The Templar Legacy (55 page)

He knew that just a step ahead was a deep gouge in the floor, the bottom of which he hoped was lined with bronze stakes. In his rage to hurl forward, unconcerned with everything around him, de Roquefort possessed no idea of that danger. Which was precisely how his enemy would administer the Order. The sacrifices that thousands of brothers had made for seven hundred years would be wasted on arrogance.

When he’d read Simon’s testimony he’d finally been provided a historical affirmation of his own religious skepticism. He’d always been troubled by biblical contradictions and their weak explanations. Religion, he feared, was a tool used by men to manipulate other men. The human mind’s need to have answers, even to questions that possessed no answer, had allowed the unbelievable to become gospel. Somehow a comfort came in believing that death was not an end. There was more. Jesus supposedly proved that by physically resurrecting Himself, and offering that same salvation to all who believed.

But there was no life after death.

Not literally.

Instead, what others made of your life was how you lived on. In remembering what the man Jesus said and did, Simon Peter realized that his dead friend’s beliefs were actually resurrected within him. And preaching that message, doing what Jesus had done, became the measure of Simon’s salvation. None of us should judge anyone, only ourselves. Life is not infinite. A set time defines us all—then, just as the bones in the ossuary showed, to dust we return.

He could only hope that his life had meant something and that others would remember him by that meaning.

He sucked a breath.

And tossed the book at Malone, who caught it.

“Why did you do that?” de Roquefort asked.

Mark saw that Malone knew what he was about to do.

And suddenly so did his mother.

He spotted it in her eyes as they shimmered with tears. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, that he was wrong, that he shouldn’t have judged her. She seemed to read his thoughts and took a step forward, which Malone blocked with his arm.

“Get out of the way, Cotton,” she said.

Mark used that moment to inch forward, the ground still hard.

“Go,” de Roquefort said to him. “Get the book back.”

“Certainly.”

Another step.

Still hard.

But instead of walking toward Malone as de Roquefort ordered, he ducked to avoid the gun barrel at his head and whirled, ramming his elbow into de Roquefort’s ribs. The man’s muscular abdomen was hard and he knew he was no match for the older warrior. But he owned an advantage. Where de Roquefort was readying himself for a fight, he simply wrapped his arms around the other man’s chest and revolved them both forward, propelling his feet off the ground and sending them down to the floor that he knew would not hold.

He heard his mother scream no, then de Roquefort’s gun exploded.

He’d shoved the hand holding the weapon outward, but there was no telling where the bullet had gone. They crashed into the false floor, their combined weight enough to obliterate the covering. De Roquefort had surely expected to hit hard earth, ready to spring into action. But as they slammed into the hole, Mark released his grip from around de Roquefort’s body and freed his arms, which allowed the full force of the stakes to grind into his enemy’s spine.

A groan seeped from de Roquefort’s lips as he opened his mouth to speak. Only blood gurgled out.

“I told you the day you challenged the master that you’d regret what you did,” Mark whispered. “Your tenure is over.”

De Roquefort tried to speak, but the breath left him as blood spilled from his lips.

Then the body went limp.

“You okay?” Malone asked from above.

He raised up. His shifting weight caused de Roquefort to settle farther onto the stakes. Grit and gravel covered him. He leveraged himself out of the cavity, then swiped away the grime. “I just killed another man.”

“He would have killed you,” Stephanie said.

“Not a good reason, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Tears streamed down his mother’s face. “I thought you were gone again.”

“I was hoping to avoid those stakes, but I didn’t know if de Roquefort would cooperate.”

“You had to kill him,” Malone said. “He never would have stopped.”

“What about the gunshot?” Mark asked.

“Whizzed by close,” Malone said. He motioned with the book. “This what you’re after?”

Mark nodded. “And there’s more.”

“I asked before. Was it worth it?”

He pointed back down the passage. “Let’s go have a look and you tell me.”

