The Templar Legacy: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “True. But what were they looking for? What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I talked to Scoville, then two weeks later he’s dead.”

  “What would he have known that was worth killing for?”

  She shrugged. “Our conversation was pleasant. I honestly thought he was the one who’d sent the journal. He and Lars worked closely. But he knew nothing of the journal being sent to me, though he wanted to read it.” She stopped her perusal. “Look at all this stuff. He was obsessed.” She shook her head. “Lars and I argued about this very thing for years. I always thought he was wasting his academic abilities. He was a good historian. He should have been making a decent salary at a university, publishing credible research. Instead, he traipsed around the world, chasing shadows.”

  “He was a bestselling author.”

  “Only his first book. Money was another of our constant debates.”

  “You sound like a woman with a lot of regrets.”

  “Don’t you have some? I recall you taking the divorce from Pam hard.”

  “Nobody likes to fail.”

  “At least your spouse didn’t kill herself.”

  She had a point.

  “You said on the way over here that Lars believed Saunière discovered a message inside that glass vial found in the column. Who was the message from?”

  “In his notebook, Lars wrote that it was probably from one of Saunière’s predecessors, Antoine Bigou, who served as the parish priest for Rennes in the latter part of the eighteenth century, during the time of the French Revolution. I mentioned him in the car. He was the priest to whom Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort told her family secret before dying.”

  “So Lars thought the family secret was recorded in the vial?”

  “It’s not that simple. There’s more to the story. Marie d’Hautpoul married the last marquis de Blanchefort in 1732. The de Blanchefort line has a French history all the way back to the time of the Templars. The family took part in both the Crusades and the Albigensian wars. One ancestor was even master of the Templars in the middle of the twelfth century, and the family controlled the Rennes township and surrounding land for centuries. When the Templars were arrested in 1307, the de Blancheforts sheltered many fugitives from Philip IV’s men. It’s said, though no one knows for sure, that members of the de Blanchefort family were always part of the Templars after that.”

  “You sound like Henrik. Do you actually think the Templars are still out there?”

  “I have no idea. But something the man in the cathedral said keeps coming back. He quoted St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the twelfth-century monk who was instrumental in the Templars’ rise to power. I acted like I didn’t know what he was talking about. But Lars wrote a lot about him.”

  Malone also recalled the name from the book he’d read in Copenhagen. Bernard de Fontaines was a Cistercian monk who founded a monastery at Clairvaux in the twelfth century. He was a leading thinker and exerted great influence within the Church, becoming a close adviser to Pope Innocent II. His uncle was one of the nine original Templars, and it was Bernard who convinced Innocent II to grant the Templars their unprecedented Rule.

  “The man in the cathedral knew Lars,” Stephanie said. “Even intimated that he’d spoken to him about the journal, and that Lars challenged him. The man from the Round Tower also worked for him—he wanted me to know that—and that man screamed the Templar battle cry before jumping.”

  “Could all be a bluff to rattle you.”

  “I’m starting to doubt it.”

  He agreed, especially with what he’d noticed on the way over from the cemetery. But for the moment he kept that to himself.

  “Lars wrote in his journal about the de Blancheforts’ secret, one supposedly dating from 1307, the time of the Templars’ arrest. He found plenty of references to this supposed family duty in documents from the period, but never any details. Apparently he spent a lot of time in the local monasteries poring through writings. It’s Marie’s grave, though, the one drawn in the book Thorvaldsen bought, that seems to be the key. Marie died in 1781, but it wasn’t until 1791 that Abbè Bigou erected a headstone and marker over her remains. Remember the time. The French Revolution was brewing, and Catholic churches were being destroyed. Bigou was anti-republic, so he fled into Spain in 1793 and died there two years later, never returning to Rennes-le-Château.”

  “And what did Lars think Bigou hid inside that glass vial?”

  “Probably not the actual de Blanchefort secret, but rather a method for learning it. In the notebook, Lars wrote that he firmly believed Marie’s grave held the key to the secret.”

  He was beginning to understand. “Which is why the book was so important.”

  She nodded. “Saunière stripped many of the graves in the churchyard, digging up the bones and placing them in a communal ossuary that still stands behind the church. That explains, as Lars wrote, why there are no graves there now dated prior to 1885. The locals raised a loud ruckus about what he was doing, so he was ordered by the town councilors to stop. Marie de Blanchefort’s grave was not exhumed, but all of the letters and symbols were chipped away by Saunière. Unbeknownst to him, there was a sketch of the marker that survived, drawn by a local mayor, Eugène Stüblein. Lars learned of that drawing but could never find a copy of the book.”

  “How did Lars know Saunière defaced the grave?”

  “There’s a record of Maria’s grave being vandalized during that time. No one attached any special significance to the act, yet who else but Saunière could have done it?”

  “And Lars thought all this leads to a treasure?”

  “He wrote in his journal that he believed Saunière deciphered the message Abbé Bigou left behind and that he found the Templar hiding place, telling only his mistress, and she died without telling anyone.”

  “So what were you going to do? Use the notebook and the book to look for it again?”

