In my novel "The Tale of the English Templar", the hero, Percy de Lacy, falls into the hands of the King of France's troops -- and the Inquisition. He is tortured into a false confession, but he is rescued by a maiden. She is the subject of today's excerpt.
In this excerpt, Felice is a still a teenage girl attending the Convent of Saint Radegonde in Poitiers as a boarder. She is not a novice. It is the summer of 1307 -- before the arrest of the Templars and Felice is 16-years-old.
Notre-Dame-la-Grande was filled to overflowing. Not only was the nave packed but the two narrow side aisles were equally crowded and some of the nimbler students had managed to climb on each other’s shoulders to reach the window sills, where they perched precariously.
Felice detached herself from the twittering cluster of nuns and fellow boarders from the convent of Saint Radegonde and wormed her way forwards to a place between two of the brightly painted columns opposite the pulpit. She was grateful that the Abbess had agreed to let them come to the service, but she had no desire to stay with the others. Most of them came only for the sake of getting out of the convent and had no interest in the actual attraction: a sermon by Father Elion.
Father Elion’s reputation for inspiring rhetoric had preceded him to this university town housing the Pope, but so far Clement V had not appeared, although no one else of consequence in Poitiers was missing. Felice noted that the entire faculty of the university had come en masse and secured the best places directly under the pulpit. The Bishop was in his seat in the choir, and his staff of priests, deacons and monks clustered around him in the ambulatory, spilling into the side chapels. Although the Pope was absent, the red of a half-dozen cardinals stood out dramatically among the throng of black, brown and white habits. Almost equally noticeable amidst the sea of habits was a cluster of Knights Templar, in their austere but striking armour.
Felice remembered the rumours which circulated at the university. It was whispered that the reason the Pope had summoned Master de Molay to Poitiers was not to discuss a new campaign to the Holy Land but because he wanted the Templars and Hospitallers to merge into a single Order. Felice suspected that Molay feared he would be replaced as the head of the united Order by the more dynamic and charismatic Hospitaller Master, Fulkes de Villaret. Villaret had not answered the Pope’s summons because he was too busy conquering the island of Rhodes, wresting it from the control of a notorious pirate captain.
The Templars were in the midst of a discussion while they awaited the start of the service, and as they made no attempt to keep their voices down, Felice made no attempt not to listen. Master de Molay was declaring in an irritated and petulant tone, “Of course, it’s astonishing that a man who was thought dead or, at best, a fugitive in Ireland has been able to defeat the English in a series of skirmishes, but a couple of mountain ambushes do not win a war!”
A knight responded to the Grand Master in heavily accented French and a voice that was far too loud for the environment. “Robert the Bruce is no’ winning a war — he’s winning a kingdom! You could be betting on the wrong horse, backing Edward II against Robert the Bruce.”
The Grand Master frowned, passed his hand over his mouth and smoothed down his beard in short, nervous pats. Then he shook his head and announced, “I must consult Master de la More. He will know the new English King. I will seek his advice.”
At this moment Father Elion at last made his entry and a ripple of excitement spread through the great church. Felice lost all interest in the banal conversation of the Templars and strained to get a glimpse of the famous Dominican. Standing on tiptoe and shifting first left and then right as the crowd in front of her shifted excitedly, she managed for an instant to get a clear view of the Dominican friar. By chance, the priest had turned to look in her direction and she saw him head on. He had a distinctive face — gaunt and hawk-like, but although tall, he hunched his shoulders like a vulture.
She forced herself to suppress her instant dislike as foolish. She admonished herself to focus on his words as he began his sermon. He was indeed a gifted speaker. He spoke with genuine intensity, and he used his voice adeptly, varying tone, pitch and volume. Still Felice was disappointed. He railed against wealth, reminding his audience that Christ had been born in a manger of humble parents and had abjured all wealth. Only those ready to cast off their worldly possessions and renounce their inheritance were privileged to follow Christ. How banal! She thought. She could have heard the same message from the village priest of Najac.
Felice was glad when the service was over and the great throng started to shuffle their way towards the portal. Around her, the students, monks and secular clerics were animatedly discussing the sermon. No one else seemed to share her disappointment. Quite the contrary: from the enthusiasm of the reception, one might have thought he had presented a brilliant new thesis. Had she been too stupid to hear it? Felice tried to listen more intently to the students disputing behind her. They were repeating Father Elion’s phraseology, flattering by imitation, but she could still detect nothing particularly original in the words they praised so highly.
The crowd clogged the door and the impatient tried to elbow and shove their way forwards. Felice hated crowds and drew back, letting the others go before her. It made no difference to her that the Abbess and the other girls had passed out of the portal well ahead of her. It was midday and she was not afraid to walk the streets of Poitiers from Notre-Dame-la-Grande to the convent of Saint Radegonde alone. On the contrary, she was glad to be on her own and not have to listen to the giggling gossip of the other girls and the nuns.
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