De Molai: the last of the military grand masters of the order of Templar knights

Front matter

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Contents

Chapter. Page.

I. THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY 23

II. PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. ... 50

Preface

rPl HE following pages are designed to illustrate a remarkable era in the annals of France and of Europe, and to recite events and portray personages that rendered it thus remarkable.

With the single exception of the Templar episode in “ Ivanhoe,” the writer recalls no attempt in English fiction to depict the character, much less to outline the history and career, or to detail the fearful fate of that wonderful Brotherhood of Warrior-Monks, of the Order of Templar Knights, whose fame for two centuries resounded throughout Christendom ; and which, as a peaceful Affiliation, has existed to this day.

The writer in these pages has endeavored to convey as much of information relative to the Order of the Temple as could be gathered by faithful examination and careful collation of most

PREFACE.

authentic records, consistently with that exciting incident and rapid action indispensable to the dramatic interest of even an historical novel. Facts and dates may, therefore, he trusts, be relied on as correct; while the reader may indulge the reflection, also, that each one of the many names that occur in this dark chronicle of strange crimes is that of an individual who actually had existence in the age and country specified, and whose character and career were actually those therein ascribed to him. The writer has but taken him down for a time from his niche in the Historic Fane ; breathed into his nostrils the breath of life ; placed in his head v a human brain and into his breast a human heart and set them in motion; and then suffered him to act agreeably to the dictates of the one and the impulses of the other, in order to work out, as best he might, the destiny History has assigned him.

Highland View, Virginia,

September , 1888 .

NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE.

HE Illustrated Title Page presents the Grand

-L Master of Templar Knights, in the mantle of his Order, bearing the Abacus , or baton of his office, which in the peaceful Affiliation of to-day is the same it was more than six centuries ago. There is, and can be, but one such sceptre of authority in the Grand Encampment of the United States; and that now in use was presented by Most Eminent Grand Master Hubbard on retiring from office nearly thirty years ago, accompanied by the statement that “ the mystic characters, and the mottoes, and the general appearance are in strict accordance with the baton used by our Martyr Grand Master, James De Molay.”

The mantle prescribed by the Rule of St. Bernard, as part of the Templar garb in Priory, was required to be white, in order that, in the words of the Saint of Clairvaux, “ those who have cast behind them a dark life may be reminded, that they are thenceforth to commend themselves to

NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE.

their Creator by a pure and white life.” Some years later, a red eight-pointed cross, the Templar Cross, on the left shoulder of the mantle, was prescribed by Pope Eugenius, as a symbol of martyrdom.

On each side of the Grand Master stands a Knight Templar in similar garb, bearing the battle-banner of the Temple, the terrible Beauseant , alike the war-cry of the Templar and the name of his ensign — half black, half white — “ which means,” says the old chronicler, Jacques De Vitry, “in the Gallic tongue Bien-seant (well-becoming), because the Knights are fair and favorable to friends of Christ, but black and menacing to his foes.”

There is another ensign associated with the Temple — the red Passion Cross on a white field, with the legend of Constantine, “ In hoc signo vinces”

Very different from the Templar’s garb of the cloister, as a monk, though with light mail on his limbs, and spurs at his heels, and sword at his side, was his full panoply of war as a Knight, when, clad in steel from head to foot, with the beaver of his helmet up and visor down, he bestrode a powerful steed, steel-protected, like himself — with heavy cross-hilted sword on thigh,

NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE.

and ponderous battle-axe at saddle-bow, be grasped with one mailed hand his chain bridle, and with the other a lance “ like a weaver’s beam.”

At the upper corners of the Title Page is the Templar shield ; and the feet of the supporting Knights rest on the Templar Cross of the Beau - seant and mystic Abacus. Above all is seen the Passion Cross of the Templar’s faith, triumphant over the Saracen Crescent; while below, sustaining all, are beheld those grand words of the Hebrew monarch which open the 115th Psalm : “Not unto us , 0 Lord , not unto us , but unto Thy name give glory ” — which was the triumph-hymn of the Temple, as it was, and is, also, the magnificent anthem of their church, and was raised by the victorious warrior-priests on many a bloody field ; for, “ always, and on every field,” says Addison, “ was borne the Templar Altar for Mass, in special charge of the Guardian of the Chapel.” Strange association of religion with slaughter! On a field burthened with the slain and drenched with their blood, mailed forms, at a signal, sink meekly down ; and,, kneeling on human corpses, raise mailed hands incarnadined with gore, and give the glory of their fearful acts to the great Creator of, alike, victor and vanquished !

NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE.

Bat thus has it ever been, even from that earliest of triumphal hymns — that of Miriam, four thousand years ago, praising the Lord who had “triumphed gloriously,” down through the centuries, to the latest bulletin of victory, “ by the grace of God,” from the latest field of the dead !

As a peaceful Affiliation, the power of the Temple, at regards membership, far exceeds, at this date, that of the palmiest day of its military pride. In the LTnited States alone it numbers, by official returns, more than 70,000 Knights, in nearly 800 commanderies ; while in Europe, and elsewhere, the aggregate, though less, is very large. The dying words of the martyred De Molai, six centuries ago, are strangely verified : “ I, indeed, perish, but my beloved Order will live ! ” And now, in distant Iowa, then a wilderness in an undiscovered land, there are more than 50 commanderies, and nearly 4,000 Templar Knights ! The aggregate of Royal Arch and Master Masons, subordinate to the Temple, approximates 800,000 in the United States.

DE MO LA I:

THE

LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS OF THE ORDER OF TEMPLAR KNIGHTS.

Chapter I

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d’ANGELY.

6 4 riAIIB traveller wants his horse I ”

I “Wants what?”

“Wants his horse.”

“ Holy St. Benedict ! — his horse at this time of the night, and snch a night ! ”

“ He wants his horse,” reiterated the slipshod servantmaid, standing pertinaciously at the door half-ajar.

“ Get you gone, you brainless baggage ! — to bed with you!” shouted the old man.

The girl disappeared and the door closed.

“ His horse, indeed, on a night like this ! ” soliloquized the host of the Bois St. Jean d’Ang&ly, resuming his seat by the blazing fire of wood, which roared up the vast throat of the stone chimney. “ That foolish Gascon girl

24 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAtf D’ANGELY.

is getting more and more foolish, every day. Just as everybody is going to bed, lo! in she rushes, half-asleep, and shouts — ‘The traveller wants his horse!’ Out on the fool!”

The old clock that stood in the corner struck the half hour after ten. The wind howled down the chimney and wailed in the crannies, and shrieked through the key-holes, and raved around the corners of the old stone mansion and absolutely roared, like a huge organ-pipe, along the vast forest of St. Jean d’Angely, on the -skirts of which it stood.

It was the night of the 5th day of August, 1305. St. Jean d’Angely was a small village of France, in Gascony, in the ancient province of Saintonge, in the department of the Lower Charente and the diocese of the Saintes. It stood on the outskirts of an extensive forest, known as the forest of St. Jean d’Angely, nearly midway between Poitiers and Bordeaux.

It was a wild night, — as dark as Erebus; and the wind howled, and shrieked, and raved, and roared, and wailed, and whistled; and, from time to time, the rain dashed furiously against the casements, and the thunder rumbled in the distance.

“ Man and boy, I’ve lived on this spot full five and seventy years,” muttered the old man, cowering over the fire, “ and never have I known a night like this. My, it’s almost as cold as winter, and this is only August!” he added, stretching his withered hands over the genial blaze. “ Wants his horse , a night like this ! ” he continued, after a pause, with a faint laugh. “ Wonder who

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

lie is? He comes from tlie North, — perhaps from Poitiers, — perhaps from Paris, and seems to be a traveller on a journey. Well — well, he can’t leave before morning, nor then, either, unless the storm abates; and it will go hard if I don’t discover who he may be. So I’ll e’en to bed. Everybody sleeps.”

The old man rose, and having taken heed to the safety of the fire, took up his lamp, and was about tottering from the room, when he was arrested by the noise of a heavy tread in the apartment above, which, descending the creaking staircase, evidently drew nigh. The next moment the door was flung wide, and, upon the threshold, the traveller of whom he had spoken appeared.

