The Templar Legacy: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  He also did not like the fact that two men had been wounded. Not the best way to start off his tenure. Brothers strived for order. Chaos was seen as weakness. The last time violence had invaded the abbey’s walls was when angry mobs tried to gain entrance during the French Revolution—but after several died in the attempt, they’d retreated. The abbey was a place of tranquility and refuge. Violence was taught—and sometimes used—but tempered with discipline. The seneschal had demonstrated a total lack of discipline. Stragglers who may have harbored some fleeting loyalty to him would now be won over by his grievous violations to Rule.

  But still, where were these two headed?

  They continued down the hallways, passing workshops, the library, more empty corridors. He could hear footfalls behind them, the five brothers following, ready to act when the opportunity arose. But there’d be hell to pay if any of them interfered until he said so.

  They stopped before a doorway with carved capitals and a simple iron handle.

  The master’s quarters.

  His chambers.

  “In there,” Geoffrey said.

  “Why?” the seneschal asked. “We’ll be trapped.”

  “Please, go inside.”

  The seneschal pushed open the door, then engaged the latch after they entered.

  De Roquefort was amazed.

  And curious.

  THE SENESCHAL WAS CONCERNED. THEY WERE NOW IMPRISONED within the master’s chamber, the only exit a solitary bull’s-eye window that opened to nothing but air. Drops of sweat pebbled his forehead and he swiped the salty moisture from his eyes.

  “Sit,” Geoffrey ordered de Roquefort, and the man took a seat at the desk.

  The seneschal surveyed the room. “I see you’ve already changed things.”

  A few more upholstered chairs hugged the walls. A table now stood where there had been nothing before. The bed coverings were different, as were items on the tables and desk.

  “This is my home now,” de Roquefort said.

  He noticed the single sheet of paper on the desk, penned in his mentor’s hand. The successor’s message, left as required by Rule. He lifted the typewritten page and read.

  Do you think that what you judge to be imperishable will not perish? You base your hope upon the world, and your god is this life. You do not realize that you will be destroyed. You live in darkness and death, drunk with fire, and full of bitterness. Your mind is deranged because of the smoldering fire within you and you are delighted by the poisoning and beating of your enemies. Darkness has risen over you like the light, for you have exchanged your freedom for slavery. You will fail, that is clear.

  “Your master thought passages from the Gospel of Thomas relevant,” de Roquefort said. “And he apparently believed that I, not you, would wear the white mantle once he was gone. Surely those words were not meant for his chosen one.”

  No, they weren’t. He wondered why his mentor had so little faith in him, especially when, in the hours before he died, he’d encouraged him to seek high office.

  “You should listen to him,” he made clear.

  “His is the advice of a weak soul.”

  Pounding came from the door. “Master? Are you there?” Unless the brothers were prepared to blast their way inside, there existed little danger of the heavy slabs being forced.

  De Roquefort stared up at him.

  “Answer,” the seneschal said.

  “I’m fine. Stand down.”

  Geoffrey moved toward the window and stared out at the waterfall across the gorge.

  De Roquefort placed one knee over the other and leaned back in the chair. “What do you hope to accomplish? This is foolishness.”

  “Shut up.” But the seneschal was wondering the same thing.

  “The master left more words,” Geoffrey said from across the room.

  He and de Roquefort turned as Geoffrey reached into his cassock and produced an envelope. “This is his true final message.”

  “Give that to me,” de Roquefort demanded, rising from the chair.

  Geoffrey leveled his gun. “Sit.”

  De Roquefort stayed on his feet. Geoffrey cocked the weapon and aimed for the legs. “The vest will do you no good.”

  “You would kill me?”

  “I’ll cripple you.”

  De Roquefort sat. “You have a brave compatriot,” he said to the seneschal.

  “He’s a brother of the Temple.”

  “A shame he will never achieve the oath.”

  If the words were designed to evoke a response in Geoffrey, they failed.

  “You’re going nowhere,” de Roquefort told them.

  The seneschal watched his ally. Geoffrey was again staring out the window, as if waiting for something.

  “I’ll enjoy seeing you both punished,” de Roquefort said.

  “I told you to shut up,” the seneschal said.

  “Your master thought himself clever. I know he wasn’t.”

  He could tell de Roquefort had something more to say. “Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?”

  “The Great Devise. It’s what consumed him and all of the masters. Each wanted to find it, but none succeeded. Your master spent a lot of time researching the subject, and your young friend over there helped him.”

  The seneschal shot a glance at Geoffrey, but his partner did not turn from the window. He said to de Roquefort, “I thought you were close to finding it. That’s what you told the conclave.”

  “I am.”

  The seneschal did not believe him.

  “Your young friend over there and the late master were quite a team. I’ve learned that recently they scoured our records with a newfound relish—one that piqued my interest.”

  Geoffrey turned and stomped across the bedchamber, stuffing the envelope back into his cassock. “You’ll learn nothing.” The voice approached a shout. “What there is to find is not for you.”

  “Really?” de Roquefort asked. “And what is there to find?”

  “There will be no triumph for the likes of you. The master was right. You are drunk with fire and full of bitterness.”

