’ announced the other man in a voice that sounded too cheerful to be true. ‘But please follow me – I am failing in all my duties.’

      Leone walked with him towards the building to the right of the main gateway. So it was the preceptor’s dwelling.

      Two equerries were seated at the table in the main hall. They bent over their bowls of soup and busily finished the remainder of their meal, clearly keen to leave the room at the first opportunity.

      The Templars’ table, though far from lavish, was reputedly less frugal than