The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “We have some questions for you,” said an officer. “Don’t worry, we’ll take you to the hospital right away. But first, we need a few things answered.”

  She nodded as they were led out of the crime scene and through the gates. Then she grinned when she saw four convicts sitting in the grass. “Mario!” She eyed him. “Now, what did you do?”

  Giasson smiled. “I tried to save you.”

  She turned to the officer. “Sir, this is Inspector General Mario Giasson from the Vatican. I can assure you he’s one of the good guys.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean he was serious about that?”

  “Yes, he’s a friend of ours.”

  “Very well.” He flicked his hand toward the four prisoners, and their handcuffs were quickly removed. Giasson struggled to his feet, some limbs apparently asleep.

  “Where’s Jim?” he asked, concern written on his face.

  “Heading for the hospital. He was wounded last night.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her voice, giving him a lingering hug. “What are you doing here?”

  Giasson held her closer. “We’re here for the, umm, item.”

  Laura nodded, letting go. “Officer, if we could hurry this up, I’d really like to join my husband.”

  67

  Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Acton sat on the edge of the boat, peering over the side as people far healthier than him worked twenty feet below. It had been two days since the attack, and he was feeling dramatically better. His wound was healing, his new stitches were holding, and his infection was nearly gone. He was healthy enough that when he insisted on leaving the hospital, the frowning and tsking had been kept to a minimum. He had promised no heavy lifting, and to report to the hospital stateside as soon as he landed.

  But he had no intention of leaving France without recovering the True Cross from the bottom of the sea.

  While stuck in bed, Laura had managed to find where they had come ashore, and Giasson’s men had conducted dives, locating the crate. It had been left untouched though guarded until the proper equipment could be arranged, and the moment it had, Acton had insisted on coming along. So much blood had been shed, including his own, that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  History was about to be made.

  The motorized winch whined behind him, and he saw bubbles rising to the surface as four divers guided their precious cargo. The first corner of the crate broke the surface, and his heart hammered in anticipation, Laura squeezing his hand with excitement. The rest of the crate, still intact, cleared the water, and he sighed with relief.

  “Thank God!”

  Reading’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “It’s not draining.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means it was properly packaged. If it was just a crate with the cross thrown in, it would be filled with water, and it would be draining right now. That’s just surface water coming off it.”

  His biggest concern had been what damage the cross might be suffering after three days on the seafloor. He watched as the crate was swung onto the boat and lowered, the Vatican specialists rushing forward. Giasson held out his hand.

  “I think Professors Palmer and Acton should have the honors, don’t you?”

  Frowns of disappointment spread, though they acquiesced. Reading helped Acton over to the crate, and he lowered himself to his knees. Tools were handed to him but he waved them off, pointing to Laura. “Better let her. I’m liable to pop my innards again.”

  She smiled, her hands trembling with anticipation. She wedged the crowbar into the top of the crate and gently tapped it, then pushed down. The corner popped, and she quickly continued around the outer edges, Acton’s heart pounding as she made quick work of the top. She stood, nodding, and the specialists raised the lid off.

  Acton’s pulse pounded in his ears, a large plastic wrapped box inside. A box cutter was handed over, and Laura leaned in, slicing the plastic away, the others pulling at it, a case revealed that matched the size of the cross they had seen in the Treasure Room just three days ago. It was surrounded with latches, at least two on each side, and Laura popped the three closest her, the others eagerly following, the top lifted away.

  Acton rose to his feet to see the True Cross, finally in the hands of the common man after eight centuries.

  And cursed.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Laura gripped his arm, her jaw dropping as murmurs of surprise turned into outright anger. Inside the case, inside the case so many had died to protect, was nothing but a pile of bricks, neatly filling the cross-shaped indentations.

  Jacques Ridefort had lied to them the entire time.

  A phone rang, and the ship captain reached into his pocket. “Allô?” He stepped toward his disappointed passengers. “Umm, is there a Professor Acton here?”

  Acton held up his hand, still glaring at their betrayal. “Yeah, I’m Acton.”

  “It’s for you.”

  Acton didn’t react, still staring at the stones filling the crate.

  “Monsieur?”

  He tore his eyes away and looked at the Captain, then his phone. He took it. “Hello?”

  “Professor Acton, this is Bernard Ridefort. I have a message from my brother, Jacques.”

  Acton’s heart pounded. “Yes?”

  “He asks that you join him at the Vatican at eight PM tonight, at the front gates to St. Peter’s Square.”

  68

  In Front of Saint Peter’s Square, Outside Vatican City State

  Rome, Italy

  Jacques Ridefort sat in the back of the box van, his brother Bernard sitting across from him, Vincent at his side, the True Cross, freed of the packaging used to transport it across the Mediterranean in his boat, looking resplendent between them.

  Vincent checked his watch. “Sir, it is time.”

  Jacques closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer, the pain of losing his son now overwhelmed by the knowledge 800 years of duty and honor were about to come to an end, a pledge made eight centuries ago about to be fulfilled. Three generations of peace had reigned in Rome and the Vatican, and the time had come.

