Tales of the Knights Templar (18 page)

But this time Robert said only, “Go with God, Brother.”

A calm smile flashed in the depths of the young Templar’s beard.

You know what the medallion can do!
she screamed at him.
So the fleet leaves without it; so what? Is getting it on that boat more important than your life?

Apparently it was.

When the shouting began, followed quickly by the clash of steel against steel, Robert pulled away from the dock with long, silent strokes. As he rowed, he prayed and tried not to envy the other man’s opportunity to prove his devotion to the Lord in battle.

The sun had risen and there was light enough to see Bernard keep all five at bay. Every blow he struck, every blow he took, moved the boat and the holy relic that much closer to the Templar flagship. With his blood, with his life, Bernard bought the safety of the fleet.

A ray of sunlight touched his sword and the entire dockside disappeared in a brilliant flash of white-gold light.

Pat threw up an arm to protect her eyes. When the afterimages faded, she discovered that the sun had, indeed, risen and that she’d forgotten to close the blinds before she went to bed.

“Shit.”

Something cold slithered across her cheek. Her reaction flung her halfway across the room before she realized it was the chain of the medallion. During the night, she’d taken it from its box and returned to sleep with it cupped in her hand.

Moving slowly, she set it carefully back against the red velvet and sank down on the edge of the bed. Wiping damp palms on the sheets, she sucked in a deep breath.

“Look, I’m grateful that you seem to be translating these violent little highlights into modern English and all, so that I understand what’s going on, but …

“But I’m losing my mind.” Scowling, she stomped into the bathroom. “I’m talking to an ugly piece of jewelry. Obviously, Chalmer Hardie’s history lesson made an impression. I’m not stupid,” she reminded her reflection. “I could take what he told me and fill in the pieces. I mean, I could be making all that stuff up out of old movies, couldn’t I?” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And now I’m talking to a mirror. What next, the toilet?”

She went back into the bedroom and flicked the box shut. “You,” she told it, “are more trouble than you’re worth.”

Worth …

In a country where the biggest tourist draw was history, there had to be a store that sold pieces of the past. Even back in Halifax, there were places where a person could buy anything from old family silver to eighteenth century admiral’s insignia.

Gordon assumed jet lag when she called to say she wouldn’t need him, and Pat didn’t bother to correct his assumption.

“Mr. Hardie said you might want to rest before you went off to do whatever it is you’re doing for him.”

“You don’t know?”

He laughed. “I assumed you would.”

So Chalmer Hardie hadn’t set up the driver to spy on her. Why settle for ten thousand and a job when she could have ten thousand, a job, and whatever the medallion would bring? No one would ever know, and Mr. Hardie could die happy, believing she’d been fool enough to stuff it into MacGillivray’s grave. With the medallion shoved into the bottom of her purse, Pat headed out into Inverness.

She found what she was searching for in the High Street, where shops ranged from authentic Highland to blatant kitsch, all determined to separate tourists from their money. The crowded window of Neal’s Curios held several World War II medals, a tea set that was obviously regimental silver, although Pat couldn’t read the engraving under the raised crest, and an ornate chalice that she’d seen a twin of in
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

An old ship’s bell rang as she pushed open the door and went into the shop. The middle-aged woman behind the counter put down her book and favored her with a dazzling smile. “And how may we help you taday, lassie?”

“Are you the owner?”

“Aye. Mrs. Neal, that’s me.”

“Do you buy old things?”

The smile faded and most of the accent went with it. “Sometimes.”

“How much would you give me for this?” Pat dug the box out of her purse and opened it on the scratched glass counter.

Mrs. Neal’s pale eyes widened as she peered at the medallion.

“There’s a piece of the True Cross in the crystal,” Pat added.

The older woman recovered her poise. “Dearie, if you laid all the so-called pieces of the True Cross end to end, you could circle the earth at the equator. Twice.”

“But this piece comes with a history.…”

“Have you any proof?” Mrs. Neal asked when Pat finished embroidering the story Chalmer Hardie had told her. Both her hands were flat on the counter and she leaned forward expectantly.

“Trust me,” the old man had said. “I know.”

