'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?'
'That, too, is within my grasp.'
'Bold words, Marshal.'
He stared out at the brothers. 'I've been searching for a decade. The clues are difficult, but I'll soon possess proof the world cannot deny. Whether any minds change is irrelevant. Rather, the victory is gained by proving that our brothers were not heretics. Instead, each and every one of them was a saint.'
Applause erupted from the crowd. De Roquefort seized the moment. 'The Roman Church disbanded us, claimed we were idol worshipers, but the Church itself venerates its own idols with great pageantry.' He paused, then in a loud voice he said, 'I will take back the shroud.'
More applause. Louder. Sustained. A violation of Rule, but no one seemed to care.
'The Church has no right to our shroud,' de Roquefort yelled over the clapping. 'Our master, Jacques de Molay, was tortured, brutalized, then burned at the stake. And his crime? Being a loyal servant to his God and his pope. His legacy is not their legacy. It's our legacy. We have the means to accomplish that goal. So shall it be, under my tenure.'
The seneschal handed the beauseant to the man beside him, stepped close to de Roquefort, and waited for the applause to subside. 'What of those who do not believe as you do?'
'Whoever seeks will find, whoever knocks will be let in.'
'And for those who choose not to?'
'The Gospel is clear on that, too. Woe to you on whom the evil demons act. '
'You are a dangerous man.'
'No, Seneschal, you are the danger. You came to us late and with a weak heart. You have no conception of our needs, only what you and your master thought to be our needs. I have given my life to this Order. No one save you has ever challenged my ability. I have always adhered to the ideal that I would rather break than bend.' He turned from his opponent and motioned out to the conclave. 'Enough. I call for a vote.'
Rule dictated that debate was over.
'I shall vote first,' de Roquefort said. 'For myself. All those who agree, so say.'
He watched as the ten remaining men considered their decision. They'd stayed silent during his confrontation with the seneschal, but each member had listened with an intensity that signaled comprehension. Dr. Roquefort's eyes strafed the group and zeroed tight on the few he thought absolutely loyal.
Hands started to rise.
One. Three. Four. Six.
Seven.
He had his two-thirds, but he wanted more, so he waited before declaring victory.
All ten voted for him.
The room erupted in cheer.
In ancient times he would have been swept off his feet and carried to the chapel, where a mass would be said in his honor. A celebration would later occur, one of the rare times the Order engaged in merriment. But that happened no longer. Instead, men began to chant his name and brothers, who otherwise existed in a world devoid of emotion, showed their approval by clapping. The applause turned into beauseant- and the word reverberated throughout the hall.
Be glorious.
As the chant continued he stared at the seneschal, who still stood beside him. Their eyes met and, through his gaze, he made it known that not only had the master's chosen successor lost the fight, but the loser was now in mortal danger.
TWENTY-TWO
The look was typical for the region. Sturdy timber floors, beam ceilings, stone fireplace, simple pine furniture. Not much space, but enough with two bedrooms, a den, a bath, kitchen, and a workshop. Lars had loved wood turning and earlier she'd noticed that his lathes, skews, chisels, and gouges were all still there, each tool hanging from a Peg-Board and frosted with a thin layer of dust. He'd been talented with the lathe. She still possessed bowls, boxes, and candlesticks he'd crafted from the local trees.
During their marriage she'd visited only a few times. She and Mark lived in Washington, then Atlanta. Lars stayed mainly in Europe, the last decade here in Rennes. Neither of them ever violated the other's space without permission. Though they may not have agreed on most things, they were always civil. Maybe too much so, she'd many times thought.
She'd always believed Lars had bought the house with royalties earned from his first book, but now she knew that Henrik Thorvaldsen had aided in the purchase. Which was so like Lars. He'd possessed little regard for money, spending all of what he earned on travel and his obsessions, the task of making sure the family bills were paid left to her. She'd only recently satisfied a loan used to finance Mark's college and graduate school. Her son had several times offered to assume the debt, especially once they were estranged, but she'd always refused. A parent's job was to educate their child, and she took her job seriously. Perhaps too much, she'd come to believe.
She and Lars had not spoken at all in the months before his death. Their last encounter was a bad one, another argument about money, responsibility, family. Her attempt at defending him yesterday with Henrik Thorvaldsen had sounded hollow, but she never realized that anyone knew the truth about her marital estrangement. Apparently, though, Thorvaldsen did. Perhaps he and Lars had been close. Unfortunately, she'd never know. That was the thing about suicide-ending one person's suffering only prolonged the agony of those left behind. She so wished to be rid of the sick feeling rooted in the pit of her stomach. The pain of failure, a writer once called it. And she agreed.
She finished her tour and entered the den, taking a seat across from Malone, who'd had been reading Lars's journal since dinner.
'Your husband was a meticulous researcher,' he said.