ABBEY DES FONTAINES WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28 12:40 PM

MARK STARED OUT ACROSS THE CIRCULAR HALL. THE BROTHERSwere once again adorned in their formal dress, convened in conclave, about to select a master. De Roquefort was dead, laid in the Hall of Fathers last night. At the funeral the chaplain had challenged de Roquefort’s memory, and the vote had been unanimous that he be denied. As he’d listened to the chaplain’s speech, Mark had realized that what happened over the past few days was all necessary. Unfortunately, he’d killed two men, one with regret, the other without relish. He’d begged the Lord’s forgiveness for the first death, but felt only relief that de Roquefort was gone.

Now the chaplain was speaking again, to the conclave.

“I tell you brothers. Destiny has been at work, but not in the manner in which our most recent master contemplated. His was the wrong way. Our Great Devise is back because of the seneschal. He was the former master’s chosen successor. He was the one sent on the quest. He faced down his enemy, placed our well-being above his own, and fulfilled what masters have attempted for centuries.”

Mark saw hundreds of heads bobbing in agreement. Never had he moved men in such a way before. His had been a solitary existence in academia, his weekend forays with his father, then alone, the only adventure he’d ever known until the past few days.

The Great Devise had been quietly taken from the earth yesterday morning and returned to the abbey. He and Malone had personally removed the ossuary, along with its testimony. He’d shown the chaplain what they’d found and it was agreed that the new master would decide what to do next.

Now that decision was at hand.

This time Mark did not stand with the Order’s officers. He was merely a brother, so he’d taken his place among the somber mass of men. He’d not been selected as one for the conclave, so he watched with all the others as the twelve went about their task.

“There is no question what must be done,” one of the conclave members said. “The former seneschal should be our master. Let it be.”

Silence gripped the room.

Mark wanted to speak in protest. But Rule forbid it, and he’d broken enough for a lifetime.

“I agree,” another conclave member said.

The remaining ten all nodded.

“Then it shall be,” the nominator said. “He that was our seneschal shall now be our master.”

Applause erupted as more than four hundred brothers signaled their approval.

Chanting started.

Beauseant.

He was no longer Mark Nelle.

He was master.

All eyes focused on him. He emerged from the brothers and entered the circle formed by the conclave. He stared at men he admired. He’d joined the Order simply as a means to fulfill what his father had dreamed and to escape his mother. He’d stayed because he’d come to love both the Order and its master.

Words from John came to mind.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Through him all things were made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.

Simon Peter recognized and received Him, as had all who came after Simon, and their darkness became light. Perhaps thanks to Simon’s singular realization, they were all now children of God.

The shouts subsided.

He waited until the hall went silent.

“I had thought perhaps that it was time for me to leave this place,” he softly said. “The past few days have brought many difficult decisions. Because of the choices I made, I believed my life as a brother over. I killed one of our number and for that I am sorry. But I was given no choice. I killed the master, but for that I feel nothing.” His voice rose. “He challenged all that we believe. His greed and recklessness would have been our downfall. He was concerned with his needs, his wants, not ours. ” A strength surged through him as he again heard the words of his mentor. Remember all that I taught you. “As your leader, I’ll chart a new course. We’ll come from the shadows, but not for revenge or justice, but to claim a place in this world as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. That’s who we are. That’s what we shall be. There are great things for us to do. The poor and downtrodden need a champion. We can be their savior.”

Something Simon wrote came to mind. All of us bear God’s image, all are worthy to be loved, all can grow in the spirit of God. He was the first master in seven hundred years to be guided by those words.

And he intended to follow them.

“Now, good brothers, it’s time that we say goodbye to brother Geoffrey, whose sacrifice made this day possible.”

