The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (6 page)

‘
Right. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ Caedmon swiveled the computer so that he and Edie could read the transcript.

Chinon Castle, 15 March, 1308

In the name of the Lord and by the mercy of God, I, Raymbaud le Breton, cleric of the diocese of Soissons, declare this a truthful account of the inquiry ordered by our most Supreme Pontiff Clement into the grievous matter pertaining to violations of sacred trust committed by Brother Fortes de Pinós, grand commander of the Paris preceptory of the Order of Knights Templar
.

When asked if he had been ordered by Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar, to lead an expedition by sea to the princely state of Muziris on the coast of Malabar, Brother Fortes did confess that he undertook such a voyage which was a year in duration.

When asked if the purpose of this voyage had been to find the sacrilegious text known as the
Evangelium Gaspar
, the prisoner confessed that he had been commissioned by the Grand Master to determine if such a text did exist. He further confessed to discovering the whereabouts of this text which he said was scribed upon three copper plates in a language unfamiliar to him.

When asked if he transported the
Evangelium Gaspar
to France, he replied that he did so upon the order of his Grand Master.

When asked if he knew the current whereabouts of the
Evangelium Gaspar
, Brother Fortes gave the following reply:
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 a Spanish harbor
.

When asked to explain his nonsensical reply, Brother Fortes refused to answer the question put to him.

When asked if he had attempted to secure the release of his brother knights through an unlawful act of subornment with the king of France, Brother Fortes did confess to offering the illustrious sovereign King Philippe the
Evangelium Gaspar
in exchange for the imprisoned Templars.

When asked why he had carved the Seal of Solomon on to the wall of his cell, Brother Fortes claimed that he had been contemplating the wisdom of that great king which he believed to be a precursor to the wisdom that our Lord Jesus Christ imparted to his twelve disciples.

When asked if he had knowledge of any relics pertaining to our Savior that had been safeguarded at Château Pèlerin, Brother Fortes replied that he had never been to that Templar commandery.

At the conclusion of the inquiry, Brother Fortes did denounce in our presence all acts of heresy and, standing on his knees with his hands clasped in prayerful pose, he did swear that he had spoken naught but the truth and he begged the Almighty Father to strike him dead if he had uttered a single falsehood. Answering the disingenuous prayer of this most blasphemous of knights, our Heavenly Father did strike him dead on the spot.

Signed:

Raymbaud le Breton,
Ordo Praedicatorum

Huon Villeroi, cleric of Beziers, notary of apostolic power

Baldewyn Hainault, a pious seneschal of Chinon

‘
Whoa,’ Edie murmured when she reached the end of the document. ‘I didn’t see that coming. Talk about being struck down by God’s “terrible swift sword”.’ Clearly rattled, she reached for her wine glass and took a quick swig.

‘
While Fortes de Pinós may have been felled by a sword, I doubt very much that God wielded the blade,’ Caedmon grated between clenched teeth. ‘More than likely the poor bloke was tortured to death. And I now know why de Pinós didn’t escape from France; he had hoped to use the
Evangelium Gaspar
that he’d just uncovered in Muziris
to bribe King Philippe into releasing his brother knights.’

‘A plan that tragically backfired,’ Edie remarked before downing the last of her rosé. ‘Although it appears that he covered his rear and hid
the
Evangelium Gaspar
so that it wouldn’t be confiscated by the inquisitors.’

‘So it would seem.’
Caedmon stared at the translated riddle, having yet to decide if Fortes de Pinós had been a remarkably brave man or a knight on a fool’s errand. ‘The riddle was obviously devised for the benefit of his fellow knights rather than the inquisitor. Since the Templars’ trial had recently begun, de Pinós may have thought that the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, or some other high-ranking officer who knew about his mission to India, would be exonerated.’

‘At which point, they could then use the riddle to find the
Evangelium Gaspar
.’

‘Precisely,’
Caedmon verified with a nod. ‘What de Pinós didn’t know was that Jacques de Molay and the other high-ranking officers would eventually be burned at the stake in front of Notre-Dame cathedral.’

Gita leaned in his direction, her anguish plain to see. ‘Given that you’re so well-versed in the Templars and their history, I came to
Paris in the hopes that you could decipher the riddle.’

On the verge of informing Gita that she was asking the impossible,
Caedmon instead read aloud the pertinent passage in the transcript. ‘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 a Spanish harbor.’ As he pondered the cryptic lines of text, an apprehensive silence ensued, two sets of eyes, one brown and one hazel, anxiously glued to him.

Finally, refusing to hold out hope where none could be had, he shrugged and said, ‘Other than the obvious reference to dropping a ship’s anchor at a Spanish port, I’m at a loss to know what it means.’

Edie, kicking him under the table, shot him a chastising glance. ‘What Caedmon means to say is that he needs some time to hit the research books before he can decipher the clue,’ she told Gita, cementing the assurance with a consoling pat to the hand.

‘So, you will try to find the gospel?’

Deflecting Gita’s query, Caedmon feinted in a different direction. ‘Have the kidnappers set a deadline for the delivery of the
Evangelium Gaspar
?’ he asked, returning his gaze to the computer screen.

‘Irenaeus
gave me exactly ten days to find it
.
Since three days have already lapsed, there are seven days remaining. The ransom deadline is set for next Sunday at twelve noon.’

