The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

THE TEMPLAR’S SECRET

C. M. PALOV

All Rights Reserved

‘
Roma locuta causa finite est
. . . Rome has spoken and that settles the matter’ – St Augustine

Chinon Castle, France

15 March, 1308h

The king’s henchman hefted the iron hammer, vigorously swinging his arm with unerring precision. In the next instant, an agonized scream rent the chill morning air, rev
erberating off the stone walls.

A lone
Dominican, his face hidden by a hooded cowl, stood in the shadows observing the proceedings. On the other side of the cell, a second man, studiously hunched over a writing desk, sharpened an ink-stained quill.

‘
For the love of God! Make him stop!’ the accused shrieked, having endured one blow too many.

Hearing that agonized plea, the apostolic inquisitor, Friar Raymbaud le Breton, stepped toward
s the wooden wheel that had been set in the middle of the dungeon. Wrinkling his nose, the stench unbearable, he inspected the torturer’s handiwork. The bare-chested man who’d been lashed to the breaking wheel writhed in pain, his lower leg a bloody pulp of mangled flesh and splintered bones.

Satisfied that the accused Knight Templar had been sufficiently chastened, he nodded his approval. The henchman, hammer clutched in his fist, obediently stepped away from the wheel.

Thus far, Fortes de Pinós had steadfastly maintained his innocence, insisting that he had no direct knowledge of the Great Heresy and that he’d never been to
Château Pèlerin.
But if that was true, why had Brother Fortes made the perilous sea voyage to retrieve the ancient gospel known as the
Evangelium Gaspar
?
More importantly, why did he refuse to disclose the gospel’s current whereabouts?

Impatient to continue with the proceedings, Raymbaud picked up a sheet of parchment from the scribe’s desk. He gave it a cursory
glance before returning his attention to the accused. ‘Fortes de Pinós, do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?’

‘
As I have repeatedly avowed, I am innocent of your despicable accusations,’ the Templar hissed. Although he had fifty-four winters on his graying head, Brother Fortes had a surprisingly muscular physique that belied his age. His brawn was a testament to years of rigorous training, the warrior monks able to hold their own against any foe on the field of battle.

But this was not a battlefield. This was a damp dungeon in
Chinon Castle.

The inquisitor handed the parchment
back to the scribe. ‘Brother Fortes, I grow impatient with the tiresome lies that spill from your lips with Lucifer’s ease. In order to save your mortal soul, you must tell me where you hid the
Evangelium Gaspar.
’

‘
I will tell you
after
the Grand Master and the other Templar knights have been released from custody.’

‘
We both know that will never happen.’ Raymbaud’s belly growled with hunger. If not for this uncooperative Templar, he’d be in the refectory breaking his fast. ‘Your fate, and that of your brother knights, has been sealed.’

‘
Then I gain nothing by disclosing the gospel’s whereabouts.’ The gauntlet tossed, Fortes de Pinós glared at him, a haughty sneer on his blood-splattered face. The silent taunt affirmed what they both knew full well: any man, rich or poor, could become a Dominican friar, but only a man of noble birth could become a Knights Templar.

‘In giving true witness, y
ou gain the Lord’s forgiveness. Or is that meaningless to an arrogant Knights Templar?’

‘I will not testify to
a hellhound in the employ of the Devil!’

The inquisitor flinched, the insult digging deep. Because of their sacred obligation to root out heresy
, the Dominican Order was known as
Domini Canes
,
the Hounds of the Lord. If not for their tireless sacrifice, Christendom would be overrun with heretics and idolaters.

‘
I demand that you reveal the location of the
Evangelium Gaspar
.’

‘
To see the house where Lucas dwelled, the faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way. Setting forth from the lion’s castle, he dropped the French iron in the Spanish harbor,’ the Templar recited in a wooden tone.

Raymbaud tamped down his ire. It was the same nonsensical riddle that Brother Fortes uttered each time the question
was put to him.

Sighing resignedly, he motioned for the henchman to approach the wheel.
‘Loosen his tongue.’

Frustrated by the Templar’s refusal to make a full confession, Raymbaud stepped over to the loophole on the other side of the dungeon.
In a surly temper, he glanced at the crudely scrawled symbol – the Seal of Solomon – that the Templar had incised into the soft limestone.
Yet another mystery that Brother Fortes had refused to explain.

Turning a deaf ear to the pain-wracked bellows that ensued, he peered through the
loophole. The new day had dawned, gray as chain mail, a snarl of wind lashing the weathered castle. Through the wisps of early-morning mist, he could see the fast-moving Vienne, the river curdled with chunks of ice that bobbed on the frothy rapids.

Behind him, the tortured screams intensified. Not even a
stalwart Knights Templar could withstand an iron hammer wielded by one of God’s own. Proving himself a wise pontiff, Pope Innocent IV had sanctioned the use of torture, stipulating that intense pain flushed the evil residue from a man’s soul.

And how else can I pry loose the Templar’s secret?

Once he had the
Evangelium Gaspar
in his possession, Raymbaud intended to use it to elevate his status within the Dominican order, fulfilling his long-held dream to become an abbot at a wealthy monastery. After his many years of service, he deserved to spend the rest of his days in comfortable ease, his earthly burdens alleviated.

Determined to put an end to the Templar’s maddening truculence and uncover the gospel’s whereabouts, he raised his hand,
signaling the henchman to cease his ministrations. Approaching the breaking wheel, he was pleased to see that the Templar’s white linen
braies
were stained crimson, several of his pelvic bones having been crushed.