Pat sighed. “No. No proof.”

It wasn’t exactly a snort of disbelief. “Then I’ll give you five hundred pounds for it, but that’s mostly for the gold. I can’t pay for the fairy tale.”

At the current exchange rate, five hundred pounds came to over a thousand dollars Canadian. Pat drummed her fingers lightly on the counter while she thought about it. It was less than what she’d expected to get, but she could use the money, and Alexander MacGillivray certainly couldn’t use the medallion.

She opened her mouth to agree to the sale and closed it on air. In the glass cabinet directly below her fingertips was a red-enameled cross with flared ends, about three inches long. Except for the size, it could have been the cross on the mantle of a Templar sergeant who’d fought and died to protect the medallion she was about to sell.

Unable to stop her hand from shaking, she picked up the box and shoved it back into her purse. She managed to stammer out that she’d like to think about the offer, then turned and nearly ran from the shop.

Before the door had fully closed, Mrs. Neal half turned and bellowed, “Andrew!”

The scrawny young man who hurried in from the storeroom looked annoyed about the summons. “What is it, Gran? I was having a bit of a kip.”

“You can sleep later. I have a job for you.” She grabbed his elbow and hustled him over to the door. “See that gray jacket scurrying away? Follow the young woman wearing it and, when you’re sure you won’t be caught, grab her purse.”

“What’s in it?”

“A piece of very old jewelry your gran took a liking to. Now go.”

She pushed him out onto the sidewalk and watched while he slouched up the street. When both her grandson and the young woman disappeared from sight, she returned to her place behind the counter and slid a box of papers off an overloaded shelf. After a moment’s search, she smoothed a faint photocopy of a magazine article out on the counter. The article had speculated about the possibility of the Templar fleet having landed in Argyll, and had then gone on to list some of the treasure it might have carried. One page held a sketch of a gold medallion that surrounded a marble-sized piece of crystal that was reputed to contain a sliver of the True Cross.

Mrs. Neal smiled happily. She knew any number of people who would pay a great deal of money for such a relic without asking uncomfortable questions about how she’d found it.

“I don’t believe in signs.” Pat threw the box down onto the bed and the medallion spilled out. She paced across the room and back. “I don’t believe in you, either. You’re a fairy tale, just like Mrs. Neal said. The delusions of a dying old man. I should have sold you. I
will
sell you.”

But she left both box and medallion on the bed and spent the afternoon staring at soccer on television. When the game ended, she ordered room service and spent the evening watching programs she didn’t understand.

At eleven, Pat put the medallion back in the box, wrapped the box in a shirt, and stuffed the bundle into the deepest corner of her suitcase.

“I’m going back there tomorrow,” she announced defiantly as she turned off the light.

“Tomorrow, His Majesty intends to arrest the entire Order.”

What’s going on? I don’t even remember going to sleep!
Pat fought against opening her eyes but they opened anyway.
Bernard?

The young sergeant was on one knee at her feet, his expression anger, disbelief, and awe about equally mixed.

I
don’t want any part of this!
Pat could feel the weight of the medallion and knew the old man who wore it as Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar.

Last Grand Master,
she corrected, but like all the others, he couldn’t hear her. She could feel his anger as he told Bernard what would happen at dawn and gave him the message to pass on to the Preceptor of France—who with fifty knights had all but emptied the Paris Temple five days before. She touched de Molay’s decision to stay behind lest the king be warned by his absence.

“There will be horses for you between Paris and Harfleur. You
must
arrive before dawn, do you understand?”

“Yes, Worshipful Master.”

De Molay’s hands went to the chain about his neck and he lifted the medallion over his head. He closed his eyes and raised it to his lips, much as Bernard had done—
would do,
Pat amended.

“Take this also to the Preceptor; tell him I give it into his charge.” He gazed down into the young sergeant’s eyes. “In the crystal is a sliver from the Cross of our Lord. I would not have it fall into the hands of that
jackal
—” Biting off what would have become an extensive tirade against the king, he held out the medallion. “It will protect you as you ride.”