  “I don’t know what I would have done. I can only say that something told me to come, buy the book, and look around.” She paused. “It also gave me an excuse to come, stay in his house for a while, and remember.”

  That he understood. “Why involve Peter Hansen? Why not just buy the book yourself?”

  “I still work for the U.S. government. I thought Hansen would be insulation. That way my name appears nowhere. Of course, I had no idea all of this was involved.”

  He considered what she’d said. “So Lars was following Saunière’s tracks, just as Saunière followed Bigou.”

  She nodded. “And it seems someone else is also following those same tracks.”

  He surveyed the room again. “We’ll need to go through all this carefully to even have a hope of learning anything.”

  Something at the front door caught his attention. When they’d entered a stack of mail scattered on the floor had been swept close to the wall, apparently dropped in through the door slot. He walked over and lifted half a dozen envelopes.

  Stephanie came close.

  “Let me see that one,” she said.

  He handed her a taupe-colored envelope with black script.

  “The note included with Lars’s journal was on that color paper and the writing looks similar.” She found the page in her shoulder bag and they compared the script.

  “It’s identical,” she said.

  “I’m sure Scoville won’t mind.” He tore open the envelope.

  Nine sheets of paper came out. On one was a penned message, the ink and writing the same as Stephanie had received.

  She will come. Be forgiving. You have long searched and deserve to see. Together, it may be possible. In Avignon find Claridan. He can point the way. But prend garde l’Ingénieur

  He read the last line again—prend garde l’Ingénieur. “Beware the engineer. What does that mean?”

  “Good question.”

  “No mention in the journal of any engineer?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Be forgiving. Ap
parently the sender knew you and Scoville didn’t care for one another.”

  “That’s unnerving. I wasn’t aware anyone knew that.”

  He examined the eight other pieces of paper. “These are from Lars’s journal. The missing pages.” He checked the postmark on the envelope. From Perpignan, on the French coast. Five days ago. “Scoville never received this. It came too late.”

  “Ernst was murdered, Cotton. There’s no doubt now.”

  He concurred, but something else bothered him. He crept to one of the windows and carefully peered past the sheers.

  “We need to go to Avignon,” she said.

  He agreed, but as he focused out at the empty street and caught a glimpse of what he knew would be there, he said, “After we tend to one other matter.”

  ABBEY DES FONTAINES

  6:00 PM

  DE ROQUEFORT FACED THE GATHERING. RARELY DID THE BROTHERS don vestments. Rule required that, for the most part, they dress without any superfluity and ostentation. But a conclave demanded formality and each member was expected to wear his garment of rank.

  The sight was impressive. Brother knights sported white woolen mantles atop short white cassocks trimmed with crimson orphrey. Silver stockings sheathed their legs. A white hood covered each head. The red cross patee of four equal arms, wide at the ends, adorned every chest. A crimson belt wrapped the waist, and where once a sword hung now only a sash distinguished knights from artisans, farmers, craftsmen, clerks, priests, and aides, who wore a similar ensemble but in varying shades of green, brown, and black, the clerics distinguished by their white gloves.

  Once a consistory convened Rule required that the marshal chair the proceeding. It was a way to balance the influence of any seneschal who, as second in command, could easily dominate the assembly.

  “My brothers,” de Roquefort called out.

  The room drained of noise.

  “This is our time of renewal. We must choose a master. Before we begin, let us ask the Lord for His guidance in the hours ahead.”

  In the glow from the bronze chandeliers, de Roquefort watched as 488 brothers bowed their heads. The call had gone out just after dawn, and most of those who served outside the abbey had made the journey home. They’d assembled in the upper hall of the palais, an enormous round citadel that dated from the sixteenth century, built a hundred feet high, seventy feet in diameter, with walls a dozen feet thick. It once had served as the abbey’s last line of defense in case of attack, but it had evolved into an elaborate ceremonial center. Arrow slits were now filled with stained glass, the yellow stucco coated with images of St. Martin, Charlemagne, and the Virgin Mary. The circular room, with two railed galleries above, easily accommodated the nearly five hundred men and was blessed with nearly perfect acoustics.

  De Roquefort raised his head and made eye contact with the other four officers. The commander, who was both the quartermaster and treasurer, was a friend. De Roquefort had spent years cultivating a relationship with that distant man and hoped those efforts would soon reap rewards. The draper, who oversaw the Order’s clothes and dress, was clearly ready to champion the marshal’s cause. The chaplain, though, who supervised all spiritual aspects, was a problem. De Roquefort had never been able to secure anything tangible from the Venetian besides vague generalizations of the obvious. Then there was the seneschal, who stood holding the beauseant, the Order’s revered black-and-white banner. He looked comfortable in his white tunic and cape, the embroidered patch on his left shoulder indicating his high office. The sight turned de Roquefort’s stomach. The man had no right to be wearing those precious garments.

  “Brothers, the consistory is convened. It is time to nominate the conclave.”

  The procedure was deceptively simply. One name was chosen from a cauldron that contained all of the brothers’ names. Then that man looked out among the assembled and freely choose another. Back to the cauldron for the next name, then another open selection, with the random pattern continuing until ten were designated. The system melded an element of chance coupled with personal involvement, diminishing greatly any opportunity for organized bias. De Roquefort, as marshal, and the seneschal were automatically included, making twelve. A two-thirds vote was needed to achieve election.

