Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three)

by Kamery Solomon

  Finally, a man rose from the middle of the room, a smile on his face as he strode into the aisle. Brown hair, cut short on the sides and long on top like my own, had been swept out of his handsome face. A light stubble covered the bottom half, his eyes bright under full eyebrows. He was young, somewhere between mine and Tristan’s ages I would guess, and the smile on his face was one of determination and acceptance. I couldn’t see much under his tabard, but he appeared to be in good physical condition, his form that of a fighter.

  A thousand thoughts seemed to race through my mind as he strode to the head of the room and up the stairs. Why would the group pick someone so young to lead them when they had many seasoned members? What had this man done to gain favor with so many of the Knights? Why had he decided not to campaign personally to Tristan and I? What kind of leader would he be? And, most of all, was he secretly Bevard’s murderer?

  Upon reaching the Masters, Davies removed his belt and sword, laying them across the altar, followed by his tabard. He wore the simple clothes of a crewman underneath, the dark gray of the fabric almost blending into the stones around him.

  “You accept the call from your fellow Knights?” Francois asked him.

  “I do.” His voice carried the ring of a tenor, but had a surprising amount of authority to it. It carried through the space with ease, sounding like that of a leader.

  Francois nodded, motioning for him to step outside. Then, searching for myself and Tristan, waved for us to go as well. “When the clock strikes midnight, gentlemen.”

  The doors shut tight behind the three of us, dulling the murmur of the men on the other side. They had all watched as Davies left the room, whispering among themselves. Each face had worn a different expression, the pick for the new Grand Master clearly surprising many of them. It made me wonder how many votes he had actually received and how divided the men had been to begin with. The Masters had created many piles when they were tallying the vote. Had Davies only won by a few?

  Stopping in front of one of the tapestries on the wall, the Frenchman crossed himself, gazing at the portrayal of the first Knights of The Order, muttering what appeared to be a prayer for strength under his breath. “Forgive me,” he said, turning his attention to us. “I imagine I will be poor company for the next several minutes.”

  “Ye are called to a great duty,” Tristan replied, inclining his head. “I’ll not fault ye for turning to the Masters of old for guidance.”

  “I won’t, either.” Watching him, I felt like I wanted to ask all the questions swirling through my mind, but refrained.

  “To be called so young to an office that could hold a lifetime’s mark of duty, should ye do it right, is a great honor and burden,” Tristan offered, smiling tightly.

  “Oui, I am young,” Davies responded, noticeably catching the tone of interrogation in Tristan’s voice. “Not much older than yourself, I would assume. God has called me forward in the work, though, and I must answer. What is your name, good man?”

  “O’Rourke, Monsieur.” Bowing slightly, showing respect to the candidate, Tristan never took his eyes of the man, an air of distrust flowing from him.

  “Oui. Tristan O’Rourke. This is your companion, Mark Bell, I assume? I’ve heard of both of you. It would appear you’ve had quite the year, and an exciting year before that.” Davies laughed slightly, nodding. “I thought of paying you a visit during this past week, but I’m afraid I did not have the time. Many of the men kept me tangled up in pubs and on the streets, speaking about my plans and ideas for the future. I look forward to meeting with you again in the coming weeks and sharing them with you. Now, excusez-moi. Je dois me préparer.”

  Turning away, he focused his attention on the tapestry again, kneeling before it as he prayed. His voice was barely discernible, head bowed in reverence, his attention focused fully on the task he was about to undertake.

  Motioning me to the other side of the room, Tristan watched him with curiosity, studying him. “What do ye think?” he asked me quietly, the sound not traveling far enough for Davies to hear.

  “He seems nice enough,” I replied, shrugging. “He’s praying.”

  “Aye. Methinks he is dedicated to the task at hand.”

