“I have not come to argue, Your Excellency, and I am not meekly requesting that you give me the Mandylion. I am ordering you to do so.”
Balduino was pleased with having spoken these last words so resoundingly and once again sought the approval of de Molesmes. But the bishop was not to be commanded so easily.
“I must respect you as emperor, my lord, but you owe me obedience as your bishop.”
“Your Excellency, I will not allow what remains of the empire to bleed to death because you insist upon retaining possession of a holy relic. As a Christian I regret having to be separated from the Mandylion, but now my duty is to act as emperor. I ask that you turn over the Mandylion…willingly.”
The bishop shot out of his chair and, raising his voice, cried out, “You dare to threaten me? I warn you, if you rise up against the Church, Innocent will excommunicate you!”
“And will he also excommunicate the king of France for buying the Mandylion?” the emperor asked him, his voice rising.
“I will not give you the shroud. It belongs to the Church, and only the pope can dispose of the most sacred of relics—”
“No, it does not belong to the Church, as you well know. It was the emperor Lecapenus who rescued it from Edessa and brought it to Constantinople. It belongs to the empire; it belongs to the emperor. The Church has been but its faithful keeper, and now it shall be the empire that assumes custody.”
“You shall comply with the pope’s decision—we shall write to him. You may argue your reasons, and I will bow to his decision.”
Balduino hesitated. He knew that the bishop was trying to buy time, but how was he to refuse what seemed a fair compromise?
Pascal de Molesmes stepped to Balduino’s side and glared at the bishop.
“I think, Your Excellency, that you have not understood the emperor.”
“Seigneur de Molesmes, I beg you not to interfere!” shouted the prelate.
“You will not let me speak? On what authority? I, like you, am a subject of Emperor Balduino, and my duty is to protect the interests of the empire. Return the Mandylion to its rightful owner, and we can bring this dispute to a peaceful end.”
“How dare you speak to me in that way! My lord, bid your chancellor be silent!”
“Calm yourselves, both of you,” ordered Balduino, recovered now from his momentary hesitation. “Your Excellency, Seigneur de Molesmes has spoken rightly—we have come to demand that you return what belongs to me. Delay not a moment longer, or I shall send my soldiers to seize the Mandylion by force.”
With swift steps the bishop strode to the door of his apartments and called out to his guard. When they heard the shouting, a platoon came running.
Emboldened by their presence, the bishop turned back to his inopportune visitors.
“If you dare touch a thread of the Holy Shroud I shall write to the pope and insist that he excommunicate you. Now off with you!” he roared.
Balduino did not move from his chair, but Pascal de Molesmes, equally enraged, leapt to the open doorway.
“Soldiers!” he cried.
In seconds a squad from the imperial guard ran up the stairs and entered the bishop’s apartments, while the prelate’s own guards stood by in shock.
“You will defy the emperor? I shall have you arrested for treason, and for that, the penalty is death,” exclaimed de Molesmes.
A shiver ran through the bishop’s body. He looked in desperation at his soldiers, waiting for them to intervene. But they did not move.
Pascal de Molesmes addressed the frozen Balduino.
“My lord, I beg you give the order for His Excellency to accompany me to St. Mary of Blachernae and turn over to me the Mandylion, which I will carry to the palace for you.”
Balduino rose and, summoning up all his imperial dignity, strode toward the bishop.
“Seigneur de Molesmes represents me. You shall accompany him to the church and hand over the Mandylion. If you do not obey my order, my loyal servant Vlad will personally take you to the palace dungeons, which you will never again leave. I would prefer to see you officiate at the Mass on Sunday, but the decision is yours.”
He said no more. Without another look at the bishop, he swept from the prelate’s apartments, surrounded by his soldiers and certain of having comported himself like a true emperor.
Vlad the giant planted himself before the bishop, poised to obey the emperor’s order. His Excellency realized that he would gain nothing by resisting. Attempting to snatch from the embers some tatters of his wounded pride, he turned to the chancellor.
“I shall surrender the Mandylion to you, but I shall write the pope.”
Surrounded by soldiers of the imperial guard and under the close watch of Vlad, the bishop made his way with the chancellor to the Church of St. Mary of Blachernae. There, in a silver casket, lay the holy relic.
The bishop opened the casket with a key he wore on a ribbon about his neck, and, unable to contain his tears, he took the shroud and held it out to de Molesmes.
“God will punish you for the sacrilege you are committing!”
The chancellor was unmoved. “Tell me, what punishment will you receive for so many relics sold without the pope’s permission and truly belonging to the Church?”
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”
“You are the bishop of Constantinople. You should know that nothing that happens is hidden from the eyes of the palace.”
Pascal de Molesmes carefully took the shroud from the hands of the bishop, who fell to his knees, weeping inconsolably.
“I suggest, Your Excellency, that you calm yourself and make use of your intelligence, which I know to be great,” de Molesmes said, as he turned to leave. “Prevent a conflict between the empire and Rome that will benefit no one. You will not confront Balduino alone; you will confront also the king of France. Think long and well before you act.”
