The Last Templar Read online

  The longboat plunged on for what seemed like hours before the height of the waves lessened and, at last, they saw the land that the lookout had spied. Soon, they were dragging the longboat through the surf and onto the safety of a sandy beach. The storm still howled and the cold rain still stung them, but at least they had land beneath their feet.

  AFTER HACKING OUT THE bottom of the longboat with their swords, they pushed it back into the sea, which was still rough despite the passing of the eye of the storm. Anyone wandering the shoreline should not be made aware of their presence. Hugh told them that they were already on a northerly heading when the storm had struck, and he believed that the Falcon Temple had been swept around the island of Cyprus and then pushed headlong northward. Acting upon the seaman’s knowledge and expertise, Aimard took the decision to avoid the exposed shore and march inland before heading west in search of a port.

  The low hills soon gave them some shelter from the wind and, more important, from the eyes of any inhabitants. Not that this appeared to be a danger; they had seen no one, heard nothing but the shrieking of the storm. Even wildlife was absent, cowed no doubt by the violent weather. During the long and exhausting march, Martin could see that Aimard’s condition was worsening. The blow to his rib cage was a heavy one, and the serious damage it caused was starting to take its toll. Seemingly impervious to the pain coursing through him, Aimard pressed on bravely, always clinging to the bulky pouch while clutching his painful side.

  When they first came upon a town, there was a momentary flare of fear that they might have to fight in their current state. Not only were they injured and weary, they also had few arms between them. That fear was tempered by the hope that they could find food there. Both their fear and their hope proved unfounded. The town was deserted, its houses empty. At its center stood the remains of a church. Its walls were intact, but its roof was a charred skeleton of burned timbers held aloft on high stone columns. It was hard to tell how long ago this desecration had taken place. Certainly more than a few weeks or even months; years maybe.

  Across from the church, a huge old willow drooped its leafy branches over a well.

  Cautiously, the survivors dropped to the ground and rested. Of all of them, Aimard of Villiers was in the worst condition. Martin was getting him some water from the well when he heard a sound, the gently melodic ringing of bells. The battered men rushed for cover and watched as a small herd of goats came through the narrow street. Soon, they were crowding around the well head, vainly scavenging for food, some dragging down the branches of the willow and gnawing at them. A goatherd appeared, a stooped and crippled old man, accompanied by a young boy.

  Glancing at Aimard, who gave a brief nod of acquiescence, Martin took command. Using hand signals, he sent their small band fanning outward to keep watch, while he and Hugh approached the old man, who promptly fell to his knees, imploring them not to kill him and to spare his grandson. Like some of their brothers, Martin and Aimard could speak some Arabic. Even so, it took a while to pacify the old man and assure him that his life was safe. It took even longer to explain that they wanted to buy a goat and not simply take it by force. Not that they had money or valuables of any kind, but they managed to gather between them a few oddments of clothing that, while not adding up to the value of the goat, did at least make a bargain of sorts. While the goatherd and his young helper hauled water from the well for their animals, the knights slaughtered the goat and, with a flint, lit a fire and roasted the carcass. They invited the goatherd and the boy to share in the meal.

  That act of kindness probably saved their lives.

  The old man, from whom they learned the name of the town, Fonsalis, was grateful to be alive. Late in the afternoon, he resumed his wanderings with his herd and helper. Well-fed and strengthened, the knights and crewmen rested once more, comfortable in the knowledge that they could resume their journey in the morning.

  But their rest was short-lived.

  The knight standing watch heard the sound first and alerted Martin. Someone was running, coming their way. It was the goatherd’s grandson. Out of breath and visibly scared, he informed them that a band of Mamelukes was heading their way. The old man had seen them before, had been robbed by them, and knew that they would be coming here for water.

  They had no choice but to fight them.

  With Aimard’s support, Martin quickly formulated a plan for an ambush. Spaced well apart, the men would form a loose V formation, the open arms facing toward the approaching enemy, the point at the well.

  They salvaged pieces of wrought iron from the ruined church to supplement their meager supply of weapons and unwound the rope from the wellhead. Hugh and one of the seamen pulled it to their positions at the open end of the V. They kicked dirt over the rope where it lay across the path of the approaching horsemen, and the men all took their places. Once he was certain they hadn’t missed anything that could betray their plan, Martin slipped behind the well, crouched low, and waited.

  They didn’t have long to wait. They heard the Mamelukes long before they saw them, their laughter loud in the still air. Clearly, their acts in this region had given them an undoubted sense of invulnerability. The Mamelukes were rightly feared. Some fifty years ago, many thousands of young men from these parts had been sold into the servitude of the Sultan of Egypt. The ruler, never imagining what would be the result of his action, formed these young men into his National Guard and called them Mamelukes, the Arabic word for “owned.” A few years later, the Mamelukes instigated a revolution and were soon in control of Egypt. They became even more feared than the men who had originally sold them into captivity.

  Decked in leather and iron body armor and breeches, each horseman carried a scabbarded long sword and a dagger in his belt. Across the pommels of each of their horses rested a large circular metal shield, and pennants that hung colorfully from their spears fluttered in the dusty air around them.

