Ultimately, the domineering and omnipresent protagonist in any tale about the destruction of the Knights Templar is the King of France, Philip IV. A book that included him as a character, dissecting his motives and strategy, would undoubtedly make a intriguing contribution to literature on the topic. But I did not choose that path. In The Tale of the English Templar, Philip VI remains ominously in the background. The protagonist of the novel is instead one of his servants -- an idealistic young man whose ambitions lead him astray.
In this excerpt, the student Umberto di Sante is found walking out in the streets of Poitiers with the noble maiden Felice de Preuthun. He is the son of a Sicilian noble house, in Poitiers to study and 'make connections' to enable a career. Although as a student he is classed as 'clergy' and subject to canon rather than secular law and authorities, he has not yet taken monastic vows.
The Dean, Monseigneur Michel de Saint Laurent, was a man in his early forties. He was a vigorous man, built more like a smith or a longshoreman than a priest. He had broad shoulders, thick, muscular arms and a stride that shook the earth as if an elephant were angry. More important, though not a man of noble birth, he was a relation on his mother’s side of the King’s most influential minister, Keeper of the Privy Seal, Guillaume de Nogaret. It was no secret that he was designated for the bishopric of Albi as soon as the present incumbent finally succumbed to the sickness that had incapacitated him for months.
Felice dipped her knee and bowed her head demurely to the powerful priest.
“The Reverend Mother is looking all over for you, mademoiselle!” the Dean told her sternly. “She was about to send out search parties. Report to her at once and pray the Virgin inspires her with mercy.” He dismissed her with a quick flick of his hand. Felice dropped another curtsey and with a hasty, almost inaudible “Adieu” to Umberto, she collected her skirts and ran across the cathedral court, heading for the Convent of Saint Radegonde beyond.
Umberto, embarrassed to be discovered by such a prominent churchman in a potentially compromising situation, also bowed and started to take his leave, but the Monseigneur had him firmly by the elbow and started to lead him forcefully towards the cathedral. “Not so fast, young man. I intend to take a stroll in the cloisters, and you will accompany me.”
Umberto could hardly say no, and a part of him was even excited. It was not every student who took an afternoon stroll with the Dean of Poitiers Cathedral. His colleagues never need learn the reason or the content of their discussion. He fell in beside the Dean and paced himself to match the stride of the senior cleric.
“I’ve been watching you for some time, di Sante,” the Dean commenced before they had reached the cathedral. “You’re an ambitious young man.”
Umberto was flattered — and impressed that the Dean had noticed, given how little contact they had had with one another.
The Dean shoved open the door of the cathedral. It banged loudly; the echo vibrated in the soaring arches overhead, but the Dean was not in the least distracted. He marched across the nave with only the barest hint of a genuflection towards the altar, heading to the door leading out into the cloisters at the base of the transept opposite. The fact that mass was being read in the choir disturbed him not in the least. They entered the tranquillity of the cloisters where the pure Romanesque arcade framed the bubbling fountain in the centre of the garth with its clipped grass.
The Dean had no particular affinity for beauty. He pounded his way over the graves of deceased priests as if he were intent upon wearing away even the simple crosses with the Christian names and dates. “You selected the books for copying not merely on the basis of the condition of the pages but on the basis of content.” The Dean willingly revealed one of the reasons he was impressed by Umberto.
Umberto noted this with satisfaction, remembering that he had explained before he was asked the reason why he recommended the copying of various volumes. At the time, the Dean had appeared uninterested and even irritated; now Umberto was gratified to learn that his effort to attract attention had been more successful than he had dared hope.
“You have a good head on your shoulders,” the Dean continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “Your professors assure me of that.” He glanced at the young man next to him and his eyes narrowed a bit. The boy’s face was too pretty by far. Monseigneur Michel was not himself a good-looking man: his face was too round, his lips too thick and his nose too stubby for that. But everyone had their faults, he reminded himself and continued, “It seems to me that you have a great number of options open to you.”
Umberto’s blood quickened in his veins. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he might obtain patronage and opportunity so early. He had only been at the university for three years. Many youths studied for ten without attracting particular favour. While his family was rich enough to secure him a church benefice or a position in a monastery in Sicily, Umberto couldn’t bear the thought of ending there, so far from the seat of power.
“You will have given thought to your future,” the Dean surmised. “What is it you actually want out of life?”
Umberto was embarrassed to admit the dreams that filled him. He could hardly tell a man who had not yet gained the bishop’s staff that he aspired so high. He reduced his sights accordingly: “A university chair —"
“I thought you had more sense than that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life arguing about how many angels can stand on a pinhead?” The disapproval was patent.
