The soldier shot a warning glance at the man beside his stirrup, who backed off with alacrity.

"This doesn't concern you," he said. "They'll get their chance to plead their case. If they're innocent, they'll be freed. Right now, we have our orders."

As he sped up slightly to draw even with the rest of the troop, a wiry, rat-faced laborer shouldered his way to the fore.

"Sorcerers!" he shouted after the Templars. "Magicians! Why don't you do a magic trick and set yourselves free?"

Jaw clenched, Arnault forced himself to ride on, keeping his eyes averted. For several hundred more yards, he kept hearing other mutters.

"Wonder what'll become of all the treasure they've stashed away."

"It's probably cursed. Whoever gets his hands on it will live to regret it."

"I'd be willing to take that chance."

"So will the king, I daresay."

Arnault slept rough that night in a wood. The next morning he cut his beard as closely as he could, using only a dagger, and pressed on for Chartres. Arriving before sunset, he sought out an una.s.suming hostel in the vicinity of the cathedral. There he stabled his weary horse and bespoke a bed for the night.

The adjoining tavern was crowded, and news of the Templars' arrest was still fresh. The innkeeper con?ded his opinion as he served Arnault a tankard of ale and a wooden trencher of bread and cheese.

"Maybe what they're saying is true. Maybe the Templars had it coming," he said with a shake of his head.

"Maybe they do traf?c in black magic. If you ask me, though, the root of all their trouble is all the wealth they've acc.u.mulated over the years-and power. Wealth and power always breed envy. And envy breeds enemies like ?ies on a dung heap."

He paused to give the tabletop a wipe with the corner of his ap.r.o.n. "If they had no riches worth the taking, I daresay, the Templars would still be walking around free."

Arnault found the innkeeper's surmises disconcertingly shrewd, but he thought it best to divert the conversation away from the subject of treasure. His saddlebag, with the riches he carried, lay on the ?oor between his feet, for he dared not trust it to the dubious safety of the room he would share with several others tonight.

"Then you don't believe they're guilty of the charges everyone is talking about?" he asked, again careful to speak with a strong Scottish accent.

The innkeeper shrugged. "What I believe doesn't matter, does it? The king means to have his way. And no one on earth, not even the pope, is in a position to stop him.

"But that's ?ckle fortune for you, making sport amongst the great men of the world. Those she raises up today, she casts down in the dust tomorrow." He sighed gustily and gave Arnault's table a ?nal swipe. "I suppose we should be glad we're only common folk. Whatever becomes of the Templars, it's hardly going to matter to the likes of us."

As the man turned away in summons by another patron, Arnault re?ected that the innkeeper could hardly be blamed for taking this view. How were ordinary men to know of the Temple's secret mission-or the secret war being waged between the Templars and their bitter enemies, the Knights of the Black Swan?

As he took a long pull of his ale, he found himself wondering if King Philip himself might be an initiate of the Black Swan. It seemed unlikely, given the king's shallow nature-for magic, whether black or white, required a focus and dedication almost certainly lacking in the king.

But Nogaret had such a focus and dedication-Guillaume de Nogaret, the king's excommunicate ?rst minister, whose parents had been burned at the stake as heretics, who had not scrupled to lay violent hands on a pope, and whose rise to power coincided very closely with the rise in hostility toward the Temple. And only the previous year, he had been inside the Paris Temple long enough to take a good look around-and to make plans to take what he wanted.

Even more compelling, from Arnault's point of view, was the appearance of Nogaret in his dreams.

Though the evidence was circ.u.mstantial, the weight of circ.u.mstance was bitterly convincing.

A bell began ringing out the Angelus nearby, intruding on his speculations, and he looked up, leaning back then to peer out the open door toward the cathedral.

"There's evening prayer after Angelus," the innkeeper said to him, noticing his interest. "Since you're on pilgrimage, you'll maybe be wanting to attend. If you do, you might spare me a prayer."

