* * *
How in the world could Lucan know such specifics? Chloe stared at him, wide-eyed. Although they dominated society, much of Templar life had been recorded. Never the secret meetings, never what occurred behind closed doors. But by nature of their organizational structure and the different heads of state that interacted with their leaders, the Templar leaders made it into history. Except for one, according to Lucan.
“That’s crazy. An unknown grand master, buried relics—Lucan, how do you know all that?”
He kept his stare firmly affixed on the road. “I have made it my life to know the Templar.”
His solemn tone of voice gave her goose bumps. An eeriness settled around her, much the same way it had the night before, when complete stillness pulled her from deep sleep.
All his knowledge quite frankly spooked her. But it did something else as well. It sparked her curiosity. Left her twisting between reality and speculation. And the more he said, the more she searched for holes in his theories.
Slanting a sideways glance his way, she did just that. “So why mark the grave? Why put a shield in it that says I am Templar, if the Order has just been persecuted by the Inquisition and they want to hide their relics? By nature of the beast, that’s counterproductive.”
He shifted in his seat, his discomfort pronounced in the deep crease between his eyebrows. “’Twas never their intent to disassociate. ’Twas more to protect the sacred knowledge they attained. As for Gervais—’twas a matter of honor to be buried as befitting his status.”
Chloe chewed on humility. Years of studying Egyptians who were entombed with all their worldly possessions in preparation for a greater afterlife should have led her to that answer. Every culture in the world that celebrated its leaders honored them with lavish funeral rites. Alexander the Great named a damn city after his horse to honor its death. Burial with sword, shield, armor, and gold should come as no surprise.
Lucan filled the quiet, justifying the conclusion she’d reached. “In an era where survival depended on sword and armor, a great many men were put to rest with their most valued possessions. For Gervais, ’twas the sword and shield, for he possessed no sons to pass them on to in memoriam. The same would apply to me, and the sword I carry, were this the twelfth century.”
“Yeah,” she concurred with a nod. “That makes sense I suppose.” At the mention of his sword, she glanced over her shoulder. It lay on the seat, silver scabbard shining in the sunlight. Until this moment she’d thought it some sort of reproduction. But as she studied the etchings in the scabbard and noted the same odd design of le Goix’s wall carving, another chill gripped her. The protruding hilt also defied all possibility that it had been crafted in the last ten years. Hell, within the last century even. Despite the newish leather wrapped around the hilt, a deep engraved pattern in the rounded head of the pommel had worn smooth. Only a few faint scratches marked the place where an insignia sat. Steel didn’t wear like that without a significant passage of time.
“Where did you get that sword again?” She looked at Lucan, gauging his honesty by his unchanging, flat expression. Not so much as a flinch darted over his handsome face. No help whatsoever.
“I inherited it.”
A vague picture of Caradoc standing near the excavation pit, a similar sword dangling around his waist, flitted across her mind. “Caradoc has one too. Why?”
His jaw stiffened. He squinted, ever so slightly, at the road in front of them. Subtle signs, but proof all the same, that he didn’t enjoy her line of questioning. Tough. She didn’t enjoy this queasy feeling that came with the suspicion her excursion to Ornes held more secrets of history than just the finding of Veronica’s Veil. “Lucan, that sword is too old and too perfect to be carried around casually. It should be in a museum. Why isn’t it?”
He cleared his throat, repositioned his hands on the steering wheel, and gave her a brief glance. “Caradoc’s history and ancestors have intertwined with mine through the centuries. We now work together, but we originate in a time when the swords were customary.”
So they shared similar family heritages. Interesting how fate could lead people back together through coincidence. That explained why they both possessed swords, but it didn’t say anything for why they carried them. And she wasn’t inclined to let him slide around that question. “But why not keep them at home? I mean, last night, you looked like you intended to fight with that thing.”
“Aye, I would have.”