“Well, no, I —”
“Let’s not play stupid games with one another. You’re too good for that. You know damn well that power lies not in the universities, much less the parishes. There are only two routes to power — the papal court or the crown. You can serve the Pope or the King of France – and to be honest that is one and the same thing since the King controls the Pope. To serve the King is the more direct route to reward.”
Even Umberto was taken aback by the directness of this speech. To be sure, all the students talked among themselves about Clement’s utter subservience to Philip IV, but they always kept their voices down and looked over their shoulders when they spoke.
“The King has urgent need of intelligent clerics who are willing to follow his lead without any mealy-mouthed prevarication. He’s going to have particular need of them in the near future. Did you like the sermon by Father Elion, by the way?” The Dean stopped abruptly and asked the question out of the blue.
“Yes. Very much. The man has brilliant rhetoric and real courage. The Bishop did not look pleased,” Umberto added with a touch of a smile.
The Dean laughed heartily. “No, the bishop was not unduly pleased, but that hardly matters. Norgoret is impressed by Father Elion. He is a man who has a nose for the seat of evil and the fanaticism to root it out.” Umberto wondered how the Dean knew this, but already the Dean was continuing. “Don’t forget that the King is a very devout man. He cannot abide heresy.”
This was hardly a secret. Philip IV had not hesitated to accuse Pope Boniface VIII of heresy. The King had then proceeded to have the Pope arrested — by troops under the command of Nogaret. Pope Boniface had died not very long afterwards — whether of poison, fear or merely despair was a matter of much lively speculation among the students.
“Now,” the Dean continued purposefully, “for a young man eager to rise rapidly in the Church, there are a number of options. The most obvious course — and therefore, the one most unimaginative youths pursue — is to become attached to the papal court.”
Umberto was anxious to show that he was not so ‘unimaginative’ and now spoke up. “My family supported Charles of Anjou. I intended —”
“Anjou may be the King’s brother but make no mistake about his influence. The King wants his brother to become Holy Roman Emperor to increase his own power. Charles de Valois is a cultivated, intelligent man but he has none of his elder brother’s ruthlessness.”
Umberto had not noted that Anjou conducted the campaign in Sicily with particular mildness, but he knew better than to contradict.
“What you need to do, di Sante, is to join the Dominicans. That is the order most favoured by the King and all his confessors have been and will be Dominicans.”
The idea of being the confessor of a king had never crossed Umberto’s mind, but he liked the image instantly.
“There is a problem.” The Dean stopped abruptly and turned to confront Umberto so directly that the young man took a step back in shock. “You must enter holy orders — you must become a priest — and you cannot have any female casting a shadow over your career.”
Umberto blushed against his will. “You misunderstood. I saw Mademoiselle de Preuthune alone before Notre Dame. I merely offered to escort her back to the convent. We have —"
“I am Mademoiselle de Preuthune’s confessor, di Sante. You don’t need to tell me that she is not only still a virgin but a sincerely modest maiden. But listen carefully: there is no woman in Poitiers who is more dangerous for you than the Preuthune maid.”
“Monseigneur! I don’t understand. Of all the maidens now at the convent, she is the most genuinely interested in learning —”
“The girl is much too intelligent for her own good! She has a better mind than nine-tenths of the students at the university! You don’t have to tell me that. And she reads Greek — which I dare say is more than you can do. But that is exactly why she is dangerous. She’s not a girl you can use and discard. Her father is a respectable nobleman, her brother is on his way to becoming one of the leading tournament champions of France, and, to top it off, her grandfather was knighted by Saint Louis himself. I happen to know her grandfather, di Sante; he may be over seventy, but he is fearless. If you dishonour the girl, you can be sure that he will not hesitate to go to the King himself. Do you want to end like Abelard?”
Umberto blushed.
“No. You don’t. Look, if I know anything about Sicily, you ploughed more than one furrow before you left home. No one says you have to stop. You have the kind of face girls like.”
Umberto swallowed awkwardly, unsure if he were expected to admit that he regularly took advantage of this fact.
“I see you haven’t been fasting.” The Dean read his expression correctly. “No one is going to blame you for that. Not even after you take higher orders. You don’t think the whores of Poitiers live from secular customers alone, do you? But in the name of God, keep away from maids like Felice d Preuthune. The most important rule is never sleep with a woman who hasn’t spread her legs for dozens of others. Whether she’s a whore or just a woman of low birth or morals, never, never give a woman the chance to claim convincingly that you are the father of her bastard.”
As abruptly as he had addressed Umberto, the Dean seemed to tire of him. He stepped back. “I hope you have fully understood me,” the Dean declared, and then waved Umberto away.
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