Tales of the Knights Templar (14 page)

“I tell you, we must move, and move soon, or it will be too late,” a knight called Oliver de Penne was saying. “The Grand Master is an old man and has been too long in the Holy Land. He does not know Nogaret the way we do, the poison he promulgates. Any day now, on the pretext of corruption, the king will seize the treasures of the Temple, its wealth, its fleet, and every one of us that his men can find.”

“But the charges are specious, contrived out of whole cloth,” another knight objected. “Avarice I could concede, from the king’s perspective; ’tis no secret that he covets our wealth, since he cannot have the power that we wield. But heresy, idolatry, blasphemy, obscenity—who would believe such things?”

“Never forget that Guillaume de Nogaret brought down a pope with charges of magical attacks,” Jauffre’s cousin retorted. “Excommunicated by that pope’s successor, and not yet absolved of that excommunication by the present pope, he also seeks to bring down an archbishop and a count’s son on similar charges. Do you think he will hesitate to bring down the Temple in the same way, if he can—especially if our destruction will fill the king’s coffers? Such attack has worked before—and merely to discredit us is not enough. He must render us so low that we lie beyond any court of appeal save Heaven’s.”

“But, surely the present pope will not allow—” one of the older knights began.

“Hugues, this is not the papacy of our fathers’ times,” a new voice interjected, softly but tinged with quiet power. “This pope is the king’s creature, as is Nogaret. Clement owes his papal tiara to Philip; he mouths the platitudes he thinks we wish to hear, but he will not lift a finger to save us.”

All eyes turned toward the new speaker, for it was the secret Master who had spoken at last. He was not physically imposing—just another white-robed figure among many, beginning to stoop a little with the weight of his years, a white beard spilling down his chest—but the psychic impact of his presence bespoke a vitality and puissance belied by any apparent physical decline.

“It thus behooves us to take measures to save what we may, of what we guard,” the Master went on. “Certain temporal treasures already have been moved to places of safety, and I am reliably informed that the Master of the Paris Temple departs this very night to take away the contents of this treasury with the fleet at La Rochelle—though of other precious things he knows nothing. These I may only entrust to you, my brothers.”

He had then proceeded to make assignments of certain relics and hallows to such of his inner circle as seemed appropriate, parceling out the precious secrets of the Order garnered over more than two centuries of acquisition and careful guardianship. As most junior of those present, Jauffre knew few details of what particular items his brother knights received in trust, but all swore fervent and unfailing faith upon a long, flat object wrapped in swaths of padded linen, perhaps half the size of the table behind which the Master sat.

When only that remained, Jauffre still had not been called forward. Nor had the most senior knight besides the Master, a tall, light-haired knight called Frère Christoph, who came now to kneel opposite the Master, the veiled hallow between them, beckoning Jauffre to join him.

Jauffre still could not see what it was that lay within the swaddling linens, but he did not hesitate to follow the older knight’s example, touching reverent fingertips to the wrappings as the Master enjoined them upon life and soul and hopes for their future salvation to guard one another and their charge unceasingly. Somehow Jauffre sensed that what lay within the padded linen had something to do with the holy thing that had been shown that Easter morn; and he gave the Master his promise with tears in his eyes and a surge of joy in his heart.

It was a promise Jauffre did not know whether he had kept. For when he and Frère Christoph set out within the hour to spirit the hallow to safety, the king’s officers were already beginning their mass arrests of every Templar to be found in France. Jauffre had been ordered to guard the hallow and his fellow guardian with life and soul, but suddenly the best way to do that seemed to be to separate, to entice would-be pursuers astray and even let himself be taken so that Fr&re Christoph could win free.

“Adam, don’t lose touch,” Graham said softly. “I know you’re working on this, but you need to tell me what you can.”

“Captured,” Adam murmured, grimacing as the memories ran faster, more an observer now, only glimpsing snatches of those next two years of torture, deprivation, and pain.

“I had a task to perform … don’t know whether I succeeded. Torture to extract confessions.… I tell them some of what they want to hear.”

“Is it true?”