Arnault thanked the man and gulped down the rest of his ale, tucking his bread and cheese into his saddlebag before slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the cathedral. In fact, he had been there often, for this greatest of all churches honoring the Blessed Virgin had been built with the help of Templar architects and engineers, starting nearly a century and a half before, and embodied many facets of sacred geometry and symbolism. During his training for service in le Cercle, he had spent many an hour studying some of it, and knew it well. He had always derived comfort within its walls-and, sometimes, inspiration.

Pa.s.sing through the Royal Portal, which lay between the two great western towers, he skirted the eleven-ringed labyrinth inlaid in the ?oor of the graceful nave crossing and found a quiet place in one of the side chapels, in the shadow of a pillar, seeking more private re?ection than the formal prayers being chanted by the monks in the choir. Candles at the front of the chapel signi?ed the Divine Presence, as embodied in the Reserved Sacrament that was kept in a gothic tabernacle on the altar.

He had drawn his mantle more closely around him and had bowed his head in one hand, ?oating in the healing grace of that Presence, when he became aware of a dark silhouette pausing in the chapel's entry archway. A sidelong glance in that direction suggested that it was but another worshipper, but after a moment, the newcomer entered, pa.s.sing so close that his dark robes brushed Arnault's shoulder as he sank to his knees hardly an arm's length away. The stranger's hooded outer garment was cut in the style of a desert djellaba, though he wore Western-style mail and leather beneath it. The man himself was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, quick and supple in his movements as he traced a cross upon his breast-though he signed himself as was done in the East, from right to left. He favored Arnault with a slight nod as their eyes met.

"You are a pilgrim, I see," the stranger observed. "Tell me, brother, have you ventured so far as Jerusalem?"

His voice was resonant and low, with a curiously lilting intonation. By his appearance, Arnault had thought he might be Castilian, but the accent was neither Spanish, nor Arabic, nor anything else in Arnault's experience.

But why had he spoken? Though it occurred to Arnault that the man might be an agent of the Crown, sent to arrest him, he found himself curiously unconcerned that this might actually be true.

"Not so far as Jerusalem," he said neutrally.

"Then perhaps you have not ventured far enough," came the cool answer.

Arnault was taken aback by the other man's tone, for it hinted at subtle power, closely guarded, and purposes as yet undisclosed-but, quite possibly, alliances in harmony with his own.

"The roads to the Holy Land have never been more perilous than now," he said tentatively, daringly.

"The roads in France are more perilous still," the stranger amended quietly. "Especially to a man of your stamp."

Startled, though he did not let himself show it, Arnault glanced around them, to be certain no one could overhear.

"What kind of man do you take me for?" he whispered uneasily.

"A man with a task to perform, a mission to ful?ll," came the cryptic response. "A man with a secret burden weighing on his shoulders. A man who fears the law-and with good reason."

Arnault recoiled inwardly, gripped by a prescience of dread, but he could not seem to pull away from the stranger's dark gaze.

"The Law will destroy you," the man stated distinctly. "The Law will set you free."

This time, Arnault could not repress a start. "What did you say?"

The stranger eyed him steadily. "You know the words. You have heard them before."

"Yes, but how-?" Arnault stopped.

"Eli ben Ezra lived and died a seer," said the stranger. "He spoke with a prophet's tongue concerning days and times to come. He and I have drunk from the same sacred well. That is how I know you are of the brotherhood for whom my message is intended."

"Who are you?" Arnault blurted, though he knew instinctively to keep his voice down. "Where do you come from, and who sent you?"

"My name is Iskander," said the stranger. "More than that I may not tell you at this time, save at the risk of imperiling us both."

The name struck a curiously familiar chord, but before Arnault could recall where he had heard it before, Iskander continued.

"If we meet again hereafter, there will be every reason to speak freely. For now, suf?ce it to say that I am a friend who wishes to see you and your companions succeed in your mission."

He paused to sketch a sign in the air-a Templar recognition signal, though one out of use for decades.

"Speak on," Arnault whispered cautiously.

Iskander's dark eyes took on a fey, faraway look, as if he gazed far beyond the chapel walls.

