The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Read online

  The Pontiff rose. “Enough of this!”

  Sir Lambert bowed slightly, sheathing his sword. “Of course, Your Holiness.”

  The Pope pointed at the door. “You will leave, now, while you can. But hear this. Until the True Cross is returned, never again shall a member of your family be welcome here, even in death.”

  Sir Raymond glared at the man, struggling to contain his seething rage. “And of the four that are already here?”

  The Pontiff stole a quick glance at Sir Lambert, then returned to his seat. “I will not desecrate the dead, however their tomb will be sealed, never to be seen again by man.”

  Sir Raymond resisted jabbing a finger at the Pontiff. “You have made that promise on the holiest of ground, and my family will hold you to it.” He bowed to the Pontiff, ignoring Sir Lambert, then left the room, his son and grandson in tow.

  “What shall we do, father?” asked his son, Sebastien, when they were clear of the Vatican. Sir Raymond glanced over his shoulder at Saint Peter’s Basilica and frowned. “We must protect the remains of our dead.”

  “But how?”

  His jaw squared as he increased his pace. “I have a plan, but we must act quickly.”

  25

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Present Day

  Jacques Ridefort tore his eyes away from the True Cross, Acton’s suspicions that it was a fake, waning. This man was clearly still enamored with what he had possessed his entire life, and he at least thought it genuine. He reached out, finally unable to resist touching that which He spent his final hours upon. A surge of energy rushed through him as his fingertips ran across the ancient piece of wood, a moment of true belief washing over him, unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

  The scientist in him knew it was purely psychological, yet the spiritual side was equally convinced it was a truly rapturous moment, a true moment of belief, of faith. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he finally pulled his hand away. He opened them to see Jacques smiling at him.

  “You feel it, don’t you?”

  Acton couldn’t resist nodding.

  “It is something truly special, truly unique. I knew we were in trouble when my son touched it and felt nothing. I had hoped over the years he would mature and come to realize the burden placed upon our family, but alas, he did not. Instead, he became obsessed with the glory that its possession should bring him.”

  He sighed. “But I digress. You asked about the fake nameplates. The reason was quite simple. My ancestor, Sir Raymond, after meeting with Pope Clement on the day of the internment of his father, Sir Gervais, realized the church could no longer be trusted, the King of France, Philip, wielding too much influence. The meeting ended rather ignominiously, the Pope demanding the return of the True Cross, Sir Raymond refusing.

  “In response, the Pope ordered the tomb sealed, and decreed that no future generations of the family would be buried there. While he promised to not desecrate the graves, Sir Raymond felt that with the Pope’s blessing to their oath no longer in force, in the years to come, his father and grandfather’s tombs might be desecrated for their connection to the True Cross.

  He couldn’t move the bodies, but he was able to have false nameplates created with the names of Templars he felt anyone in the future who discovered the tomb might decide were too pure of spirit to disturb.

  “He and several others snuck into the tomb and added the fake nameplates, undetected, their deception going undiscovered. It turned out to be unnecessary, the tomb sealed and forgotten, what with the extended transfer of the papal court to Avignon. The bodies of my ancestors rested in peace for eight hundred years, until uncovered by you.”

  Acton sighed, the mystery finally explained, and explained to his satisfaction. Everything fit with the evidence already uncovered, and he had no reason to doubt this dying man’s story, though he would certainly be looking deeper into it once he had the chance. He stared down at Jacques. “But that’s no longer why we are here.”

  Jacques shook his head. “No. Now that I am nearly dead, it is time to return the True Cross to those who can now protect it best.”

  “The Vatican.”

  “Exactly.”

  Laura reached out and touched the bare wood, closing her eyes, and Acton noticed her shiver, a slight smile on her face. “If that’s the case, why do you need us?”

  “My son.”

  Acton reached for the cross again, then paused. “What about your son? Is he the one who tried to kill us?”

  “Yes. He is determined to stop me from returning it, and I fear, will stop at nothing, including my death, to keep the True Cross in Ridefort hands.”

  26

  Outside the Notre-Dame Cathedral

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  March 18, 1314

  Sir Raymond stared through the mass of people in front of him, tears streaking his face, his son and grandson on either side, their own cheeks burning from the outpouring of grief. The downfall of the Order had been swift. Betrayed by Pope Clement V and King Philip IV of France, mass arrests of the Knights Templar had been carried out on Friday the 13th in October 1307. Those arrested had been tortured into false confessions of heresy, blasphemy, and sodomy, and despite Grand Master Jacques de Molay’s retraction of his utterings made under duress, the bastard Preceptor of Normandy, Geoffroi de Charney, declared de Molay and the other leaders guilty of being relapsed heretics.

  Yet their sentence was the most horrifying aspect of this entire farce orchestrated by King Philip to avoid paying what he owed the Templars. His eyes met de Molay’s, the elderly man recognizing him, and smiling slightly, drawing in a deep breath of courage as the flames were set at his feet, his sentence about to be carried out.

