It had surprised Raymond, and he could tell it had his master as well. As the group of them, only six in number, discussed their new responsibility over the days that followed, they realized the honor bestowed upon them was great, and the responsibility even greater. To be the protectors of the True Cross was an incredible burden to place upon six men, who, due to the secrecy of their duty, couldn’t directly draw upon the help of others.
With the city encircled the very night of their arrival, they had been forced to wait out the siege, and with their numbers few, had been isolated from the battle, the Grand Master himself saying their lives couldn’t be risked. They had heeded that order for the first several days, but by the fourth, they had all snuck out at night to help those in need, their hearts unable to bear the suffering around them.
And now they were still six, with two carts, three horses each, and no servants, their secret too great to risk bringing in others, especially those who were not knights. Their plan was simple, laid out by Sir Guy earlier in the day. They would leave with the caravan, and once out of sight of the city and Saladin’s men, they would break from the others, retrieve the cross, then make for Christendom by sea and await news on Jerusalem.
As they slowly wound their way toward the city gates, Raymond’s heart ached at those left behind, pleading for the money to pay the ransom demanded by Saladin for their safe passage. The wealth his brotherhood carried in their wagons was enough to pay the ransom for all, but what many didn’t understand, was that it wasn’t theirs to give.
It was the collateral that backed the paper used for their banking system, a first in Christendom and the Holy Lands. If someone in France wanted to travel to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage, rather than risk his wealth, he merely gave his money to a Templar office in France, in exchange for a note, then turned it in when he arrived. Their treasure here backed those notes. Certainly there were excess funds, as they, among other things, charged fees for this service, but again, it wasn’t theirs to give.
“Please, M’lord, can you help us? At least my daughter. Please, if she stays, the Muslim heathens will certainly have their way with her!”
Raymond’s chest tightened as Sir Guy stared down at the desperate mother, her young daughter gripping her side. It was a pathetic, heart-wrenching sight, seen dozens of times already this morning. But it was the brilliant blue eyes, the striking blonde hair, that made this one different. She would command a high price on the slave markets.
And it wouldn’t be as a servant.
She would be sold into sexual slavery to some wealthy Muslim, her body ravaged for years to come until they tired of her and sold her to another. It sickened his stomach, and he reached for his purse when Sir Guy spoke.
“How many are you?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Myself and my daughter, and my husband and two sons.”
“So five?”
“Yes, M’lord.”
Sir Guy reached into his purse, extracting several coins, then leaned over, handing them to the woman. “Tell no one.”
She sealed her mouth, her eyes wide with gratitude as she nodded. Unable to resist, she reached up and squeezed his boot in its stirrup. “Bless you, M’lord.”
Sir Guy ignored her, urging his horse slightly faster, when someone cried out behind them. “The Templars are paying the ransom!”
Shouts erupted from either side of the caravan, the mass of desperate souls surging forward, their outstretched hands clasping at empty air as those relegated by their station to a life of perpetual slavery, begged for salvation. When coins failed to appear, the crowd turned quickly on those they thought had been their benefactors, attacking the carts.
“Swords!” cried the commander in charge, the scores of Templar Knights drawing their weapons and charging forward with their horses, pushing the crowds aside and protecting all that was left of the Order in Jerusalem. Blades were swung and jabbed, though most only in an effort to keep the masses at bay, few daring to tempt fate, yet some desperate enough to rather die by the sword of a Christian knight today, than at the hand of a slave master years from now.
Raymond’s mount was alongside Sir Guy’s, along with the other four in their tiny entourage, boots the chosen method of repelling those surrounding them. Shouts in Arabic were followed by a large group of Saladin’s men surging into the square, creating a barrier between the caravan and those relegated to the fringe of society, terrified to challenge their new Muslim masters lest their future be made far worse.
“Forward!” ordered the commander, and Raymond turned his mount toward the gates, the caravan once again moving, a large gap in the line formed by the riot allowing them to move faster in an effort to catch up. They soon reached the gates, and Raymond looked up to see the flag of Saladin’s armies flying from the ramparts, and his mouth filled with bile as they passed through.
One day, we shall return, and rid this land of the Muslim vermin.
They cleared the gates, and Raymond breathed a deep sigh of relief, the air tasting like freedom, the fact they had been allowed to leave in peace one he still marveled at, though whether they could trust Saladin to keep his word of safe passage back to Christendom, was questionable.
“We have a problem.”
Raymond glanced over at Sir Guy, then turned to see what he was looking at. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Saladin’s men were accompanying the caravan on either side, all well-provisioned, no evidence they had any intention of leaving their side anytime soon.
Which meant they wouldn’t be able to leave the caravan to retrieve the True Cross.
“What shall we do?”
Sir Guy frowned, shaking his head. “I fear there is little we can do. We will continue with the caravan as long as we are forced to, then when a chance presents itself, we will return and fulfill our duty.”
“And should there be no chance?”
Sir Guy stared at him. “Then we will make a chance.”