  The vehicle came to a halt, and Bernard opened the doors, stepping outside. He helped Jacques down and adjusted his tunic, the red cross emblazoned on a white background, the eternal symbol of the Knights Templar, proudly displayed in public by true Templars for the first time in seven centuries. His only regret was that he was too weak to wear his armor. Bernard and Vincent wore theirs, their tunics fluttering in the gentle breeze, Jacques peering out at the gathered crowds, curious as to what had shut down St. Peter’s Square, and the streets surrounding it.

  All had been arranged as requested, and tonight, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, would perform one last ritual before disbanding forever. Bernard and Vincent lifted the cross from inside the truck, lowering it to the ground. The crowd gasped as they realized what it was, rumors having swirled all day at what might be happening, someone leaking the news, though few had believed it.

  Unfortunately, the True Cross wasn’t returning home. That, Jacques feared, would never happen, peace in the Holy Lands perhaps never to come. But it was returning to the Church, where he had been assured it would be displayed publicly for the world to see, and to bring reverence to the man who had died upon it, staked by evil to a slab of wood thought lost forever.

  Bernard smiled at him. “Are you ready, Brother?”

  Jacques nodded, and Bernard and Vincent lifted the cross, Jacques positioning himself on one side, the beam crossing his shoulders. He had always dreamt that he would carry it alone should this day ever come, though that was not to be. He was too sick. Bernard supported the other side, and Vincent carried the foot so it didn’t scrape on the stone.

  He looked across the threshold into Vatican territory, Swiss Guards in their colorful uniforms forming two
rows from the edge of the tiny city-state, extending to the doors of the basilica, where Jacques could see the Pope himself standing.

  The murmurs from the crowds erupted into cheers and prayers as he took his first, painful step. He could feel Bernard reposition himself so he bore more of the weight for his dying brother, and he smiled at him. He didn’t blame him for killing his son. It was necessary should this part of his plan have failed. His son could never possess the cross, could never lead the Order, and only his death could have assured both would never come to pass.

  The pace was slow, excruciating. His heart hammered, his entire body shaking from the effort, but he forced himself forward. The roar of the crowd behind him gave him strength, and for the first time he felt what it must have been like when the Order was at its height, and the knights were adored by the pilgrims they protected. Pride surged through him, giving him renewed strength, and he pressed on, Bernard, pulling down on his side of the cross with his outer arm, relieving him of more of the weight, to the point he could barely feel it.

  Part of him wanted to be burdened with the weight of it, as his Lord Jesus Christ had been so long ago. He wanted to experience what He had, yet he knew that wasn’t to be, nor should it be. Nothing could match the burden He had carried that day, the weight of all Man’s sins.

  Today, Jacques carried eight centuries of sacrifice and secrecy, almost thirty generations of isolation and denial. The Templars had their revenge on their betrayers, yet had continued to pay the price to this day for those events. But finally, after all this time, trust had been restored, mankind and the Church had proven themselves worthy of the return of this precious relic, and the Knights Templar could finally rest in peace, with one last heroic display, proving to the world that they had never gone away, and that duty, and honor, were ideals that hadn’t died so long ago.

  A wave of weakness washed over him, and he dropped to a knee, the crowd gasping behind him.

  “Sir!”

  Jacques waved Vincent off, and forced himself to his feet, draping his arms over the cross once again, Bernard now holding almost all the weight without complaint. He stared ahead at the Pope and gathered dignitaries, smiling slightly as he spotted the two professors he had used to draw out his son. He regretted the danger he had put them in, yet it had been necessary. He had to mislead them to deceive his son, and while everyone was focused on the decoy crate, he had managed to sail across the Mediterranean to Italy unscathed. Judging by the smiles of excitement, mixed with looks of concern, he was confident this pair bore him no ill will.

  His legs were like lead know, his chest afire with each breath, his shoulders screaming in agony. He had nothing left, nothing more to give. He dropped to the ground, mere feet from his destination, and rolled onto his back. Vincent rushed to his side as Bernard pushed the cross upright, several priests hastening forward to support it, his brother soon at his side.

  “Jacques, are you okay?”

  Jacques gasped, unable to speak, the pain too great, the pain all he now clung to. And as the sun set in the west, its last rays shone against the gold of the True Cross, and he smiled, the last sight he would see on this earth, that of a promise fulfilled, a duty completed, an honor restored.

  Thank you, Lord, for giving me the strength.

  And with one last gasp, Grand Master Jacques Ridefort was no more.

  Tears streamed down Laura’s face as she watched the final moments of an honorable man, and despite her previous anger over what he had done, she couldn’t help feel anything but pity for the man, and pride in knowing such dedication still existed in the world today.

  She stared at the True Cross, glowing brilliantly in the setting sun, as if it were the only thing of importance in this massive tribute to Christ, built in the center of the former Roman Empire. She watched as the Pope rushed forward, dropping to a knee, Bernard and Jacques’ attendant standing respectfully to the side, as the final Grand Master of the Knights Templar was given his Last Rites.