“No. But it stops the torture, after a while … and it keeps them from asking other questions that I
may
not answer, on peril of my soul.”

“What happens then?” Graham asked. “Only relapsed heretics were burned.”

The end was fast approaching again. Adam could almost smell the smoke, and cringed from the mere memory of the fire now looming once more.

“Many die unjustly,” Adam whispered. “Some perish from the torture, a few take their own lives. I will not give them that satisfaction, but I cling to the hope that one day I may learn whether or not I failed—whether Christoph won safety with the hallow—until finally comes the opportunity to defend the Order. I am one of many who come forward, hopeful of proving the Order’s purity, its innocence of the charges.

“But the church betrays us. They fear we defend ourselves too well, that if we are allowed to speak, the charges will fail. An archbishop convenes a church provincial council outside Paris and lets it be known that he is about to proceed to final judgment against certain relapsed heretics in his keeping. Angrily many of us recant, for surely we cannot be bound over for retracting confessions taken under duress.

“But the pope lifts not a finger to save us. As they chain us to the stakes, my chief regret is never knowing my success or failure, never knowing what it is I die for.”

The flames loomed once again in his inner vision. Adam sensed them, but recovering Jauffre’s memory of what brought him to the flames had absolved him of the need to repeat that death again.

Yet there was something remaining to be done, an insistent urge to go beyond trance and onto the Astral—the Second Road, as Graham had termed it. From the depths of trance, still keeping his soul anchored in that profound centeredness that now allowed him to forestall repetition of Jauffre’s passing, he slowly opened his eyes to look up at his mentor. Graham was watching him intently and seemed aware that their work was not yet done.

“Are you Jauffre or are you Adam?” he asked softly.

“Neither,” Adam said thickly, “and both. I am Master of the Hunt, and the quarry I seek has eluded me for nearly seven hundred years.”

“The quarry?” Graham said.

Slowly Adam closed his right hand in a fist, lifting it to press the stone of his ring to his lips before drawing cautious breath, careful not to disturb the balance.

“I need your help on this,” he murmured. “There was something Jauffre was charged to protect, to make sure it was taken to a place of safety, so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the king or the pope—something the Order had been guarding for centuries, something holy.”

“What happened to it? What was it?” Graham asked.

Adam slowly shook his head, dipping back into Jauffre. “I do not know. ’Twas entrusted to Frère Christoph and me, but the king’s officers pursued us. I led them away so that Christoph could make his escape. But I never did learn his fate … or that of the hallow.” He closed his eyes briefly, unbidden tears stinging at his lids, then turned his tear-blurred gaze to Graham once again.

“Can you help me find it?” he whispered.

Slowly the general nodded. “There may be a way,” he said. “I’m not certain its whereabouts can be brought all the way to the present, but you may be able to discover its immediate fate, within say, a few years of Jauffre’s death. Would that satisfy you?”

“Yes!” Adam whispered fiercely, seizing the general’s hand.

“Very well. Close your eyes and relax. Go back to the last time you saw it—the ‘hallow,’ did you call it?”

“Yes.”

“See the hallow, then, and recall as much detail as you can. And now come slowly forward, until Jauffre is discarnate. See the image of the hallow still before your inner vision. And now begin to visualize a golden light growing within it, growing brighter and brighter, until suddenly it flares up—too bright to gaze upon. When the light subsides, the hallow is gone, but a golden net persists in afterimage. Do you see it?”

“Yes,” Adam whispered.

“Good. Now see yourself reaching out to grasp the edges of the net nearest you. Know that what you seek occupies a unique place on that net, as do all things, all souls. Tense the net slightly. Feel the subtle vibration that leads down one of the strands toward what you seek. And now follow that strand…”

Smiling faintly at the imagery, Adam obeyed, his accustomed self-image on the Astral taking on familiar raiment of sapphire blue such as he customarily wore during ritual. The stone in his ring echoed that blue, glowing like a star on his right hand as he set out along a shimmering strand of golden light set with jewels that were souls. The nearest, he knew, was Graham, holding steady Adam’s lifeline as he ventured forth. The velvety ink-black of the cosmos throbbed with the heartbeat of the universe as his feet flew along the golden strand—more akin to walking a ribbon than a tightrope. His speed increased, sweetly giddying, until suddenly he was brought up short by a starburst of silvery light that made him fling up both hands to shield his eyes.