He was a man of apparently forty, — tall, large, and powerfully built. His eyes were dark and penetrating, his hair black and closely cut, and on his lip was a thick moustache. His air was lofty, and his bearing that of one accustomed to command. Energy, enterprise and indomitable will were traced on his thin, compressed lips, and in the lines upon his broad and swarthy brow. And, yet, with all the pride and decision of his aspect, and all else that might be deemed repulsive, there was that about him which warranted the judgment that pronounced him “the handsomest man in Europe.” His garb was a close travelling dress of dark cloth, confined by a broad leathern belt around his waist, from which hung a heavy sword. Over this was a cloak of scarlet, lined with fur, and bearing a huge cape, which, like a second cloak, descended half-way to the heels. The cloak was secured by a golden clasp on the right shoulder,

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

in a manner to leave the arm at liberty to handle the sword, while, on the left side, it was tacked up above the sword, and behind hung loosely in heavy folds nearly to the ground. A velvet cap ornamented with lace, over which was a kind of hood with a broad cushion on the top, called a chaperon , and a tail hanging down behind, protected the head. On his feet were boots with pointed toes. The lace upon the cap and the fur upon the cloak of scarlet cloth, as well as the length of the toes of the boots and the size of the chaperon , indicated the wearer to be a person of distinction.

At this formidable apparition on the threshold, the old landlord had started, and had well nigh dropped his lamp. Recovering himself, however, he bowed before his unexpected guest and humbly asked his will.

“My horse, sir!” was the stern reply. “ How often must a traveller order his horse in your ruinous old cabaret before being obeyed? ”

“ But, your highness,” began the old man in earnest expostulation.

“No words, sir! — the horse!” was the imperative rejoinder.

“It is a dreadful night,” again ventured the host, as he slunk towards the door ; “ and your highness had better” —

“ The horse ! ” thundered the deep voice of the traveller.

And, without further word, the landlord fled precipitately from the apartment, holding up his hands in dismay.

“ No wonder the old fellow is amazed,” soliloquized

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’AIsGELY.

the traveller with a smile, as the host disappeared. “It is, indeed, a fearful night. Not a star!” be continued, going to the casement and looking forth. •“ Very well. So much the better. I wonder if he will be there?” he added, after a pause, slowly pacing the floor, which creaked beneath his heavy tread, with folded arms and eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground. “Be there? 11 ell itself couldn’t keep him from such a rendezvous, or Heaven either, as to that, after the inducements that he has received! Oh, he’ll be there, and at the appointed hour, although, if this old fool detains me much longer, I may not.”

Luckily for the landlord, the traveller caught the sound of horses’ hoofs at this moment on the stone pavement, in the yard of the hotel, and immediately hurried to the principal entrance. Opening the door, he was nearly thrown backward by the furious blast that rushed in. In front stood the old host, holding fast with both hands to the bridle of the terrified horse. The traveller closed the door and advanced. The horse with head thrown up, and eyes starting from their sockets, and mane streaming in the blast, at once recognized his master as he approached, and rubbed his head against his arm in token of recognition. The traveller placed a piece of gold in the hand of the host, and leaped upon his horse.

“ Holy St. Benedict! ” cried the host, “ whither do you go on a night like this?”

“To the Abbey of St. Jean d’Angdly,” was the brief reply; and wheeling his horse the traveller dashed into a road which plunged into the depths of the forest,

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN i/ANGELY.

“May all the saints preserve him!” ejaculated the old man, as he returned to his hotel and found that the piece of gold repaid him ten times over the traveller’s fare.

The midnight tempest roared through the forest, and the giant trees bowed before the blast, as the adventurous traveller urged on his steed.

On — on, — mile after mile, fled the terrified animal through the impenetrable gloom of the midnight forest; and on, still on, he was urged by his rider. At first, the path was broad and open ; but soon it became winding and intricate, and, at length, the darkness was so intense that further progress seemed impossible.

