Laura sighed, pulling away from the stop sign. “You’re right, of course. I just have a bad feeling about this for some reason. I couldn’t find anything on Google about him, which is really weird.”
“He’s a private citizen who shuns technology. No big deal. Hell, if you Googled me, you wouldn’t find me on social media.”
“No, I’d just find thousands of hits about your exploits across the globe.”
“Maybe I’m a bad example.”
“I’d say you’re the worst example.”
Laura waved a hand, dismissing the debate. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll meet this guy, deal with whatever happens, then meet up with Hugh in Spain. That’s what I’m actually looking forward to.”
Acton squeezed her leg. “Me too.”
“Bullshit.”
He grinned. “You know me so well.”
14
Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem
July 13, 1191 AD
Sir Guy rose, raising his glass for all to see, a smile on his face, this the happiest Raymond could recall ever seeing his master. For it was a joyous day, a day neither had ever hoped to see. It was the day an unexpected reunion had taken place.
“To my son, John! Heir to all that I have, which is nothing but my brothers, and that which the Order provides!”
“All hail, John!” cried the others as glasses were raised in salute, young John grinning at his father’s side, his cheeks flushed from excitement. News had reached them only days before of Sir Guy’s nephew’s arrival in the Holy Land, bearing an unspecified gift. He had reached them yesterday, on the very day the Christian forces had retaken the city of Acre, a banquet in his nephew’s honor already planned, all excited at the prospect of news from home.
But true joy had never before been expressed by all the souls Raymond had encountered in his years, as that when Sir Guy’s nephew presented his gift.
“This is John.”
Sir Guy had bowed at the young man standing slightly to the rear of his nephew.
“John of Ridefort.”
Raymond suspected he had figured it out before Sir Guy, goosebumps racing up his arms and back as his master’s jaw dropped slightly.
“John…of Ridefort. My…my son?”
His nephew beamed. “Your son.”
Sir Guy stepped forward slowly, examining the young man as his eyes gleamed, his head slowly bobbing, pleased at what he saw. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “My son!” he cried to the knights surrounding them, a roar of approval erupting from those gathered, led by Raymond with a fist pumping the air. Sir Guy embraced the boy, hugging him hard, and Raymond smiled as a tear streaked his master’s cheek before he pushed the young boy away, still gripping his shoulders. “You’ve got your mother’s eyes, lad.”
“And his father’s nose!” shouted someone from the side.
Sir Guy turned the boy’s head with a finger to his chin, and joined the laughter. “Aye, he does. Careful with that, boy, some Saracen is liable to slice it off in battle!”
More roars of laughter had followed, the reunion a happy one, Raymond impressed with the young man, and thrilled for his master. He couldn’t recall him being this happy, and he prayed the joy would fill his master’s heart for the rest of his days. Yet the evening hadn’t been all pleasant, word of Sir Guy’s wife’s death devastating to all who knew him, his master often talking fondly of the woman he hadn’t seen in over a decade. She had been a loyal spouse, had delivered him a son, and now his son was here, of his own volition, to join the Crusade against the unholy Muslims.
And not a moment too soon.
For tomorrow, they were to depart into dangerous territory, and retrieve what they hoped remained hidden, so many years before.
15
Pierre Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Present Day
Pierre Ridefort shoved the door aside, striding into the center of the great room of his home, rented two years ago after he could no longer bear to live under the same roof as his father. For what was the point? For generations, the Rideforts had lived in the chateau, and for good reason. They were indoctrinated into the Order from birth, taught the ways of the Templars, schooled in the art of war, strategy, and the technology of the day. He was as well-trained as any soldier, with the equivalent of several degrees in ancient studies and religion. He knew his history, he knew what the Templars represented, and from birth, he had been trained to protect his family’s birthright.
His birthright.
But now there was no point.
His father was going to return that which they had protected for eight centuries. Yet what had at first been anger, fury at his father’s decision, had turned into determination. He was convinced his father was wrong, and was doing this merely out of spite.
So he had taken a vow of his own.
To take that which was his, and continue his family’s duty. He had hoped his father would die before the actions planned tomorrow would be necessary, but it was too late. His father was still alive, and Professor Acton was arriving tomorrow, no doubt to take their charge and return it to the Vatican.
He looked around the room at the men he had brought into his confidence. Four he had grown up with and trusted with his own life. Until two years ago, they had no idea who he really was, or what his family represented. He had shared with them everything, including what it was the Rideforts had been protecting for so many years, and all had been stunned, and even more willing to help him once they knew the truth.
Yet they weren’t soldiers, and soldiers guarded the chateau. All modern Templars, the Ridefort family not a single line, but dozens strong at any given time, the lineage handed down by the males of the family concentrated in the area, all sworn to continue the family’s duty. It was a tight-knit group, though through the generations, some lines had split off, no longer interested in maintaining their vows, which was permitted so long as they kept the family secret.
