They returned to their meal at the urging of the priest; a man both had underestimated. Ray remained distant and melancholy, unable Trevelyan imagined, to shake the image of his sister. Brandy was more eager to leave it behind, at least for the moment. He led her, at length, back to the subject of her studies. Trevelyan learned that, not only had the castle tour provided a gateway for their troubles, but had also washed-out in its intended purpose of informing her thesis. She felt shallow, she said, beefing about it now.
“Nonsense,” Trevelyan told her. “Historically, Fournier's tour is a sham and you have every right to be disappointed. The Templar history is fascinating and could be helpful to you. Now more than ever you must fulfill your purpose.”
“They were burned,” Ray said, tired of the whole thing. “What more is there to the Templars?”
“Backstory. Isn't that right, Father?”
“Er, ah, well,” Trevelyan said, “there is that, yes. And, of course, their death and burial; exactly what you're writing about.”
Brandy smiled for the first time in days. Ray lifted his good hand in surrender.
“Jacques de Molay was completely heartbroken by the horrors he'd found at Castle Freedom,” the priest said, chasing the fact with a bite of fish and steamed potatoes. “Francois de Raiis was once his close friend. Geoffrey de Charney, another of those arrested, a student and friend. And Molay found himself double-crossed by King Philip.”
“Double-crossed?” Ray slowly lifted another bite.
His scallops gratinéed were staring at Brandy from a white clam shell-shaped plate. Her stomach objected and she set down her fork. The men didn't notice.
“Oh, er, yes. Molay was godfather to one of Philip's children. Oh, and don't think the Grand Master was executed because Philip believed him guilty of heresy. There wasn't a more pious man in all of Europe, including the Pope, and the king knew it.”
“Then why have his friend killed?”
“Greed,” Trevelyan said.
“Money is the root of all evil,” Ray said flatly.
“An oft misquoted bible verse. The problem isn't money, it's greed. First Timothy 6:10. For the love of money is the root of all evils; it is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced their hearts with many pangs.” He saw Ray's smirk. “You think I'm foolish. Perhaps I am. But I, er, couldn't be more serious. The Kingdom was heavily in debt. In July of 1306, Philip confiscated the assets of every Jew in France and expelled them from the country. But it wasn't enough. He was still deeply in debt, much of that owed to the Templars; and they were vastly wealthy. Philip knew if the Order were dissolved most of their wealth would go to him. In the fall of 1307, to eliminate that debt and claim their wealth, he ordered their arrests for heresy. These were charges, incidentally, Philip had used on enemies before the Templars.”
“If he'd done it before, fraudulently, why didn't the church step in? They were Christian knights, weren't they?”
“Whatever Templar wealth didn't go to the king went to the church.”
“There's a big surprise,” Ray said, without any. “The church was in on it.”
“Not at first. Pope Clement tried to intercede. He openly expressed his indignation at his knights' arrests. He insisted on trials.”
“That was big of him.”
“You, er, ah, don't understand, Ray. The king didn't want trials. He wanted the Order dissolved, period. He ordered the burning of those first Templars, through the Archbishop, to prevent trials. In February, 1308, to slow the king, Clement suspended the work of the inquisitors and would not relent until Philip agreed to trials.”
“It's simple human nature that the Templars inspired rumors. Their secret meetings, particularly those whispered of as initiations into the Order, caused both romantic notions and fears. The Chinon Parchment, found recently in the Archives of the Vatican, proves Clement actually absolved Jacques de Molay in August of 1308. The Pope wanted to know what the Templars were doing in secret. And, not wanting to delay the trials he'd fought for, sent three of his cardinals to the Templar leaders. They reported they did not believe the Templars had committed any sins, that they should be granted absolution and be allowed to receive the sacraments again. They were absolved by the Pope. But King Philip had his own agenda and, despite the Pope's proclamation of innocence, the Templars were returned to prison.”
“And, in the end, the church made money off of the Templars?”
“Eh, yes. The king wanted it. Both he and the church would benefit financially from it. And, since only the Pope could declare the Order dissolved… Well, for want of a better phrase, it was a match made in heaven.”