  De Roquefort watched as the selections were made. When finished, four knights, one priest, a clerk, a farmer, two artisans, and a laborer had been chosen. Many were his followers. Yet the cursed randomness had allowed several to be included whose allegiance was, at best, questionable.

  The ten men stepped forward and fanned out in a semi-circle.

  “We have a conclave,” de Roquefort declared. “The consistory is over. Let us begin.”

  Every brother shoved back his hood, signaling that the debate could now start. The conclave was not a secret affair. Instead, the nomination, the discussion, and the vote would take place before the entire brotherhood. But Rule mandated that not a sound was to be uttered by the spectators.

  De Roquefort and the seneschal took their place with the others. De Roquefort was no longer the chair—in the conclave each brother was equal. One of the twelve, an older knight with a thick gray beard, said, “Our marshal, a man who has guarded this Order for many years, should be our next master. I place him in contention.”

  Two more gave their consent. With the required three, the nominee was accepted.

  Another of the twelve, one of the artisans, a gunsmith, stepped forward. “I disagreed with what was done to the master. He was a good man who loved this Order. He should not have been challenged. I place the seneschal in contention.”

  Two more nodded their assent.

  De Roquefort stood rigid. The battle lines were drawn.

  Let the war begin.

  The debate was entering its second hour. Rule set no time limit on the conclave, but required that all in attendance must stand, the idea being that the length of the proceeding could well be a factor of the participants’ endurance. No vote had yet been called. Any of the twelve possessed the right, but no one wanted to lose a tally—that was a sign of weakness—so votes were called only when two-thirds seemed assured.

  “I’m not impressed with what you plan,” one of the conclave members, the priest, said to the seneschal.

  “I was not aware that I possessed a plan.”

  “You will continue the ways of the master. The ways of the past. True or not true?”

  “I will remain faithful to my oath, as you should, brother.”

  “My oath said nothing about weakness,” the priest said. “It does not require that I be complacent to a world that languishes in ignorance.”

  “We have guarded our knowledge for centuries. Why would you have us change?”

  Another conclave member stepped forward. “I’m tired of the hypocrisy. It sickens me. We were nearly extinguished by greed and ignorance. It’s time we return the favor.”

  “To what end?” the seneschal asked. “What would be gained?”

  “Justice,” cried another knight, and several other conclave members agreed.

  De Roquefort decided it was time to join in. “The Gospels say, Let one who seeks not stop seeking until one finds. When one finds, one will be disturbed. When one is disturbed, one will be amazed and will reign over all.”

  The seneschal faced him. “Thomas also said, If your leaders say to you, behold, the kingdom is in the sky, then the birds in the sky will get there before you. If they say to you, it is in the sea, then the fish will get there before you.”

  “We will never go anywhere if we stay the present course,” de Roquefort said. Heads bobbed in agreement, but not enough to call for a vote.

  The seneschal hesitated a moment, then said, “I ask you, Marshal. What are your plans if you achieve election? Can you tell us? Or do you do as Jesus, disclosing your mysteries only to those worthy of the mysteries, never letting the left hand know what the right is doing?”

  He welcomed the opportunity to tell the brotherhood what he envisioned. “Jesus
also said, There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed.”

  “Then what would you have us do?”

  He surveyed the room, his eyes traveling from floor to gallery. This was his moment. “Think back. To the Beginning. When thousands of brothers took the oath. These were brave men, who conquered the Holy Land. In the Chronicles, a tale is told of one garrison who lost out to the Saracens. After the battle, two hundred of those knights were offered their lives if they would simply abandon Christ and join Islam. Each one chose to kneel before the Muslims and lose his head. That is our heritage. The Crusades were our crusade.”

  He hesitated a moment for effect.

  “Which is what makes Friday, October 13, 1307—a day so infamous, so despicable, that Western civilization continues to label it with bad luck—so difficult to accept. Thousands of our brothers were wrongfully arrested. One day they were the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the epitome of everything good, willing to die for their Church, their pope, their God. The next day they were accused heretics. And to what charge? That they spat upon the Cross, exchanged obscene kisses, held secret meetings, adored a cat, practiced sodomy, venerated some bearded male head.” He paused. “Not a word of truth to any of it, yet our brothers were tortured and many succumbed, confessing to falsehoods. One hundred and twenty burned at the stake.”

  He paused again.

  “Our legacy is one of shame, and we are recorded in history with nothing but suspicion.”

  “And what would you tell the world?” the seneschal asked in a calm tone.

  “The truth.”

  “And why would they believe you?”

  “They will have no choice,” he said.

  “And why is that?”

  “I will have proof.”

  “Have you located our Great Devise?”

  The seneschal was pressing his one weak point, but he could not show any weakness. “It’s within my grasp.”

  Gasps came from the gallery.

  The seneschal’s face remained rigid. “You’re saying that you have found our lost archives after seven centuries. Have you also found our treasury that eluded Philip the Fair?”