  Laura took her husband’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder, looking up at him as tears unabashedly rolled down his cheeks. She closed her eyes, feeling his body tremble as he struggled with his own weakness, insisting on standing here with everyone for this moment that would go down as one of the greatest in modern history.

  The Pope rose, then shook the hands of the two remaining Templars. “I thank you on behalf of Christians everywhere, for having protected the True Cross from the evils of man for so long, and for fulfilling your promise made centuries ago. You have done your family, and your Order, proud.”

  Both men bowed, then removed their tunics, carefully folding them, then placing them beside the body of their fallen brother. Bernard faced the Pope, pain etched on his face. “Your Holiness, our Order is no more, but we ask only one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Your Holiness, we ask that our fallen brother, who sacrificed everything, be buried with his ancestors.”

  Laura gasped and James gripped her hand tightly, the thought having never occurred to her.

  The Pontiff bowed slightly, making the sign of the cross. “It shall be done.”

  69

  Fontainebleau, France

  November 29, 1314

  Henry poured the poison provided by his grandfather, Sir Raymond, into the glass of wine, giving it a swirl before darting back into the shadows, an attendant rushing into the room where King Phillip continued his recovery from a hunting accident a few weeks before.

  A hunting accident caused by Henry’s father, spooking the king’s horse with a well-placed stone fired by a slingshot to its hindquarters.

  His entourage had claimed a nasty blow to the head resulting from a fall, unwilling to suggest he had been thrown from his horse without evident cause, that simply too embarrassing for a King to have had happened.

  Henry and his father and grandfather, had prayed for the king’s death, though had to be content with serious injury, one that had him convalescing in bed at his boyhood home where there would be fewer guards than if at the palace. It was decided that his grandfather, Sir Raymond, was simply too old for a mission such as this, and though his father was spry enough, he too wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  But a boy?

  Henry hadn’t needed to be asked. He had immediately volunteered. He had watched as the Grand Master died at the stake, had stood dumbstruck as he saw grown men weep openly, then felt the burning rage in the pit of his stomach as the treachery of Pope Clement and King Philip were discussed.

  Money and power.

  And probably a bit of jealousy.

  Those were the reasons the Templars had been brought down.

  King Philip held sway over the Pope, and he owed a great deal of money to the Templars. He also had owed an enormous amount to Jewish lenders, but had expelled all Jews from France in 1306, seizing their assets to escape that debt.

  A year later, he had ordered the arrest of all Templars. He had seized their assets and properties, took over their bank, wiping his debt clean with the commission of the two atrocities.

  He wasn’t fit to be king, and wasn’t fit to wield so much influence over the papacy.

  Clement was dead, the Templar Curse credited for a fortuitous fire that had razed the church in which he was lying in state, a true act of God. Lightning had struck the building, burning much of it to the ground, leaving the diabolical Pope Clement a charred mass of bone and ash, just as he had left Grand Master de Molay only a month before.

  It was a fitting end, reinvigorating Henry’s faith in God, his father and grandfather both rejoicing at the news.

  And now, today, the Templars would have their revenge on the man truly responsible for their downfall. He watched as the attendant helped prop the King up in his bed, then give him the glass of wine Henry had poisoned only moments before. He sipped it, then finished it off with two large gulps, his penchant for drink legendary among his inner circle, lore among his subjects.

  Henry pressed against
the wall, behind a tapestry depicting a hunting scene, peering out with one eye. The attendant bowed and left the room, and moments later, the king gasped, his entire body spasming.

  Henry rushed from his hiding place and raced to the king’s bedside.

  “Help me, lad!”

  Henry leaned over the king so he could see his face. “I bring you a message.”

  “From who?”

  “From the last of the Knights Templar.”

  King Phillip’s eyes widened as he continued to writhe in agony. “Wh-what are you talking a-about?”

  “Grand Master de Molay said you would answer for your crimes, and my grandfather, Sir Raymond of Ridefort, swore he would see it through. You will die, today, knowing that the Knights Templar will continue to protect the True Cross from the evil that is your bloodline. And with the fulfillment of our sworn oath to make you answerable to God, my father and grandfather are confident He will deliver you to eternal damnation for the evils you have wrought upon the land.”

  The king reached for Henry, but the boy jumped back. “C-come here.”

  Henry shook his head, and the king lunged for him, falling from the bed and tipping over a nightstand. A tray clattered to the stone floor, prompting the attendant’s return.

  “What are you doing in here, boy?” She gasped. “My lord!”

  Henry rushed out of the room as the attendant called for help, but he knew it was too late.

  And he knew he had just committed his first act as a member of the greatest order of knights to have ever walked God’s earth, knights who now had their revenge.

  The Knights Templar.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  This book was a challenge to write, and oddly enough, was inspired by a mistake. The Templar’s Relic is my best selling novel, having made the USA Today list three times, and for some time, I had wanted to do another book featuring the Templars. Many ideas were tossed around, then I remembered a review where a reader asked who the four knights buried under the Vatican were.