'Don't push it,' Malone said to Mark. 'Do as he says.' He hoped Mark understood that there was a time to hold and a time to fold.
'All right. We'll go down,' Mark said.
'I'd like to come,' Malone said.
'No,' de Roquefort said. 'This is a matter for the brotherhood. Though I never considered Nelle one of us, he took the oath, and that counts for something. Besides, his expertise might be needed. You, on the other hand, could become a problem.'
'How do you know Mark will behave?'
'He will. Otherwise, Christians or no, all of you will die before he could ever climb out that hole.'
MARK DESCENDED THE LADDER, FOLLOWED BY DE ROQUEFORT. HE pointed left and told de Roquefort about the chamber they'd found.
De Roquefort slid his gun back into a shoulder holster and aimed his flashlight ahead. 'You lead the way. And you know what happens if there are any problems.'
Mark started walking, his flashlight added to de Roquefort's beam. They eased their way around the staked hole that had almost claimed Stephanie.
'Ingenious,' de Roquefort said as he examined the pit.
They found the open grille.
Mark recalled Malone's warning about more traps and took only baby steps forward. The passage beyond narrowed to about a yard wide, then angled sharply right. After only a few feet, another angle back to the left. One step at a time, he inched ahead.
He made the final turn and stopped.
He shone his light and saw before him a chamber, perhaps ten yards square with a high rounded ceiling. Cassiopeia's assessment that the subterranean vaults might be of Roman origin seemed correct. The gallery formed a perfect repository, and as his light dissolved the darkness, a multitude of wonders came into view.
He first saw statuary. Small colorful pieces. Several enthroned Virgins and Child. Gilded pietas. Angels. Busts. All in straight rows, like soldiers, across the rear wall. Then the glint of gold from rectangular chests. Some overlaid with ivory panels, others sheathed in a mosaic of onyx and gilt, a few gilded in copper and decorated with coats of arms and religious scenes. Each was too precious for simple storage. They were reliquary caskets, made for the remains of holy saints, probably commandeered in the rush, anything to hold what they needed to transport.
He heard de Roquefort slip off the backpack he was wearing, and suddenly the room was engulfed in a bright orange glow from a battery-powered light bar. De Roquefort handed him one. 'These will work better.'
He didn't like cooperating with the monster, but knew he was right. He grabbed the light, and they fanned out to see what the room contained.
'COVER HIM UP,' MALONE SAID TO ONE OF THE BROTHERS, MOTIONING at Geoffrey.
'With what?' came the question.
'The power cords for the light bars are wrapped in a blanket. I can use that.' He motioned across the church, past one of the burning fires.
The man seemed to consider the inquiry a moment, then said, 'Oui. Do it.'
Malone stomped across the uneven floor and found the blanket, all the while assessing their situation. He returned and draped Geoffrey's body. Three guards had withdrawn to the other fire. The remaining three were stationed near the exit.
'He wasn't a traitor,' Henrik whispered.
They all stared at him. 'He came in alone and told me that de Roquefort was here. He called him. He had to. The former master made him pledge that, once the Devise was found, de Roquefort would be told. He had no choice. He didn't want to do it, but he trusted the old man. He told me to play along, begged my forgiveness, and said he'd look after me. Unfortunately, I couldn't return the favor.'
'That was foolish of him,' Cassiopeia said.
'Maybe,' Thorvaldsen said. 'But his word meant something to him.'
'Did he say why he had to tell him?' Stephanie muttered.
'Only that the master foretold a confrontation between Mark and de Roquefort. Geoffrey's task was to ensure one.'
'Mark's no match for that man,' Malone said. 'He's going to need help.'
'I agree,' Cassiopeia added, talking through her teeth, her mouth not moving.
'The odds aren't good,' Malone said. 'Twelve men armed, and we're not.'
'I wouldn't say that,' Cassiopeia whispered.
And he liked the twinkle in her eye.
MARK STUDIED THE TREASURE THAT SURROUNDED HIM. HE'D never seen so much wealth. The reliquary caskets contained a variety of silver and gold, either in coinage or as unminted raw metal. There were gold dinars, silver drachmas, and Byzantine coins, all stacked in neat rows. And jewels. Three chests brimmed with rough stones. Too many to even imagine. Chalices and reliquary vessels caught his gaze, most of ebony, glass, silver, and parcel-gilt. Some were coated with relief figures and dotted in precious stones. He wondered whose remnants they supposedly contained. One he knew for sure. He read the engraving and whispered, 'De Molay,' as he stared into the reliquary's rock crystal tube.
De Roquefort came close.
Inside the reliquary were bits of blackened bone. Mark knew the tale. Jacques de Molay was roasted alive on an island in the Seine, in the shadow of Notre Dame, shrieking his innocence and cursing Philip IV, who'd dispassionately watched the execution. During the night brothers swam the river and scrounged through the hot ashes. They swam back with the acrid bones of de Molay in their mouths. Now he was staring at one of those mementos.
De Roquefort crossed himself and mumbled a prayer. 'Look what they did.'
But Mark realized an even greater significance. 'This means someone visited this place after March 1314. They must have kept coming back until they all died. Five of them knew about this place. The Black Death surely took them in the mid-1300s. But they never told a soul, and this vault was lost forever.' A sadness swept over him at the thought.
He turned and his light revealed crucifixes and statuary of ebonized wood dotting one wall, about forty, the styles varying from Romanesque, to German, to Byzantine, to high Gothic, the intricately carved physical undulations so perfect they seemed to almost breathe.
'It's spectacular,' de Roquefort said.
The tally was incalculable, the stone niches that spanned two walls were packed full. Mark had studied in detail the history and purpose of medieval carving from the pieces that survived in museums, but here before him was a broad, spectacular display of Middle Age craftsmanship.
To his right, on a stone pedestal, he spotted an oversized book. The cover still gleamed-gold foil, he surmised- and was dotted with pearls. Someone had apparently opened the volume before, as crumbled parchment lay beneath, scattered like leaves. He bent down, brought the light close to the scraps, and saw Latin. He could read some of the script and quickly determined that it had once been an inventory ledger.
De Roquefort noticed his interest. 'What is it?'
'An accounting. Sauniere probably tried to examine it when he found this place. But you have to careful with parchment.'
'Thief. That's what he was. Nothing but a common thief. He had no right to take any of this.'
'And we do?'
'It's ours. Left for us by de Molay himself. He was crucified on a door, yet told them nothing. His bones are here. This is ours.'
Mark's attention was diverted to a partially open chest. He shone his light and saw more parchment. He slowly hinged open the lid, which only slightly resisted. He dared not touch the sheets stacked together. So he strained to decipher what was on the top page. Old French, he quickly concluded. He could read enough to know that it was a will.
