The Last Templar

by Raymond Khoury

  “Sean—”

  “It’s not worth it,” he insisted, flashing her a look of hard resolve.

  Vance smiled thinly. “Put it on the wall and back up. Slowly.”

  Reilly set it down on the rough stones and took a few steps back. Vance inched forward, awkwardly maneuvering Tess closer to the wall.

  He stood over the codex for a few seconds, almost scared of touching it, before reaching out with trembling fingers and carefully lifting the cover open. He studied it in enraptured silence, turning over the sheets of parchment and mumbling “Veritas vos liberabit” to himself, a blissful calm now radiating from his weary features.

  “I really would have liked you to be a part of this, Tess,” he said softly to her. “You’ll see. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  And at that moment, Tess decided to make her move. She shoved his arm violently off her shoulder and darted away from him. Vance briefly lost his footing, and, as he reached out to balance himself, he lost his grip on the knife, which fell from his hand onto the low stone wall and clattered out of view, disappearing into the dry bushes behind it.

  He straightened up, flipping the codex shut and grabbing it with both hands and saw that Reilly had positioned himself between him and the pathway leading out of the castle ruins, effectively blocking him. Tess was at his side.

  “It’s over,” Reilly stated flatly.

  Vance’s eyes rocketed wide as if he’d been punched in the gut. He shot quick glances around him, hesitated briefly, then leaped over the low wall and bolted into the maze of ruins.

  Reilly was quick to react, clambering over the wall and rushing after him. Within seconds, they had both disappeared behind the ancient stones.

  “Come back!” Tess yelled out. “To hell with him, Sean! You’re not well yet. Don’t do this.”

  Although he heard her shouts, Reilly didn’t stop. Instead, struggling over the soft ground, he was already climbing steadfastly upward, breathing heavily, hot on Vance’s heels.

  Chapter 86

  Vance was moving fast, across a steep trail that cut into the side of the mountain. The scattered trees and the olive groves soon gave way to a harsher terrain of rocks and dried-out bushes. Glancing back, he saw Reilly coming after him and cursed inwardly. He scanned the surrounding area. The town was nowhere in sight, and even the castle ruins and the disused windmills had now disappeared from view. The hillside rose in a steep incline to his right, and, to his left, the rocky ground seemed to curve sharply down into the sea below. There was no other choice. It was either confront Reilly or keep moving. He chose the latter.

  Behind him, Reilly was breathing heavily as he tried to keep Vance within reach. His legs felt rubbery, the muscles in his thighs already burning despite the relatively short distance he had covered. He faltered on a small outcropping but managed to keep his balance and narrowly avoided injuring his ankle. Straightening himself up, he suddenly felt dizzy and took a few deep breaths, shutting his eyes and concentrating, trying to summon up any reserves of energy he could draw on. He glanced toward Vance and saw his receding silhouette clambering out of view. Rallying himself, he willed his legs forward and resumed his pursuit.

  Driving himself further along the slippery surface of the rocks, Vance finally reached the top of a crag only to realize that he was trapped. Before him was an almost vertical drop down to jagged rocks far below. A sliding sea was crashing against them in rhythmic bursts of white foam.

  Turning urgently, he saw Reilly, who was climbing into view.

  Reilly reached the rock face and clambered onto a large rock. He was now level with Vance, less than ten yards away from him. The two men stared at one another.

  Vance was taking big gulps of air, catching his breath. He scanned the surroundings angrily, left then right. Seeing that the ground was firmer to the right, he decided to head that way.

  Reilly shot after him.

  Vance raced along the stepped bluff but was barely twenty yards away when he stumbled in a small fissure, his foot caught between two rocks. He recovered his footing and pushed himself forward.

  Painfully aware that he had little strength left in his legs, Reilly saw his opportunity and threw himself forward in a dive, his fingers reaching for Vance’s ankles. He barely made contact, but it was enough. Vance lost his precarious balance again and fell. Scrambling forward on his hands and knees, Reilly lunged at Vance’s legs, but his arms were as weakened as his legs. Vance rolled over and scuttled backward, the codex still gripped tightly in his hands. He kicked at Reilly, his foot smashing into his face and sending him careening a couple of yards down the slope. Vance then pulled back and hauled himself to his feet.

  Reilly’s mind was a blur, and his head felt like it weighed a ton. He tried to shake the daze away and rose up, only to hear Tess’s voice echoing from behind.

  “Sean!” she was yelling to him. “Just let him go. You’re just going to get yourself killed.”

  Reilly saw her climbing up and looked at Vance, who was barely making progress and was still within reach. He turned back toward Tess, gesturing wildly. “Go back. Go back and get some help.”

  But Tess was already with him. She was also out of breath and held onto him. “Please. It isn’t safe up here. You said it yourself. It’s not worth either of our lives.”

