It was Prince John who started the hearing, in his typically ungracious way. Giving a jerk of his dark-red curly head to the Master of the Temple, he waved one finger of his beringed right hand and croaked: ‘Well, shall we get on with it, then? I don’t wish to be here all day.’
The Master, who had been conferring earnestly with one of his wardens and a clerk brandishing a clutch of curling parchments, looked up, surprised to have his authority usurped in his own church.
To his credit, he resisted what had, in effect, been a royal command. ‘In a moment, Your Highness,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Try to possess yourself with a just little more patience.’ His tone had the slightest edge to it; a note of condescension, as if talking to an impetuous child.
As I watched Aymeric de St Maur rise from his seat in the southern part of the church, not far from us, and cross to the Master’s chair, a thought struck me. I turned to Robin and asked: ‘Where is the Queen? Where is the Lady Eleanor? Surely she should come to your aid?’
Robin turned to me and smiled — he looked as cool as a summer breeze. Almost without moving his lips, he said, very quietly: ‘The Queen cannot come to my aid, Alan. She must stay aloof from this contest. She needs the English Templars to help her free Richard, or rather she needs their silver and their ability to arrange credit. We are all on our own here, Alan. Just play your part, and all will be well in the end.’
I must have looked uncertain, for he gave me a conspiratorial wink and muttered: ‘Do not trouble yourself too much, Alan. Everything is going to be just fine. Tuck assures me that the Almighty has a master plan; God has it all worked out, apparently.’ And he grinned at me, quite blasphemously, before saying: ‘And have you noticed Murdac’s crooked back?’ I could only smile back at him, heartened by his less-than-Christian pleasure in an enemy’s discomfort.
The Master of the Templars now rose to his feet, gave a brief signal to one of the sergeants, and led the whole church in a prayer asking God that the truth be uncovered and justice be done this day in His sacred house, before His eyes. Then the sergeant led Robin to the centre of the church, placing him in such a way that he stood directly before the Master but everyone in the round church would have a clear view of him.
The Master then held up a thick, curling piece of parchment and read aloud in Latin. It was a letter from His Holiness the Pope, adorned with the Papal seal, sanctioning this inquisition in the Temple Church in London on this day and naming the individual to be investigated as Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley. It was a long, dull document, which referred to a Papal Bull known as Ad abolendam that had been issued by Pope Lucius nearly ten years ago, urging the high churchmen of Christendom to actively seek out all heretics and those who sheltered or supported them, and bring them swiftly to justice.
His authority as an episcopal inquisitor thus established, the Master took his seat and the inquisition began.
‘Do you Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and in his only son Jesus Christ our Saviour?’ asked the Master in French, fixing Robin with his bloodshot eyes.
‘I do,’ said Robin gravely, in the same language. I knew that he was lying through his sinful teeth — but there was no other answer that he could make.
‘And do you believe that the word of God was made flesh as Jesus Christ and that by his suffering and death on the Cross this sinful world was redeemed?’
‘No question about it,’ said Robin, his face a picture of Christian innocence.
‘And do you believe that on the third day after He was crucified He rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven, and now sits at the right hand of God the Father?’
‘Absolutely… third day, right hand, all of that stuff,’ said Robin, his eyes seeming to shine with conviction.
‘And do you believe in the Holy Trinity of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost? And that Mary was a virgin before and after the birth of her son Jesus Christ?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do get on with it!’ Prince John’s harsh voice cut through the recitation of a well-known and much-loved formula. Though the Master ignored his interruption, his high colour became a little more pronounced.
‘I certainly do,’ said Robin jauntily. ‘I’m entirely sure Mary was a virgin, before and afterwards — oh, very much so.’
‘And do you swear by Almighty God, by Jesus Christ, by the Virgin Mary and all the saints, at the peril of your immortal soul if you prove false, that you will only speak the truth this day?’
‘Yes, indeed. I swear it; I swear it on my immortal soul,’ said Robin confidently, but somehow still managing to sound impossibly sincere.
The Master seemed a little flustered by Robin’s breezy tone. He looked back down at a roll of parchment in his hand: ‘You stand accused of the grave crimes of heresy, of necromancy, of demon-worship, of blasphemy, of taking the Lord’s name in vain…’
Robin interrupted him, talking over the Master’s words: ‘… of picking my nose on a Sunday, of whistling in church, of stealing sweetmeats from children, of refusing to share my toys… My lords, these charges are completely absurd. They’ve been invented by enemies who seek…’
There had been several shocked chuckles from the secular knights seated around the church at Robin’s lampooning of the Master’s list of grave charges, but most people were too surprised by the turn of events to react.
The Master was not one of them. ‘Silence!’ he roared, furious that anyone should have the temerity to interrupt him. His cheeks were glowing a dangerous dark red. ‘You are insolent, sir. You will not speak unless you are asked a direct question; if you interrupt me again I will have you gagged.’
Robin said nothing; he let out a long breath and stared into space above the Master’s head, smiling faintly. His expression was once more beatifically serene. Just then, as the church fell silent after the Master’s threat, Tuck let out an almighty fart, a resounding trumpet that seemed to last for several heartbeats and echo around the whole building.
‘Silence!’ screamed the Master. I noticed that his face was growing a deep purple and a vein seemed to be jumping in his forehead. ‘Who did that? I demand to know who made that disgusting noise.’
‘Forgive me, Master,’ said Tuck. ‘I had a little too much ale with my supper last night.’ And once again, he let blow an enormous, foul-smelling eructation. ‘I humbly beg your pardon.’
At least half the people in the church were laughing now. And the Master’s face had turned an even nastier shade of puce. ‘If I hear one more inappropriate… sound… of any kind… from anyone, I shall have that person removed from this court, bound, shackled and thrown in the crypt.’
It was obvious that the Master meant what he said: his face was still beetroot but, after a while, he had calmed himself enough to resume reading the charges from the parchment. It was a long list, but mostly seemed to consist of variations on the same theme — that Robin was a heretic, a godless Christ-denier, a worshipper of demons who conjured up foul spirits from the furthermost pit. When the Master had finished reading, he fixed Robin sternly with his gaze and said formally: ‘Earl of Locksley, you now stand accused. What answer do you make to these charges?’
‘They are all lies,’ said Robin simply, in a level, reasonable voice that carried to every part of the church. ‘They are lies invented by enemies who wish to see me destroyed. I deny all of these charges. Every single one.’