The Templar Legacy (30 page)

“Sounds impersonal.”

“I consider it illuminating.”

“Geoffrey sent you a package,” Mark said. “Dad’s journal. Did you receive it?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I had it with me the day of the avalanche. The master kept it once I became a brother. I discovered it gone after he died.”

“Your master is dead?” Malone asked.

“We have a new leader,” Mark said. “But he’s a demon.”

Malone described the man who’d confronted him and Stephanie in the Roskilde cathedral.

“That’s Raymond de Roquefort,” Mark said. “How do you know him?”

“We’re old friends,” Malone said, telling them some of what had just happened in Avignon.

“Claridon is surely de Roquefort’s prisoner,” Mark said. “God help Royce.”

“He was terrified of the Templars,” Malone said.

“With that one, he has good reason.”

“You still haven’t said why you stayed at the abbey for the past five years,” Stephanie said.

“What I sought was there. The master became a father to me. He was a kind, gentle man, full of compassion.”

She caught the message. “Unlike me?”

“Now is not the time for this discussion.”

“And when would be a good time? I thought you were dead, Mark. But you were secluded in an abbey, commingling with Templars—”

“Your son was our seneschal,” Geoffrey said. “He and the master ruled us well. He was a blessing to our Order.”

“He was second in charge?” Malone asked. “How’d you rise so fast?”

“The seneschal is chosen by the master. He alone determines who is qualified,” Geoffrey said. “And he chose well.”

Malone smiled. “You have a devoted associate.”

“Geoffrey is a wealth of information, though none of us is going to learn a thing from him until he’s ready to tell us.”

“Care to explain that one?” Malone asked.

Mark spoke, telling them what had happened over the past forty-eight hours. Stephanie listened with a mixture of fascination and anger. Her son talked of the brotherhood with reverence.

“The Templars,” Mark said, “rose from an obscure band of nine knights, supposedly protecting pilgrims on the way to the Holy Land, to a multicontinent conglomerate composed of tens of thousands of brothers spread over nine thousand estates. Kings, queens, and popes cowed to them. No one, until Philip IV in 1307, successfully challenged them. You know why?”

“Military prowess, I’d assume,” Malone said.

Mark shook his head. “It wasn’t force that gave them strength, it was knowledge. They possessed information no one else was privy to.”

Malone sighed. “Mark, we don’t know each other, but it’s the middle of the night, I’m sleepy, and my neck is killing me. Could we skip the riddles and get to the point?”

“Among the Templar treasure was some proof that related to Christ on the cross.”

The room went silent as the words took hold.

“What kind of proof?” Malone asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s called the Great Devise. The proof was found in the Holy Land beneath the Jerusalem Temple, hidden away sometime between the first century andAD 70, when the Temple was destroyed. It was transported by the Templars back to France and hidden away, known only to the highest officers. When Jacques de Molay, the Templar master at the time of the Purge, was burned at the stake in 1314, the location of that proof died with him. Philip IV tried to obtain the information and failed. Dad believed that the abbés Bigou and Saunière at Rennes-le-Château succeeded. He was convinced that Saunière actually located the Templar cache.”

“So was the master,” Geoffrey said.

“See what I mean?” Mark glanced back at his friend. “Say the magic words and we get information.”

“The master made clear that Bigou and Saunière were right,” Geoffrey said.

“About what?” Mark asked.

“He didn’t say. Only that they were right.”

Mark looked toward them. “Like you, Mr. Malone, I’ve had my fill of riddles.”

“Call me Cotton.”

“Interesting name. How’d you get it?

“Long story. I’ll tell you sometime.”

“Mark,” Stephanie said, “you can’t really believe that there exists any definitive proof relating to Christ on the cross? Your father never even went that far.”

“How would you know?” The question carried bitterness.

“I know how he—”

“You don’t know anything, Mother. That’s your problem. You never knew anything about what Dad thought. You believed everything he sought was a fantasy, that he was wasting his talents. You never loved him enough to let him be himself. You thought he sought fame and treasure. No. He sought the truth. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. That’s what interested him.”