  De Roquefort appraised Geoffrey with a stiff countenance. “You and the master learned something, didn’t you? I know you sent two parcels in the mail, and I even know to whom. I’ve tended to one of the receivers and will shortly tend to the other. Soon I’ll know all that you and he knew.”

  Geoffrey’s right arm swung out and the gun he held slammed into de Roquefort’s temple. The master teetered, stunned, then his eyes rolled skyward and he collapsed to the floor.

  “Was that necessary?” the seneschal asked.

  “He should be glad that I didn’t shoot him. But the master made me promise I wouldn’t harm the fool.”

  “You and I need to have a serious talk.”

  “First, we have to leave.”

  “I don’t think the brothers out in the hall are going to allow that.”

  “They’re not our problem.”

  He could sense something. “You know the way out of here?”

  Geoffrey smiled. “The master was quite clear.”

  ABBEY DES FONTAINES

  2:05 PM

  DE ROQUEFORT OPENED HIS EYES. THE SIDE OF HIS HEAD pounded and he swore that brother Geoffrey would pay for his assault. He pushed himself up from the floor and tried to clear the fog. He heard frantic cries from outside the door. He dabbed the side of his head with his sleeve and the cassock came away stained with blood. He stepped into the bathroom and doused a rag with water, cleaning the wound.

  He steeled himself. He must appear in charge. He slowly walked across the bedchamber and opened the door.

  “Master, are you all right?” his new marshal asked.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  The four other brothers waited in the hall. They knew better than to step into the master’s chamber without permission.

  “Close the door.”

  His lieutenant complied.

  “I was struck unconscious.
How long have they been gone?”

  “It’s been quiet in here for twenty minutes. That’s what raised our fears.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A puzzled look came to the marshal’s face. “Silence. Nothing.”

  “Where did the seneschal and brother Geoffrey go?”

  “Master, they were in here, with you. We were outside.”

  “Look around. They’re gone. When did they leave?”

  More bewilderment. “They didn’t come our way.”

  “You’re telling me those two did not walk out that door?”

  “We would have shot them if they had, as you ordered.”

  His head started to hurt again. He lifted the wet rag to his scalp and massaged the throbbing knot. He’d wondered why Geoffrey had come straight here.

  “There’s news from Rennes-le-Château,” the marshal said.

  That revelation piqued his interest.

  “Our two brothers made their presence known and Malone, as you predicted, eluded them on the highway.”

  He’d correctly deduced that the best way to pursue Stephanie Nelle and Cotton Malone was to let them think they were free of pursuit.

  “And the shooter in the churchyard last night?”

  “The person fled on a motorcycle. Our men watched as Malone gave chase. That incident, and the attack on our brothers in Copenhagen, are clearly related.”

  He agreed. “Any idea who?”

  “Not yet.”

  He didn’t want to hear that. “What of today? Where did Malone and Nelle go?”

  “The electronic surveillance we affixed to Malone’s car worked perfectly. They drove straight to Avignon. They’ve just left the sanatorium where Royce Claridon is a patient.”

  He was well acquainted with Claridon and did not for one moment believe Claridon was mentally ill, which was why he’d cultivated a source within the sanatorium. A month ago, when the master dispatched Geoffrey to Avignon to mail the package to Stephanie Nelle, he’d thought contact might have then been made. But Geoffrey paid no visit to the asylum. He suspected that the second parcel, the one sent to Ernst Scoville in Rennes, the one he knew little about, was what led Stephanie Nelle and Malone to Claridon. One thing was certain. Claridon and Lars Nelle had worked side by side, and when the son dabbled in the quest after Lars Nelle’s death, Claridon had assisted him, too. The master had clearly known all that. And now Lars Nelle’s widow had gone straight to Claridon.

  Time to deal with that problem.

  “I’ll travel to Avignon within the half hour. Prepare a contingent of four brothers. Maintain the electronic surveillance and tell our people not to be tagged. That equipment has a long range, use it to our advantage.” But there was still another matter and he stared around the room. “Leave me, now.”

  The marshal bowed, then retreated from the chamber.

  He stood, his head still woozy, and surveyed the elongated chamber. Two of the walls were stone, the remaining two maple paneling framed out in symmetrical panels. A decorative armoire dominated one wall, a dresser, another chest, and a table and chairs the others. But his gaze stopped on the fireplace. It seemed the most logical location. He knew that in ancient times no room possessed only one way in and out. This particular chamber had housed masters since the sixteenth century, and if he recalled correctly, the fireplace was a seventeenth-century addition, replacing an older stone hearth. Rarely was it used now that central heating was employed throughout the abbey.

  He approached the mantel and studied the woodwork, then carefully examined the hearth, noticing faint white lines stretching perpendicular toward the wall.

  He bent down and gazed into the darkened hearth. With his curled hand, he probed up inside the flue.

  And found it.

  A glass knob.

  He tried to turn it, but nothing moved. He pushed up, then down. Still nothing. So he pulled, and the knob came free. Not far, maybe half an inch, and he heard a mechanical snap. He released his grip and felt a slipperiness on his fingers. Oil. Somebody had been prepared.