  De Molay raised his bound hands to his lips in prayer, continuing to stare at Sir Raymond, as if drawing strength from him, and Sir Raymond could see the difference in his demeanor, as if knowing he wasn’t alone in this abomination of justice, would see him through it. The fact his hands were bound in front of him, rather than behind him to the stake, was a testament to his powers of persuasion, and of how his executioners must feel about what they were doing.

  De Molay lifted his gaze and stared at Notre Dame Cathedral, his lips moving. Sir Raymond lowered his head, reciting the Lord’s Prayer, when the crowd gasped. He looked up to see the flames engulfing the Grand Master, who opened his eyes and stared back at him. Then in his dying breaths, he summoned the strength to issue one last gasp of truth.

  “God knows who is wrong and has sinned! Soon a calamity will occur to those who have condemned us to death!”

  And with those final words, he roared in agony, the crowd, once eager to see the execution of someone whose life was better than theirs, fell silent, the horror of it all too much even for them. Sir Raymond desperately wanted to look away, yet he didn’t, maintaining his gaze at his master for as long as the man had breath within.

  The courage displayed flowed through him, and he stepped forward, drawing a deep breath. “I swear to you Grand Master, and to God Almighty Himself, that within one year, His Holiness and the King shall join you to answer for their crimes here today!”

  The crowd turned toward him for a moment, his son pulling him back, but Sir Raymond had no regrets in what he had said. For he meant it. This injustice would not go unpunished. De Molay raised his hands, stretching them out toward him, as if in acknowledgment, his agony-filled cries continuous, until finally, mercifully, the screams stopped, his head slumped, and he was no more.

  The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, were finished.

  27

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Present Day

  Pierre climbed into the black helicopter, his heart pounding as this was about to become very real. His friends were lined up to join him, Albert reaching out to be pulled inside.

  Schmidt waved him off. “They should remain he
re.”

  “But I need them.”

  “Why?”

  “To move the item.”

  “My men can do that.”

  Pierre shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. It could be damaged.”

  “What the hell is this thing? I think we’re at the point now where we need to know.”

  Pierre debated the idea for a mere moment. “No, it’s far too precious to risk.”

  Schmidt was clearly growing frustrated with him, his cheeks red, his nostrils flaring. “What do you mean? It’s worth a lot of money?”

  Pierre shook his head. “No, its value isn’t monetary, it’s spiritual. It is nothing men like you would be interested in.”

  Schmidt’s eyes narrowed. “Men like us?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean that as an insult, I just mean men who kill for a living.”

  Schmidt exchanged a look with his men. “You think soldiers can’t believe in God?”

  “I didn’t say that. One of the Commandments is ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and that is what you do for a living.”

  Schmidt shook his head. “No, the original Hebrew says ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ which is a completely different thing.”

  “And you don’t think what you do is murder?”

  Schmidt leaned back in his seat, the rotors hammering overhead. “Do you not see the double-standard here? We are killing people because you need them out of your way, and you think we’re unworthy of whatever the hell this thing is? I’m sorry, kid, but you’re the one who has tonight’s blood on your hands, not us. If you hadn’t hired us, nobody would be dead, and no one would be dying tonight. So what’s it going to be? The whole truth, or do we bounce?”

  Pierre looked at his friends, friends who weren’t supposed to know the truth, yet did. And they hadn’t betrayed him. These men, though, he didn’t know, but if they did indeed leave, he had no hope of ever retrieving the True Cross, and that was unacceptable. He had to trust in God that these men, here to do his bidding for the greater good, were trustworthy enough to risk sharing the truth with. He sighed.

  “It’s the True Cross.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s the cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified.”

  Schmidt laughed, the others joining in. “Bullshit.”

  Pierre shrugged, relieved. Doubters wouldn’t covet what they felt was worthless. “It’s what we believe.”

  Schmidt leaned out and closed the door, leaving Pierre’s friends outside. “Let’s go get your chunk of driftwood.”

  28

  Roquemaure, France

  April 20, 1314

  Sir Raymond, his son and grandson at his side, waited patiently. For he had time. Pope Clement V was dying on the other side of the door they now waited before, eaten away from the inside. He was not long for this earth, but Sir Raymond needed to see for himself before his own life came to an end.

  After the burning at the stake of Grand Master de Molay, his son and grandson had forced him into a hasty departure, afraid the crowd might turn on them for the curse he had yelled into the silence. They hadn’t been captured, though word was spreading across the land of it, some now calling it the Templar’s Curse, others, who claimed de Molay himself had uttered it, calling it the Molay Curse.

  He didn’t care what anyone called it. All he cared about was getting his revenge on those who had destroyed his order and dishonored all those that had done so much good for almost two centuries. There had been some debate as to what to do next, his son advocating a more cautious approach, wanting to leave things in the hands of God to exact revenge, advocating they focus on their sworn duty to protect the True Cross.