11
Milton Residence
St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“Yes, I remember the tomb with the four Templar Knights, of course,” said Sandra Milton, Acton and Laura having quickly recapped what had happened a few years ago. “But I never actually heard what happened afterward. Everyone was so absorbed with that thing from the Koran that was found with them, then, of course, the reconstruction and the trials.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Unbelievable that there is so much hate in the world.”
“Church.”
Milton’s eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend. “Church?”
Laura rolled her eyes. “He’s been binge watching Breaking Bad.”
“Ahh, that explains a few things. Just don’t shave your head, Heisenberg.”
Acton ran his fingers through his thick head of hair. “I have been tossing around the idea…”
Laura looked at him, aghast. “Don’t you dare!” She reached over and let her fingers flow through his locks. “This head of hair is one of the things that attracted me to you.”
Acton’s eyebrows bobbed up and down suggestively. “You mean when you had a crush on me for years, keeping National Geographic under your pillow, the page with my picture dog-eared so you could quickly find it in your hour of need?”
She pulled her hand away, frowning. “I’m beginning to wonder if I was a fool.”
“Wonder no longer.”
Acton flicked a bottle cap at Milton. “And here I thought you were my friend.” He turned to Sandra. “What you didn’t hear was that the Vatican stopped all work on the tomb, instead resealing it to protect what might still be inside. Remember, it was opened from the ceiling by accident during construction, so they had the elements to worry about, not just the crazies.”
“But I thought they took the bodies out?”
“They did. The remains were moved to Sapienza University, and remain there.”
“And they know who they are?”
“Yes, each sarcophagus had an engraved name
plate that identified them, but now there’s some question as to the identities.”
Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “What? The nameplates were what, fake?”
Acton shook his head. “We’re not sure. A few years ago, somebody I assumed was a quack sent me an email, telling me that he knew who the four knights were, and that two of them weren’t who we thought.”
“Which ones?”
“Hugues de Payens and Godfrey de Saint-Omer. They were two founding members of the Knights Templar, and their bodies had been missing for almost a millennia. Two of the sarcophagi were clearly labeled with their names, the dates of birth and death matching what we knew about them.”
“So what makes him think they’re wrong?”
Acton took a drink. “Well, he said he had proof, but never offered it up, so I ignored it. You have to realize that once you get a little bit of celebrity, the nutbars can come out of the woodwork. I trash most of the emails I get, otherwise I’d never get anything done.”
“So what changed your mind?”
Acton exchanged a glance with Laura, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine. “It was an email he sent a few months ago that finally had details I couldn’t ignore. Or rather, I could easily have verified.”
“What?”
Acton put his beer down. “He said the nameplates on the sarcophagi were fake. He said that Sir John of Ridefort and his sergeant, Raymond, were accurate, but the other two were fake. All four were supposed to be fake, the original nameplates covered over, and he claimed that the other two must have come off over time. He claimed that if the tomb had indeed been sealed, then the remains of those two nameplates must still be inside.”
Sandra leaned forward, her wine forgotten. “And? Were they?”
Acton’s head bobbed. “Yes.”
12
Alexandria, Ayyubid Sultanate
March 1188 AD
They had never been given the chance. Saladin’s forces were too great along the entire route to risk the six of them getting killed before retrieving the cross.
They were now in Alexandria, resigned to their fate of deportation from the Holy Land. Raymond was at once excited and disappointed. He hadn’t been in Europe for so long, he could barely remember what it was like. He doubted they would remain there, certainly not long enough for him to return home, though simply being surrounded by Christians, without the constant fear of betrayal from one of the untold Muslim minions, would be a welcome reprieve, however brief.
As he led his steed toward the boats awaiting the wealthy Templars, he noticed large piles of oars near the shore, guarded by soldiers loyal to the governor of Alexandria. Sir Guy noticed as well.
“I wonder what that’s about?”
Raymond stared at the boats in the harbor, his eyebrows rising. He pointed at the empty oarports visible in most. “It looks like they belong to them.”
Sir Guy shook his head and flagged down one of the guards. He rushed over, bowing to the knight.
“Yes, your honor?”
Sir Guy gestured toward the oars. “Explain this.”
“Sir, the Italian captains refused to pay the taxes they owed, so the governor ordered their oars seized until they do.”
Sir Guy chuckled, exchanging a smile with Raymond. “Clever. And I take it they have not?”
“Oh, they have sir, but now they continue to refuse the second condition.”
“Which is?”
“Free passage for the refugees, your honor.”
Sir Guy dismissed the soldier, who hurried back to his post.
Raymond stared at the throngs lined up to board the ships. “With so many Christians leaving, I wonder if there will be any desire to return.”
Sir Guy grunted. “We’ll be back. And in force. Of that, I can guarantee.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Sir Guy’s mouth curled into half a smile as he stared at his sergeant. “When have I ever been wrong?”
Raymond opened his mouth to spew out a list of relevant responses, then snapped it shut. “Never that I can recall.”
