She faced him. 'Only when people mean to hurt me.'
'I assume you've considered a course of action?'
'Oh, yes. I have a plan.'
FIFTY-ONE
DE ROQUEFORT SAT BEFORE THE ALTAR IN THE MAIN CHAPEL, dressed once more in his formal white cassock. The brothers filled the pews before him, chanting words that dated back to the Beginning. Claridon was in the archives, poring through documents. He'd instructed the archivist to allow the impish fool access to whatever he requested-but also to keep a close watch over him. The report from Givors was that Cassiopeia Vitt's chateau seemed down for the night. One brother watched the front, another the rear. So while little else could be done, he decided to tend to his duties.
A new soul was about to be welcomed into the Order.
Seven hundred years ago, any initiate would have been of legitimate birth, free of debt, and physically fit to wage war. Most were celibates, but married men had been allowed honorary status. Criminals were not a problem, nor were excommunicates. Both were allowed redemption. Every master's duty had been to ensure that the brotherhood grew. Rule made clear, If any secular knight, or other man, wishes to leave the mass of perdition and abandon this century, do not deny him entry. But it was St. Paul's words that had formed the modern standard for induction. Approve the spirit if it comes from God. And the candidate kneeling before him represented his first attempt to implement that dictate. It disgusted him that such a glorious ceremony was forced to take place in the dead of night behind locked gates. But such was the way of the Order. His legacy-what he wanted noted in the Chronicles long after his death-would be a return to the light.
The chanting stopped.
He stood from the oak chair that had served since the Beginning as the master's perch.
'Good brother,' he said to the candidate, who knelt before him, hands on a Bible. 'You ask a great thing. Of our Order, you see only the facade. We live in this resplendent abbey, we eat and drink well. We have clothes, medicine, education, and spiritual fulfillment. But we live under harsh commandments. It is hard to make yourself the serf to another. If you wish to sleep, you may be awakened. If you are wakeful, you may be ordered to lie down. You may not want to go where directed, but you must. You will hardly do anything that you wish. Can you suffer well these hardships?'
The man, probably in his late twenties, his hair already cropped short, his pale face clean-shaven, looked up and said, 'I will suffer all that is pleasing to God.'
He knew that the candidate was typical. He'd been found at university several years ago, and one of the Order's precepts had monitored the man's progress while learning the family tree and personal history. The fewer attachments, the better, and thankfully the world abounded with drifting souls. Eventually, direct contact was made and, being receptive, the initiate was slowly schooled in Rule and asked the questions candidates had been asked for centuries. Was he married? Engaged? Had he ever made a vow or pledge to another religious society? Any debts he could not pay? Any hidden illnesses? Was he beholden to a man or woman for any reason?
'Good brother,' he said to the candidate, 'in our company, you must not seek riches, nor honor, nor bodily ease. Instead, you must seek three things. First, renounce and reject the sins of this world. Second, do the service of our Lord. And third, be poor and penitent. Will you promise to God and our Lady that all the days of your life you will obey the master of this Temple? That you will live in chastity, without personal property? That you will uphold the customs of this house? That you will never leave this Order, neither through strength nor weakness, in worse times nor better?'
Those words had been used since the Beginning, and de Roquefort recalled when they'd been uttered to him, thirty years ago. He still felt the flame that had been ignited within him-a fire that now burned with a raging intensity. To be a Templar was important. It meant something. And he was determined to ensure every candidate who donned the robe during his tenure understood that devotion.
He faced the kneeling man.
'What do you say, brother?'
'De par dieu.' For God's sake, I will do it.
'Do you understand that your life may be required?' And after what had happened the past few days, this inquiry seemed even more important.
'Without question.'
'And why would you offer your life for us?'
'Because my master ordered it.'
The correct answer. 'And you would do so without challenge?'
'To challenge would be to violate Rule. My task is to obey.'
He motioned to the draper, who produced from a wooden chest a long twill cloth.
'Stand,' he said to the candidate.
The young man came to his feet, dressed in a black wool robe that covered his thin frame from shoulder to bare feet.
'Remove your garment,' he said, and the robe was lifted over his head. Beneath, the candidate was dressed in a white shirt and black trousers.
The draper approached with the cloth and stood off to one side.
'You have removed the shroud of the material world,' de Roquefort made clear. 'Now we embrace you with the cloth of our membership and we celebrate your rebirth as a brother in our Order.'
He motioned and the draper came forward and wrapped the cloth around the candidate. De Roquefort had seen many a grown man cry at this moment. He himself had fought to suppress his own emotions when the same cloth had been wrapped around him. No one knew how old this particular shroud was, but one had reverently remained in the initiation chest since the Beginning. He well knew the tale of one of the early cloths. Used to wrap Jacques de Molay after the master had been nailed to a door in the Paris Temple. De Molay had lain within the linen for two days, unable to move from his wounds, too weak to even rise. While he had, bacteria and chemicals from his body had stained the fibers and generated an image that fifty years later began to be venerated by gullible Christians as the body of Christ.
He'd always thought that fitting.
The master of the Knights Templar-the head of a supposed heretical order-became the mold from which all subsequent artists fashioned Christ's face.
He stared out at the assembly. 'You see before you our newest brother. He wears the shroud that symbolizes rebirth. It's a moment we've all experienced, one that joins us to each other. When chosen as your master I promised a new day, a new Order, a new direction. I told you that no longer would the few know more than the many. I told you that I would find our Great Devise.'
He stepped forward.
'In our archives, at this moment, is a man who possesses knowledge we need. Unfortunately, while our former master did nothing, others, not of this Order, have been searching. I have personally followed their efforts, watched and studied their movements, waiting for a time when we would join that search.' He paused. 'That time has come. I have brothers beyond the walls searching at this moment, and more of you will follow.'
As he spoke, he allowed his gaze to drift across the church to the chaplain. He was an Italian with a solemn countenance, the chief prelate, the Order's highest-ranking ordained cleric. The chaplain headed the priests, about a third of the brothers, men who chose a life devoted solely to Christ. The chaplain's words carried much weight, particularly given that the man spoke sparingly. Earlier, when the council had convened, the chaplain had voiced his concern about the recent deaths.
'You're moving too fast,' the chaplain declared.