  “They must never have it! These blasphemers, these sinners, cannot be trusted with it. It is our duty to protect it until the time is right, and we cannot risk our lives on this revenge you are so determined to exact.”

  Sir Raymond had been disappointed in his son at first, but he was right. Their duty was to the True Cross, though his duty to that original cause was almost over. He was near death himself, and it would be his son and grandson who would continue with that honor and burden.

  Which left him free to fulfill his promise.

  When word had arrived of Pope Clement on his deathbed, he had announced his intention to see him, and his son had insisted on coming. A faithful boy to the end. They made the journey to Avignon, to where Clement had moved the Papacy from Rome, something that should condemn him to the eternal depths of Hell as far as Sir Raymond was concerned.

  When he had demanded an audience, he had fully expected to be turned away, perhaps even arrested, but instead, he had been redirected here, to Roquemaure, where the Pope was spending his final days away from his station.

  A door opened and a priest appeared, beckoning them inside. “His Holiness will see you now.”

  Sir Raymond stepped through the door, his son and grandson following. He was taken aback at the frailty before him. The last time he had seen Pope Clement was when he had interred his father in the tomb reserved for those protecting the True Cross. That had been seven years ago, and time and illness had ravaged the man, yet there was no sympathy or empathy within Sir Raymond to offer this evil man who had destroyed so much, a puppet to the equally evil and cowardly King of France, Phillip IV.

  Clement reached out a hand, and Sir Raymond, on instinct, took it. “I remembered your name at once, which is why I agreed to see you.”

  Sir Raymond said nothing.

  “I—I owe you and your family an apology.”

  Sir Raymond’s eyebrows rose slightly, yet he remained silent, still taking comfort in his hatred for this wretched soul.

  “I let King Phillip wield too much power. I should have listened to God, and not to kings. I fear I shall go down in history a cursed man.”

  As you should.

  “If you allowed me here to lift the curse I placed on you in Paris, you are wasting your breath.”

  Clement smiled. “My son, I am a man of God. I do not believe in curses.”

  A sneer curled up the side of Sir Raymond’s face. “Yet here you lie, dying.”

  Clement chuckled then coughed. “My son, I have been dying for many years. There’s nothing that can be done now, save a miracle from God.”

  Sir Raymond withdrew his hand. “No miracle shall come. Of that, I can assure you.”

  “Do you really hate me that much?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should you die with a heart filled with hate, you may find yourself unworthy of Paradise.”

  “Then I will be joining you in Hell.”

  Clement sighed. “Perhaps, though I doubt it. You are a good man, merely engulfed in events beyond your control.” He leaned his head slightly closer, lowering his voice. “You still guard the True Cross?”

  “Of course.”

  The Pontiff nodded, lying back upon his pillow. “That knowledge will die with me. The Templars are no more. You cannot inform the next Pope of your oath and instructions, nor can I have the next Pope informed, as, again, the Templars are no more.”

  Sir Raymond paused, his hatred momentarily forgotten. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, my son, that you must now decide what to do. Your oath was part of an Order that has now been disbanded and no longer has the blessings of this Church. And with my death, no one will know of your duty beyond yourselves. As far as anyone will be concerned, should you be found with the True Cross, you will be treated as thieves and heretics.” He smiled. “Perhaps you and your family are the ones who have been cursed.” His smile broadened. “I fear your torment will outlast mine.” His eyes closed and a long, slow breath escaped, his chest failing to rise for another.

  Sir Raymond didn’t make the sign of the cross, and grabbed his grandson Henry’s hand as he was about to make one of his own. “No remorse or respect will be shown for this man. He is responsible for the death of the Order, as much as King Phillip is.”

  Sir Raymond
turned on his heel and left the room as Clement’s staff surged in, the wails of mourners already filling the halls. They mounted their horses, leaving the property quickly, lest they be detained for some reason, and soon found themselves alone, outside of the town.

  “Now can we return to our duty?” asked his son.

  “We have seen one dead, yet one still remains. When I have seen him pass, only then will we return to our business, a business I’m afraid will be yours and your grandson’s,” he said, smiling at young Henry, yet to reach puberty.

  Henry smiled. “How long will our family have to protect the True Cross, Grandfather?”

  Sir Raymond sighed. “I fear it could be until the Second Coming.”

  “But how will we manage?” asked his son. “The Templars are no more.”

  Sir Raymond brought his horse to a halt, turning toward his son. “As long as there are men with honor in their heart, the Templars will exist. It is not our wealth or status that makes us who we are, but our devotion to God. What greater sacrifice in the name of our Lord could one possibly make, than to live in obscurity, guarding that which is His, from those who would commit atrocities in His name? We will continue our duty, for as long as is necessary, no matter how long that may be.”

  29

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Present Day

  Laura glanced nervously at her husband as he stepped closer to her. “Are we in danger?”

  Jacques Ridefort shook his head. “Normally I would say no, but after the attempt on your lives, I’m afraid my answer is now ‘yes.’”