Bernard leaned forward and pressed his lips against the gold. As the Grand Master settled the chain over his head, Pat—who settled into his head—thought he was going to pass out. “Worshipful Master, I am not worthy—”

“I
will say who is worthy,” de Molay snapped.

“Yes, Worshipful Master.” Looking up into de Molay’s face, Pat was reminded of her grandfather.

He’s a stubborn old man: certain he’s right, regardless of the evidence.
And he was going to die. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Because he died over six hundred years ago,
she told herself.
Get a grip.

Given the way Bernard had died—would die—Pat expected to hear him declare that he would guard the medallion with his life, but then she realized there was no need, that it was understood.

I
don’t believe these guys. One of them’s staying behind to die, and one of them’s riding off to die, and neither of them has to!

If de Molay had left Paris with the rest …

If Bernard had got in the boat …

If MacGillivray had refused to charge …

She woke up furious at the world.

A long, hot shower did little to help, and breakfast sat like a rock in her stomach.

“You’re worth five hundred pounds to me,” she snarled as she crammed shirt, box, and medallion into her purse. “That’s all. Five hundred pounds. One thousand—”

Her heart slammed up into her throat as the phone shattered the morning into little pieces. “What?”

“It’s Gordon Ritchie, Ms. Tarrill—Pat. I’m in the lobby. If you’re feeling better, I thought I might show you around …” His voice trailed off. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. No, it’s not.” This was exactly what she needed. Something to take her mind off the medallion.

“So, where are we going?”

“Well, when he hired me, Mr. Hardie suggested I might take you to Culloden Moor.” Gordon held open the lobby door. “The National Trust for Scotland’s visitor’s center just reopened for the season.”

Culloden?
Pat ground her teeth.
Been there. Done that.

Catching a glimpse of her expression, Gordon frowned. “I could take you somewhere else—”

“No.” She cut him off. “Might just as well go along with Mr. Hardie’s suggestion. He’s paying the bills.” Although she was beginning to believe he might not be calling the tune.
Yeah, right. As I’ve said before, Pat, get a grip.

Swearing under his breath, Andrew ran for his car.

A cold wind was blowing across the moor when they reached the visitor’s center. Pat hunched her shoulders, shoved her hands deep into her pockets, and tried not to remember her dream of the slaughter. She watched the audiovisual presentation, poked around old Leanach Cottage, then started down the path that ran out onto the battlefield, Gordon trailing along behind. She passed the English Stone without pausing, continued west, and came to a roughly triangular, weather-beaten monument.

“‘Well of the Dead.’” Her fingers traced the inscription as she read.”‘Here the Chief of the MacGillivrays fell.’”

The wind slapped rain into her face. Over the call of the pipes, Pat heard the guns and men screaming and one voice gathering up the clan to aim it at the enemy.

“Dunmaglass!”

“Pat? Are you all right?”

At Gordon’s touch, she shook free of the memory and straightened. “I’d like to go back to the hotel now.” He looked so worried that she snarled, “I’m tired, okay?”

He stepped back, quickly masking his reaction, and she wished that just once she’d learn to think before she spoke. He only wanted to help.… But she couldn’t seem to find the apology she knew he deserved.

“But Gran!” Andrew protested, raising a hand to protect his head. “The first time she even left the bloody hotel, she had this guy driving her around. He never left her.”

Mrs. Neal threw the rolled magazine aside and grabbed her grandson’s shirtfront. “Then get a couple of your friends and, if you have to, take care of the guy driving her around.”

“I could get Colin and Tony. They helped with that bit of silver—”

“I don’t care
who
you get,” the old lady spat. “Just bring me that medallion!”

On the way back to the hotel, Pat had Gordon stop and buy her two bottles of cheap scotch. He hadn’t approved—she saw it in the set of his shoulders and the thin line of his mouth—but he took the money and came back with the bottles. When she tried to explain, the words got stuck.

Better he thinks I’m a bitch than a lunatic.

She couldn’t remember where she’d read that alcohol prevented dreaming, and after the first couple of glasses, she didn’t care. As afternoon darkened into evening, she curled up in the overstuffed chair and drank herself into a stupor.