The Last Templar - Страница 39

"This one," Aimard said as he stopped over a stone that bore the word Romiti.

Martin stared at him quizzically, not sure of what was expected of him. Aimard managed a smile. "I need you to open it up."

WitJhout any more explanation, Martin retrieved his sword and used it to prize up the flagstone.

"Keep it open for me," Aimard asked as he got down on his knees and slipped the leather pouch into the dark opening. Once he was done, he nodded to the younger knight. "That will do." Martin carefully lowered die slab. Aimard examined it, making sure their intrusion wasn't noticeable, then got up and shuffled back to his small encampment and lowered himself painfully to the ground.

Martin looked into the darkness, his head a whirlwind of confused thoughts. When Aimard of Villiers had first encouraged him to join the Order, he had felt honored and excited. For die first three years, that honor was shown to be justified—the Knights Templar were indeed a noble group of extremely brave men, dedicated to God, to mankind, to the Church. But now that the Holy Land was lost, what was to become of them? He no longer had a clear vision of their objectives.

Other things that bothered him were now resurfacing. Over the years, he had become aware of unspoken apprehensions within the Order. He knew, from snatches of conversations accidentally overheard, that there was friction between the Order and the Church. Where he drought there should be close bonds and trust, he sensed dissent and suspicion. So much so that the Church had not cooperated with recent requests for additional men. By the Church's refusal to help, die fate of the garrison at Acre had been sealed. Had the Church deliberately placed the Temple in jeopardy?

He shook die thought away. Surely not.

Then there were die secret meetings William of Beaujeu had held with just a few senior members of the Order. Meetings from which they returned grim-faced and taciturn. Senior members like Aimard of Villiers, whose openness and honesty were among die qualities tiiat so endeared him to Martin. There was the ornate chest, the cryptic words between Aimard and the grand master just before they boarded the Falcon Temple. And now this.

Was he not to be trusted?

"Martin."

Startled, he turned to face Aimard, whose face was contorted with pain, his tone lowered to a guttural grumble.

"I know what you must be thinking. But believe me, when I tell you . . . There are things you must know, things you need to know, if our Order is to survive. William entrusted me with the knowledge and the task, but . . ." He broke off, coughing, then wiped his mouth before resuming, slowly. "My journey ends here, we both know that." He raised a hand to fend off Martin's protests.

"I must entrust this knowledge to you. You need to complete the task that I have barely begun."

Martin felt a rush of guilt at his own unjust thoughts.

"Sit with me," Aimard said. And after a few moments during which the older man caught his breath, he began.

"For many years, a secret has been known only to a small number of our Order. In the beginning, it was known to just nine men. Never have more than that number been privy to this knowledge. It lies at the core of our Order, and it is the source of the fear and envy of the Church."

Aimard talked through the night. At first Martin was disbelieving, then he felt a growing sense of shock, of outrage even, but given that it was Aimard telling it to him, he knew in his heart that this tale could not be fantasy. It could only be the truth.

As Aimard pressed on, his voice frail and quivering, a realization dawned on Martin. His anger turned to awe, and then to an almost overwhelming sense of nobility of purpose. Aimard was like a father to him, and the older knight's earnest dedication held a lot of weight in Martin's eyes.

Gradually but surely, it was seeping into him, embedding itself into his soul with Aimard's every word.

They were still talking when the sun rose. When Aimard finished, Martin was silent for a while.

Then he asked, "What is it you want of me?"

"I've written a letter," Aimard told him. "A letter which must be taken to the grand master of the Paris Temple. No one else must see it." He handed the letter to Martin, who couldn't read it. Aimard nodded at the geared device by his side. "It's in code ... in case it should fall into unfriendly hands."

Aimard paused to glance out toward the others. "We are in enemy territory, and there are only four of you left," he said. "Stay together only for as long as you must, then divide into two pairs. Take different routes to Paris. I've made a copy of the letter. One for each pair of you. Impress upon the others the importance of your mission, but do not, I beg of you, reveal the truth that I have told you here unless you are convinced your own death is imminent."

