A murmur of excitement stirs the crowd, and a shout sweeps across the plaza like rolling thunder: “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
To a chorus of cheers and jeers, a chevron of royal guards pushes through the square leading four shackled men. The men are France’s most famous prisoners: the last and most illustrious of the Knights Templar, the warrior-monks who acquired staggering wealth and power during the Crusades. For more than a century, the Templars were highly valued by both the king and the pope. Escorting pilgrims to the Holy Land, the Templars provided safe passage and carried letters of credit—less appealing to bandits than gold or silver—and, upon arriving in Jerusalem, cashed in the credit for currency from their vaults on the Temple Mount. But when the Holy Land was lost to Saladin and his Muslim hordes, the Templars began falling from favor. And seven years ago, in 1307, King Philip the Fair arrested hundreds of the knights, charging them with acts of heresy and perversion. “God is not pleased,” the arrest warrant began—a phrase Fournier finds applicable to many situations and many people. “We have enemies of the faith in the kingdom.”
The shackled prisoners are led up the steps and onto the platform just as Fournier reaches its base. The first is Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar. A tall, silver-haired seventy-year-old, de Molay appears gaunt and haggard—seven years of captivity have taken their toll—but he walks with as much dignity as chains, weakness, and advanced age allow. Behind him shuffles Geoffrey de Charney, the Templars’ chief commander in Normandy, followed by Hugues de Peraud and Godefroi de Gonneville. After the prisoners and guards have mounted the stage, one of the cathedral doors opens and a procession of sumptuously robed clergymen emerges: the high-ranking officials who have decided the Templars’ fates. At their head is William, archbishop of Sens, who serves also as Inquisitor of France and as the king’s own confessor. The archbishop is followed by Cardinal Arnold Novelli—Fournier’s own Uncle Arnold. Three years ago, when he was made cardinal, Uncle Arnold handpicked Jacques to succeed him as head of Fontfroide Abbey, a remarkable opportunity and honor. Three weeks ago, a missive bearing Cardinal Novelli’s wax seal arrived at Fontfroide, inviting Jacques to journey to Paris for the sentencing: “an event,” the cardinal wrote, “that cannot fail to reinforce your zeal for protecting the faith.” And indeed, the young abbot already feels a surge of inspiration as he surveys the solemn clerics, the chained heretics, and the mighty fa?ade of Notre Dame.
The cathedral occupies the eastern end of the ?le de la Cité, the slender island at the center of the river Seine. The island’s western end is dominated by the royal palace and gardens, and this division of the island into two halves—God’s half and the king’s—is pleasing and instructive, Fournier thinks. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, he reminds himself, and unto God that which is God’s. Evenly ballasted by church and state, the boat-shaped isle maintains an even keel, at least most of the time. Occasionally the balance of power on the island shifts to one end or the other, causing France itself to tip precariously. But not today; today, king and cardinals alike agree that the Templars must be punished, for the good of the kingdom and the salvation of their souls.