  He stared into the fireplace.

  A crack ran the height of the rear wall. He pushed, and the stone panel swung inward. The opening was large enough to enter, so he crawled forward. Beyond the portal was a passageway the height of a man.

  He stood.

  The narrow corridor stretched only a few feet to a stone staircase that wound down in a tight spiral. No telling where that led. No doubt there were other entrances and exits scattered throughout the abbey. He’d been marshal for twenty-two years and never had he known of any secret routes.

  The master knew, though, which was how Geoffrey knew.

  He pounded his fist onto the stone and allowed his anger to work itself out. He must find the Great Devise. His entire ability to govern rested on its discovery. The master had possessed Lars Nelle’s journal, as de Roquefort had known for many years, but there’d been no way to obtain it. He’d thought that with the old man gone his chance would come, but the master had anticipated his move and sent the manuscript away. Now Lars Nelle’s widow and a former employee—a trained government agent—were connecting themselves with Royce Claridon. Nothing good would come of that collaboration.

  He calmed his nerves.

  For years he’d labored in the master’s shadow. Now he was master. And he was not going to allow a ghost to dictate his path.

  He sucked a few deep breaths of the dank air and thought back to the Beginning. AD 1118. The Holy Land had finally been wrestled from the Saracens and Christian kingdoms had been established, but a great danger still existed. So nine knights banded together and promised to the new Christian king of Jerusalem that the route to and from the Holy Land would be safe for pilgrims. But how could nine middle-aged men, pledged to poverty, protect the long route from Jaffa to Jerusalem, especially when hundreds of bandits lined the way? Even more puzzling, for the first ten years of its existence no new knights were added, and the Order’s Chronicles recorded nothing of the brothers helping any pilgrims. Instead, those original nine occupied themselves with a greater task. Their headquarters was beneath the old temple, in an area that had once served as King Solomon’s stables, a chamber of endless arches and vaults, so large that it once housed two thousand animals. There they’d discovered subterranean passages hewn from rock centuries before, many of which contained scriptural scrolls, treatises, writings on art and science, and much about Judaic/Egyptian heritage.

  And the most important find of all.

  The excavations consumed those nine knights’ entire attention. Then, in 1127, they loaded boats with their precious cache and sailed for France. What they found brought them fame, wealth, and powerful allegiances. Many wanted to be a part of their movement and, in 1128, a mere ten years after being founded, the Templars were granted by the pope a legal autonomy unmatched in the Western world.

  And all because of what they knew.

  Yet they were careful with that knowledge. Only those who rose to the highest level were privileged to know. Centuries ago, the master’s duty was to pass that knowledge along before he died. But that was before the Purge. After, masters searched, all to no avail.

  He pounded his fist again into the stone.

  Templars had first forged their destiny in forgotten caverns with the determination of zealots. He would do the same. The Great Devise was out there. He was close. He knew it.

  And the answers were in Avignon.

  AVIGNON

  5:00 PM

  MALONE STOPPED THE PEUGEOT. ROYCE CLARIDON WAS WAITING on the roadside, south of the sanatorium, exactly where he’d said. The man’s scruffy beard was gone, as were the stained clothes and jersey. The face was clean-shaven, the nails trimmed, and Claridon was wearing a pair of jeans and a crew-necked shirt. His long hair was slicked back and tied in a ponytail, and there was vigor to his step.

  “Feels good to get that beard off,” he said, climbing into the rear seat. “To pretend to be a Templar, I needed to look li
ke one. You know they never bathed. Rule forbade it. No nakedness among the brothers and all that stuff. What a smelly lot they must have been.”

  Malone shifted the car into first and motored down the highway. Storm clouds filled the sky. Apparently, the weather from Rennes-le-Chateâu was finally making its way eastward. In the distance lightning forked across the rising plumes, followed by growls of thunder. No rain was falling yet, but soon. He exchanged glances with Stephanie and she understood that the man in the rear seat needed interrogating.

  She turned back. “Mr. Claridon—”

  “You must call me Royce, madame.”

  “All right. Royce, could you tell us more of what Lars was thinking? It’s important we understand.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Lars and I were not close in the years before he died. He didn’t confide much in me. But I’ve recently read his books and the journal.”

  “Might I ask, then, why are you here? He’s been gone a long time.”

  “Let’s just say I’d like to think Lars would have wanted his work finished.”

  “On that you are right, madame. Your husband was a brilliant scholar. His theories were well founded and I believe he would have been successful. If he’d lived.”

  “Tell me of those theories.”

  “He was following the abbé Saunière’s path. That priest was clever. On the one hand, he wanted no one to know what he knew. On the other, he left many clues.” Claridon shook his head. “It’s said he told his mistress everything, but she died without ever saying a word. Before his death, Lars thought he’d finally made progress. Do you know the full tale, madame? The real truth?”

  “I’m afraid my knowledge is limited to what Lars wrote in his books. But there were some interesting references in his journal that he never published.”

  “Might I see those pages?”

  She thumbed through the notebook, then handed the book back to Claridon. Malone watched in the rearview mirror as the man read with interest.