Stephanie collected her scattered senses and told herself not to react to the rebuke.

“Dad was a serious academician. His work had merit, he just never talked openly about what he really sought. When he discovered Rennes-le-Château in the seventies and told the world about Saunière’s story, that was simply a way to raise money. What may or may not have happened there is a good tale. Millions of people enjoyed reading about it regardless of the embellishments. You were one of the few who didn’t.”

“Your father and I tried to work through our differences.”

“How? By you telling him he was wasting his life, hurting his family? By telling him he was a failure?”

“All right, dammit, I was wrong.” Her voice was a shout. “You want me to say it again? I was wrong.” She sat up from the chair, a desperate resolution vesting her with power. “I screwed up. That what you want to hear? In my mind, you’ve been dead five years. Now here you are, and all you want is for me to admit I was wrong. Fine. If I could tell your father that, I would. If I could beg his forgiveness, I would. But I can’t.” The words were coming fast, emotion charging her, and she intended to say it all while she possessed the courage. “I came here to see what I could do. To try to follow through on whatever it was Lars and youthought important. That’s the only reason I came. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. But don’t shoot that sanctimonious crap at me anymore. You screwed up, too. The difference between us is that I learned something over the past five years.”

She slumped back in the chair, feeling better, if even in a small way. But she realized the gulf between them had just widened and a shudder passed through her.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Malone finally said. “Why don’t we sleep a little and deal with all this in a few hours.”

SUNDAY, JUNE 25 ABBEY DES FONTAINES 5:25 AM

DEROQUEFORT SLAMMED THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND HIM. THEiron clanged against the metal frame with the retort of a rifle, and the lock engaged.

“Is all ready?” he asked one of the assistants.

“As specified.”

Good. Time to make his point. He strolled ahead through the subterranean corridor. He was three floors below ground level, in a part of the abbey first occupied a thousand years ago. Endless construction had transformed the rooms surrounding him into a labyrinth of forgotten chambers, now used mainly for cool storage.

He’d returned to the abbey three hours ago with Lars Nelle’s notebook and Royce Claridon. The loss of Pierres Gravées du Languedoc, the book from the auction, weighed heavy on his mind. He could only hope the notebook and Claridon would supply him with enough of the missing pieces.

And the dark woman—she was a problem.

His world was distinctly male. His experience with women minimal. They were a different breed, of that he was sure, but the female he’d confronted on the Pont St.-Bénézet seemed almost alien. She’d never shown even a hint of fear, and handled herself with the cunning of a lioness. She’d lured him straight to the bridge, knowing precisely how she planned to make her escape. Her only mistake was in losing the journal. He had to know her identity.

But first things first.

He entered a chamber topped by pine rafters that had remained unaltered since the time of Napoléon. A long table spanned the room’s center, upon which lay Royce Claridon, prone on his back, his arms and legs strapped to steel spikes.

“Monsieur Claridon, I have little time and I need much from you. Your cooperation will make everything so much simpler.”

“What do you expect me to say?” Desperation laced the words.

“Only the truth.”

“I know little.”

“Come now, let us not start with a lie.”

“I know nothing.”

He shrugged. “I heard you in the archives. You are a reservoir of information.”

“All that I said in Avignon came to me then.”

De Roquefort motioned to a brother who stood across the room. The man stepped forward and laid an open tin container on the table. With three extended fingers, the brother scooped out a sticky white glob.

De Roquefort pulled off Claridon’s shoes and socks.

Claridon raised his head to see. “What are you doing? What is that?”

“Cooking grease.”

The brother rubbed the grease onto Claridon’s bare feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Surely you know your history. When the Templars were arrested in 1307, many means were used to extract confessions. Teeth were pulled out, the empty sockets probed with metal. Wedges were driven under nails. Heat was used in a variety of imaginative ways. One technique involved greasing the feet, then exposing the oiled skin to flame. Slowly the feet would cook, the skin falling away like meat from a tenderloin. Many brothers succumbed to that agony. Those who managed to survive all confessed. Even Jacques de Molay fell victim.”