  “He’s young. If the claim that the men kept his company to hear his plans is true, he’s probably seen as a man of the people, a leader who will take counsel not only from the Masters, but from anyone in The Order.” Watching the man as well, I pursed my lips. Tristan said my next thought before I could even open my mouth.

  “It could all be for show. He could have murdered Bevard in cold blood, hoping to take over power. A Black Knight could be right here, in front of us, and we’d have no idea.”

  “It took a lot of skill and secrecy to murder the last Grand Master, though. I doubt he could have done that on his own, let alone win the vote afterword.”

  Tristan nodded, his eyes narrowing and expression darkening. “This is true. If that be the case, we have much more to worry about than just one Black Knight among our midst. It will be a whole colony of them, and where there’s a colony, Thomas Randall is sure to be.”

  The bell overhead began to chime midnight and Davies rose, his expression flat as he turned toward the great doors. As soon as the ringing finished, they opened, revealing the Templars on the other side, all standing and waiting for him to enter.

  “We will wait here,” Tristan murmured to me. “Davies must go first.”

  Without further prompting, the Frenchman strode inside, walking down the aisle with his head held high. When he reached the steps, he was stopped by the first of the Masters, Francois.

  “Joffrey Davies. You have been called into the service of Almighty God. What is your response?”

  “A man can do no greater service than that to his God,” Davies responded.

  Moving to the side, Francois allowed him to move forward. After a few steps, he was stopped by the next Master, a man Tristan had said was named Campbell.

  “The calling of a Templar is for life. Do you knowingly and willingly accept this call, with no force from any soul to do so?”

  “I do.”

  Passing up the next couple steps, Davies halted in front of the Master who had been trying to bring order to the group when Bevard was discovered murdered. I knew now that his name was Abbey.

  “Our secret allegiance with God is just that—secret,” Abbey started, staring down on him with a blank stare. “Will you keep our organization hidden from the world, or risk hellfire for sharing the truth of our mission?”

  “I will keep the secret, or my own life be forfeit.”

  Permitted to pass, Davies reached the last of the Masters. It was Fazil, the only man not from Europe in the group. His Arabic accent sounded exotic and strange next to the others, his gaze seeming fiery and dangerous as he looked upon the young man.

  “You have stated that you join our brotherhood freely, of your own will, in the service of God and with the intention to keep His secrets for life. Do you still swear that all of this is true?”

  “I do.”

  The other three Masters slowly joined Fazil at the altar, creating a small semi-circle around Davies.

  “Kneel,” Fazil ordered, watching as Davies did so without question. His form seemed even smaller in the indentation in the floor once he was inside it, the space meant to symbolize the grave and his lifelong commitment to the cause.

  I was fairly familiar with the ceremony up to this point, Tristan and I having practiced it many times in preparation. It was slightly different, since Davies was already a member of The Order, but it had calmed me some to see that I remembered how things went and I felt confident that my own initiation would go smoothly. Now, however, I was curious to see what would happen. I had no idea what went into swearing in a new Grand Master.

  “You kneel before us now, already anointed and blessed in the service of God Almighty. Today, the angels have picked your path. You are called to the position of Grand Master, by your peers
and your Heavenly Father. How do you respond?”

  “I am but a man, who still has much left to learn in this life. I will fill the office of Grand Master to the best of my abilities, though, and with the blessing of God, the angels, and those who surround me now.”

  “Do you swear to fight tyranny, protect those in need, and remain loyal to the cause for the entirety of your life?” Francois asked.

  “I do.”

  “Will you guard your Knights with your life and soul, dedicating yourself to servitude in their names?” Abbey asked.

  “I will.”

  “Are you dedicated to following the mission God gave us at our start; to protect His treasures and the treasures of the world, while spreading the truth of His word across the face of the planet?” Campbell stared hard at him as he asked, as if he didn’t trust Davies could do the job.

  “I am.”

  Fazil cleared his throat and sighed, examining the man with a blank expression. “I must ask again. Do you knowingly accept this office, of your own free will? Do you understand the work that will be required of you? Can you lead this great Order to the fulfillment of God’s desires?”

