Tales of the Knights Templar (19 page)

“You don’t understand, Ms. Tarrill.” The old man had stroked the crystal lightly with one swollen finger. “But you will.”

Before Pat could speak, Chalmer Hardie whirled away, replaced by a progression of scowling old men in offices, shipyards, and mills, all working as though work was all they had. Clothing and surroundings became more and more old-fashioned, and by the time she touched a mind she knew, she realized she was tracing the trail of the medallion back through time.

“Dunmaglassf”

Once again, she watched Alexander MacGillivray lead the charge across Culloden Moor. Then she watched as the MacGillivrays, son to father, returned the clan to Argyll. There were more young men than old in this group, for these were men willing to take a stand in a dark time. There were MacGillivrays on the shore when the Templar fleet sailed into Loch Caignish.

“Go with God, Brother.”

Bernard smiled and climbed to his death.

“In this crystal is a sliver of the Cross of our Lord. I would not have it fall into the hands of that jackal
—”

The Masters of the Knights Templar had not lived an easy life. In spite of the protection of the Cross, many of them died in battle. She saw William de Beaujey, the last Master of the Temple before the Moslems regained the Holy Land, fall defending a breach in the wall of Acre. She saw de Sonnac blinded at Mansourah and de Peragors dying on the sands of Gaza. Master, before Master, before Master, until an old man slipped a medallion over the head of Hugues de Payens.

All at once, Pat could hear pounding and jeers and was suddenly lifted into dim light under an overcast sky. She could see a crowd gathered and a city in the distance, but she could feel no one except herself. Then she looked down. The sliver had been taken from near the top of the cross. She saw a crown of thorns, dark hair matted with blood, and the top curve of shoulders marked by a whip.

NO!

For the first time, someone heard her.

Yes.

* * *

Tears streaming down her face, Pat woke, still curled in the chair, still clutching the second bottle. When she leapt to her feet, the bottle fell and rolled beneath the bed. She didn’t notice. She clawed the box out of her purse, clawed the medallion out of the box, and stared at the crystal.

“All right. That’s it. You win.” Dragging her nose over her sleeve, she shoved the medallion into one pocket of her jacket, shoved her wallet in the other, and grabbed the phone.

“Gordon? I’m doing what Mr. Hardie wants me to do, now, tonight.”

“Ms. Tarrill?”

“Pat. Do you know where the church is in Petty?”

“Sure, my uncle has the parish, but—”

“I’m not drunk.” In fact, she’d never felt more sober. “I need to do this.” She checked her watch. “It’s only just past ten. I’ll meet you out front.”

She heard him sigh. “I’ll be right there.”

The car barely had a chance to slow before she flung open the door and threw herself into the passenger seat.

“Ms. Tarrill, I—” He broke off as he caught sight of her face. “Good God, you look terrified. What’s wrong?”

Pat found a laugh that didn’t mean much. “Good God indeed. I’ll tell you later. If I can. Right now, I have something to get rid of.”

“And you wanted to call it a night.” Andrew let the car get two blocks away, then pulled out after it. The large man crammed into the passenger seat of the mini said nothing, and the larger man folded into the back merely grunted.

The church in Petty stood alone on a hill about seven miles east of Inverness, just off the A96. A three-quarter moon and a sky bright with stars sketched out the surrounding graveyard in stark silver and black. Gordon pulled into the driveway and killed the motor.

“At least it’s stopped raining,” Pat muttered, getting out of the car. “No, you wait here,” she added, when Gordon attempted to follow. “I have to do this alone.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, he dropped into the driver’s seat, reclined it back, and pointedly closed his eyes.

Chalmer Hardie’s instructions had been clear.
“The MacKintosh mausoleum is against the west side of the church. Close by it, you’ll find a gravestone with only a sword cut into the face. MacGillivray’s fiancée managed to bury him, but with Cumberland’s army squatting in Inverness, she could find no one who dared put his name on the stone. There are MacGillivrays buried in Kilmartin graveyard under similar stones—Templar stones. Put the medallion in the grave.”