  Reilly looked at her and smiled, and, at that very moment, he knew with utter certainty that he would spend the rest of his life with this woman. In that instant, he heard a panicked scream from Vance’s direction. He turned in time to see Vance slipping down the smooth, steep outcropping he was climbing across, his fingers clawing for a hold but finding none in the polished surface of the black rocks.

  Vance’s feet finally caught onto a small ledge just as Reilly started forward, hastening across the rock face. He got to the overhang and looked down. Vance was hugging the wall of stone with one shivering hand, the other still locked around the codex.

  “Take my hand,” he bellowed as he reached down, stretching his arm as far as it would go.

  Vance glanced up, a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He inched the arm with the codex upward, but they were still a few inches apart. “I can’t,” he stammered.

  Just then, the ledge under his feet crumbled away, removing the support from under his left leg. He reached out to hang on, and his fingers instinctively let go of their hold. The codex flew from his outstretched hand, opening as it bounced off an outcropping of rock. Pages of the diary spun into the air, floating in the salty air, spiraling downward toward the crashing water below.

  Reilly didn’t even have time to finish his “Don’t—”

  Vance’s voice erupted into a tortured “No!” as he grabbed hopelessly for the papers. Then he was falling fast, outstretched arms flailing at the fluttering pages that looked like they were goading him. He tumbled helplessly into the void before smashing onto the rocks below.

  Tess reached Reilly and hung onto him. They edged outward, peering down the vertiginous drop. Vance’s body lay there, bent at unnatural angles. Waves crashed around him, lifting him up and moving him around like a rag doll. And all around his crumpled body, pages of the ancient document were gliding down into the sea, its swell swallowing up the ink that was washing off the parchment as well as the blood seeping from Vance’s open wounds.

  Reilly held firmly onto Tess. He stared down wistfully as the last of the pages were sucked out to sea. I guess we’ll never know, he thought somberly, grinding his teeth at the thought.

  And then he spotted something.

  Letting go of Tess, he quickly backed up over the edge and climbed down the rock face.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled, leaning over to see where he was going, her voice sick with worry.

  Moments later, he reappeared over the lip of the rock. Tess reached down and helped him up, and saw that he was clutching something between his teeth.

  It was a piece of parchment.

  A lone page from the codex.

  Te
ss stared at it in disbelief as Reilly handed it to her. He watched her. “At least we have something to prove we didn’t just imagine it all,” he managed, still breathless with the effort of retrieving it.

  Tess studied the page in her hand for a long moment. Everything she’d lived through since that night at the Met, all the bloodshed and the fear and the turmoil inside her came rushing back at her. And in that moment, she knew. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what she would do with it. And without hesitation, she smiled at Reilly, crumpled up the sheet of parchment and sent it spinning over the bluff.

  She watched it fall into the sea, then turned to Reilly, and wrapped her arms around him.

  “I’ve got all I need,” she told him, before taking his hand and leading him away from the ledge.

  Epilogue

  PARIS—MARCH 1314

  The sumptuously decorated wooden grandstand stood close to the edge of a field on the Île de la Cité. Brightly colored pennants rippled in the light breeze, the thin sunshine reflected in the gaudy accoutrements of the king’s courtiers and henchmen who were already assembled there.

  At the back of an excited and chattering crowd of commoners, Martin of Carmaux stood, stooped and weary. He wore a shabby brown robe, the gift of a friar he had met a few weeks earlier.

  Although he was only a few years past forty, Martin had aged grievously. For almost two decades, he had labored in the Tuscan quarry under a brutal sun and the merciless lashes of the overseers. He had all but abandoned hope of escape when one of many rock slides, this one worse than most, killed a dozen of the men who slaved there, as well as some of the guards. By a stroke of luck, Martin and the man to whom he was shackled had been able to use the confusion and the swirling clouds of dust to make their escape.

  Undeterred by the long years spent in virtual slavery and completely cut off from any news from beyond that accursed valley, Martin had only one thing in mind. He headed straight for the waterfall and found the rock with the fissures that resembled the Templars’ splayed cross, recovered Aimard’s letter, and began the long journey through the mountains and into France.

  The journey had taken several months, but his long-delayed return to his homeland had only brought him crushing disappointment. He had learned of the disasters that had befallen the Knights Templar and as he drew ever closer to Paris, he knew that he was too late to do anything that would alter the Order’s fate.

  He had searched and asked, as discreetly as he could, but had found nothing. All of his brothers were gone, either dead or in hiding. The king’s flag flew over the great Paris Temple.

  He was alone.

  Presently, standing there and waiting among the gossiping crowd, Martin identified the gray-clad figure of Pope Clement, who was climbing the steps of the grandstand and taking his place amid the peacock-bright courtiers.

  As Martin watched, the pope’s attention turned toward the center of the field where two stakes had been surrounded by brushwood. Movement caught Martin’s eye as the emaciated and shattered bodies of two men he knew to be Jacques de Molay, the grand master of the Order, and Geoffroi de Charnay, the preceptor of Normandy, were being dragged onto the field.