  Martin counted them. The boy’s estimate was accurate. There were twenty-one warriors. He knew that either all of them had to die, or their own fate would be sealed. Should one of them escape, many more would return.

  When the last of the Mamelukes had passed the position taken by Hugh and his companion, Martin heard the leader of the band reach the well and dismount. Launching himself upward, Martin bolted out from behind the well as if discharged from a cannon and quickly cut down two men with savage sweeps of his broadsword. More men were in the process of dismounting when the rest of the survivors rushed out of their hiding places, screaming war cries and hacking away at the surprised horsemen with whatever weapons they held. The surprise was complete, its effect devastating.

  The men that remained on horseback wheeled their mounts around and kicked them into a gallop, back the way that they had come. As they drew level with Hugh, the shipmaster heaved on the rope, drawing it tight. The horsemen never saw it. The first horses fell, the others colliding into them, sending the riders hurtling helplessly through the air. The knights were already racing toward the men, and before long no Mameluke remained alive at either end of the small battlefield.

  But it was a small victory. In the dust of the entanglement, two seamen and two knights were dead. Five men, including the injured Aimard, remained.

  But they now had horses and weapons.

  That night, after burying their dead, the survivors slept by the walls of the ruined church, taking turns at watch. Martin, though, couldn’t sleep. His mind was still in turmoil, and he had gone into a state of extreme awareness of sounds and movements.

  He heard a rustle coming from inside the church, where Aimard had been laid to rest. He knew that the older man was in great pain and he had heard him repeatedly cough up blood. He got up and walked in through the church’s charred portal. Aimard wasn’t where he’d left him. Martin scanned the darkness and spotted the old knight sitting up, the flames from a small fire dipping and flickering as wisps of wind curled in through the damaged roof. Approaching him, he saw that Aimard wa
s busy writing something. It was a letter. By his side was a strange geared device, which Martin had never seen before.

  Aimard raised his head, and his eyes glinted at Martin in the firelight. “I need your help with this,” he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.

  Martin approached hesitantly, feeling his muscles tighten. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “It seems my strength has deserted me.” Aimard coughed. “Come.” He pulled himself off the floor and, lifting the leather pouch with great pain, led Martin deeper into the church to an area where the ground was made up of paving stones, some of them marked with names and dates. Martin realized they were grave markers.

  “This one,” Aimard said as he stopped over a stone that bore the word Romiti.

  Martin stared at him quizzically, not sure of what was expected of him. Aimard managed a smile. “I need you to open it up.”

  Without any more explanation, Martin retrieved his sword and used it to prize up the flagstone.

  “Keep it open for me,” Aimard asked as he got down on his knees and slipped the leather pouch into the dark opening. Once he was done, he nodded to the younger knight. “That will do.” Martin carefully lowered the slab. Aimard examined it, making sure their intrusion wasn’t noticeable, then got up and shuffled back to his small encampment and lowered himself painfully to the ground.

  Martin looked into the darkness, his head a whirlwind of confused thoughts. When Aimard of Villiers had first encouraged him to join the Order, he had felt honored and excited. For the first three years, that honor was shown to be justified—the Knights Templar were indeed a noble group of extremely brave men, dedicated to God, to mankind, to the Church. But now that the Holy Land was lost, what was to become of them? He no longer had a clear vision of their objectives.

  Other things that bothered him were now resurfacing. Over the years, he had become aware of unspoken apprehensions within the Order. He knew, from snatches of conversations accidentally overheard, that there was friction between the Order and the Church. Where he thought there should be close bonds and trust, he sensed dissent and suspicion. So much so that the Church had not cooperated with recent requests for additional men. By the Church’s refusal to help, the fate of the garrison at Acre had been sealed. Had the Church deliberately placed the Temple in jeopardy?

  He shook the thought away. Surely not.

  Then there were the secret meetings William of Beaujeu had held with just a few senior members of the Order. Meetings from which they returned grim-faced and taciturn. Senior members like Aimard of Villiers, whose openness and honesty were among the qualities that so endeared him to Martin. There was the ornate chest, the cryptic words between Aimard and the grand master just before they boarded the Falcon Temple. And now this.

  Was he not to be trusted?

  “Martin.”

  Startled, he turned to face Aimard, whose face was contorted with pain, his tone lowered to a guttural grumble.

  “I know what you must be thinking. But believe me, when I tell you…There are things you must know, things you need to know, if our Order is to survive. William entrusted me with the knowledge and the task, but…” He broke off, coughing, then wiped his mouth before resuming, slowly. “My journey ends here, we both know that.” He raised a hand to fend off Martin’s protests. “I must entrust this knowledge to you. You need to complete the task that I have barely begun.”

  Martin felt a rush of guilt at his own unjust thoughts.

  “Sit with me,” Aimard said. And after a few moments during which the older man caught his breath, he began.

  “For many years, a secret has been known only to a small number of our Order. In the beginning, it was known to just nine men. Never have more than that number been privy to this knowledge. It lies at the core of our Order, and it is the source of the fear and envy of the Church.”

