Read Online Madonna and Corpse by Jefferson Bass - Free Book Online
Authors: Jefferson Bass
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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.
As the watery late-winter sun rises above the twin bell towers, the archbishop steps forward. Quieting the crowd, he reads the Templars’ names and the charges against them. “Having confessed to these crimes fully and freely,” he tells the four, “you are hereby sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. May Almighty God have mercy on your souls.” The crowd roars, some in approval, some in protest.
De Molay, the old Grand Master, steps to the front of the scaffold and raises his hands for silence. After a scattering of whistles and catcalls, the noise subsides. “Listen to me, and hear me well,” de Molay calls out, his voice thin but strong. “We have indeed confessed to these terrible crimes.” He pauses to let those words sink in, and the archbishop bows his mitred head gravely. Then de Molay shouts, “But those confessions were false—forced from us by torture!” Geoffrey de Charney steps forward, nodding and shouting that what de Molay says is true; meanwhile, the other two prisoners shrink back, distancing themselves from de Molay and de Charney. At the other end of the platform, the archbishop of Sens, Cardinal Novelli, and the other clerics huddle in consternation; then the archbishop hurries to the captain of the guards, whispering urgently and pointing at de Molay. “The Order of the Knights Templar is holy and pure,” de Molay cries as the soldiers converge on him. “Our sin was not heresy—our sin was weakness! We betrayed the Order! We signed false confessions! These clerics are the real traitors to God!” A blow from one of the guards knocks the old man to his knees, and the crowd surges forward, on the brink of mayhem. As the soldiers drag the prisoners from the scaffold and force their way back to the prison, swords and lances at the ready, Fournier feels a mixture of outrage and sadness: outrage at de Molay’s brazenness; sadness for Uncle Arnold and the other holy men, publicly denounced by a lying heretic!
WORD OF DE MOLAY’S OUTBURST IS RELAYED TO THE palace. King Philip—taking a late breakfast—roars his rage, rakes the dishes to the floor, and roundly cudgels the unfortunate messenger. Next, he swiftly convenes a council of civil and church lawyers. The lawyers, no fools, assure the king that a relapsed heretic—what better proof of heresy, after all, than denying one’s heresy?—can be executed immediately, without further trial or appeal. With equal parts fury and satisfaction, the king decrees that de Molay and de Charney will die before the sun sets.
The news spreads across the island, and out to the rest of Paris, like wildfire. Within the hour, boats begin delivering bundles of kindling to the place of execution: the Île aux Juifs—the tiny Isle of the Jews, a stone’s throw upstream from the royal palace—where countless unbelievers have been executed over the years.
And so it is that six hours after the dramatic scene in the cathedral square, Fournier is jostling and nudging and sign-of-the-crossing his way forward once more, this time toward the western end of the Île de la Cité—the king’s end of the island—to see de Molay and de Charney put to the torch. Fournier bulls and blesses his way to a choice viewing spot on the shore and sizes up the stack of firewood accumulating across the narrow divide of water. There’s fuel enough to incinerate ten heretics, he judges, let alone two.
Fournier’s assessment is based on more than a little experience with heretic burnings. Happily, he was a theology student here four years before, when King Philip burned fifty-four Templars for the same shocking
As the watery late-winter sun rises above the twin bell towers, the archbishop steps forward. Quieting the crowd, he reads the Templars’ names and the charges against them. “Having confessed to these crimes fully and freely,” he tells the four, “you are hereby sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. May Almighty God have mercy on your souls.” The crowd roars, some in approval, some in protest.
De Molay, the old Grand Master, steps to the front of the scaffold and raises his hands for silence. After a scattering of whistles and catcalls, the noise subsides. “Listen to me, and hear me well,” de Molay calls out, his voice thin but strong. “We have indeed confessed to these terrible crimes.” He pauses to let those words sink in, and the archbishop bows his mitred head gravely. Then de Molay shouts, “But those confessions were false—forced from us by torture!” Geoffrey de Charney steps forward, nodding and shouting that what de Molay says is true; meanwhile, the other two prisoners shrink back, distancing themselves from de Molay and de Charney. At the other end of the platform, the archbishop of Sens, Cardinal Novelli, and the other clerics huddle in consternation; then the archbishop hurries to the captain of the guards, whispering urgently and pointing at de Molay. “The Order of the Knights Templar is holy and pure,” de Molay cries as the soldiers converge on him. “Our sin was not heresy—our sin was weakness! We betrayed the Order! We signed false confessions! These clerics are the real traitors to God!” A blow from one of the guards knocks the old man to his knees, and the crowd surges forward, on the brink of mayhem. As the soldiers drag the prisoners from the scaffold and force their way back to the prison, swords and lances at the ready, Fournier feels a mixture of outrage and sadness: outrage at de Molay’s brazenness; sadness for Uncle Arnold and the other holy men, publicly denounced by a lying heretic!
WORD OF DE MOLAY’S OUTBURST IS RELAYED TO THE palace. King Philip—taking a late breakfast—roars his rage, rakes the dishes to the floor, and roundly cudgels the unfortunate messenger. Next, he swiftly convenes a council of civil and church lawyers. The lawyers, no fools, assure the king that a relapsed heretic—what better proof of heresy, after all, than denying one’s heresy?—can be executed immediately, without further trial or appeal. With equal parts fury and satisfaction, the king decrees that de Molay and de Charney will die before the sun sets.
The news spreads across the island, and out to the rest of Paris, like wildfire. Within the hour, boats begin delivering bundles of kindling to the place of execution: the Île aux Juifs—the tiny Isle of the Jews, a stone’s throw upstream from the royal palace—where countless unbelievers have been executed over the years.
And so it is that six hours after the dramatic scene in the cathedral square, Fournier is jostling and nudging and sign-of-the-crossing his way forward once more, this time toward the western end of the Île de la Cité—the king’s end of the island—to see de Molay and de Charney put to the torch. Fournier bulls and blesses his way to a choice viewing spot on the shore and sizes up the stack of firewood accumulating across the narrow divide of water. There’s fuel enough to incinerate ten heretics, he judges, let alone two.
Fournier’s assessment is based on more than a little experience with heretic burnings. Happily, he was a theology student here four years before, when King Philip burned fifty-four Templars for the same shocking
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