  With neither of the condemned men possessing any lingering capacity for physical resistance, they were quickly bound to the stakes. A heavyset man stepped forward with a lighted brand, then looked to the king for instructions.

  A sudden stillness fell over the crowd, and Martin saw the king raise a hand in a careless gesture.

  The brush was lit.

  Smoke began to rise and soon flames licked through, twigs popping and crackling as the heat built up. Sickened and utterly helpless to intervene, Martin wanted to turn and walk away, but he felt the need to observe, to bear witness to this depraved act. Unwilling though he was, he pushed through to the front of the crowd. It was then, to his astonishment, that he saw the grand master raise his head and look directly at the king and the pope.

  Even from this distance, the sight unsettled Martin. De Molay’s eyes were blazing with a fire more fierce than the one that would soon consume him.

  Despite his frail and broken appearance, the grand master’s voice was strong and steady. “In the name of the Order of the Knights of the Temple,” he rasped, “I curse you, Philippe le Bel, and your buffoon pope, and I call on God Almighty to have you both join me before His seat within the year, to suffer His judgment, and burn forever in the furnaces of hell…”

  If de Molay said anything else, Martin didn’t hear it, as the fire roared upward, obliterating any screams of the dying men. Then the breeze turned, and smoke swept over the grandstand and the crowd, carrying with it the sickening stench of burning flesh. Coughing and spluttering, the king stumbled down the steps, the pope trailing behind him, his eyes streaming from the smoke. As they passed close to where Martin stood, the old Templar watched the pope. He felt the bile of anger rising and burning in his throat, and, at that moment, he realized that his task was still not over.

  Perhaps not in his lifetime. But one day, maybe, things would be different.

  That night, he set off, leaving the city and heading south to the land of his forefathers, to Carmaux. He would settle there, or elsewhere in the Languedoc, and live out his days. But before he died, he would ensure that the letter did not vanish forever. Somehow, he would find the means for it to survive.

  It had to survive.

  It had to fulfill its destiny.

  He owed it to those who had died, to Hugh and to William of Beaujeu and above all to his friend Aimard of Villiers, to ensure that their sacrifices had not been worthless.

  It was all down to him now. He thought back to Aimard’s final revelation that night, deep inside the church by the willow tree. About the painstaking efforts of their predecessors, who had first concocted the deception. About the nine years of meticulous crafting. About the careful planning that had taken almost two hundred years to bear fruit.

  We came close, he thought, so close. It was a noble goal. It was worth all the hard work, all the sacrifices, all the pain.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He had to make sure the illusion was kept alive. The illusion that it was still out there, waiting.

  The illusion that it was real.

  And at the right time, certainly not during his lifetime, maybe, just maybe, someone would be able to use their lost masterpiece to achieve what they had all set out to do.

  And then, a bittersweet smile broke across his face as a hopeful thought drifted into his mind. Maybe one day, he mused, it would be obsolete. Maybe the plan would no longer be necessary. Maybe people would learn to overcome their petty differences and rise above murderous squabbles over personal faith.

  He shook the thought away, chiding himself for his wistful naïveté, and kept on walking.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people generously contributed their knowledge, expertise, and support to this book, and I’d like to start off by thanking my great friend Carlos Heneine, for introducing me to the Templars and, as always, having fun batting ideas back and forth with me; Bruce Crowther, who helped usher me into this new realm; and Franc Roddam, who swooped in and gave it wings.

  I’d also like to personally thank Mitch Hoffman for his enthusiasm and support, along with Erika Kahn and everyone at Dutton. It’s been a real treat.

  A humongous thank-you to my literary agent Eugenie Furniss, without whose passion, relentless prodding, and support this book would have never materialized. Jay Mandel, Tracy Fisher, Michelle Feehan, Raffaella De Angelis, Charlotte Wasserstein, and everyone in the New York office for the breathtaking international reception; Lauren Heller Whitney and Lucinda Prain; and Rowan Lawton, Stephanie Cabot, and everyone at the William Morris Agency.

  Warm nods of gratitude are also due to Olivier Granier, Simon Oakes, Cephas Howard for his phenomenal work on the UK cover; Howard Ellis and everyone at Mid-Atlantic Films in Budapest for their continued support; Dotti Irving and Ruth Cairns at Colman
Getty; Samantha Hill, Eric Fellner, Leon Friedman, Maitre Francois Serres, Kevin and Linda Adeson (sorry about roughing up Mitch), Chris and Roberta Hanley, Dr. Philip Saba, Matt Filosa, Carolyn Whitaker, Dr. Amin Milki, Bashar Chalabi, Patty Fanouraki, and Barbara Roddam.

  Last, but galaxies away from least, I’d like to thank my wife, Suellen, who’s lived with this project for so long; a man couldn’t ask for a greater supporter, friend, and soul mate.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Raymond Khoury is an acclaimed screenwriter and producer for both television and film. Educated in France and the United States, Khoury now lives in London with his wife and two children. Visit his Web site at www.lasttemplar.com.

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