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

  “Yes, they were, but not as Templars. We, the Rideforts, refused to give up our titles, refused to give up the Order.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re not about to claim you have the missing Templar treasure here.”

  Jacques laughed, then coughed for a few moments. “I assure you, we have money, but not the treasure. That is another story entirely.”

  Acton paused, his jaw dropping slightly. “You mean you know where it is?”

  Jacques waved a finger at him. “We’re not here to discuss the matters of man, we’re here to discuss something far more serious.”

  Laura squeezed his hand tighter. “Are you referring to what you said? That you are the ‘guardian of that upon which He made his ultimate sacrifice.’ Are you referring to the True Cross?”

  The frail man signaled for his attendant to turn him around. He stared at Laura then at Acton. “You know of it?”

  Acton nodded. “Everyone knows of it. The True Cross is the cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified. It was discarded by the Romans along with the two crosses the thieves were crucified on, and rediscovered in the fourth century by St. Helena, along with the sign nailed to it that said ‘Hic est rex Iudaeorum.’”

  “Here is the king of the Jews,” whispered Laura, her hand now gripping his tightly. “Are you saying you have it here?”

  Jacques didn’t answer. “Tell me more.”

  Acton smiled, realizing this was a test, perhaps a test of their worthiness to see it. A test he was determined to pass. “Over the centuries, slivers of it were given to various places of worship or important families, and when the first Crusaders arrived, they tortured the Greek Orthodox priests who had hidden it in Jerusalem. They finally gave up the location, and the fragment that remained was incorporated into a large golden, bejeweled cross, that was then carried by the Crusader armies into battle until Hattin in 1187.”

  Jacques smiled. “You know your history well, Professor. And what happened in Hattin?”

  “The Crusaders were massacred, over twenty thousand of them captured or killed, including over one hundred Templar Knights who were beheaded. The cross was lost to Saladin’s forces, then never seen again.”

  “And that, Professor Acton, is the only fact in which you are mistaken.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re referring to the reported sightings in Damascus, those were never confirmed.”

  “I guess it depends on who you believe, though it is of no matter. I can confirm it did indeed make it to Damascus, was desecrated by the Muslim hordes, and then was rescued by a small force of Templars, led by my family.”

  20

  Rome, The Papal States

  1215 AD

  Raymond’s old bones ached with every movement of his horse. He was far older than a knight should be, though the past twenty years had seen few battles, merely unwavering duty. A decision had been made all those years ago that the Holy Land was no place for the True Cross, not while much of it was controlled by the Muslims.

  The Order remained strong, and the Grand Master’s commandment that they protect the True Cross at all costs, and in secrecy, remained. It was an order they had heeded to this day.

  Yet they were old.

  Raymond knew he was not long for this earth, and their two companions were no better. Sir John was relatively young compared to them, yet was showing his age. It would be Sir John’s son that would carry on their duty, his new master having married before taking his vows.

  Raymond had remained alone, already having taken his vow of celibacy, though some of the others already had families before joining the Order. These children were the future of their tiny cadre of Christian soldiers, protecting the True Cross now for over twenty years. Twenty years of unrelenting violence in the Holy Land, and twenty years of treachery and intrigue throughout Europe.

  The True Cross did not belong to any one man. In consultation with the Grand Master, they had decided it must remain secretly under the protection of the Templars, until such time as three generations had passed with peace in either the Holy Land, or the Holy See. Should one of these sacred locations see peace long enough for those who had warred with each other to be dead and buried, then all the ancient hatreds would be gone, and the True Cross could be returned to mankind, with no more wars for it to be desecrated by.

  And with the next generation now preparing to take their place, they could honestly say peace had not yet been achieved, and their task would carry on, Raymond feared perhaps for centuries.

  They were in Rome with the blessing of the current Grand Master, a man Raymond respected tremendously, and who had renewed their orders of keeping the True Cross’ location secret even from him. After it had been retrieved from the caves, they had gone into hiding in plain sight, making sure they remained in Christian strongholds certain to remain so long enough for them to have time to escape upon a Templar boat, should any enemy arrive at their walls.

  And the enemy had arrived, and they had fled across the sea with their precious cargo, to reunite with Sir John’s family, a family they hadn’t seen in over five years, Sir John sending them back to Christendom years ago, his son to be trained in the knightly arts.

  Today was a pilgrimage of sorts, Sir John insisting they pass through Rome and see the Vatican before their final journey home. Raymond spotted the basilica first, his heart leaping at the grandeur of it.

  “Look.”

  Sir John followed Raymond’s gaze, his jaw dropping slightly at the sight of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Despite spending most of his life in the Holy Land, standing upon the very spot Jesus Christ himself had been crucified, walking through the streets of the town He had been born in, and praying on the ground where He had been buried before His resurrection, he was still in awe.

  For this was glorious.

  While the monuments in Jerusalem were sacred ground, they were old and scarred from over a millennia of conflict. Yet here, it was as if the entire Vatican shone in a brilliant white, untouched by the evils of man.