Hearing this,
Caedmon’s head instantly whipped in Gita’s direction.

Surely, she wasn’t serious!
If the Roman Catholic Church had been unable to locate the gospel in the last seven centuries, how could he possibly find it in a mere seven days?

His anxiety soaring to new heights,
Caedmon reached for his untouched aperitif. As he gulped a mouthful of the now tepid Dubonnet, he wondered how best to inform Gita that weeks, perhaps months, of research would be required to decipher the cryptic riddle. And that was assuming the
Evangelium Gaspar
was still where Fortes de Pinós left it in the year 1308.

In other words, finding the long-lost gospel would be nothing short of a titanic feat.

On the verge of delivering the bad news, Caedmon glanced at Gita, who stared at him beseechingly. He next peered over at Edie, who smiled encouragingly, silently conveying a confidence in him that wasn’t in the least merited.

And then there was the woman who wasn’t present, Anala Patel.
He could only imagine the expression on her face. Undoubtedly, it would be one of stark terror because in one week’s time, if he hadn’t found the blasted gospel, she would be summarily killed. A defenseless young woman, Anala was at the mercy of a ruthless bastard who had resorted to drastic and brutal means to glean the Templars’ dark secret.

Christ. They’re going to kill m
y daughter.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind than
Caedmon’s heart painfully thumped against his breastbone. The first throes of heartache.

Thrown off-kilter by the sudden burst of pain, he dejectedly stared at the Chinon transcript.

I have
to find that damned gospel.

No
,
he silently amended a split second later.
I WILL
find that damned gospel.

Mind made up,
Caedmon pushed out a deep breath. ‘Rest assured, I will move heaven and earth to find the
Evangelium Gaspar,
’ he told Gita.

If need be, even make a pact with the devil.

The lone man sitting a few tables away slowly lowered the
Le Monde
newspaper from his face.

Getting up from the table, Hector Calzada stretched the kink out of his back before slapping some euros on the table to pay for his espresso. His arms ached from holding the newspaper in place. But his balls ached more from watching all the French asses in tight skirts stroll past.

No doubt about it. Paris is for fuckers.

As he approached the vacated table, his mouth gaped open, Hector letting loose with a head-shaking, killer yawn. The jet lag was most definitely catching up
with him.

Three
days ago he’d made the round trip from India to New York, he and his homie Roberto Diaz having successfully smuggled the Patel girl out of the country on a medical transport flight. A stupidly simple operation. The bitch had been unconscious the entire flight, oblivious to the fact that she was in the care of her ‘brother’ Hector and her ‘male nurse’ Roberto. Because India was a hub for medical tourism, people getting facelifts and heart transplants on the cheap, medical transport flights were readily available. And since he’d nabbed the girl’s passport from her bedroom when he’d abducted her, no one batted an eye or gave them a second glance. The personnel on medical transport airlines were used to seeing unconscious passengers with IVs stuck in their arms, strapped on to gurneys. That’s why they were in business.

Hector didn’t know why the Indian girl or her mother was so important. He didn’t need to know. He’d taken a vow to never question the authority of the man
whose orders he was following. And a homie never broke a blood vow. If he did, he paid for it
with
his blood.

Strolling over to the table where the trio had been sitting, Hector nonchalantly slid the credit card receipt out from under a saucer so he could read
the scrawled signature. It took several seconds of studied squinting before he could make out the name ‘Caedmon Aisquith’
.

Now, that is one fucked-up name.

But, on the upside, since it was such an odd name, it would be an easy one to Google.

I should have no problem getting a hit and finding out who the hell I’m dealing with.
Although the guy didn’t look like he’d prove much of a threat. Too fair-skinned. Not enough blood to burnish his skin a deeper shade. Blood is what made a man. Like the blood of Hector’s Aztec ancestors.
The blood of his father. The blood of his enemies
. The blood of Jesus Christ dying on the cross.

Before turning to leave, Hector reached for the half-empty wine glass
. Plucking the piece of lemon peel from the glass and flinging it aside, he then gulped down the rouge-tinted drink. Not liking the taste of it, he violently spat a mouthful on to the pavement.

‘
Hey! What are you looking at?’ he snarled, catching sight of a wide-eyed café patron indignantly staring at him. Then, grinning luridly at the long-faced woman, he grabbed his crotch as he clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth.

Hey, chiquita! Eyeball this!

Cackling at her shocked response, Hector jauntily made his way down the street, keeping a discreet distance from the trio up ahead. He hoped something happened soon because he was getting bored following the Indian woman.
Maybe the three of them will get it on.
Woman on man on woman. What the French called a
ménage à trois.
Yeah, that might be interesting to watch. Exciting even. He needed something exciting to occur, something to get his blood pumping. Make his pecker stand on end.

Once upon a time he used to live a very exciting life. Shaking down shopkeep
ers for ‘protection money’. Peddling crack cocaine. Hanging out with his homies at strip joints. Drive-by shootings. Close-up shootings. Gangland executions. But those days were gone.
Adiós.

Sighing wistfully, Hector Calzada grazed his hand over the Beretta M9 that was shoved under his shirt.

Nothing like a little bang-bang to add some piquant spice to a man’s life.

Sanguis Christi Fellowship, Dutchess County, New York