The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp

looked enquiringly at Arnaud de Viancourt, sensing that what he was about to say vexed him. He was not mistaken.

      ‘Good God, even his name is … difficult for me to pronounce.’ He sighed before confessing, ‘This intermediary is none other than Giotto Capella, one of the best-known Lombardy moneylenders of the Place de Paris.’

      Leone grew faint and his eyes closed. He tried to protest but Viancourt interrupted:

      ‘No. There is nothing you can say that I do not already know. I also know that time cannot heal all wounds. I spent days searching for another solution, in vain. Capella will never escape his tainted past. It is our trump card.’

      Leone propped himself against the wall of broad, rough-hewn stones. He was overwhelmed by his emotions and struggling with his hatred. In truth he had been fighting it for so long now it had become like an unwanted companion he had learnt over the years to silence and control. And yet he knew if he freed himself, if he rid his soul of the loathing he felt for Capella he would be one step closer to the Light. In a faltering voice he said:

      ‘Blackmail? What if Capella is a reformed man, what if he simply acted out of cowardice …? One needs to have experienced terrible fear in order to forgive a coward. I was so young then, but now …’

      Arnaud de Viancourt replied in a despondent voice:

      ‘Brother, what purity of soul you possess. Many men would have been incapable …’ He stopped himself, deeming it unacceptable to add to the pain Leone was clearly already suffering. ‘Why should Capella help us in return for nothing when we have so little that interests him, and the King so much? I doubt it and it grieves me. Do men change unless they are compelled to? You may judge for yourself, brother. I know you to be a formidable judge of men’s souls. You will soon perceive how much he has changed, or simply how willing he is to oblige. I hope for our sake – and for his too – that you will deem the letter we have prepared for him superfluous. I sincerely hope you find the solace of forgiveness – forgetting is human, forgiving is divine. If such is the case you may destroy the missive. Otherwise … I regret inflicting this ordeal on you but you must leave for France straight away. I have prepared letters of introduction as well as a leave of absence12 of unspecified duration. You will stay in our commanderies as and when required. You will find all the comfort and spiritual succour you need there. Giotto Capella should enable you to come within reach of our most redoubtable enemy, Guillaume de Nogaret. If we are right and Nogaret is already looking for a replacement pope, he will need money, a great deal of money. We suspect that the French cardinals are among the candidates of the King’s Counsellor. They are licentious and extravagant and will not pass up this opportunity to fill their purses. To begin with your task will consist in identifying the most likely candidate, for there are already several lining up. At best a name, or at worst two, Francesco. It is our only chance of intervening before it is too late.’

      So everything had long been decided. The prior’s uncertainty and regrets were doubtless sincere, but he and the Grand-Master had already woven their web.

      A clamour of contrasting emotions raged inside Francesco de Leone. An incredible feeling of hope overlaid his hatred for Capella.

      Arville-en-Perche, France, site of one of the Templars’ most important commanderies. The place where for months he had despaired of arriving, the place where another door, surely the decisive one, would open for him. His throat was dry, and he limited himself to a brief remark:

      ‘They say Guillaume de Nogaret is a dangerous man.’

      ‘He is. And all the more so as he possesses one of the most brilliant minds I have ever known. Remember, he is the worthy successor of Pierre Flote and, like him, a jurist and staunch advocate of the supremacy of the monarchy’s power over that of the French clergy. We must under no circumstances allow a schism to occur in the Church, or any part of it to break away from the authority of the Pope. If this religious and political controversy were to assume greater proportions the result would be catastrophic.’

      ‘For the monarchy’s power would become a divine right. Philip would rule directly through God, making him the highest authority in the realm.’

      The prior nodded. He had spent entire nights devising strategies to defend against the coming avalanche, only at dawn to reject every last one as hopeless. The only remaining solution was to anticipate and prevent Philip from putting an end to the supreme authority of the Church over all the monarchs of Christendom.

      Leone had regained some of his composure. He felt far away from the island sanctuary. He was already there, in the one place where his quest could continue.

      ‘What practical information can you provide that will help me to …’ he began, when Arnaud de Viancourt interrupted him:

      ‘We are groping in the dark, brother. Any conjecture on my part would be a dangerous imprudence.’

      ‘And my weapons, my powers?’

      The prior appeared to hesitate and then, in a clipped tone that left the Knight unperturbed, he replied:

      ‘The choice is yours, provided they serve Christ, the Pope and … our order.’

      Had he been in any doubt this declaration would have made it clear. Like the other orders, the Knights Hospitaller were strictly hierarchical and individual initiatives were strongly discouraged. The free rein given him was easy to interpret: the order was facing the most ruinous crisis it had known since its formation almost two centuries earlier.

      ‘Will my mission be recorded?’

      ‘You are not afraid, are you, Francesco? I cannot believe it. No. You know how suspicious we are of written records. That is why we only recently felt the need to have one of our own, Guillaume de Saint-Estène, copy out our founding texts. Few written transcripts of our rules exist and they must never find their way outside the order or be copied, as you know. You are not afraid, are you?’ the prior repeated.

      ‘No,’ murmured Francesco de Leone and smiled. His first smile that early morning.

      He knew that true fear would come later. What he felt now was an intense pressure crushing him, and he had to stop himself from slumping to his knees on the dust-covered ground to pray or perhaps even to cry out.

      The last hours of daylight lingered in the west. Francesco de Leone had worked like a slave the whole day long, missing both meals as part of a private fast. He had helped care for ‘our lords the sick’ – one of the duties of the Order of the Hospitallers that distinguished it from the other military orders – as well as providing training in the use of arms for some of the recently admitted novices. The heat and physical exhaustion had offered him a vague respite.

      Might Benoît die? Might everything fall into place now? After four long years of a quest that had been as discreet and unrelenting as it had been fruitless, might a political threat lead him to a doorway hitherto hidden? The reason for his journey was admittedly this difficult mission. And yet the coincidence seemed too great for it to be entirely accidental. A sign. He had waited so long for the Sign. He was going to France, to the country where the Ineffable Trace had re-emerged and with full powers granted to him by the prior and consequently by the Grand-Master himself. He was going to discover there at last, perhaps, the meaning of the Light that had immersed him for a fleeting and divine moment at the heart of the Santa Costanza in Rome.

      A ripple of anxiety coursed through him like a fever. What if it were only another illusion, another deadly disappointment? Would he have the strength to go on?

      That choice was not his to make either.

      Hoc quicumque stolam sanguine proluit, absergit maculas; et roseum decus, quo fiat similis protinus Angelis.13

       Chartres, May 1304

      NIGHT was slowly falling. The clamour in the streets had gradually died down. It was almost