She let out a short laugh. “It would take years to learn how to fight with any real expertise.” At his unchanging frown, she doubted her own convictions. Maybe not. Maybe Lucan’s powerful build afforded him an advantage. Those hard pecs didn’t come from sitting around on a couch, that’s for sure. She squinted at him. “Wouldn’t it?”
“It takes a great many years to master the broadsword, but ’tis not an impossible feat. Caradoc and I routinely practice. And you need not possess special licenses to carry a sword, like guns.”
Chloe couldn’t argue that sound logic. With strict airport security and differing European regulations that were too confusing to track from city to city, let alone country to country, even Julian left his prized pistol in his gun safe in Tucson. Still, something sounded off. Something she couldn’t put her finger on, but the goose bumps that refused to smooth away reflected it.
“’Twould be an honor to teach you, if you should like to learn.” He flashed a quick smile.
His unique accent rang a discordant chord in her head. Too harsh to be French, too resonating for stilted British. For anything else, it was too …
Archaic.
She shivered. Yes, archaic and formal. An accent that could pair all too neatly with the sword in the backseat. As if he had plucked it out of the very same chamber that had spawned the Veronica. Or maybe the formalities that accompanied the medallion around his neck.
Could he and Caradoc possibly be affiliated with a Masonic group that harbored the Templar secrets?
“How do you know so much about these relics, Lucan? What did you study that others haven’t, or can’t? Something in the bowels of the Church? Or does it have something to do with that hunk of silver around your neck?”
They rounded another bend, and houses replaced the dense surrounding greenery. No more than two hundred yards beyond, higher up the hillside, the sparse cottages conglomerated into a sprawling railway city, much like the size of the suburbs around Tucson. The first smile she’d witnessed in the last hour tugged at the corner of Lucan’s mouth as he gestured at the aging buildings. “Save for a few years of my youth, I have always worked for the Church. There are many secrets in her cloisters.” His smile broadened, lightening his eyes to the color of rain clouds. “Cease your questions, milady. You shall find answers soon enough.”
With a short inclination of his head, he directed her attention to the massive thirteenth-century Porte d’Ardon arch. Chloe leaned forward in her seat and studied the ramparts that blockaded Laon and the two fat turrets on each side of the stone monstrosity. Awe stole the breath from her lungs. Living history. Unlike the majestic pyramids encapsulated by sand and the artifacts she pulled from the earth, these stone blocks defied the passing of time. As they had hundreds of years ago, people still strolled beneath the shaded passage to enter the heart of the city. Homes rose within the sheltered bailey, though these were crafted from brick, not thatch and mud as they once had been.
Here, the mark of the ancients brought her closer to the past. Put her on level footing with the peasants, the knights, the gentry who had reigned within. Reminded her she was not so far removed from the people and cultures she now studied.
Struck speechless, she stared out the window, her discomfort with Lucan’s claims temporarily forgotten. Culture and charm radiated from the weathered edifices, a proud display of heritage the French revered. They made a sharp right, and Chloe’s eyes widened. The infamous Cathedral de Laon stood at the end of the cobbled street.
Six
tall towers reached skyward, each a perfect representation of Gothic architecture. High decorative arches beckoned visitors to enter. Perched on the gabled corners, ornately carved gargoyles monitored those who walked beneath. But what made Chloe’s breath catch was the rose window that trapped the early morning sun and showered the surrounding stone with soft lavender.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed.
“Aye. ’Tis beautiful. Though you would never know from looking at her, she is unfinished.”
“Unfinished?” Chloe craned her neck as they passed into the sweeping shadows that darkened the street.
“The towers do not all match.”
Sure enough, two stood out from the rest, lacking the top third of their siblings’ height, including the needle-thin spires that grazed the clouds. But without knowing the flaw, the pairing was so precise it appeared intentional. “Are we going inside?”
“Only if we have time. We have more important things to see today.”
A flicker of disappointment had Chloe sinking into her seat. Probably the most exciting site she’d seen in a good ten years, at least one that had absolutely nothing to do with her work and could only be considered pleasure, and true to her luck, she’d miss the tour. Fine. She’d make a point of coming back before she left France.
