Laura eyed him. “Been there. Done that.”
“Yeah, you know it.” He raised a fist for a bump with Milton, who recoiled after a look from his wife.
Laura tilted her head further forward. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Acton grabbed at his heart with both hands. “You wound me, woman. And here I thought everything was perfect.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “Ugh, newlyweds.”
Acton grinned. “We’re not that new.”
“Newer than us.”
“So, what you're saying is—”
“None of your damned business,” interrupted Milton, blushing slightly. “Why don’t you tell my lovely wife what fool’s errand you’re on this time?”
Acton laughed, draining his beer, Milton reaching into the cooler and introducing a fresh soldier to the battlefield.
Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “Fool’s errand?”
Acton flipped Milton the bird then turned to Sandra. “It’s a fool’s errand we can’t ignore any longer.”
“Any longer?”
“Well, this story starts a few years ago, at the Vatican.”
Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “When the Muslims stormed it?”
Acton nodded. “Exactly. What you don’t know is what happened after those events.”
8
Jerusalem, Kingdom of Jerusalem
September 20, 1187 AD
Raymond lay on his stomach, peering out over the rise at the holiest of cities below. It had been his home longer than any other, and the surge of faith he experienced every time he saw it after being away, never diminished. Yet today, though the fervor was still there, it was almost overwhelmed by the fear he felt for his beloved Jerusalem.
They had managed to outflank Saladin’s massive army, the numbers humbling, numbers he knew weighed heavily on his master and the others. He glanced at Sir Guy, lying beside him. “What should we do?”
Sir Guy drew a slow breath, pursing his lips. “I fear Jerusalem will fall.”
“Surely not!”
Sir Guy shook his head. “With over twenty-thousand lost at Hattin, there are barely enough soldiers to keep the peace, let alone defend against thirty-thousand battle-hardened heathens.”
“But surely God will not let it fall!”
“He has before, and I fear He shall again.”
Sir Guy glanced back at the wagon carrying the True Cross. They had traveled for weeks, sticking to the back trails to avoid the Muslim scourge, and Raymond only recently felt his former self after their exhausting experience in the tunnels under Damascus.
“We cannot let the True Cross fall into their hands yet again.”
Raymond stole a look at their precious cargo and nodded. “Then what shall we do?”
“Hide it.”
“Where?”
“There are caves to the south. We’ll hide it there then go help our brothers defend Jerusalem.”
“And should we die?”
Sir Guy frowned. “Then the cross will remain protected from these animals until such time as God sees fit to reveal it once again.”
Sir Guy crawled back from the ledge, Raymond and the others following, then they mounted their steeds. The pace was excruciatingly slow, what with the wagon and its delicate cargo, already reverently lashed together in one piece, a proper repair having to wait for more skilled hands.
It was nearly nightfall before they reached the caves to which Sir Guy had referred. As if he knew exactly where he was going, Raymond’s master led them into one of the openings along the rock face, a torch in hand, confidently navigating the passageways within.
Finally, after more minutes than Raymond cared to contemplate, and after more twists and turns than he could ever hope to remember, Sir Guy came to a halt. He pointed into a large alcove, several cloth-covered piles revealed by the flame.
“Place it there.”
The others, carrying the True Cross, complied. Sir Guy yanked a cloth from one of the already present bundles, revealing a cache of weapons and armor. He carefully covered the cross with it, then bowed his head, the others following suit. A prayer was offered, then a salute.
Sir Guy headed back the way they had come, Raymond completely lost once again, relieved when he finally caught sight of the dusk sky, the sun low on the horizon. Sir Guy pointed to two of the men. “Unhook the horses. We’ll be leaving the wagon here. Take only what is precious to you, as we must be swift.” He swung onto his horse as the others went to work. Raymond mounted his own, then leaned closer to his master.
“Sir, it is critical you survive, otherwise I fear none of us will find the True Cross inside.”
Sir Guy smiled at him. “You couldn’t keep track?”
Raymond lowered his eyes, a wave of shame sweeping over him. “No, I’m afraid I was lost within moments of entering.”
Sir Guy leaned in. “Good. That is the point. But not to worry, the senior members of the Order know the way in, and I will now share it with you.” He leaned in closer. “At each point in your path where there is a choice of which way to go, look up at the ceiling. Above each path will be numbers. They will appear random, but simply follow, in order, the year in which our Order was officially recognized by the Pope.”
Raymond’s eyes widened. “1129?”
“Yes. Follow the tunnels in sequence, labeled one, then one, then two, then nine, then repeat. You will be lead directly to the chambers. There you will find the True Cross, along with weapons, gold, and supplies, should anything go wrong.” He slapped Raymond on the back. “Just remember to reverse the numbers on your way out!”
Raymond smiled. “You knew this day might come.”
Sir Guy shook his head. “No, the Grand Masters did, long ago. This was set up years ago in case something went wrong. I doubt anyone thought it would be used to hide the True Cross.” Sir Guy glanced over at the others, their work done. “Good. Let us make all haste. The cover of darkness should shield us from Saladin’s men, but it will also hide our identities from our archers. Let us pray their aims are not true tonight.”
