Candle in the Attic Window(61)

Born Jacques de Ronnay, I was a spy from the womb. I watched by mother sin and my father do worse. I am witness to the wickedness of siblings, neighbours, even regal authorities. I heard the words, “Thou shalt not kill,” and then learned of murders and strifes uncountable. “Thou shalt bear no false witness,” said the sheriff in my district, who then chose his words carefully and hid truth whenever he thought appropriate. I felt myself an outsider. I dedicated myself quickly to the labours of Heaven.

My father was a man of distinguished honour who fought in holy wars across the Mediterranean. From my youth, I heard endless tales of conquest, the bloody dispatch of the heathen. I, too, would one day follow my forbears and travel far, to kill the evil Saracen hordes and carry back the booty of honest endeavour (or what I called in my heart of hearts, ‘honest hypocrisy’). I would serve the Holy Host.

My agreement to this duty, covertly amended by my desire to really serve the Creator of Heaven and Earth according to His dictates and teachings, sustained my quest to enter into holy orders and the reception of sacraments consecrated to those who would be the greatest servants in the Church, even the administrators and leaders.

Yet, my hope to become a priest was thwarted by complications owing to erroneous physical competitiveness with certain brothers in the seminary – errare humanum est. The words did not serve as excuse enough. Father Soissons banished me on a mission to Rome, I went in the company of the Lady de Siverey, who would visit the Pope. When attacked by brigands beneath the Alps, I beat them off, splashing the red fluid of the wicked over the Lady’s cart. She told me not to apologize. She said that I had performed my calling. What really happened was this: I fell in love with the young widow in that very moment, though three tiny dots of enemy blood speckled her cheek like a constellation of heavenly winks.

In the Holy City, I made my honourable desires known. I was informed that our Papal Father was in need of a confessor on a trip to Avignon in Arles. My deeds and sacred longing were again brought to his attention, along with descriptions of my birthright and heritage. He summoned me. Prostrate, I swore my undying and unquestionable allegiance to him, making sure to clarify my aspiration to stand as far from the sword, and from the women of the world, as possible. I sought more sacred endowments. Perhaps I sinned in my request.

In the middle of the night, I was awakened and directed to visit Pope Nicholas IV himself, for a special assignment.

But this is all history.

For the greater part of a year, Our Church Father would not release me from my penance for lifting the sword against fellow Christians. I begged forgiveness for my selfishness: “Thy will be done, and not mine.” At length, I was pardoned. Immediately, I would receive ordination to higher office.

There was an order in which St. Bernard himself had endorsed the sustaining of an array of knights whose particular obligation was the protection of all pilgrims and crusaders from all parts of Europe and throughout the Holy Land. Having captured the Temple in Jerusalem, they called themselves the “Knights Templar”.

Yet, like my fathers before me, their activities were in question. After Saint Bernard’s edict, the Knights of the Temple quickly became the wealthiest branch of the Church: They did not pay taxes. They did not even pay tithes to Rome. No royal hand could touch them.

And now Rome was feeling a tearing pain that, again, is unimportant for me to belabour here. Nor do I need to explain the rift and scandals, the disputations between Church Doctors – I fear these terrible issues do not matter, not with the secrets I have uncovered: There are far more foul things in the earth than any of the quarrels of men. You must know. All must know. Or, I am certain, all will perish.




Quickly, papers were drawn up: recommendations, the highest praise, lists of experience and sacrifices – lies to which I was forced by the holiest and most perfect of all living men to admit as truths, that I might fulfill my mission.

I was admitted as a novice into the Knights Templar. It was a humiliating and dehumanizing initiation, full of boisterous humour. Did I flinch? Never. I was doing all – I would sacrifice anything! – to serve Him on High and wash myself clean of the blood and sins of this generation. Whatever horrors and atrocities that I beheld and in which I participated, I knew my real purpose. It was a sacred secret. And I would report to my Father, the Pope, personally.

My first crossing of the Mediterranean, I fear, shall be my last. The visions that I have uncovered are too dark, far deeper than the mysteries that the Cardinals expected me to uncover, so vast in their empty depth, in fact, that I suspect that the Pope already knows. I do not think that any who were aware of my mission imagined that I would really see. It is a true miracle that I am not completely blind. After the horrors which I must confess to you? It is a wonder that I still live.

There we were, upon the boats that would bring our black-and-white banner to Moorish shores. I remember viewing the stone faces of older brothers, their bone-white or brown or black habits, with red crosses flapping hard and loudly in a mean sea breeze, intent on pressing us away from the beach. I remember the coast all aglitter, prepared for our arrival: pikes to spear European knights, scimitars, oriflammes, halberds, and a wall of shielded men, madness in their blackened eyes.

There was a great stink – that familiar smell of the corpses that the Crusaders had hung from captured city walls to be picked by crows and riddled by ants and maggots, warning all infidels that Christians were present and would not be denied their death-dealing victories. Such a rot carried on the Mediterranean wind. The foetor choked my nostrils as I saw the off-coloured bodies.