And all had.
At this moment, he had two uncles, both part of the Order, with sons of their own. They and at least a dozen cousins of varying degrees of separation guarded the chateau at all times, and unlike the knights of old, not only were modern Templars adept with the sword and bow, as well as hand to hand combat, they were thoroughly versed in all forms of modern weaponry.
It would be a fight he and four friends couldn’t win.
Hence the other four men in the room.
Hired mercenaries.
Men he didn’t trust with the true purpose, yet men he required to get them in and out stealthily, with hopefully minimal casualties.
He sat, his friend Albert bringing him a beer. He took a long drag then sighed, holding up the glass to acknowledge the room.
“Has he changed his mind?”
Pierre shook his head at Albert. “No, he’s a stubborn old fool. He’s even more determined today, I think, than he ever has been.”
“Perhaps because he knows he’s about to die.”
Pierre shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And your uncles?”
Pierre batted away the suggestion. “They’re as stubborn as he is. They don’t even really agree with him, but they’re so bound by duty and honor, they refuse to go against him.” He cursed. “Ridiculous these Templars.”
“Templars?” The leader of the guns-for-hire, Johann Schmidt, leaned forward. “Did you say Templars?”
“Forget I said anything.”
Schmidt exchanged looks with his men, then returned his attention to Pierre. “Just what have you gotten us into?”
“Nothing more than I’ve already told you. Your job is to get us in and get us out, with minimal casualties. We’ll do the rest.”
Schmidt frowned. “And as I’ve said to you before, some of your family will die, unless they drop their weapons like cowards.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “You said they were Templars, something that sounds like bullshit to me. But let’s
assume they think they’re Templars, and they fight like Templars should, they will not drop their weapons and run. They will fight, and my men and I will kill them. Is that what you really want?”
Pierre’s chest tightened. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. This was his family. His friends. People he had grown up with his entire life. He loved every one of them—except for his father.
But none of that mattered.
All that mattered was the continuation of what the family had dedicated itself to for over 800 years, a continuation that would allow him to share in the glory that his father and grandfather, and countless generations before them, had enjoyed. “You’ve already been paid. What do you care?”
Schmidt shrugged. “I don’t care. We’ll go in, take care of business, and leave. Whether we kill nobody or everybody, I’ll sleep like a baby tomorrow night, because I didn’t know any of them. You’ll have to live with the consequences.”
Pierre frowned, his cheeks burning. “I don’t see that we have an alternative.”
Schmidt smiled. “That’s why you hired us.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, your father is almost dead, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And if he dies before he does whatever the hell it is you don’t want him to do, then you win, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then it seems to be we simply have to stop him from doing it.”
Pierre slammed his beer on the table, the golden liquid sloshing over the sides of the glass. “What the hell do you think we’re doing here? Tomorrow we stop him!”
“No, tomorrow you take what’s yours. If you simply stop him, then nature can take its course.”
Pierre grabbed at his forehead, massaging his temples. “You’re driving me nuts! What the hell are you talking about?”
“Forget the chateau, forget your father, forget your damned legacy or whatever it is. Just stop the meeting.”
Pierre froze, then slowly removed his hand from his head, sitting up straight. “Stop the meeting…”
“Exactly. Let’s just kill this professor, then the meeting will never happen, your father will have to make alternate arrangements, and he’ll die before he has a chance. Your family survives, you take over doing whatever the hell it is that they do, and nobody you care about has to die except some inconsequential teacher who stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.”
A smile spread slowly across Pierre’s face. He looked at his friends, all appearing to like the idea of not going into battle against Templar knights. He nodded at Schmidt. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
16
Outside Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem
July 1191 AD
Raymond awoke with a gasp then rolled to his side as the long curved blade plunged into his bedroll. “Alarm!” he cried, alerting the others as he leaped to his feet, sword in hand, swinging in a wide arc and nearly decapitating his would-be assassin. Young John struggled to his feet as Raymond put himself between their attackers and the boy.
“Father!”
Raymond glanced to his right and cried out, Sir Guy gripping his stomach, his breaths rapid as he tried to hold his innards inside, his stomach sliced open. Raymond roared with rage as he surged forward, the others now awake and joining the fight.
John rushed to his father’s side, pressing against the wound with his blanket, when Raymond heard the galloping hooves of more bandits approaching. He thrust forward, burying his blade deep into his master’s assailant as he shouted over his shoulder. “Run, John! Run!”
John stared at him for a moment.
“Run!”
John looked back at his father who reached up a bloody hand, clasping it around the young boy’s neck. “Go, my son. Someone must survive.” The hand dropped with a thud to Sir Guy’s chest.
“Father!” The anguish in the young man’s voice was apparent, and cut at Raymond’s heart like a dagger as he and the others continued to battle the half-dozen that had surprised them in their sleep. He glanced over at the body of one of their lookouts slumped by a nearby rock, an arrow embedded in his chest, another with his throat slit, apparently taken by surprise from behind.