MALONE WAS IMPRESSED WITH THE ABBEY. HE, STEPHANIE, HENRIK, and Cassiopeia had been welcomed earlier and given a complete tour, the first non-Templars ever afforded that honor. Their guide, the chaplain, had showed them every recess and patiently explained its history. Then he’d left, saying that the conclave was about to begin. He’d returned a few minutes ago and escorted them into the chapel. They’d come to attend Geoffrey’s funeral, allowed there thanks to the integral role they’d played in finding the Great Devise.

They sat in the first row of pews, directly before the altar. The chapel itself was magnificent, a cathedral in its own right, a place that had harbored the Knights Templar for centuries. And Malone could feel their presence.

Stephanie sat beside him, Henrik and Cassiopeia beside her. He heard the breath leave her as the chanting stopped and Mark entered from behind the altar. While the other brothers wore russet cassocks with their heads sheathed, he was dressed in the white mantle of the master. Malone reached over and grasped her trembling hand. She threw him a smile and gripped hard.

Mark stepped to Geoffrey’s simple coffin.

“This brother gave his life for us. He kept his oath. For that he will have the honor of being buried in the Hall of Fathers. Before this, only masters were there. Now they will be joined by this hero.”

No one said a word.

“Also, the challenge made to our former master by brother de Roquefort is hereby rescinded. His place of honor is restored in the Chronicles. Let us now say goodbye to brother Geoffrey. Through him we have been reborn.”

The service lasted an hour and Malone and the others followed the brothers underground into the Hall of Fathers. There the coffin was placed in the locolus beside the former master’s.

Then they headed outside to their cars.

Malone noticed a calm in Mark and a thaw in his relationship with his mother.

“And what now for you, Malone?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Back to bookselling. And my son is coming to spend a month with me.”

“A son? How old?”

“Fourteen, going on thirty. He’s a handful.”

Cassiopeia grinned. “A lot like his father, then.”

“More like his mother.”

He’d been thinking about Gary a lot the past few days. Seeing Stephanie and Mark struggle with each other brought back some of his own failings as a father. But you’d never know it from Gary. Where Mark became resentful, Gary was brilliant in school, athletic, and had never once objected to Malone moving to Copenhagen. Instead, he’d encouraged him to go, realizing that his father needed to be happy, too. Malone felt a lot of guilt about that decision. But he looked forward to his time with his son. Last year had been their first summer in Europe. This year they planned on traveling to Sweden, Norway, and England. Gary loved to travel—another thing they had in common.

“Going to be a good time,” he said.

Malone, Stephanie, and Henrik would drive to Toulouse and catch a flight to Paris. From there, Stephanie would fly home to Atlanta. Malone and Henrik would travel back to Copenhagen. Cassiopeia was headed to the château in her Land Rover.

She was standing by her car when Malone walked over.

Mountains ringed them on all sides. In a couple of months winter would blanket everything with snow. Part of a cycle. As clear in nature as in life. Good, then bad, then good, then more bad, then more good. He remembered telling Stephanie when he retired that he was fed up with the nonsense. She’d smiled at his naïveté and said that so long as the earth was inhabited, there’d be no calm place. The game was the same everywhere. Only the players changed.

That was okay. The experience of the past week had taught him that he was a player and always would be. But if anyone asked, he’d tell them he was a bookseller.

“Take care of yourself, Malone,” she said. “I won’t be watching your back anymore.”

“I have a feeling you and I’ll see each other again.”

She threw him a smile. “You never know. It’s possible.”

He walked back to his car.

“What about Claridon?” Malone asked Mark.

“He begged forgiveness.”

“And you graciously granted it.”

Mark smiled. “He said de Roquefort was going to roast the skin off his feet and a couple of brothers confirmed that. He wants to join us.”

Malone chuckled. “Are you guys ready for that?”

“Our ranks were once filled with far worse men. We’ll survive. I look at him as my personal penance.”

Stephanie and Mark spoke a moment in a quiet tone. They’d already said their goodbyes in private. She appeared calm and relaxed. Apparently their salutation had been amenable. Malone was glad. Peace needed to be made there.