Dismounting from his sweating horse, the traveller led him by the bridle, and endeavored to trace the path. But this was impossible, and, after repeatedly wandering from his route, he remounted the saddle and resolved to trust rather to the instinct of the noble animal than to his own less acute senses.

For several miles the horse slowly advanced. At length, suddenly slopping, he threw up his head and loudly snorted. The next moment a voice was heard in the darkness.

“ Bordeaux ! ”

“Borne!” was the quick response of the traveller, who at once dismounted.

A figure advanced and the traveller’s hand was closely grasped.

“ Are you alone ? ” asked the horseman.

“ I am,” was the reply.

“Swear!” was the imperious order.

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

“Sire, I swear.”

“Then, on to the Abbej r , for, by St. Louis, it is so infernally dark in this old forest that it is impossible to distinguish a tree from a tower.”

“Permit me to lead,” replied the first voice. “The Abbey is but a few yards to the right.”

“ You received my summons ? ”

“ Sire, I did ”

“No one accompanied you to the Abbey, or knows of your coming ? ”

“No one, Sire. I left Bordeaux alone.”

“ And reached the Abbey alone? ”

“ About two hours since.”

“And no one knows of your arrival?”

“ Sire, the inmates of the Abbey have been asleep for hours. I have the key to a low postern, which leads to a secret turret. Besides, the night favors us; — who on such a night would brave the tempest or suspect others of braving it — ”

“ Aye, who but Philip of France, or Bertrand de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux?”

“Sire — Sire, if it please you, not quite so loud!” cried the trembling ecclesiastic. “ We are at the Abbey.”

At this moment, the forest path emerged upon a broad and closely shaven area, beyond which rose in irregular masses, against the midnight sky, the towers of the ancient Abbey of St. Jean d’Angely.

“ This way, Sire ! ”

And the priest conducted his companion to the left of the main entrance, through thickets of tangled underbrush, and through the old woods until they reached the foot of a tower, against which the enormous trees swept their heavy branches.

Applying a key to a low iron door, at the base of the tower, it opened. The horse was secured to a tree, and, grasping his companion by the hand, the priest led the way up a narrow and winding stair, practised in the depth of the massive wall, until their progress was arrested by a second door, likewise of iron. This door flew open before the priest, apparently by means of some secret spring which he touched, for he used i o key, and the two men were the next moment in a small turret chamber, heavily hung with tapestry of black velvet, with but one window, which was also heavily draped. At the extremity of the apartment stood an altar surmounted by the crucifix, and lighted by twelve waxen tapers, and decorated as for solemn mass.

The two men, revealed to each other by the light of these sacred tapers, presented a contrast well worthy of a moment’s pause.

Philip the Fourth, of France, if not absolutely “the handsomest, man in Europe,” as the distinction which history has given him, — Philip le Bel , — would imply, had, at least, very few rivals ; and, among these rivals, certainly was not Bertrand de Goth, the Primate of Bordeaux. Philip was tall in person and kingly in bearing ; Bertrand was short and corpulent. The front of the king was bold, frank, open ; that of the priest was sinister, suspicious, cautious. The former was the lion, — the latter the serpent; yet the aspect of each indicated

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAJT D’ANGELY. 81

power and ability, — a power and an ability, as well as an ambition, of which, even after the lapse of more than five centuries, the marks can be distinctly traced on the era and upon the nations in which they lived.

As the King entered the turret chamber, his hand rested on his sword, and his dark, penetrating eye glanced hastily around, sweeping the narrow limits of the apartment from its arched roof to its stony pavement.

Two heavy chairs and a table of oak, on which were r candles and materials for writing, constituted, with the . altar, the entire furniture of the room.

“Will your Majesty be seated?” humbly asked the ecclesiastic, presenting one of the chairs.

The King returned no reply, but continued his exam- , ination of the chamber.

[Raising the tapestry he sounded the walls with the , hilt of his sword, and the floor with his armed heel, to detect, if possible, concealed apertures, if such there were. He even examined the altar itself, that he might ,be sure it concealed no listener; and, at an age when poison was actually administered in the holy wafer, it was not strange that a traitor might be suspected to lurk beneath tlie altar of God.