“Speaking of heaven, Father,” Brandy said, taking up the dessert menu. “As a transplanted local, have you any suggestions for - what do you Brits call them?
“Oh, ah, afters. Sweets. The Tarte fine aux Pommes is excellent,” he said lustily. “Thinly sliced apples in a delicate pie.” He made a yummy noise, drawing looks from other tables. Trevelyan didn't notice. Without looking at the menu (his eyes had glazed over), he began worshipping the restaurant's idols of sugar and fruit. “The baked Crème caramel custard; nothing like it, I assure you. Oh, then there's the Poire Belle-Hèléne.” He kissed his fingertips and scattered it to the air. “Pear, chocolate, ice cream.”
Brandy remembered the first time she'd seen the priest (giving candy to the altar servers) and, suddenly, realized they'd stumbled upon the chink in his armor. Outside of his passions for the Church and the Templars, it seemed, Father Trevelyan was a sugar addict. Brandy and Ray laughed. Trevelyan was on a roll.
“Profiteroles au Chocolat,” the priest said. He bit his lower lip and rolled his eyes toward the heaven in the top of his head. “…the French dessert; a choux pastry and vanilla ice cream covered in hot chocolate sauce!”
“Stop!” Brandy cried, holding up a palm. “I feel a diabetic coma coming on! That last one sounds good.” She set down her menu. “How about you, Father?”
Trevelyan smiled warmly… and shook his head. “No. Nothing for me.”
“After that build up, you're not having any dessert! If Ray did that, I'd kill him.”
Trevelyan stared, blushing. Ray offered no help; he simply shrugged and nodded. “Oh, eh, p-please, forgive me,” the priest stuttered. “I would love to… I do love it so. Unfortunately my vocation provides little opportunity for exercise. I'm not getting any younger. And I have been rather over-doing the candy lately. Ray can have mine.”
Brandy's lips twisted into a frown. “Ray doesn't do chocolate.”
“What?” Trevelyan turned on Ray. “There's something wrong with you.”
Brandy burst out laughing. The waiter came to Ray's rescue. “If I might offer a suggestion, monsieur. The Gratin de Fruits rouges… is a… Morello cherries, raspberries; in a cooked cream and sugar gratin sauce… ohhh.”
“Sold,” Ray said, sending him away. “Now, if you two don't mind, can we get back to our discussion?”
Trevelyan looked grim. “Forgive me. Where were we?”
“You've been defending the Templars but weren't they guilty? Weren't they caught in the act?”
“Yes. Raiis and his six knights were, as you say, caught. They deserved their punishment. But in all my years of study, Ray, I've found no evidence their practices ever spread beyond Castle Freedom.”
“How did the Templars get back here,” Brandy asked, “if they were executed in Paris?”
“Normally the remains, the ashes and bone left after the fire, were dumped into the Seine. But here, to send a message, Philip ordered the fires extinguished the moment the Templars were dead and their bodies returned to Paradis for public burial. The Pope, happy to have the matter out of his hands, made no argument.”
“Upon their arrival, my predecessor, and we are talking seven hundred years ago, refused their burial in the chapel cemetery. Likewise, he revolted against those wanting them buried in the crypt. He insisted they had no kinship wi
th the blessed.”
“Are you all right?” Brandy's interruption startled Trevelyan. Ray's look startled him more. The big man was 'green round the gills'. He waved them off.
Brandy put the moment down to stress, exhaustion, and bad café lighting and returned her attention to the priest. “So that's why the Templar cemetery?”
“Ah, yes. The king ordered them buried and, eh, so they were; interred in unhallowed ground in the wood beyond the castle. A much larger wood, at the time, and they were buried deep within it.”
From a silver tray the waiter delivered Brandy's ice cream and chocolate pastry. She oohed and grabbed her spoon. Trevelyan aahed and relished her dessert by proxy. Ray wasn't feeling well. He shook his head at the new interruption, and the renewed antics of the sugar fiends, as the waiter set down his bowl.
“Monsieur…”
Ray stared into the thick sea of heavy cream and caramelized sugar brimming with warm chopped cherries and raspberries… all bleeding shades of red into the… grass beside the ancient sarcophagus… Ray gasped, unable to catch his breath, and unable to look away from the chunks… a swirling pool of crimson… chopped chunks and deep red… Vicki!