  “I can and I must,” Davies responded strongly. “I accept this calling, with all of my heart and soul. God has called me and I kneel before you on this day to answer.”

  A brief whisper flitted over the crowd at that. Apparently, Davies had gone off book in his reply. Instead of being frowned upon, though, the answer seemed to have pleased many of the congregation.

  “Rise then, and take your place among us.” Fazil offered his hand to Davies, helping him to his feet.

  The group moved up the steps, to the ornate throne, and stopped just before it. Campbell, moving behind the seat, emerged with a new tabard that was the reverse of everyone else’s. The white cross on the red fabric seemed to shine like the sun as it was pulled over Davies head. Abbey revealed a new, black belt, securing it around Davies waist with ease. Francois then emerged from behind the throne with a sword that outshone every other blade in attendance. The hand guard was all swoops and swirls, cocooning his fingers with elegance. Carefully, he offered it to Davies, bowing slightly.

  Taking the sword, Davies carefully placed the point on the ground in front of him, holding the blade steady as Fazil approached, a bowl in his hand.

  Dipping his fingers inside, Fazil carefully anointed Davies, touching two fingers to his forehead, collarbone, and each shoulder. He muttered a prayer in his native language as he did so, the words barely reaching Tristan and I at the rear of the room.

  Finally, the entire process finished, the Masters stepped away, and Davies sat on the throne, his face triumphant and radiating as he stared out over everyone.

  “Praise be to God and long live the Grand Master!” Fazil yelled.

  The entire congregation echoed the phrase, Tristan included, as the white curtain was let down, hiding Davies from view. Slowly, the Masters took their own seats and the sheet covered them as well. For a moment, all was still, and then, almost as one, the congregation turned to look at me.

  “Yer turn,” Tristan said, smiling.

  Swallowing hard, I nodded, breathing in a long breath. After a moment, Tristan stepped into the space, myself following just behind him.

  Stopping in the middle of the aisle, Tristan spoke to the group, his voice echoing off the stones around him. “I bring a man of good honor and skill to join The Order of The Knights Templar,” he proclaimed.

  “And who is calling?”

  The voice came from behind the curtains, one of the Masters making the inquiry.

  “Tristan O’Rourke, for Mark Bell.”

  “Proceed,” the disembodied voice replied.

  Turning to face me, Tristan drew his sword, placing the tip on the ground before him. “Do ye join our brotherhood of yer own free will and with the understanding of what will be required of ye?”

  “I do,” I responded firmly, feeling the beat of my heart increase under the stares of those in attendance.

  Nodding, Tristan motioned for me to continue forward with him, bringing me to the foot of the stairs. All at once, the curtain hiding the Masters moved away, and the four of them took their place on the steps, as they’d done with Davies.

  Francois smiled at me, his expression much friendlier than it had been mere moments before. “Mark Bell. You have been called into the service of Almighty God. What is your response?”

  “A man can do no greater service than that to his God.” My mouth felt dry as I spoke, my hands practically shaking as I watched him, but he nodded and moved to the side all the same, bidding Tristan to take me forward.

  Campbell waited just ahead, his demeanor also much nicer than it had been when swearing in the Grand Master. When he spoke, his voice had an almost cheerful ring to it, as if he had no greater pleasure than inducting me into the society. “The calling of a Templar is for life. Do you knowingly and willingly accept this call, with no force from any soul to do so?”

  “I do.”

  Campbell grinned, stepping to the side and motioning for me to continue down the line to Abbey. Tristan, standing by my side as always, nodded, leading the way.

  “Our secret allegiance with God is just that—secret.” Abbey started as soon as I reached the step in front of him, as if he were eager to get the meeting over with. “Will you keep our organization hidden from the world, or risk hellfire for sharing the truth of our mission?”