The emperor paced nervously from one end of the room to the other as he awaited the return of de Molesmes. Balduino veered wildly between heartache and fear at having challenged the Church so dramatically and nervous pride at the successful exercise of his imperial authority.
A red Cypriot wine helped make the wait easier. He had dismissed his wife and servants and given his guards strict orders to allow no one but the chancellor to enter his apartments.
Such was his condition when suddenly he heard rapid footsteps before his door. He threw it open. Escorted by Vlad and carrying the folded shroud, Pascal de Molesmes, looking extremely pleased, entered the emperor’s bedchamber.
“Did you have to use force?” Balduino asked fearfully.
“No, my lord. That was not necessary. His Excellency at last saw the light, and he has voluntarily turned over the shroud.”
“Voluntarily? I think not. He will write the pope, and Innocent may well excommunicate me.”
“Your uncle the king of France will not allow it. Do you think Innocent will stand up to Louis? He will not dare challenge Louis for the Mandylion. Do not forget that the shroud has been secured for the king or that for the moment it belongs to you—it has never belonged to the Church. Your conscience can rest.”
De Molesmes held out the shroud to Balduino. The emperor hesitated a moment before taking the cloth in his arms. He looked at it in fear and wonder and then turned quickly to put it into a richly ornamented cask beside his bed. Turning to Vlad, he ordered him not to move from the side of the box and to defend it with his life if necessary.
The entire court had come to Hagia Sophia for Sunday Mass. There was not a noble who had not learned of the dispute between the emperor and the bishop, and even the commoners had heard echoes of the confrontation.
On Friday the faithful had gone, as usual, to St. Mary of Blachernae to pray before the shroud, but they had found the casket empty.
Indignation ran like wildfire through the masses of simple worshippers, but burdened as they were by the precarious state of the empire, no one dared confront the emperor. Nor di
d the worshippers wish to lose their eyes or ears, and however much they lamented the absence of the shroud, they realized that they would lament even more the loss of those organs.
In Constantinople, gambling was part of the very history of the city. For its inhabitants, anything might be the occasion for a wager—even the confrontation between the emperor and bishop. And so, with the dispute over the Mandylion now common knowledge throughout the city, wagers on the outcome had reached astronomical figures. Some predicted that the bishop would officiate at the Mass, while others wagered that he would not appear, and that with this affront to his authority the emperor would declare war on the papacy.
The Venetian ambassador stroked his beard expectantly, and the envoy from Genoa never took his eyes from the door. It would be good for the interests of both men’s republics if the pope excommunicated the emperor, but would Innocent dare defy the king of France?
Balduino entered the basilica with the ostentation worthy of an emperor. Dressed in scarlet, accompanied by his wife, his most loyal nobles, and the chancellor Pascal de Molesmes, he took a seat on the ornate throne that occupied a place of honor in the sanctuary. None of his subjects saw the slightest sign of concern in the emperor’s expression as his gaze passed serenely over them.
The seconds seemed like hours, but after only a few minutes His Excellency the bishop of Constantinople appeared. Dressed in his pontifical robes, he strode slowly and ceremoniously toward the altar. The emperor sat impassively on his throne, while a murmur ran through the basilica. De Molesmes had been willing to wait briefly for the bishop, but if he did not appear after that, the chancellor had arranged that the Mass be said by a priest he had generously remunerated for the occasion.
The Mass took place without incident, and the bishop’s homily was a call to concord between men and to forgiveness. The emperor took communion from the bishop, and even the chancellor came forward to receive the host and wine. The court understood the message: The Church would not defy the king of France. When the service had concluded, the emperor received his court at a reception abundant with delicacies, accompanied by wine brought from the duchy of Athens, a strong, full-bodied vintage with a lingering taste of pine resin. Balduino was in excellent humor.
The Comte de Dijon approached de Molesmes.
“So, Seigneur de Molesmes, is it possible the emperor has at last made a decision?”
“My dear count, in a very short while the emperor will give you your reply.”
“May I ask what reply I might expect?”
“There are still some details that concern the emperor.”
“What details might those be?”
“Patience, patience. Enjoy the food and wine, and come tomorrow to see me, early.”
“Have you been able to persuade the emperor to grant me an audience?”
“Before the emperor receives you, you and I must talk. I am certain we can arrive at an agreement satisfactory to both your king and mine.”
“I remind you that you are a Frenchman, just as I am, and that you have a duty and obligation to Louis.”
“Ah, my good King Louis! When he sent me to Constantinople he ordered me, with all his heart, to serve his nephew as faithfully as himself.”
The count understood de Molesmes’s message. The chancellor’s first loyalty was to Balduino.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said, inclining his head.
“I shall be waiting.”
The Comte de Dijon moved away, seeking the eye of María, Balduino’s cousin, who was doing all in her power to make the count’s stay in Constantinople a pleasant one.