The return to Jerusalem took little time now that they were unencumbered by the wagon. Peering over the same hill they had earlier, they could see scouting parties from Saladin’s army, but the bulk of his forces appeared to have not yet arrived, or he had set up camp out of sight of the city. Whatever the reason, it meant they at least had a chance of reaching the gates of the city.
Raymond watched as four men on horseback galloped by below, another group following close behind. “They certainly are bold.”
Sir Guy grunted. “Indeed. But I think that is their purpose. To ride openly, arrogantly, to show the defenders of the city that they have no fear.” He rose, returning to the horses. “And why should they? They will win the day. All we can hope is that in the end, the slaughter will be merciful.”
Raymond mounted his horse and followed his master down the hillside and onto the plateau below. Sir Guy raised a fist, bringing everyone to a halt, watching the horsemen charge past once again.
“Now.” He urged his steed forward, Raymond following, and they were soon at a full gallop for the front gates. Raymond checked to his left to see the Muslims turn toward them, their approach not to go unnoticed. As they neared the gates, he could see the ramparts manned, torches lighting the entire wall, the gates well lit. Sir Guy slowed as they approached, holding his empty hands out to his sides.
“Do as I do,” he ordered, Raymond extending his arms as did the others. “Open the gates! I am Sir Guy of Ridefort of the Knights Templar. We come with news for the King!”
A voice called from above. “Sir Guy, is that you?”
Sir Guy tilted his head back, searching for the source of the voice. “Bertrand? Never would I have thought I’d be so happy to hear the voice of a lowly Hospitaller!”
Raymond grinned at the joviality in his master’s voice, and sighed with relief at the laughter from overhead.
“Open the gates!”
Within moments, the mighty gates opened as the hoof beats of their pursuers grew louder. Sir Guy urged his horse forward as a volley of arrows loosed overhead, their sound unmistakable as they sailed toward their enemy. The tips thudded as they reached their destination, several cries and the unfortunate screams of innocent horses signaling success. Raymond took one last glance over his shoulder as the gates closed, to see a single horseman left standing, his arms stretched wide, as if inviting death.
Raymond hoped the crazed man’s wish would be granted.
Bertrand greeted Sir Guy with a thumping hug. “We thought you had all died at Hattin. I’m relieved to see there were survivors of your order.” He glanced at Raymond and the others. “Please tell me there are more.”
Sir Guy shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m afraid the news is as bad as you have heard. My sergeant and I only survived because we had been scouting an alternate route. By the time we returned, the battle was lost.” He lowered his chin, closing his eyes. “We watched as our brothers were humiliated then beheaded.” He shook his head. “It was a sight I pray never to see again.”
Bertrand made the sign of the cross. “And what of it?”
“The True Cross?”
“Yes.”
“Seized by Saladin with a promise to burn it.”
“That unholy bastard!” Bertrand spat on the ground as Raymond turned away, covering his surprise at his master’s incomplete truth.
“Indeed. Let us pray it is merely a rumor and not the truth.” Sir Guy urged his horse forward. “I wish you and your brothers well, Sir Bertrand, and may God deliver us from the evil about to befall us all.”
Raymond wasn’t listening anymore, the reply lost among his own thoughts. Surely, those within these walls would be buoyed by the news the cross was safe and no longer in the hands of the evil responsible for its brief desecration. Surely, these terrified souls—for they were terrified, he could see it in the eyes of those still out at this ungodly hour—surely they would take solace in the knowledge.
Yet Sir Guy had denied them that, had lied as a knight, and to a knight, both of which were sacrilege. Raymond chewed on his cheek as they made their way toward the Temple Mount, the headquarters of the Templars in Jerusalem.
Did he lie?
In reality, he hadn’t. What he had said was the truth. Saladin had seized it. He had promised to burn it. Those were truths. And Sir Guy hadn’t said it was still lost.
He shook his head slightly as he stared at the back of his master, a clever, pious man. He represented the ideals of the Christian knight, of a Templar. He had seen far too many rise through the ranks to become obsessed with the wealth and power that being a Templar could yield.
That would never be his fate, and though his master had power, he didn’t covet it. He merely wielded it for the good of the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. In all the years Raymond had known his master, the man had never changed. He was still the kind, good-hearted soul that had taken him on as his squire, then sponsored him for entry into the Order.
Sir Guy dismounted, handing his horse to a valet. He made for the stairs, turning to the others. “Wait here. I must see the Grand Master at once.” He rushed out of sight as Raymond stretched, wondering if the Grand Master had been allowed to return to Jerusalem by Saladin, the only Templar spared what had befallen the others.
Kings don’t kill kings.
Shouts erupted, then cries, causing Raymond and the others to look about, wondering what was happening.
“They’re here!” shouted someone sprinting past. “The Muslims are here!”
Raymond mounted his horse and raced back to the gates, hopping off and climbing the ramparts, finding Bertrand staring in the distance.
“Where?” asked Raymond as he peered into the darkness, the torchlight making it difficult to see.
But before Bertrand could answer, Raymond gasped.