‘
Again, I put the question to you: where can I find the
Evangelium Gaspar
?’

Blood-caked lips curved into a ghost of a smile.
‘
Go . . . to . . . the . . . Devil . . . Dominican!
’ the Templar rasped through a foaming gob of spittle.

‘
It does not profit your soul to –’ Raymbaud stopped in mid-stream, horrified.

Without warning, the accused had begun to convulse, bucking wildly upon the wheel as his face turned an unnatural shade of blue.

Just as suddenly as the episode began, it ended, Fortes de Pinós’ lifeless gaze set upon the heavens.

‘
No!’ Raymbaud screamed, pounding his fist on the dead man’s chest.

His fury was for naught. The Knight Templar had bested him, taking his secret to the grave.

Lourdes Grotto, Vatican City

15 August, The Present Day

‘We pray for our Mother, the Church upon earth,

And bless, dearest Lady, the land of our birth.

Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria! Ave, Ave, Maria!’

The chorus of male voices swelled before it fell into a respectful silence, the devotional hymn a paean to
the one woman whom they all loved in common, the Blessed Virgin Mary.

The ‘woman clothed with the sun’.

Or in this instance, given the lateness of the hour, garbed in the flickering flames of processional candles. Glancing at the attendant crowd that was cordoned off from the grotto and forced to celebrate the sunset Mass behind steel barricades, Cardinal Franco Fiorio wondered how many of the faithful knew that the salutation ‘
Ave
’
had once been used by Roman gladiators to greet Caesar before they engaged in mortal combat: ‘
Ave, Caesar! Morituri te salutant!
’

‘
Hail, Caesar! Those who are about to die salute you!’

Somehow Franco doubted that the ragtag Christians who provided the gruesome opening act
for the gladiatorial games ever uttered those fateful words before they were mauled by hungry lions.

The
Mass concluded, the recessional slowly filed past the grotto. Led by the cross bearer, the cavalcade included ruddy-cheeked altar servers holding crimson labara
emblazoned with the Chi-Rho cross, solemn-faced acolytes carrying elongated candles and, finally, the Cardinal Camerlengo who’d officiated.

Franco cast a last lingering glance at the cave-like grotto. The rocky lair was an artificial contrivance that replicated the famous shrine at Lourdes where, in 1858, a fourteen
-year-old illiterate French girl had been visited by Our Lady. Making it a fitting location to celebrate one of the most important holy days on the liturgical calendar, the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Always celebrated on the fifteenth day of August, it was the day on which the Mother of God had been taken bodily into heaven. One of the sacred mysteries of the Church, the Assumption was still hotly contested in religious circles.

‘Hogwash!’ Protestants were always quick to decry, adamant that the devotional feast was another example of the
Roman Catholic Church turning a pagan ritual into a high holy day.
Sola scriptura!
By scripture alone. If a ‘sacred’ event wasn’t contained within the pages of the Bible, it never happened.

Taking his place in the recessional queue, Franco fell into line with
the scores of cardinals who were similarly attired in ecclesiastical choir dress. When he was younger, he’d secretly despised the vestures, considering them overly fussy, making men of God look like clerical cross-dressers. His attitude had mellowed considerably with the passing decades as he’d come to embrace the inherent symbolism of the richly fashioned robes: the red cassock denoting a cardinal’s willingness to give of his very blood to safeguard the Church; the white lace-trimmed rochet symbolizing his spiritual purity.

Moving in slow lockstep, the candlelit procession wound its way through the
Giardini Vaticani,
the fifty-seven acres of gardens and parkland that encompassed most of the Vatican Hill. Passing sparkling fountains, cleverly designed topiaries and artfully laid flower beds, the garden evoked the idyllic splendor of Eden. On the eastern horizon loomed Michelangelo’s magnificent dome, the architectural tour de force bathed in a golden glimmer cast by the setting sun. Barely visible through the leafy bowers was the soaring defensive wall that had been built to keep out the enemies of the Church – of which there have always been many – and that now served as the international boundary for the Vatican City.

As they approached St Martha’s Chapel, their procession was greeted by an overflow crowd comprised of devoted congregants and curious tourists. Like the cardinals, each and every one of them clutched a lit candle, creating a flickering sea of frail fireflies. But what should have been a joyous throng was visibly mired in grief, many openly sobbing, all grim-faced. More than a few held up photographs of Pope Pius XIII.

The recently deceased Pope Pius XIII.

The Vicar of Christ, the man who represented the
Savior here on earth, was dead, having succumbed to a massive coronary stroke four days ago during his private morning mass. His unexpected death had plunged the Holy See into a state of
sede vacante
, the pontiff’s seat vacant. And it would remain vacant until the College of Cardinals met in conclave to elect St Peter’s apostolic successor.

No sooner had the pope been officially declared dead than
the Camerlengo, the papal chamberlain, had initiated a series of centuries-old rituals to safeguard against the unholy ambitions of scheming cardinals. The pope’s ring, used to seal official documents, had been ceremonially crushed to thwart would-be forgers. The pope’s private quarters had then been secured with wax seals to prevent the looting of the papal chambers. But as Franco full well knew, neither of those measures would deter an enterprising cleric.

‘
Never was anything great achieved without danger,’
he mused as the procession of cardinals slowed to a halt, Machiavelli’s sage advice as apropos in the twenty-first century as it had been during the Renaissance’s back-stabbing heyday.