Keeping a tight grip on her imagination, Pat found the ancient mausoleum, skirted it, and stared down at the grave of Alexander MacGillivray. Then suddenly realized what
put the medallion in the grave
meant.

“And me without a shovel.” Swallowing hard, she managed to get her stomach under control, although at the moment, the possibility of spending another night with the medallion frightened her more than a bit of gravedigging. She pulled it out of her pocket and glared down at it. All she wanted to do was get rid of it. Why did it have to be so difficult?

“Hand over the jewelry and nobody gets hurt.”

Fear clamped both hands around her throat and squeezed her scream into a breathy squeak. When she turned, she saw three substantial shadows between her and the lights that lined Moray Firth. If they were ghosts, hell provided a pungent aftershave. Two of them were huge. The third was a weaselly looking fellow no bigger than she was.

The weaselly fellow smiled. “I won’t say we don’t want to hurt you, because me pals here rather like a bit of rough stuff. Be a smart lady; give it here.” While he spoke, the other two closed in.

Pat laughed a bit hysterically. “Look, you have no idea how much I want to get rid of this. Go ahead and—”

Then she stopped. All she could think of was how Davie Hardie had been willing to do anything rather than die.

“Your word will be sufficient.”

“My word? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

She’d given her word that she’d put the medallion in Alexander MacGillivray’s grave. Her chin rose and she placed it carefully back in her pocket. “If you want it, you’ll have to take it from me.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Up yours.” Pat took a deep breath and was surprised by how calm she felt.

The man on her left jerked forward and she dove to the right. Fingers tangled in her hair but she twisted free, fell, and scrambled back to her feet.
If I can just get to the car …

Her ears rang as a fist slid off the side of her head. A hand clutched the shoulder of her jacket. If she slid out of it, they’d have the medallion, so she stepped back, driving her heel down onto an instep.

One of them swore and let go. The other wrapped his arm around her neck and hung on. When she struggled, he tightened his grip.

“Right, then.” The weaselly fellow pinched her cheek, hard.

Pat tried to bite him.

“That’ll be enough of tha—ahhhhhhhhh!”

He sounded terrified.

The arm released her neck and Pat dropped to her knees. Gasping for breath, she watched all three of her assailants race away, tripping and stumbling over the gravestones.

“Good… timing… Gordon,” she panted, and turned.

It wasn’t Gordon.

Alexander MacGillivray had been a tall man, and although it was possible to see the church and the mausoleum through him, death hadn’t made him any shorter. Pat looked up. Way up. This time the scream made it through the fear. She stood, stumbled backward into a gravestone, and fell. Ghostly fingers reached out toward her.…

When she opened her eyes, Pat discovered there was no significant difference between a hospital room in Scotland and one in Canada. They even smelled the same. Ignoring the pain in her head, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and discovered her clothes neatly folded on a chair by the bed.

Teeth clenched, she managed to snag her jacket. Although she half expected the ghost of Alexander MacGillivray to have claimed the medallion, it was still in her pocket. Closing her fingers around it, she stared at the ceiling and thought about what had happened in the graveyard. About what she’d done. About what she hadn’t done. About what had sent her there. About the medallion. By the time the nurse came in to check on her, she’d made a decision.

When she fell asleep, she didn’t dream.

They’d just cleared the breakfast dishes away—she’d been allowed a glass of juice and hadn’t wanted much more—when Gordon, looking as though he’d spent a sleepless night, stuck his head into the room. When he saw she was awake, he walked over to the bed. “I’m not a relative,” he explained self-consciously. “They made me go home.”

“The nurse said you nearly drove through the doors at emergency.”

“It seemed the least I could do.” His expression shifted through worry, relief, and anger. “I came running when I heard the screams. When I saw you on the ground …”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

“No.” He frowned. “Should I have?”

If she said she’d been attacked, the police would have to be involved, and what would be the point?

“Pat, what happened?”

“I saw a ghost.” She shrugged and wished she hadn’t, as little explosions went off inside her skull. “I guess I tripped and hit my head.”

Scooping her clothes off the chair, he sat down. “I guess you did. The nurse at the desk told me that if you’d hit it two inches lower, you’d be dead.” He colored as she winced. ldquo;Sorry.”