When he could see again, he was standing in an unfamiliar place, though he sensed it to be part of the vast vaults of the Akashic Records, immortal and imperishable archives of all lives for all time. The softly glowing corridor in which he found himself seemed to stretch to infinity in both directions. Before him, however, hung a shimmering spindle of brilliance that immediately flared and then resolved to the towering column of light he had come to associate with the Masters to whom he answered on the Inner Planes, souls advanced beyond the need to take physical form.

What is it you seek, Master of the Hunt?
came the wordless query in the stillness of his mind.
Your purpose in this life lies not in this temple. Do you weary of your burden?

Nay, Master,
Adam replied,
but there is that which remained unfinished in another life and time—not the doing, but the knowing. As Jauffre de Saint Clair, I was set a task to perform—to guard a sacred thing. Since no reproach has befallen me, I must trust that I gave satisfaction. Only—

Only?
came the almost amused reply.

Meekly Adam bowed his head before the shining presence, knowing he must ask; the Master would not volunteer.

I would know what it was I guarded, Master,
Adam murmured.
Forgive my mortal curiosity, but I would attain some glimpse of it, some intimation of what Jauffre gave his life to preserve. Do I ask too much, that his sacrifice should be resolved?

No, Master of the Hunt, you do not ask too much,
came the reply, tinged with compassion.
Through the door which yields to the symbol Jauffre served, you shall gaze upon That which bore the Light—though where it now lies, you may not know. This portion of your path lies behind you. Still, may its vision bring peace to Jauffre.

The shimmering pillar was dissolving even as it bade him wordless farewell, but Adam was already turning to behold a polished silver door behind him, which reflected back not the blue of his soutane but the image of the white-robed and bearded Jauffre. Overlaying that reflection, exactly as tall as he, a scarlet Templar cross blazed across the full height and width of the mirrored surface. The level of the horizontal arms was exactly even with his own when he stretched them to either side in a gesture of entreaty; their breadth was exactly the width of his embrace.

Stepping closer, he laid his arms along that scarlet crossbar in oblation, bowing his forehead to Jauffre’s— and to the glyph that symbolized the faith he upheld both as Jauffre and as Adam Sinclair. The door parted down the center at that touch, opening wide to admit him, now clothed as Jauffre, with Jauffre’s memories, Jauffre’s yearnings.

The faint, heady sweetness of incense softly surrounded him, underlaid with the more delicate scent of beeswax. Far at the opposite end of a narrow, dim-lit nave, he could see the backs of white-clad worshipers bowed before a distant altar, and a priest presiding beyond them.

He paused to reverence the Presence permeating the place, then started forward. The others in the church were robed much as he, Templars all, but neither they nor the priest seemed aware of his approach.

Thus emboldened, he dared to mount the altar steps, heartened to see that it was Frère Christoph who served the altar, raising a silver chalice in the minor elevation of the Mass, the Host held slightly above it, shining like a sun. The words of consecration had brought down Spirit, focusing Divinity in the elements of bread and wine; and normally, Adam would have deemed that Presence enough for any need. But what lay on the altar beneath the chalice breathed its own echo of Divinity.

For now he could see what he had only glimpsed on that long-ago Easter in the chapel beneath the Paris Temple—and what he could only guess at, in its swathing of padded linen, when the Master had given it into the care of Frère Christoph and himself. The long, shallow box was perhaps four feet long by two feet wide, and perhaps a hand’s breadth deep, the top covered by a silver interlace of metal wrought like saltires set side by side. And set into that meshlike interlace toward one end, protected by an oval piece of crystal as big as his two hands, he could see the faint, brownish features of a face etched on a lighter cloth. The eyes were closed, an arc above the eyes marked with darker stains, as if of wounds. And in that instant, Adam knew what it was that those long-ago Templars had guarded—what
he
had guarded, as Jauffre de Saint Clair.