“Will your Majesty be seated?” again asked the priest.

“Are we alone? ” sternly demanded the King.

“Sire, we are ! ” was the trembling reply.

“Swear!”

“I swear!” said the priest, laying his hand on the Gospels, which were spread open on the altar.

“ It is well,” said the King, placing his drawn sword upon the table, and taking one of the chairs.

The priest remained standing.

“Be seated, Sir!” said the King.

ddie Archbishop obeyed.

For some moments Philip sat silent, his searching eyes fixed steadfastly on the trembling priest.

“ Bertrand de Goth,” he, at length, said, in deep and impressive tones, “ you are my deadliest foe ! ”

The priest sprang to his feet, and his hand sought the bosom of his cassock, while beneath that garment glittered the links of a shirt of mail, as well as the blade of a dagger.

A contemptuous smile passed over the calm face of the King, as he quietly waved to his startled companion tO^esume his chair.

^The priest reluctantly complied, but still kept the wakeful vigil of his serpent eye on the powerful form before him.

“ I say, Sir Priest,” repeated the King, “ that, since the deserved and dreadful doom of Benedict Gaetan, Pope Boniface Eighth, you, Bertrand de Goth, who now aspire to his vacant chair, are my deadliest foe.”

The Archbishop, pale as death, and wondering to what this strange charge might lead, retained his seat in silence. A personal struggle with a man of Philip’s powers he knew could only prove fatal to himself; while in craft and subtlety he thought he might prove a match even for the King. This, indeed, was his onlyhope.

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

“ I repeat, Sir, and you dare not deny,” resumed the King, “that all the censures, interdicts and excommunications launched so freely on myself and my realm for nearly ten years by Benedict Gaetan were counse e<l by you, and sustained by you, and that as a reward for that support and countenance, you were first advanced by your master to the See of Oominges and finally to the splendid Archbishopric of Bordeaux.”

“ But Benedict Gaetan lives no more,” was the reply.

“ Aye, he lives no more ! ” cried the King, the bitter smile of gratified vengeance lighting his quivering lip and the fires of exultation flashing in his eye. “Benedict Gaetan lives no more. And how did he die? Even as the dog dies, so died he ; and thus perish all the foes of France ! ”

The Archbishop shuddered and became even more livid than before.

“ Shall I tell you how he died ? ” continued the King. “Abandoning the Vatican, he sought safety in his native village of Anagni from my vengeance on his crimes. There DeNogaret, with Sciarra Colonna and his soldiers, seized him. In his rage he blasphemed God, abjured Christ, and cursed the King of France to the fourth generation. Next delirium came on him, and in paroxysms of madness he gnawed his own flesh in agony; and he died ! And then was recalled the prophecy of his victim-predecessor, the unhappy Peter de Mouron, Pope Celestin Fifth, — ‘ Curses on thee, Benedict Gaetan ! Thou hast mounted the throne like a fox, thou wilt reign like a lion and die like a dog]’ And so it was I”

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

Silence for some moments succeeded tliis wrathful outburst of the King.

“ And was it to repeat to me the fearful doom of Boniface,” at length the priest ventured to say, “ that your Majesty summoned me hither? ”

“ It was ! ” quickly and sternly answered the King.

“ Amen ! ” ejaculated the Archbishop. “ But, Sire, to what end ? ”

“To this end — to make my fiercest foe my fastest friend !”

The priest raised his eyes in amazement, but they met the fixed gaze of Philip and again sought the ground.

“ Bertrand de Goth,” said the King, “you know me ; ” then, after a pause, he added: “ And I, Sir, know you ! ”

The Archbishop bowed.

“I know you for the most daring and unscrupulous prelate in Christendom.”

The priest again bowed.

“ I know that you fear not Heaven nor Hell, and regard not God nor man.”

Again the primate bowed.

“ I know you as the faithful neophyte of Boniface Eighth^ — and he was my foe!”

The priest started.

“And, since that man’s deserved and dreadful doom, T know no primate in Europe, who can be a more dangerous foe, or a more efficient friend, to me and to my cause, than you can.”