  “And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

  A smile creased Raymond’s weathered face as he looked at his friend. “Your Latin remains excellent, I see.”

  Sir John chuckled. “With you drumming it into my head for twenty years, it better be.”

  “Well, someone had to teach you some culture. The heathen child I met at Acre was in desperate need of teaching beyond the sword.”

  Sir John nodded. “What was it you always said? ‘Wisdom wields more power than the sword?’”

  Raymond tore his eyes away from the holy site, and regarded Sir John. “Correct. But do you believe it?”

  Sir John’s eyes stared into the distance for a moment before he returned his gaze to Raymond. “Absolutely, but”—he held up a finger—“not for years.”

  “With age comes wisdom.”

  “Then you are the wisest man I know.”

  Raymond frowned. “And apparently little respect.”

  They both roared with laughter and urged their steeds on. A shout rang out, then more. Raymond spun in his saddle to see what the commotion was, and Sir John gasped. A cart had broken loose, and was rolling down the cobblestone road they now occupied.

  Sir John leaped from his horse, leaving Raymond for a moment to wonder what was happening, when he spotted a group of children playing in the path of the cart, ignorant of the danger. Sir John shouted at them, pointing at the cart. The children turned toward him, staring at him, rather than where he was pointing.

  The roar of the wood wheels on the ancient stone echoed through the street, the children finally realizing the danger they were in. They scattered, but not all, one tiny girl crying in the road, frozen from terror. Raymond struggled from his horse, urging his decrepit body forward, as his younger master waved at the girl to move.

  Yet she didn’t.

  Raymond watched i
n horror as the cart, laden with heavy bags of flour, bore down on his master, Sir John diving at the girl, knocking her to the ground and shielding her with his body. Raymond cried out as the wheel of the cart slammed into his master, riding up his back and over his body, the rear wheel repeating the tortuous act.

  Sir John gasped then collapsed, the young girl continuing her screams, his sacrifice succeeding in saving the child. A woman ran over, crying, and pried the tiny girl from Sir John’s arms, thanking him profusely.

  Yet he said nothing.

  Raymond rushed to his side, dropping to his knees. “Sir John, are you okay?” Yet he knew there was no hope. His master’s body was crushed. Blood oozed from his mouth, his breaths shallow and rapid, what little life that remained quickly leaving him.

  Sir John reached up and grabbed Raymond by the back of the neck, pulling him closer with his last remaining ounce of strength. “Save the scroll.” His eyes fluttered and his body shook for a moment before giving up its final breath, leaving Raymond to weep without shame at the side of his master, of his friend, of his closest companion, that had reminded him every day of the young man’s father who fulfilled those same roles so many years ago.

  The scroll.

  It was that brief period when he had thought he had lost Sir John after his father’s death, that Sir John had met the young Muslim boy with the scroll. Protecting it after the boy’s death outside Acre had become an obsession with Sir John, second only to the True Cross, and now that duty had been handed down to him. What he would do with it, at the moment, he had no clue.

  And no care.

  Feet pounded, and he looked up to find several Templars rushing to their aid, aid that had come too late, though Raymond found comfort in knowing that his brothers of the Order were present.

  “Is he…?”

  Raymond nodded at the man. “Yes.”

  “We’ll take him inside so the Last Rites can be performed.”

  Raymond said nothing, instead standing back as four of his brothers lifted the crumpled body from the ground, solemnly carrying his friend toward the holy ground of the Vatican. The street was now silent, save the whimpers of the little girl who would continue her life, unscathed, hopefully with the example of the ultimate sacrifice paid, not lost with the passage of time.

  The next few minutes were a blur, the other knights gently urging him forward, through the front gates of the Vatican, and finally once again to his friend’s side, where several priests surrounded the body.

  A hush fell over the room, the gathered crowd of onlookers parting. Raymond, his eyes blurred, peered up to see a white figure rushing toward them.

  “What has happened here?”

  “Your Holiness, this man died outside the gates, saving a little girl from a runaway cart.”

  “It’s true, Your Holiness, I saw it with my own eyes. He sacrificed himself to save the little one.”

  Raymond’s heart hammered as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, finally realizing who it was that stood before them. He struggled to his feet then bowed. “Your Holiness, forgive me.”

  “Rise, my son.”

  Raymond rose, but kept his eyes directed to the floor, and on his friend.

  “You are a Templar?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness, as was my master, Sir John of Ridefort.”

  “Ridefort?” The Pontiff’s single utterance conveyed his shock. “Come with me.”

  Raymond’s jaw dropped as the Pope spun on his heel and walked away. He stared at the retreating Pontiff then the body of his friend.

  “Go!” hissed one of the priests, pushing him after the head of the Roman Catholic Church. Raymond willed his legs to move, a lurching gait finally turning into one of urgency as he struggled to keep up with the Pontiff. A few moments later, he found himself in a chapel, the sole occupant his holiness. He bowed once again, and a hand was placed on his shoulder.

  “Look at me.”

  Raymond shook his head, his eyes glued to the man’s sandals.