His head spinning, Ray fell into his afters.
Twenty Six
Ray buzzed their tin rental to a stop beneath the hotel's car port. He shook his head in disgust as it idled like a gerbil on a wheel. God, he missed his muscle car. And, God, he missed his bike. Brandy hid her amusement behind a mock look of fear. “I don't think this car has ever gone that fast,” she said. “And you're still not happy.”
“I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“You didn't embarrass me. The berries up your nose were fun.”
Ray didn't laugh. She couldn't cheer him and was too tired to convince him. She climbed out. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I just needed some air.” Ray patted what passed for a dashboard. “I'll put the skateboard on a shelf and be up in a few minutes.”
He drove off leaving Brandy at the curb. She thought of Ray; something she'd done a lot lately, then admitted she was too tired for that as well. She needed a drink and she needed her bed.
Because people don't watch the sky without a specific reason, Brandy wearily entered the Le Alexandre without looking up. Had she done, she would have seen Vicki's naked corpse; first, clinging to the ivory stucco between the second and third stories, then skittering, in fits and starts, up the side of the building like a spider.
The name Alexandre meant 'protector of men'. That sounded good, in theory, but Brandy was about to discover the hotel's name offered female guests no protection whatsoever.
She entered their fifth floor room (it was the tallest structure in Paradis), dropped her bag o' plenty and jacket inside the door and made a bee-line to the bar. Too exhausted to go around, but keen on the bottle's whereabouts, Brandy reached over. She dropped on a stool, poured a shot and lifted the glass. Then she saw Ray's pillow and blanket folded on the couch. As if the horror of Vicki's murder were not enough; why was the rest of her world falling apart? What were she and Ray to do? How had things come to this? What had happened since that first wonderful night? She was just starting post-graduate work on her Master's, when she met Ray Kramer and melted like butter.
It was late September. A local garage band, The Prince of Space, was vibrating the windows of the I-90, a biker bar (in the last days of biker bars) on the western outreaches of Madison. Dragged there by a friend, she had no experience with bikers. She'd been waiting forever to buy a drink and couldn't see the bar for the people (and the tall hunk blocking her view). She was enjoying his butt in jeans, and giggling at the ponytail under his Harley bandana, when he blinded her with his smile.
It was now or never. “Have you seen a bartender?”
He took in her wave of brunette hair, big hazel eyes, and the biggest purse he'd ever seen. His eyes said, 'Nice.' He said, “Not only have I seen one, I actually ordered. I'll be out of your way in a flash.”
“Could you order for me?”
His delicious smile widened. “My pleasure.”
“You're that easy to please, huh?” She smiled back - and meant it. “A gin-and-tonic. And a vodka and cranberry.”
“Thirsty?”
His tone hinted he was asking something else entirely. Normally, she'd mind. This time she didn't. “I'm with a lady friend.”
“In that case, please, tell me the gin's for you?”
“It is. Why?”
“My sister drinks vodka and cranberry.” He made a face and shivered. “There's something sick about trying to make liquor good for you.”
She laughed, pushed a twenty into his hand, and told him her name. He shouted back his own (twice; over the noise). She pointed a general direction and, moving to the beat, disappeared back into the sea of bodies.
Minutes later, performing a three-drink juggling act, Ray snaked through the crowd. He spotted the little brunette in a corner booth with her companion. Ray made the table, circled to set down the drinks and, seeing her friend's face, groaned, “Oh, God hates me!”
Vicki looked up, incredulously asked Brandy, “Is this the cute guy?”, then horse-laughed.
Brandy studied them. “Do you two know each other?”
“No!” they both said.
“Remember my vodka drinking sister?” He chucked a thumb at Vicki.
“You're telling strangers I drink? What'd you say, you little twerp?”
“Can you believe that?” Ray asked, as he scooted into the booth beside Brandy. She made room, but not much. “I'm nine inches taller, outweigh her by eighty pounds, still I'm a little twerp.”