The brother finished with the grease and withdrew from the room.

“In our Chronicles, there’s a report of one Templar who, after being subjected to foot burning and confessing, was carried before his inquisitors clutching a bag with his blackened foot bones. He was allowed to keep them as a remembrance of his ordeal. Wasn’t that kind of his inquisitors?”

He stepped over to a charcoal brazier that burned in one corner. He’d ordered it prepared an hour ago and its coals were now white hot.

“I would assume you thought this fire was to warm the chamber. Below ground is chilly here in the mountains. But I had this flame forged just for you.”

He rolled the cart with the brazier within three feet of Claridon’s bare feet.

“The idea, I’m told, is for the heat to be low and steady. Not intense—that tends to vaporize the grease too quickly. Just as with a steak, a slow flame works best.”

Claridon’s eyes went wide.

“When my brethren were tortured in the fourteenth century, it was thought God would fortify the innocent to handle the pain, so only the guilty would actually confess. Also—and quite convenient, I might add—any confession extracted from torture was nonretractable. So once a person confessed, that was the end of the matter.”

He pushed the brazier to within twelve inches of the bare skin.

Claridon screamed.

“So soon, monsieur? Nothing has even happened yet. Have you no endurance?”

“What do you want?”

“A great many things. But we can start with the significance of Don Miguel de Mañara Reading the Rules of the Caridad. ”

“There’s a clue there that relates to the abbé Bigou and the tombstone of Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort. Lars Nelle found a cryptogram. He believed the key to solving it lay in the painting.” Claridon was talking fast.

“I heard all that in the archives. I want to know what you failed to say.”

“I know nothing more. Please, my feet are frying.”

“That’s the idea.” He reached into his cassock and removed Lars Nelle’s journal.

“You have it?” Claridon said in amazement.

“Why so shocked?”

“His widow. She possessed it.”

“Not anymore.” He’d read most of the entries on the trip back from Avignon. He thumbed through until he found the cryptogram and held the open pages up for Claridon to see. “Is that what Lars Nelle found?”

“Oui. Oui.”

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. Can you not remove the heat? Please, I beg you. My feet are in agony.”

He decided a show of compassion might loosen the tongue quicker. He slid the cart a foot back.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Claridon was breathing fast.

“Keep talking.”

“Lars Nelle found the cryptogram in a manuscript that Noël Corbu wrote in the sixties.”

“No one has ever found that manuscript.”

“Lars did. It was with a priest, whom Corbu entrusted the pages to before he died in 1968.”

He knew about Corbu from the reports one of his predecessors had recorded. That marshal, too, had searched for the Great Devise. “What about the cryptogram?”

“The painting was referenced by Abbé Bigou himself, in the parish register, shortly before he fled France for Spain, so Lars believed it held the key to the puzzle. But he died before deciphering it.”

De Roquefort did not possess the lithograph of the painting. The woman had taken it, along with the book from the auction. Yet that could hardly be the only recorded image of Reading the Rules of the Caridad. Now that he knew what to look for, he’d find another.

“And what did the son know? Mark Nelle. What was his knowledge?”

“Not much. He was a teacher in Toulouse. He searched as a hobby on weekends. Not all that serious. But he was looking for Saunière’s hiding place in the mountains when he was killed in an avalanche.”

“He did not die there.”

“Of course he did. Five years ago.”

De Roquefort stepped close. “Mark Nelle has lived here, in this abbey for the past five years. He was pulled from the snows and brought here. Our master took him in and made him our seneschal. He also wanted him to be our next master. But thanks to me, he failed. Mark Nelle fled these walls this afternoon. For the past five years he’s scoured through our records, looking for clues, while you hid like a cockroach afraid of the light in a mental asylum.”

“You speak nonsense.”

“I speak truth. Here is where he stayed, while you cowered in fear.”

“You and your brothers were who I feared. Lars feared you, too.”

“He had reason to be scared. He lied to me, several times, and I detest deceit. He was given an opportunity to repent, but he chose to offer more lies.”