  “Look at me, my son.” The voice was firmer, though not angry. Raymond lifted his head, but kept his eyes down. A finger pushed his chin higher, forcing him to finally stare at either the Pontiff, or the ceiling. He chose the Pontiff. “That’s better.” The man smiled. “Your master, Sir John of Ridefort. He is the son of Sir Guy?”

  Raymond’s eyes widened, stunned his master’s family should be known to the most powerful man in all of Christendom. “Y-yes, Your Holiness. The very same.”

  “Then you are one of them.”

  Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  The Pope stepped closer, raising Raymond’s discomfort level considerably. “You are one of those who defend the True Cross.”

  Raymond’s jaw dropped. “You-you know?”

  The man smiled, patting Raymond’s shoulder. “Of course I know. Your Grand Masters have informed every pope since you began. Remember, the Templars are my soldiers, and they serve at my pleasure. Your Grand Master was duty bound to inform his master.”

  Raymond’s heart slammed.

  We never should have come here.

  Terror filled him as he imagined what was about to be said. What if the Pontiff demanded the cross be handed over? Their pledge had been three generations of peace, a time which had not yet passed, no semblance of a steady peace in these parts. Could he say no to the Pope? And if he did, would he be condemned to Hell?

  He felt the finger on his chin again, his eyes having drifted to the floor.

  “My words trouble you.”

  “Umm, n-no, Your Holiness.”

  Lord, forgive me for lying to him!

  “Perhaps you fear I shall demand you hand over the True Cross?”

  Raymond gasped, then snapped his jaw shut.

  “Do not fear, my son. It may surprise you, but I agree with your pledge.”

  Raymond’s eyes widened. “Wh-why?”

  The Pope smiled. “Would it surprise you to know that much of my day is occupied by politics, and not religion?”

  Raymond’s eyes widened further, revealing his answer.

  “The Fifth Crusade has begun, at great expense to the monarchs of Christendom. Can you imagine how they would react if they knew the True Cross was here? To them, it belongs at the head of their armies. If word were to get out it was here, they might very well turn their armies around and march on me.”

  He smiled at the horrified look on Raymond’s face at the very notion. “Not to worry, my son, I speak of hypotheticals. Yet my point still stands. At this moment, Christianity believes the True Cross is either in the hands of the Muslims, or has been destroyed by them. Either way, their anger is focused in the right direction. The True Cross is the holiest blood relic known to exist. It has healed the dying and made the dead rise again. It is proof that Our Lord Jesus Christ existed, and that he sacrificed himself for all our sins. Who are we, mere mortals, to say that it should be at the head of our armies, or mounted in our places of worship?”

  He shook his head. “No, my son, for now, the best place for it is with you and your brothers, pure of heart, uninfluenced by the trappings of power or wealth. You must continue your mission and protect the True Cross from not only the heathens, but those who kill in His name, yet misunderstand His teachings.”

  Raymond nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness. You can count on my brothers to keep it safe.”

  The Pontiff squeezed his shoulder. “I know I can.” He looked about the room, then back at Raymond. “You and your brothers have made a great sacrifice, and you should be rewarded. Your master, Sir John of Ridefort, shall be buried here, upon these sacred grounds, his entry into the Kingdom of Heaven assured for his honorable duty. I shall have a special tomb constructed for just this purpose, and all those who protect the True Cross shall be welcome here when they pass to the next life.” He lowered his voice. “This must, of course, be kept quiet. For Templar Knights to be buried here will raise questions, questions that cannot be ans
wered lest we trigger the very tribulations we discussed. But instruct your brothers, that when one of them falls, they are to be brought here, and buried with honor.”

  Raymond bowed deeply. “Thank you, Your Holiness. You honor my brothers and I with your words and your generous offer.”

  “Good, good. Now let us attend to your master.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.” He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking better of what he was about to say.

  “What is it, my son?”

  Raymond shook his head. “It is nothing, Your Holiness.”

  “Speak the truth within these walls.”

  Raymond flushed. “It—” He stopped, looking about, searching for strength.

  “Yes, my son?”

  Raymond drew a deep breath. “I have one request, if I may.”

  “What is it?”

  “My master’s father, Sir Guy of Ridefort, is buried outside Acre. It was he who led the raid to retrieve the True Cross from the infidel Saladin. I would like permission to retrieve his body and bring it here, to be buried with his son.”

  The Pope smiled, placing a hand gently on Raymond’s cheek. “You are the finest example of God’s children I have yet to meet. Go and get your brother that I suspect means more to you than you reveal, and bring him here. He will be buried with honor with his son, and their souls will forever be protected from the evils of man.”

  Raymond collapsed to his knees, prostrating himself in front of his Pope, tears flowing onto the polished stone. “Bless you, Your Holiness. I pledge myself to you and to my Lord, for eternity.”

  21

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Present Day

  “You expect us to believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just take your word for it?”

  Laura held up a hand, interrupting the back and forth between Jacques Ridefort and her husband. “You said you are the guardian of the True Cross. Does that mean you have it?”