Sir Guy roared with laughter, slapping Raymond on the back. “Ahh, you’re a loyal servant and a good friend. I’m glad I rescued you all those years ago. I don’t know what my life would have been like without you.”
Raymond shrugged. “Definitely shorter.”
Sir Guy laughed again, the others joining in. “You’ve definitely saved my pathetic behind on more than one occasion.”
“And you mine, your honor.”
“Then perhaps we are even.” Sir Guy’s face clouded over as they approached their boat. He turned and took in the masses behind them, and those lining the docks, desperate for safe passage. “It is a wretched land, isn’t it?”
Raymond noted oars now being carried toward the water, agreement apparently reached with the captains. “Aye, it is. But there is no place I would rather be.”
Sir Guy smiled slightly, nodding. “For me as well. I only wish my son were here to share it.”
Raymond smiled at the thought of the boy neither had seen in over a decade. “He will be of age soon. Perhaps he will choose to join his father then.”
Sir Guy frowned. “Join a father one probably barely remembers, if at all?” He sighed. “I fear even I wouldn’t come.” He stared up the coastline, into a distance farther than any man could see. “It would, however, be fortuitous timing should he join us upon our return, for I fear we will need all the trustworthy help we can get if we are to succeed in our mission.”
13
Milton Residence
St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“I contacted the team examining the remains, and they confirmed they had found shattered shards that when reassembled, were nameplates of two knights. They had assumed they were left over from two other sarcophagi that were moved at some point in the past, though there was no evidence to support that.”
Sandra Milton was thoroughly engrossed, as was her husband, despite having heard the details before. “Then what happened?”
“Well, it took some time, but the Vatican gave them permission to reenter the tomb, and they found that the other two sarcophagi had fake nameplates as well. And when they removed them, the names underneath matched those provided by this mysterious person in the south of France.”
“Who were they?”
Acton shrugged. “We don’t know, and he refuses to tell us. He insists on telling us in person.”
“But what do the history books say?”
Acton shook his head. “Nothing. Sir John of Ridefort is a footnote in history, Raymond has no mention that we can find, and the other two appear to be relations of Ridefort, the dates suggesting perhaps a father and son. We’re assuming three generations of the same family, but why they are there, is anyone’s guess.”
Sandra shook her head in amazement. “I should have gone into archaeology. This all sounds so fascinating.”
Acton grinned. “It’s never too late to go back to school. But if you’re going to sleep with your professor, you’ll need to get Greg’s permission first.”
Sandra took her husband’s hand. “I don’t sleep with the help. I sleep with their boss.”
Milton gave a toothy grin. “It’s good to be the king.”
Acton leaned forward and clinked bottles with Milton. “Word.”
Laura threw her head back. “I wish I could torch that bloody Netflix account.”
Acton emptied his bottle. “That, my dear, is grounds for divorce in some jurisdictions.”
“Uh huh, don’t make me test that in Maryland.”
Acton took her hand and kissed it, then checked her watch. “Ugh, getting late. We better head home and pack, otherwise I’m going to want another, and a hangover at thirty-thousand feet doesn’t sound appealing.”
Sandra finished her wine. “What, no private jet this time?”
Acton rose, the rest following. “Oh, we’re getting a private jet, just not Laura’s this time
.”
“You mean ‘ours.’”
Acton smiled, giving a slight shrug, still not used to the fact that by marrying Laura, he was now incredibly wealthy. Her brother had sold his tech company for hundreds of millions before he died, and had left it all to her. “Sorry, still getting used to being one of the uber-rich. I don’t know if I ever will.”
Milton led them toward the front door. “Well, just don’t go all snob on us, otherwise I’m not sure if we’ll be able to continue being friends. Unless you buy me expensive gifts, then I’m perfectly willing to remain your friend.”
Acton laughed as he slipped his shoes on. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Hugs were exchanged, and Acton followed Laura to their car, yawning. She glanced at him.
“Don’t you start. If you yawn, then I’m going to start, then we’ll get nothing done tonight.”
He smiled. “Empathy, babe, empathy.”
She took the wheel, her one glass of wine far less than his three beers. They waved goodbye as they pulled out of the driveway, the Miltons closing the door. “Do you think we’re actually going to learn anything useful tomorrow?”
Acton shrugged. “No idea. But aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I’m curious, I just think we should be careful. We don’t know who this person is. For all we know, he could be one of those nutbars you’re always talking about.”
“I’m sure we’ll be perfectly safe.”
Laura brought their car to a halt at a stop sign, giving him a look. “Umm, how much did you have to drink? You do know who we are, right?”
“The happiest, most handsome and beautiful couple in the world? The ‘it’ couple of archaeology?”
“You have had too much.”
Acton winked. “Yes, you’re right, we should be careful, but I have to know why these four knights, unknown to history, were worthy enough to be buried, with full honors, under the very church that later condemned their Order, one just months before their brothers would have been arrested.”
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 5