But as they rounded the next turn, and Lucan steered toward the curb, another stone edifice brought her upright in her seat once more. Although much smaller than the grandiose cathedral, a stately bell tower atop a rather plain square porch marked this building as a place of worship. Simpler style. Devoid of the lavish flying buttresses, but still possessing carved modillions beneath the roof’s edge. Older, she determined with a touch of curiosity.
Lucan shut the engine off, drawing her attention away from the weathered blocks with their tricolor hues.
“What are we doing?”
The console chimed as he opened his door. “’Tis our destination. The Chapel of the Knights Templar and its forgotten cemetery.”
Chloe blinked. She didn’t know which word she feared the most—cemetery, or the all-too-familiar Templar.
CHAPTER 26
Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the broad pavers that led around the side of the quaint chapel and to the gardens beyond, where snow tipped manicured evergreen shrubs and gathered, untouched, on the clipped lawn. Chloe hugged Lucan’s side, afraid to disturb the pristine blanket with a misstep, certain whoever had taken the trouble to shovel the walk would come rushing out with a string of French obscenities. The warmth of Lucan’s hand against hers soaked in to soothe her apprehensions. As his touch always did.
With an inward sigh, she accepted all she’d been fighting so hard to deny. She liked him. Really liked him. Professional competitor, secretive historian—none of it made a difference when they were alone like this. Away from all the things that reminded her why she shouldn’t give in to the way he lit her up from the inside out each time he turned those unsettling gray eyes her way.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he guided her around a fork in the path and beneath the sweeping branches of a massive old oak.
“We will enter at the rear.”
He stopped before a weathered wooden door reinforced with iron studs. She eyed the rusted hinges, certain if he tried to open the barrier it would either break loose and topple over, or remain firmly lodged shut. But Lucan didn’t pull on the handle. He lifted the circular knocker and dropped it three times.
To Chloe’s surprise, an answering knock sounded on the opposite side. Three times again. Each spaced in even intervals. She cocked an eyebrow as Lucan, and whoever stood on the other side, repeated the odd process.
Code? Church identification? Strange.
More strange was the six-foot-tall block of stone embedded in the buttress that swung inward. She glanced between the dark opening and the firmly shut door, then looked to Lucan for an explanation.
He tossed her a smug grin. “After you.”
“Oh, hell no. I can’t see in there. I’m not going to be the one to walk into cobwebs.” And no way in the world was she going into that black abyss first. Too many things more terrifying than spiders could lurk inside. She’d left her beloved Egypt because of the things that lurked in the dark.
His laugh bounced off the high walls behind him. “Aye. I shall lead. Though I assure you, you will find no cobwebs. ’Tis Master Reginald’s private entry.” Ducking under the low hanging bulkhead, Lucan entered the darkened passage.
A tug on her hand insisted she follow. As her toes crossed the threshold between light and dark, however, Chloe hesitated. With no light inside, not even a sliver of sun peeking through the massive stone blocks, her fears bolted to the surface.
“Chloe,” Lucan encouraged with another gentle tug on her arm. “I made you a promise, did I not? ’Tis naught to fear in here.”
“I’m coming,” she hurried to cover her ridiculous anxiety. “Waiting for my eyes to adjust.”
“And I am here.” His fingers tightened against hers.
Chloe sank her teeth into her lower lip and took a deep breath. It was just a passage, one that, according to him, was regularly used. Even with the curse, she’d managed to work in underground tombs, and frequently without a light. Still, the encounter the night before had taken its toll, and no amount of logic could stop the hammering of her heart. She gripped Lucan’s hand tightly and shuffled forward.
Lucan’s fingers slid up to her elbow. His body heat drew nearer. Though his fingers were light against her skin, and he touched nothing else, she felt his presence as keenly as if he had slid an arm around her waist. She knew instinctively his chest sheltered her left shoulder. Felt the slight caress of his breath against her hair.