“S’okay. Gordon, last night you said your uncle had the parish of Petty. Does that mean he’s the minister there?”

It took him a moment to get around the sudden change oftopic.”Uh,yes.”

“Is he a good man?”

“He’s a minister!”

“You know what I mean.”

Gordon considered it. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “he’s a good man.”

“Could you call him?” Pat lightly stroked the crystal with one finger. “And ask him to come and see me.”

Sunlight brushed the hard angles off the graveyard and softened both the gray of the stones and the red brick of Petty church. Released from the hospital that morning, Pat looked out over the water of Moray Firth, then down at the grave of Alexander MacGillivray.

“I gave my word to Chalmer Hardie that I’d put the medallion in your grave.” She sighed and spread her hands. “I don’t have it anymore. I tried to call him, but he’s in the hospital and MacClery won’t let me talk to him. Anyway, I’m going home tomorrow and I thought you deserved an explanation.”

When she paused, the silence waited for her to continue. “So many of the Templars died violently that I was confused for a while about the medallion’s power to protect. You gave me the clue. If you’d thought it could stop shot, you’d have torn the country apart to find it before you sacrificed the lives of your people. Davie Hardie wanted the medallion to protect him from dying in battle, so that’s what it did—but the Templars
expected
to die in battle, so they wanted protection against the things that would cause them to break their vows.”

Her cheeks grew hot as she remembered how close to betrayal she personally had come, and how much five hundred pounds sounded like thirty pieces of silver. “Chalmer Hardie wanted me to right the wrong his ancestor did you by having the medallion returned where he thought it belonged. But I don’t think it belongs with the dead. I think we could really use that kind of protection active in the world right now.

“Gordon’s uncle says there’s still Templar organizations in Scotland, even after all this time. I thought you’d like to know that.” The gravestone was warm under her fingertips as she traced the shallow carving of the sword. “He gave me his word that he’ll give it to the person in charge.

“So I’m bringing you his promise in place of the medallion.”

Shoving her hands into her pockets, she turned to go. Then she remembered one more thing. “I could still lie to Mr. Hardie. Tell him you got the medallion back, pick up that ten grand and the job—but I won’. Because it isn’g honorably that counts, is it? It’s living honorably, right to the end.”

As she reached the corner of the church and could see Gordon waiting by the car, the hair lifted off the back of her neck. The silence pulled her around.

Standing on the grave was a tall young man with red-gold hair and pale skin in the clothing of the Jacobitc army. Pat forgot to breathe. He hadn’t been wearing the medallion the night he’d driven off the three thugs, but today it hung gleaming against his chest.

The air shimmered and she saw a line of men stretch into the distance behind him. They all wore the medallion. Many wore the white mantle and red cross of a Templar Knight. For an instant, she felt a familiar weight around her neck, then both the weight and all the shades but Alexander MacGillivray’s disappeared.

Tell Chalmer Hardie,
he said to her heart as he faded,
that you kept your word.

INTERLUDE FIVE

As suggested in the previous story, one of the relics possessed by the Templars
was
a splinter of the True Cross. Described as being encased in gold”and jewels, it was one of the few Templar “hallows” actually to fall into the hands of Philip of France. For the injustice he had visited upon the Order (and perhaps for profaning so holy a relic), Philip was to pay a heavy price—and ensure both for himself and for the Order a somewhat different place in history than he had reckoned.

The Temple had been officially suppressed in April 1312, by the bull
Vox in excelso,
which disbanded the Order in the sense of revoking its charter, but made no determination of guilt. In May, the bull
Ad providam
gave all the former properties of the Temple except those in Spain and Portugal to the Knights Hospitaller. The bull
Considerantes,
which followed four days later, reserved to the pope himself the fate of several named Templars: Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master; Geoffroi de Charney, the Preceptor of Normandy; Geoffrey de Goneville, Preceptor of Poitou; Hugh de Paraud, the Visitor of France and former Treasurer of the Paris Temple; and a Knight referred to as Frère Oliver de Penne, who appears in no other written record, and whose function and fate are unknown. The remaining Templars still in prison were to be dealt with by local provincial councils convened by the archbishops.