Martin studied his old friend carefully, then asked, "What if we should all die along the way? What happens to our Order?"

"There are others," Aimard told him. "Some in Paris, some elsewhere. The truth will never be lost."

He paused, catching his breath. "Some of what is in the letters is known only to me, although I think Hugh must have guessed. But he won't ask questions. He may not be a brother, but he's a man of 108

unshakable loyalty. You can place your trust in him, just as I place my trust in you."

Reaching into a pocket inside his jerkin, Aimard brought out two packages, each wrapped in oiled skin. "Take them now. And hand one to the other pair."

"To Hugh?"

Aimard shook his head. "No. He's not a member of our Order, and there may come a point when the grand master of the Paris Temple will only listen to a true brother. In fact, I think Hugh should be the one to travel with you."

Martin nodded thoughtfully, then asked, "What about you?"

Aimard coughed and wiped a hand across his beard, and Martin saw more blood in his spittle. "So far, we've been fortunate, but more dangers will come your way, without a doubt," Aimard said.

"Your journey can't be slowed for the sick and wounded. Not later, and certainly not now. As I said, this is my journey's end."

"We can't leave you here," Martin protested.

Cringing with pain, Aimard touched his fingers to his ribs. "After the accident on the ship," he said,

"I'm lucky to have reached this far. Take the letters and go. Somehow, you must reach Paris. A lot rests on your shoulders."

Martin of Carmaux nodded, then, reaching out, he clasped his friend and mentor in his arms. He then rose and walked away to where the others and their mounts waited.

He spoke briefly with them and they all turned to look at Aimard of Villiers, who held their eyes for just a moment before rising laboriously to his feet and walking unsteadily to the well. The geared device was in his hands. Martin watched in rapt silence as his old friend smashed it against the stone wall and, piece by piece, dropped its broken fragments into the well.

"May God be with you," Martin said softly. "And with us all." Taking the bridle of one of the horses, he swung up into the foreign saddle. Soon, the line of four horsemen was filing through the ruins of the village, their spare mounts trailing behind, before they began to head northwest, uncertain of their fate, unaware of whatever dangers might lie before them on their long journey to France.

Chapter 48

Tess's mind was still roaming the Mameluke hinterland when Jans-son's voice interrupted her medieval sojourn and yanked her right back down to earth.

"We have to assume Vance has translated this too by now," he stated gruffly.

Reilly nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely."

She remembered where she was and, still clutching the printout, she studied the faces around her.

They didn't seem as caught up in the sublimity of the moment as she was. It was different for her.

This extraordinary and private insight into the lives, actions, thoughts, and deaths of these legendary men touched her deeply. On another level, it was also confirmation of everything her instincts had been harping at since the night of the raid. Her whole body was tingling with anticipation. This could be her Troy, her Tutankhamen. She wondered whether any of those sitting there were at all galvanized by what the printout in their hands hinted at, or whether they were simply interested in the letter because of how it might help them solve a particularly vexing case.

Jansson's expression left no doubt as to which one it was. "Okay, so we still don't know what we're talking about here," he went on, "apart from the fact that whatever it is, it's small enough to be carried around in a shoulder pouch—but at least we know where he's going. Vonsalis Jansson flashed Kendricks a questioning look.

"Sorry," Kendricks answered somberly. "Can't help you there. I've got a bunch of guys working on it, but so far they're hitting a wall. We haven't found any records of it anywhere."

Jansson frowned, clearly annoyed. "Nothing?"

"No. Not yet anyway. We're talking thirteenth-century Europe here. They didn't exactly have MapQuest back then. Mapmaking was a very crude, primitive exercise, and, as it is, very few charts from the period have survived, to say nothing of written texts. We're working our way through whatever writings we have from then onward, everything up to this day—letters, journals, that kind of thing. It's gonna take time."

Tess watched Jansson sink back into his seat and run a hand up the back of his head. His face clouded. The man clearly didn't take kindly to being thwarted on anything having to do with hard, researchable data.