Drawing on the silent strength he offered, she felt her fear diminish. The shadows cloaked all but a faint beam of sunlight that filtered through the entry behind them and illuminated a descending stairwell. She squinted into the blackness ahead.
“I must shut this. Stay still. I am right behind you.”
Chloe nodded.
The stone door rolled effortlessly closed, squelching the last bit of light. Lucan’s hand settled on her shoulder. Warm and moist, his breath whispered over her cheek. At the light press of his lips, Chloe shivered. She summoned a laugh to fight off the nonsensical urge to twist into his arms and drown her fears in the velvet heat of his mouth. How long had it been since she’d kissed him? Six hours at most? It felt like years.
She breathed in the rich spice of his skin, and in the complete darkness that surrounded them, became aware of the warm body behind her. Odd how lack of sight intensified the rest of her senses. She could see more of this man now than she’d ever witnessed in the light. Not just his amazing physique, but what lay beneath the surface. His sincerity. The honesty in his words.
He interrupted the magical spell by moving past her. “Come. I should like to introduce you to Master Reginald. He should be arriving from the nave soon.”
The nonsensical statement jarred her back to reality. Following his slow descent, she asked, “Arriving? Who opened the door?”
His low chuckle reverberated off the walls and scraped pleasantly over her skin. “’Tis operated from the nave. A lever in the wall behind a statue.”
“Why?”
“Because, my sweet, there are things in this chamber only a privileged few may witness.”
They came to an abrupt stop, and Chloe discovered the reason for the pitch black. Lucan put his shoulder against something that moved. A door, she realized, as it squeaked open and illuminated the stairwell with burnished orange light. He ushered her through the entry into a wide room adorned with ancient timber shelves and iron sconces in the walls. Torches, yes torches, brightened intricately carved stone and cast flickering shadows over a mosaic tile floor. A man sat at a plain wooden table against the far wall, bent over a leather-bound book, his long graying hair cloaking his face.
“Hello, Lucan,” he said without looking up.
> “Master Reginald.” Lucan strode forward, dragging Chloe reluctantly away from a marble statue of an angel. “I have brought a guest.”
“Aye, I was told to expect Miss Broussard.” He shut the book and stood, his smile warm and welcoming. He extended a hand. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Chloe.”
She blinked at his outstretched fingers. How could he possibly have known she’d be with Lucan? Lucan hadn’t phoned anyone since she’d awakened, and she hadn’t consented to come to Laon until midmorning. “B-but … How…?” She blinked again.
Both men chuckled. Reginald clasped her fingers in his, lifted her hand, and brushed a kiss against her knuckles. “’Tis often prudent to forget the how and merely accept what is. I hope your journey was kind to you.”
Journey? They’d driven almost two hours—hardly what she’d call a journey. She squinted at him, studying the deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and the heavy smile lines around his mouth. Keen eyes held no trace of feeblemindedness, despite his aging features. And though his stubbly beard grew in with a generous amount of gray, the strength in his grip betrayed power beneath his dark clerical robes.
He released her hand, soft blue eyes lifting to hers. “You have come for knowledge, have you not?”
Chloe looked to Lucan, uncertain.
“Aye,” he answered for her. “We would see the markers. And she would like to witness the relics.”
“The relics?” It was Reginald’s turn to show surprise. “I was not aware such permissions had been granted.”
“She digs in dust, my friend. Her permissions are as ours.”
Chloe shifted her weight while they talked about her as if she weren’t present. As she looked on, the two men’s gazes locked. Something passed between them, something silent and full of meaning she couldn’t comprehend. Struck once more by Lucan’s strange mannerisms and unique way of speech, the hair at the nape of her neck lifted. She rubbed her arms to ward off a sudden chill and gave Reginald a smile she hoped didn’t reflect the topsy-turvy nature of her belly. “If it’s too much trouble, really, I can do without.”
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