  Aimard talked through the night. At first Martin was disbelieving, then he felt a growing sense of shock, of outrage even, but given that it was Aimard telling it to him, he knew in his heart that this tale could not be fantasy. It could only be the truth.

  As Aimard pressed on, his voice frail and quivering, a realization dawned on Martin. His anger turned to awe, and then to an almost overwhelming sense of nobility of purpose. Aimard was like a father to him, and the older knight’s earnest dedication held a lot of weight in Martin’s eyes. Gradually but surely, it was seeping into him, embedding itself into his soul with Aimard’s every word.

  They were still talking when the sun rose. When Aimard finished, Martin was silent for a while. Then he asked, “What is it you want of me?”

  “I’ve written a letter,” Aimard told him. “A letter which must be taken to the grand master of the Paris Temple. No one else must see it.” He handed the letter to Martin, who couldn’t read it. Aimard nodded at the geared device by his side. “It’s in code…in case it should fall into unfriendly hands.”

  Aimard paused to glance out toward the others. “We are in enemy territory, and there are only four of you left,” he said. “Stay together only for as long as you must, then divide into two pairs. Take different routes to Paris. I’ve made a copy of the letter. One for each pair of you. Impress upon the others the importance of your mission, but do not, I beg of you, reveal the truth that I have told you here unless you are convinced your own death is imminent.”

  Martin studied his old friend carefully, then asked, “What if we should all die along the way? What happens to our Order?”

  “There are others,” Aimard told him. “Some in Paris, some elsewhere. The truth will never be lost.” He paused, catching his breath. “Some of what is in the letters is known only to me, although I think Hugh must have guessed. But he won’t ask questions. He may not be a brother, but he’s a man of unshakable loyalty. You can place your trust in him, just as I place my trust in you.”

  Reaching into a pocket inside his jerkin, Aimard brought out two packages, each wrapped in oiled skin. “Take them now. And hand one to the other pair.”

  “To Hugh?”

  Aimard shook his head. “No. He’s not a member of our Order, and there may come a point when the grand master of the Paris Temple will only listen to a true brother. In fact, I think Hugh should be the one to travel with you.”

  Martin nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “What about you?”

  Aimard coughed and wiped a hand across his beard, and Martin saw more blood in his spittle. “So far, we’ve been fortunate, but more dangers will come your way, without a doubt,” Aimard said. “Your journey can’t be slowed for the sick and wounded. Not later, and certainly not now. As I said, this is my journey’s end.”

  “We can’t leave you here,” Martin protested.

  Cringing with pain, Aimard touched his fingers to his ribs. “After the accident on the ship,” he said, “I’m lucky to have reached this far. Take the letters and go. Somehow, you must reach Paris. A lot rests on your shoulders.”

  Martin of Carmaux nodded, then, reaching out, he clasped his friend and mentor in his arms. He then rose and walked away to where the others and their mounts waited.

  He spoke briefly with them and they all turned to look at Aimard of Villiers, who held their eyes for just a moment before rising laboriously to his feet and walking unsteadily to the well. The geared device was in his hands. Martin watched in rapt silence as his old friend smashed it against the stone wall and, piece by piece, dropped its broken fragments into the well.

  “May God be with you,” Martin said softly. “And with us all.”

  Taking the bridle of one of the horses, he swung up into the foreign saddle. Soon, the line of four horsemen was filing through the ruins of the village, their spare mounts trailing behind, before they began to head northwest, uncertain of their fate, unaware of whatever dangers might lie before them on their long journey to France.

  Chapter 48

  Tess’s mind was still roaming the Mameluke hinterland when Jansson’s voice interrupted her medieval soj
ourn and yanked her right back down to earth.

  “We have to assume Vance has translated this too by now,” he stated gruffly.

  Reilly nodded without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

  She remembered where she was and, still clutching the printout, she studied the faces around her. They didn’t seem as caught up in the sublimity of the moment as she was. It was different for her. This extraordinary and private insight into the lives, actions, thoughts, and deaths of these legendary men touched her deeply. On another level, it was also confirmation of everything her instincts had been harping at since the night of the raid. Her whole body was tingling with anticipation. This could be her Troy, her Tutankhamen. She wondered whether any of those sitting there were at all galvanized by what the printout in their hands hinted at, or whether they were simply interested in the letter because of how it might help them solve a particularly vexing case.

  Jansson’s expression left no doubt as to which one it was. “Okay, so we still don’t know what we’re talking about here,” he went on, “apart from the fact that whatever it is, it’s small enough to be carried around in a shoulder pouch—but at least we know where he’s going. Fonsalis.” Jansson flashed Kendricks a questioning look.

  “Sorry,” Kendricks answered somberly. “Can’t help you there. I’ve got a bunch of guys working on it, but so far they’re hitting a wall. We haven’t found any records of it anywhere.”

  Jansson frowned, clearly annoyed. “Nothing?”

  “No. Not yet anyway. We’re talking thirteenth-century Europe here. They didn’t exactly have MapQuest back then. Mapmaking was a very crude, primitive exercise, and, as it is, very few charts from the period have survived, to say nothing of written texts. We’re working our way through whatever writings we have from then onward, everything up to this day—letters, journals, that kind of thing. It’s gonna take time.”