“John, you must go! Now!”
John rose, giving Raymond one last, desperate look, then determination spread across his face as the reinforcements arrived. He retrieved his sword and rushed forward, joining those that remained.
Raymond glanced at him as they readied themselves. “You’re too much like your father.”
John grunted. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Raymond laughed as those on horseback leaped from their steeds, rushing forward. “Let us pray it is not the last!” The four men surged toward the enemy, swords raised high, outnumbered three to one
But they were knights, Templars, with God on their side, and the knowledge that should they lose, the True Cross would be lost forever. Failure tonight was not an option.
Raymond dropped his sword down hard, cleaving his target’s shoulder in two as blades clashed on either side. He kicked forward, freeing his sword from the man’s torso as he watched with envy the young bones of John make quick work of two of their attackers.
The enemy’s numbers quickly dwindled, leaving the final three to beat a hasty retreat, Raymond and the others giving pursuit. He turned to John. “Remain with your father! We’ll be back!”
John nodded, and Raymond dug his heels into the commandeered horse’s sides, not knowing at that moment the peril he had just left the young man to face alone.
17
Béziers Cap d'Agde Airport
Portiragnes, France
Present Day
“Professors, I am your driver, Simone Chartrand. Monsieur Ridefort extends his apologies that he could not meet you personally, but circumstances that prevented his coming, will be explained when we arrive at the chateau.”
Acton nodded at the driver as Laura climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes-Maybach S600. “No problem.” He followed his wife in and the door shut, their luggage loaded into the trunk with a slight jostling of the car. Moments later, they were underway, Acton sinking into the sumptuous leather of the overstuffed seats, trying to figure out which was more comfortable—the Maybach or the Learjet.
He took Laura’s hand, and they drove in silence, each looking out their respective windows, enjoying the view as the sun slowly set in the west, the lights of the towns twinkling on, Acton’s favorite time of day about to begin.
He sighed.
Laura squeezed his hand. “What?”
“I love this area.”
“We could move here.”
He frowned. “I love Maryland too. I don’t think I could ever leave my students.”
Laura smiled. “I did. Sort of.”
His head lolled to the side so he could gaze at her. “Yes, but you’d do anything to be closer to me.”
She gave him a look. “Un-huh. So you’re saying you wouldn’t have moved to London?”
“Nope, I’m a selfish sonofabitch.”
She gave him a playful slap. “Don’t worry, there was no way I was making you move there. Things just were never the same after the inquiries. Too many whispered questions. You don’t have the tabloid press like we do in the UK. It’s so ridiculous, it should be illegal.”
“They wouldn’t do it if it didn’t sell.”
“True, which is what is really depressing about it.” She sighed. “No, I have no regrets about moving in with you, and I’m blessed that I get to continue with the dig in Egypt, and guest lecture from time to time.” She stared out the window again. “But a summer home here might be nice.”
Acton smiled. “Hey, if you’re buyin’, I’m tryin’.”
She elbowed him. “We.”
“I know, I know.”
The car sped up slightly. Acton glanced at the rearview mirror, catching the driver checking a little too frequently. “Problem?�
��
“I think we’re being followed.” Acton spun in his seat to look out the rear window, the traffic light with no one doing anything suspicious behind them.
“Which one?”
“Two cars back. He’s been with us since the airport.”
“He could just be heading in the same direction.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve been told to expect trouble.”
Acton tensed, exchanging a nervous glance with Laura. “Trouble?”
“Monsieur Ridefort’s son is not pleased with your meeting tonight.”
Laura’s eyes narrowed. “And his own son would actually do something…violent?”
The chauffeur shrugged. “I don’t know. I know they haven’t been getting along for years now, yet tonight is the first I have heard of genuine trouble. My orders are to get you to the chateau at all costs.”
At all costs.
Acton frowned, this no longer sounding like a peaceful, curiosity-satisfying meeting anymore. “How much farther?”
The driver tapped the navigation console. “Fifteen minutes.” Acton peered through the rear window, the distance growing between the cars behind them now that their driver had accelerated.
The second car pulled out to pass.
Shit!
“Okay, I think you might be right.”
“I’ll get you to buckle up, please.”
Laura grabbed for her seatbelt, buckling in as Acton did the same. She grabbed his hand again as she checked the rear window. “I knew I had a bad feeling about this trip.”
Acton grinned. “Then why didn’t you say something?”
She shook her head, smacking him gently on the cheek. “You’re so bad sometimes.”
“That’s why you love me.” He leaned forward. “What’s our status?”
“The car is armored with bullet resistant glass. We’ve got run-flat tires and a full tank of gas. Unless they’ve got some heavy duty hardware, they’re not stopping us.”
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 6