“Oh my God!”
9
Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Present Day
“What do you intend to tell them?”
Jacques Ridefort regarded his son, their relationship beyond strained, the outright hostility displayed almost every day heartbreaking. Even the discovery his father was dying of cancer hadn’t been enough to soften the tirades. If anything, Jacques now had the distinct impression that his son looked forward to the day his father died, and was even determined to hasten it should he be given the opportunity.
For once he was dead, any debate over the future of their charge would be put to rest. It had taken several years to get to this point, his reaching out to Professor James Acton proving futile until he had finally been forced to give him concrete evidence. He had hoped the man’s natural curiosity would have won out, but it hadn’t.
Acton was a stubborn man.
Or he thought you were some conspiracy nut.
Yet Acton was now coming, along with his equally qualified wife. And a duty to his family’s past had morphed during that time into one that could change its future. No longer was he concerned with having his ancestors’ remains properly identified and honored. Now he was concerned with the very future of an oath sworn 800 years earlier.
“Well?”
He frowned at his son. “I intend to tell them everything.”
“You’re insane. And what if they tell somebody? Every zealot on the planet will descend upon this place, demanding to see it. Every damned fanatic out there will try to destroy it. We’re only a few people. How can we possibly guard it against that many?”
“I don’t believe we’ll have to.”
His son’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I believe the oath has been fulfilled.”
Pierre’s jaw dropped. “You don’t mean—”
“Yes, yes I do.”
His son leaped to his feet. “You can’t do this! You don’t have any right! My entire life has been spent preparing for the day when I assume the honor, and now you would deny me it? You hate me, don’t you? You truly do hate your own son!” Pierre threw up his hands. “I wish mother were still here. Maybe she could talk some sense into you.”
Jacques frowned at the mention of his late wife, dead almost ten years now from a diving accident. “She would support me in this, as you should.”
“What, you think my own mother would hate me enough to throw away my entire life on your maniacal whims?”
“You seem to be operating under the false assumption that what this family has committed to for over eight centuries, was meant to bring honor to us. It wasn’t, and it isn’t. We swore to protect it, and return it, when the time was right.” He stared at his son. “And the time is now right.”
“How can it possibly be right? There hasn’t been three generations of peace.”
“I feel there has.”
Pierre pulled at his shoulder-length hair. “Are you insane? Muslims invaded the Vatican just a few years ago!”
His father shook his head. “No, rioters who happened to be Muslim, stormed the Vatican. It was hardly as if a nation invaded. Rome and the Vatican have known peace since the end of World War Two. That’s over seventy years. It is time.”
His son dismissed his conclusion with a wave of his hand. “No. Absolutely not. I’m going to talk to the others. Surely they can’t agree.”
Jacques smiled slightly. “I’ve already spoken to the family. Some agree, some don’t. But they all agree it is my decision to make.”
Pierre jabbed a finger at him. “I’m going to stop you from doing this. I swear to God, I’m going to stop you!” Pierre stormed from the room, leaving Jacques exhausted.
He was now constantly weak, the cancer overwhelming him. He had weeks to live at best, and even if he doubted whether his family’s oath had been fulfilled, he couldn’t risk letting his son take his place, not with his state of mind. He would corrupt everything they had stood for all these centuries, and Jacques feared he would use
it for personal gain.
The Rideforts had led quiet lives for centuries, and though wealthy, they did not flaunt it. The chateau had been handed down for generations, and the first-born son had led the family, every generation having had a son to carry on the tradition.
Though none had a son such as Pierre.
It was a sad, ignominious end to eight centuries of honorable duty, all forced to a perhaps hasty conclusion by one bad seed. He wondered if he had more time, even just a decade, would his son truly embrace the ideals of what it meant to be a Templar? Would it change how he now felt? Would he still feel that three generations of peace had truly passed?
Yet it didn’t matter.
His mind was made up, the decision made.
Whether young Pierre agreed, or not.
10
Jerusalem, Kingdom of Jerusalem
October 1187 AD
Twelve days.
Only twelve days.
Raymond still couldn’t fathom the swiftness of their defeat. Though defeat had been inevitable, he had imagined they would hold on for months, perhaps even long enough for help to arrive from Christendom.
But no help could arrive in just twelve days.
Yet despite the humiliating defeat, Sir Guy seemed pleased with the outcome. Casualties had been kept to a minimum, and in magnanimous gestures designed to make Christianity appear the lesser religion, Saladin and his generals were allowing tens of thousands to leave, unscathed, if they paid a ransom. The Templars, among the richest in the land, had been included in the reprieve this time, unlike at Hattin, where they were singled out and slaughtered mercilessly.
Raymond found himself in the caravan of Templars, their belongings on carts, including much of their riches, part of a mass of citizenry now leaving the holy city under the watchful eye of their conquerors. When they had arrived, Sir Guy had met with the acting Grand Master. He had sworn them all to secrecy, issuing a secret edict that they alone should protect the True Cross and return it to Jerusalem when it once again was in Christian hands, and, should that ultimately not come to pass, to Rome should they feel it would be safer there.
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 4