“Sire — Sire! ” exclaimed the astonished priest, rising to throw himself at the King’s feet.

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

“Nay — nay — not yet!” replied Philip, with a gesture of repulse. “ Be seated, Sir; you have heard not all.”

The primate resumed his chair, and, folding his arms upon his breast, fixed his eyes humbly on the ground.

“ Bertrand de Goth,” said the King, “ you are of an ancient race; — your father was a Knight of Villandrean, and your uncle Bishop of Agen. From your infancy you have been destined to the church, and, in ecclesiastical knowledge, you have no rival.”

The prelate bowed and murmured a faint acknowledgment.

“You are a man of influence, ability, scholarship, accomplishment — ”

“ Sire — Sire ! ” interrupted the astonished Archbishop.

“ And you are a man of vice, cruelty, hypocrisy and guilt.”

The priest was silent.

“ But, above all, for my purpose, you are a man of ambition, — measureless — fathomless ambition. To win the rewards of ambition, there is no depth of guilt into which you would not descend, — there is no principle however sacred which you would not sacrifice. Am I right?”

The priest returned no reply.

“ Am I right, I ask ! ” sternly repeated the King.

The prelate bowed.

“ Very well. It is but fit that two men such as we are, — such as you know me to be, and as I know you to be, should understand each other, before we make a compact.”

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

a A compact, Sire? ” exclaimed the Archbishop.

“ Aye, a compact. You have beard of compacts with the fiend himself, have you not? The theme I had supposed a favorite one with you churchmen!”

“A compact of friendship, Sire?” inquired De Goth.

“Friendship! What friendship can ever exist between two men who have hated each other as Ave have, and still do hate each other as we do? Friendship, indeed! No, Sir — oh, no! A compact of interest!”

“ And what interest of your Majesty can the poor primate of Bordeaux advance?”

“Ask rather that which is uppermost in your mind, what interest of the primate of Bordeaux can Philip of France advance? But we waste time. To the point. When Philip the Hardy, my father, died, he bequeathed to my fulfillment three schemes which he had in vain striven himself to fulfill: the first was to seat on the throne of Arragon my brother, Charles of Valois, on whom Pope Martin Fourth bestowed the sceptre of an excommunicated king: — second, to establish the children of Blanche de la Cerda on the throne of Castile ; and, third, to reduce the rebels of Sicily, and avenge the thirty thousand Frenchmen who perished in the slaughter of the Sicilian Vespers.”

“ And are these your schemes, Sire ? ” asked De Goth.

“No, indeed,” replied the King with a laugh; “oh, no ! Besides, if they were, what aid could you render in their accomplishment?”

“Sire, I despair of rendering aid in any of your schemes.”

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY.

‘‘How humble your Excellency has become! Oh, no. My schemes are not the schemes of my father. They called him Philip the Hardy, and me they call Philip the Handsome, and yet by the bones of my worthy grandfather Louis, of whom Boniface made a Saint to atone in anticipation somewhat, I suppose, for the wrongs he was about to inflict on his descendant, — I say, notwithstanding my father was the Hardy Philip, and I am the Handsome Philip, I have had a more turbulent reign than he had; — what with wars with the English, and the Flemish, and Pope Boniface Eighth of cursed memory. My schemes, Sir priest, lie within my own realm for their fulfillment; and to me it is enough that you can advance them, your modesty to the contrary nevertheless, — you can advance them I say, if I 'think proper to advance you ! ”

“To advance me, your Majesty? ”

“To be sure — to advance you. Of what service can you now be to me ? But a moment since you were yourself in despair of aiding me in any of my schemes.”

“ And still am so, Sire,” was the meek answer.

“Come — come — you are too humble by half,” said the King. “Such abasement flatters some weak souls, but it js loathsome to me. Let us talk of Mother Church. What news from Rome? What of the new Pope?”

“Nicholas of Treviso has not yet been long enough in the papal chair to accomplish anything of moment, Sire; but he has been there long enough to incur the hate of his whole college of cardinals, I learn. This, indeed, is the latest news from Rome.”