The first light of dawn had not yet broken. André de Saint-Rémy left the chapel, followed by a small group of knights. They made their way to the refectory, where, before going off to their labors, they broke their fast with a round loaf of bread moistened with wine. Their frugal meal done, the Templars Bartolome dos Capelos, Guy de Beaujeu, and Roger Parker directed their steps to Saint-Rémy’s study.
Though he had arrived there but minutes earlier, the superior was waiting for them impatiently.
“De Molesmes has still not sent me a message confirming my audience with the emperor. I suppose that the latest events have kept him busy. The Mandylion is being kept by Balduino in a coffer next to his bed, and this very day de Molesmes is to begin negotiations with the Comte de Dijon for the price of its delivery. The court knows nothing of the fate of the king of France, although we must presume that an emissary from Damietta will not be long in coming. We must not wait any longer for the chancellor’s call; we will go to the palace now and I will request an audience with the emperor, to tell him that his most august uncle is a prisoner of the Saracens. The three of you will accompany me, and you will speak to no one of what I shall tell the emperor.”
The three knights nodded and, following their superior’s rapid steps, they soon came to the glacis before the fortress, where grooms were waiting with horses. Three mounted servants and three mules loaded with heavy sacks were there also and would form part of the Templar delegation.
The sun was just rising when they arrived at the palace in Blachernae. The palace servants were surprised to see the superior of the Templar chapter in person and understood immediately the import of such a visit at that hour.
The chancellor was reading when a servant rushed into his room to tell him of the presence of Saint-Rémy and his knights and of the Templar’s desire for an immediate audience with the emperor.
Uneasiness washed over de Molesmes. André de Saint-Rémy would never come to court without a confirmed audience with the emperor unless something grave was afoot.
De Molesmes hurried through the palace to greet the superior.
“My friend, I was not expecting you—”
“It is urgent that I see the emperor,” Saint-Rémy replied brusquely.
“Tell me, what has happened?”
The Templar weighed his answer.
“I bring news of interest to the emperor. We must see him alone.”
The chancellor realized that he would get nothing more from the Templar. He might try to worm the reason for the visit out of him by telling him that Balduino could not receive him on such short notice unless he, de Molesmes, were first apprised of the message, but he saw that this tactic would not work with Saint-Rémy and that, if his wait was prolonged, he might well turn and leave without a word.
“Wait here. I will tell the emperor of your urgency.”
The four Templars stood and waited in silence. They knew they were being watched by those able to read their lips if they spoke to one another. They were still waiting when the Comte de Dijon arrived for his interview with de Molesmes, surprised to see such an imposing delegation from the Temple.
A half hour passed before de Molesmes hurriedly reentered the room. He frowned when he saw the Comte de Dijon, despite the importance of the meeting he and the king’s representative had planned.
“The emperor will receive you now in his private apartments,” he announced to the Templars. “Comte de Dijon, if you will wait for me, the emperor has asked that I stand by his door in case he has need of me.”
Balduino was waiting for them in a small room off the throne room, his eyes revealing concern over this unexpected visit. He sensed that the Templars were bringing unwelcome news.
“Tell me, gentlemen, what is so urgent that it cannot wait for a public audience, as is our wont?”
André de Saint-Rémy went straight to the point.
“My lord, I come to inform you that your uncle, Louis the Ninth of France, is a prisoner in Al-Mansurah. At this moment, negotiations are being held on the conditions for his freedom. The situation is grave. I thought it prudent that you should know.”
The emperor’s face went white, as though the blood had drained from his body. For a few seconds he was unable to speak. He felt his heart beating fast and his lower lip trembling, just as they’d done when he was a boy and had to struggle not to cry, so that his father wo
uld not punish him for showing signs of weakness.
The Templar saw the storm of emotions that had taken possession of the emperor, and he continued speaking in order to give him time to recover.
“I know how deep and true is your affection for your uncle. I assure you that all possible efforts are being made to free him.”
Such was the confusion in his mind and heart that Balduino was barely able to stammer a few incoherent words.
“When did you learn this? Who told you?”
Saint-Rémy did not reply, but continued with his message.
“My lord, I know the problems that burden the empire and I have come to offer aid.”
“Aid? Tell me….”
“You are about to sell the Mandylion to Louis. The king sent the Comte de Dijon to negotiate for the shroud’s sale or lease. I know that the Holy Shroud is now in your possession and that once the agreement is concluded the count will take it to France, to Doña Blanca de Castilla. You are pressed by the Genovese bankers, and the Venetian ambassador has written to inform the Signoria that within a short time they will be able to buy what remains of the empire at a low price. If you do not pay off part of your debt to the Venetians and the Genovese, you will become an emperor without an empire. Your realm has begun to be a fiction.”
Saint-Rémy’s hard words were having their desired effect on the spirit of Balduino, who, despairing, was wringing his hands under the broad sleeves of his scarlet tunic. He had never felt so alone as at this moment. He sought in vain for his chancellor, but the Templars had made it clear that they wished to speak to the emperor in private.