Candle in the Attic Window(62)
In Acre, I saw her.
From a staircase, the Lady de Siverey peered on me with eyes so majestically black and painted, she looked like the most beautiful of Egyptian infidels. A shadow roiled inside of me. I wanted to flee, like Joseph in the House of Potiphar. But she remembered me.
“Jacques de Ronnay, you have come to the Temple as a Knight of that holy order. You have reached the Holy Land at last.”
I felt that she had the power to see into my mind and soul. I felt it, but I did not believe it. Not until now.
With these words, de Siverey offered her hand to be kissed. Yet Knights Templar, by their monkish rule, are not allowed to touch or kiss even their mother or sister.,
To avoid slighting this lady, who clearly had important ties with Rome, I bowed, lowering my forehead near to her signet in righteous esteem. Even so, the brother with me frowned at this impertinence.
She laughed. Perhaps she was mocking me, but all I heard was music to my heart. I heard the whisper of the Adversary in my mind, telling me that I might run away from divine ordinations and live happily ever after with this gorgeous female. I rose and retreated.
De Siverey smiled at me, her head to one side, her hair spilling and casting a lovely spell over me. In her eyes, the colour of deep Frankish woodlands, I thought I saw understanding and admiration. Mine must have shown a bit of shame, much adoration, and a determination to live every moment of my life as I was meant.
I did not see her again for more than sixteen months. Also, I left Acre but not the fiendishly hot countryside. I was transferred to a small garrison overseeing vineyards outside Acre.
There was a great peace between the Templars and the Sultan. There were so many different tales told. Forsooth, the Knights of the Temple were experiencing a sort of heaven on earth. The uneasy peace allowed them the time to cultivate their vast vineyards and olive groves, and rebuild their battered fortresses, even as their share of the Holy Land slowly and inevitably shrank under the encroachment of the Infidel.
There was also incredible evil. The sins rumoured to the Pope were true, for I was witness to much fraternizing with the Infidel and infernal compromises. I was expected to participate and mandated by the Church itself to do whatever pleased the Commanders.
And this I did. And to this day I regret it all, for it led me toward the horrible hidden mysteries and sciences discovered and kept by Judean and Saracen mystics.
I learned that certain Knights of the Temple resided close to the Sultan’s dignitaries. Their friendships disturbed me. More than once, I was reminded that the primary task of the Knights Templar was to provide safe passage to Christian holy sites; the Saracen and Jew sought the same: Jerusalem was sacred to them, too.
The topics made me ill. How could my “brothers” in the Order speak as if Saracens knew of the Bible? How had their hearts lost sight of real sacred callings, to promote the Church Visible until that great and dreadful Day of the Lord when the King of Kings would come again to rule all – even the infidel – on the Earth? I could not understand. Nor would I, until I discovered the depths of their evil gaze.
In Acre, I was brought, as a servant most trusted in the Order, to the house of Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu. His rooms in the commandery were small and houses himself and his staff.
The Grand Master expressed interest in my history. First, he praised me for my acts in the Order; then he referred to fictionalized aspects provided by Papal letters. He asked me questions. I gave prepared answers. Then his eyes seemed amused.
It was as if he knew the truth behind my mission, but that the game was only getting started.
I wish I had trusted my instincts. I might have fled and been happy with my delusions of simple hypocrisy in the world.
“Brother Jacques de Ronnay,” he said, “What do you know of true religion?”
“Grand Master, I am a humble slave and would rather be the lowliest doorman at Heaven’s Gate than spend a moment out of His service.”
“But what do you know?”
I did not understand his inquiries. Did he wish me to begin at Creation and tell from memory all that I could from the Bible, as little as I knew?
I began, with humble voice, in Latin, “In principio creavit deus caelum et terram,” before the old warrior held up his hand.
“Do you believe, Brother de Ronnay, that God knew all things from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“That he taught many of his greatest secrets to our father Adam in the Garden of Eden?”
“Of course.”
“And that he has taught the same, through angels and other ministers, throughout the centuries to other important individuals, seers and revelators, such as John the Beloved?”
“Certainly. Praised be His name.” I felt like slapping a hand over my mouth – in my devotion, I had spoken almost like an Arab, who so quickly attributed all to Allah: I had heard plenty of their mumblings in the street. Their devotion is unquestionable, mirroring my own. I could see how time among these people had disturbed the Grand Master’s mind, for I felt it disturbing mine own.
“Yet, the Bible does not record a single holy sacrament,” said the Grand Master.
Chills rolled over my back. I was sure I had heard blasphemy. I could only say, “My lord?” for he seemed more regal and less holy to my instincts.
He smiled at me. “You know the Holy Writ?”