Their first dates came out of a book (if there are steamy romances about bikers). They were lovers on their first night. Then Ray told her he loved her. Normally, she'd have run for the hills but – this was different. She told him she was happy they were together and made love with him again. The months raced by. They rode the countryside and open roads on his bike, they walked in the parks, went to concerts, movies. She'd even forced him into a museum. They ate in nice restaurants. They drank in dive bars. They spent a lot of time in bed. Then came a welcomed engagement ring.
But all good things… Brandy's post graduate work suffered and she was warned her Master's was in jeopardy. She wanted, intended to get, her degree and told Ray so. He said he wanted what she wanted. But, as their time was impacted, was not a good sport. And, as her studies progressed, seemed less accepting with each passing day. It created a rift and, concentrating on her thesis as she was, mending it wasn't Brandy's priority. She'd decided a trip to Europe would help with her work and hoped it would help with her life. She'd invited Vicki, her best friend, and though it wasn't part of her original plan, Ray wound up invited as well.
Now Ray's pillow and blanket waited on the couch. It occurred she ought to stash them because, really, avoiding a subject was one way to solve it, right? Or she could just tell Ray to sleep in bed. To heck with it. Brandy was sick of pretending things were okay. She left them there, drank the shot, and poured another.
The room was nice; nothing special. One of many, in the median price range, in the only hotel in Paradis. It had a balcony with a charming view of the village, a comfortable mattress on the (lonely) bed, a couch and chairs that held their weight and, most importantly, the wet bar conveniently stocked with a variety of wet. Brandy had paid more for less and stayed in worse. It was what they could afford. It - and a smaller room for Vicki across the hall.
Poor Vicki. How she'd complained when she first saw her room.
Brandy knew Vicki like she knew herself. Her future sister-in-law dreamt of where they'd stay and, in her dreams, she'd felt the silk sheets, inhaled the freshly arranged flowers, tasted the complimentary chocolates in the 'Louis XIII' apartment of the Château de la Treyne. She'd hoped for a room over the gardens – with a spectacular view of a winding river. Poor Vicki.
Brandy held her drink without drinking. Her study in deat
h had brought them halfway around the world – and killed Vicki. Tears welled and ran down both cheeks.
She heard Ray at the door. Quickly, she wiped away the tears and checked her face in the mirror behind the bar. It was as good as it would get; good enough, at least, to deny she'd been crying. Not that he'd ask. She stared at the door, waiting, but it didn't open. Then she heard the sound again and realized it hadn't come from the door.
The sound, a rap and scratch, had come from the sliding doors to the balcony across the room. Brandy set her drink down, went to the doors and stared out. Here and there throughout the tiny village yellow lights glowed softly but, for the most part, she saw what Father Trevelyan described – limitless darkness. She returned to the bar thinking seriously now of getting drunk.
There wasn't, of course, any ice. God, what do Europeans have against ice! She wasn't in the mood for the tone, the looks, she'd get if she asked for it. Oh, well, here's to gin with no rocks. She drank. She inhaled. She poured another shot – and spilled it when the tapping started again on the balcony glass.
The mirror behind the bar reflected the room. She saw the doors, the empty balcony, and the fear in her own face. There was nothing else. She felt foolish.
“Brandy?”
The voice was harsh, grating and muffled as if it came from outside. Then a new sound; fingernails skating on the glass. Still there was nothing to be seen in the mirror. Brandy turned, knocking the bottle over with a crash, to stare out the doors.
A movement, or suggestion of movement, in the corner of her eye startled her. But, staring, she saw nothing. Brandy, perhaps without reason, was frightened. A second look confirmed there was nothing there. Still her anxiety grew. She continued to examine the glass and, finally, saw something – in the upper right portion of the window. But what? She stared to give it a face; then realized that's exactly what she was seeing. A face, upside down, and hanging down from above the sliding glass doors. Her golden hair (Brandy was certain it was a girl) draped like a curtain as she peered in. Then she extended a thin arm and tapped the glass recreating the noise from a moment before. Brandy stood mesmerized as the girl climbed down onto the glass, like a fly on a television screen, maneuvered upright and jumped from the window onto the balcony.
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