Next came a great consistory of clergy and laity at Poitiers, where the pope lived; stage-managed by the king, with the king himself present and with royal officials as the chief speakers. Speeches prepared by Nogaret were declaimed for the pope’s benefit. “Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat”—the opening words of the coronation anthem provided the text for the first oration, and were given a new significance.(26) Never, since he first triumphed over the Devil in the crucifixion, had Christ won such a swift and wonderful victory as now, when his delegates had miraculously uncovered the heresy of the Templars — a heresy which had long been working in secret, to the peril of souls, the overthrow of the faith and the destruction of the Church. In its beginnings the struggle had been a terrible one, for the accusers were weak, the accused immensely strong (one recognizes a perennial paranoid theme...). But its development had been most gladsome; for, once delivered into the hands of the king and his officers (men devoid of cupidity and ambition, true servants of Christ), some of the Templars had hanged themselves or hurled themselves to their death while almost all the remainder had willingly confessed; one had even given up the ghost while confessing.
Through the pompous phrases the horrors of the torture chamber can be divined easily enough; but the orator knew how to divert attention from that thought. The Templars, he pointed out, had long been suspect, because “they held their chapters and their meetings at night, which is the custom of heretics, he who does evil flees the light”. Down the centuries this argument had never changed, and had never lost its force.
In all this the king’s spokesman was concerned not simply to discredit the Temple but also, and above all, to intimidate the pope; and he ended his speech with an unmistakable threat. The fact of the Templars’ guilt neither could nor should be questioned by any true Catholic; nobody — least of all the pope — should worry about how the truth had been discovered, by what means or in whose presence. All that mattered was that the facts had come to light and were now notorious; to doubt them would be tantamount to aiding and abetting heresy. In other words, if Clement questioned Philip's right to imprison and torture the Templars, he would lay himself open to a charge of heresy.
He would also be setting himself against the will of the French people. Pamphlets and orations from the pen of the royal publicist Pierre Dubois hammered the point home: the aggressor is regaining his strength, he will counterattack, he may be victorious; if the pope will not take action to forestall this, the people of France will take the law into their own hands. The pope must do his duty: he must formally condemn the Temple, and he must set the inquisitors free to continue their work.(27)
For a time Clement stood firm; but his resolution, never very strong, collapsed when some captive Templars, carefully chosen by the royal officials, were brought before him and renewed their confessions. Pope and king entered on secret negotiations; and early in July they reached an agreement. In effect, Clement capitulated, but — as weak, wellmeaning men commonly do in such situations — he also set about salving his conscience and saving his face. On the one hand he persuaded himself that some Templars, at least, were guilty; this justified him in ordering the bishops to use inquisitional procedure, including torture, against the Templars in their dioceses. On the other hand he set up papal commissions in the various countries to investigate the extent to which the order, as distinct from individual Templars, was involved in the alleged offences; this enabled him to pretend that papal rights had been respected.
The French bishops had always hated the Templars, and their inquisition proved merciless — in Paris alone thirty-six prisoners died under torture.(28) But few in any age are equipped to endure such martyrdom; so confessions came in plenty, to confirm and amplify those previously extorted by the royal officials. However, the pope’s command was addressed not simply to the French bishops but to the episcopate throughout western Christendom; and in countries other than France it produced quite different results. In Portugal the king simply refused to sanction the arrest of his Templars; in Castile an investigation was begun, but petered out; in Aragon the bishops carried through an investigation, but remained unconvinced of the Templars’ guilt; in England a face-saving compromise was devised; in Germany, it seems, the Templars were acquitted; and that was certainly the case in Cyprus, where there were Templars from all over Europe. The reason is plain: in none of these countries were the authorities interested in destroying the order. Only in France and in those parts of Italy and Sicily which were controlled either by Philip or by Clement was torture used ruthlessly; and only there were confessions forthcoming.
As for the papal commissions — even the commission operating in France — these came up with results which must have surprised Pope Clement and which were certainly unwelcome to King Philip. By the time the commissions started work, in September 1309, inquisitorial interrogations had been going on for nearly two years and many hundreds of confessions had been extorted; and this naturally made any fresh investigation of the order very difficult. Moreover, the king had considerable influence in deciding the membership of the commissions. Yet despite all this, truth would out. When the commission announced that it would hear any Templars who would volunteer to give evidence, more than 500 at once came forward. Though they were still prisoners of the king, worn with hardship, hunger and torture, these men took on new life at the prospect of defending the honour of the Temple. In Paris in 1307, 134 Templars had affirmed the guilt of the order; in 1310, 81 of those same 134 appeared as defenders. In Bayeux, 12 Templars had confessed; now 10 of those 12 appeared as defenders.
A defence submitted in writing by a group of Templars has survived, and it overflows with innocence, indeed with naivety.(29) Why, it asks, will nobody listen to those who tell the truth, even though they die under the torture and so earn the palm of martyrdom? How does it come that former Templars, who have been expelled from the order, can now earn money and privilege by slandering it? Quite unaware of the part played by King Philip, the defenders argue that he must have been deceived by those lying witnesses. Until the arrests, no hint was ever heard of the scandalous accusations. But now their captors keep telling them that, if they go back on their confessions, they will be burned alive. Therefore they ask that while they or any of their brethren are giving evidence, laymen (meaning the royal officials) shall not be allowed to hear it; for “in general the brethren are so struck with fear and terror that it is astonishing, not that some have lied, but that any at all have sustained the truth”.
Their fears were only too well founded. Under inquisitorial procedure, any heretic who withdrew his confession was due for burning. And although the papal commission had assumed that those who appeared before it would be safe, at least until it had completed its investigation, there was no formal agreement to that effect. The evidence accumulating before the commission was endangering King Philip’s whole plan; and he intervened ruthlessly. He forced the pope to appoint a young man of twenty-two, who was also the brother of his superintendent of finances, to the archbishopric of Sens, which included Paris. The new archbishop, acting in council, at once seized fifty-four Templars who had withdrawn their confessions and offered them the choice of either going back on their recantation or else of being handed over to the secular arm for burning. All fifty-four stood firm, and even in the flames continued to proclaim their innocence and the purity of the order. Others stood firm also: in all, some 120 perished in Paris, as against a mere two who chose the easier course.