  “I will keep the secret, or my own life be forfeit.” A sense of calm was starting to overtake me now, the beating of my heart slowing as I was bid to proceed to the top of the steps, where Fazil waited for me. He was the only one who gave me the same stare he’d given Davies, his voice strong and loud as he spoke to me.

  “You have stated that you join our brotherhood freely, of your own will, in the service of God and with the intention to keep His secrets for life. Do you still swear that all of this is true?”

  “I do.”

  The other Masters gathered around me, as they had before, except this time Tristan stood on one end, separated from them by about a foot. “Kneel before the Masters, friend,” he instructed me, motioning to the indentation in the floor. “Know that ye make this oath on yer own grave, forfeiting yer life to the cause from this moment on.”

  Doing as he said, I knelt in the long rectangular hole, looking up at the five of them.

  “We Masters have found you worthy,” Campbell spoke, gazing out over the crowd. “It is now left with the Grand Master to decide your fate.”

  The curtain moved then, revealing Davies on his throne, and I felt a smidge of the nerves I’d pushed to the side return.

  Rising from his seat, the Grand Master slowly descended the stairs, sword in hand. Stopping on the other side of the altar, he waited for the Masters to part, so I could see him, and then spoke.

  “Mark Bell. You are presented here today by Brother O’Rourke and have been found worthy by the Masters to partake in our quest. I must ask you one final time—do you join this brotherhood of your own free will and with the knowledge of what will be required of you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then rise and put on the mantle of God.”

  Getting to my feet, I stood in the hole, watching as Davies procured a white tabard, belt, and sword from inside the altar, passing them to Tristan.

  Moving quickly, but carefully, Tristan dressed me in the attire, grinning widely as he did so. When he was finished, I was the same as every other man in the room.

  Joining me in the symbolic grave, Davies dipped his fingers in the bowl he now held, the oil inside dripping off his skin as he reached for me. As he anointed my body, Tristan muttered the words to the Warrior’s Prayer, asking for my safety and loyalty in return for my life given to God.

  Davies, finished with his task, smiled and motioned for me to turn around. “Brothers, accept the new addition to our cause: Mark Bell. Praise be to God and long live The Knights Templar!”

 
; “Praise be to God and long live The Knights Templar!” I shouted with the rest of them, feeling as if the weight of the world had suddenly been cast onto my shoulders.

  Seated at the round table, deep in the bowels of the Temple, I had the distinct impression that I perhaps had not quite known what I was getting myself into when I promised myself to The Knights Templar. At the very least, I hadn’t considered what a change in leadership might do to The Order, and now that I was staring such a situation in the face, I kind of wished I had declined the invitation to join in the first place.

  The most distinct difference so far was the chairs around the table. Under Bevard’s leadership, they had all been the same, resting around the table with no specific head. Now, Davies sat in a seat much larger than the others, with arm rests and cushions, the wooden frame etched with symbols and artful designs. His form was clad in the finer clothes of the French upper class, his appearance giving him the vibe of royalty without the crown. The tapestries on the walls had been changed, displaying different battle scenes now, rather than the mostly peaceful renderings that had resided in this room before.

  It had also dawned on me, as I walked through the halls on my way in, that there was less light to see by, but the space had been thoroughly cleaned, scrubbed until shining like new. Guards clothed in all black were stationed throughout the interior now, instead of only at the door. The stood watch like heavenly sentinels, unmoving and unresponsive to any attempt to speak with them. Overall, the entire temple suddenly had the air of a military base, instead of the calm and peaceful atmosphere I’d experienced when Bevard was here.

  While the changes alarmed me some, they made sense as well. The Order was facing an outbreak of Black Knights. There should be more guards, more force in general applied to the situation at hand. Bevard’s murderer walked free in these rooms, his identity still a secret from the rest of us. Davies was trying to paint himself as an undisputed leader in a time where tensions were running high and loyalty was at an all-time low.