"Wings of darkness overshadow the land. Talons of envy grasp at a sacred prize. Unnatural birds of prey seek to devour, and the weal of future generations hangs between darkness and light. Darkness threatens to sweep away the Temple."

Arnault shivered to a sudden thrill of premonition. The images clearly referred to the tide of recent events.

"Do you know how this will end?" he asked.

"With the death of many," came the grim response, "but some may survive. There is hope for redemption, but only at a price."

"How?"

"The answer lies in Jerusalem."

"Jerusalem?"

Before Arnault could say more, Iskander continued in the same prophetic tone.

"Before the Temple, there was the Ark of the Covenant. And before the Ark, there was the Covenant itself. The voice of G.o.d spoke, and the Tablets of the Law received the sacred Word. And the power of the Word will abide forever, though the Tablets themselves crumble into dust."

He leveled his keen gaze at Arnault with an air of expectation, but Arnault was shaking his head.

"I-hear," he whispered, "but I do not understand."

"You will," Iskander a.s.sured him with a glinting look.

He raised the hood of his djellaba and rose, moving toward the nave. Arnault tried to follow him, only to discover that he could not clearly pick out Iskander's form from the surrounding shadows. Even as he strained to penetrate the meaning behind Iskander's words, a voice whispered in his mind or in his ear, so soft that he could not be certain which.

"The First Temple was raised in accordance with the Word. In the place where the Temple was raised, you will ?nd the answers that you seek. Hope dwells for all eternity in the City of G.o.d."

"Wait! I don't understand," Arnault whispered urgently. "What does this mean?"

But Iskander had gone, leaving no trace.

Chapter Twenty-four.

February, 1308 THE CASTLE GUARDING THE NARROW VALLEY WAS NO longer known by any name. Stark and forbidding, it squatted above the valley's mouth like a basilisk guarding its lair. Especially in winter, the surrounding foothills of the Rouerge represented one of the most forbidding regions of southern France. Farther into the valley, the unsightly refuse of an abandoned stone quarry littered the snow-covered ground like the picked bones of a carca.s.s.

The castle's outward appearance of neglect, however, was mere camou?age, instigated by Nogaret.

Having acquired the sh.e.l.l of an ancestral ruin, he had since transformed it into a secret citadel of power.

Inside, every room in the castle had been scoured and refurbished, from the deepest cellars to the topmost chamber of the highest tower.

The resident garrison was small, its numbers limited to those who could readily be housed within the castle's outer baillie. The handful of servants who maintained the place had been carefully chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with providing hospitality. Visitors, apart from Nogaret himself, were unheard of. When he summoned three other members of the Decuria there for a secret meeting, the occasion was virtually without precedent.

Baudoin de Champiere edged his chair closer toward the ?re and rubbed his cold hands briskly to warm them.

"Sensible of what an honor it is for me to be here," he observed sourly, "I can hardly deem the experience a pleasure. You would think these loutish servants would know enough at least to bring us refreshments. I'm perishing for a cup of wine!"

He helped himself to a sugared rose leaf from the jeweled com?t box he habitually carried in one of his silken sleeve pockets.

"Magister Nogaret's servants take their tone from their master," Peret Auvergnais said with an offhand shrug. "If they didn't have their uses, he wouldn't keep them."

"Our peerless leader has the appet.i.tes of an anchorite," Baudoin said with a snort. "He is incapable of enjoying the ?ner things life has to offer-though he does have that demon in his ring."

"Guard your tongue," Peret advised. "Nogaret's churls may lack manners, but I daresay they have ears."

Hitherto silent, Valentin de Vesey turned restlessly away from the window, where he had been contemplating an ice-rimed view of a long-dead orchard.

"This is as joyless a retreat as I can imagine," he said. "Is it true that this castle was once a Cathar stronghold?"

"So I understand," Baudoin said around another sugared petal, though without any great interest. "It's said that his parents were Cathars, you know: condemned as heretics and burned at the stake, when he was but a lad."

"I'd heard that," Valentin replied. "And that the Church took great pains to educate him, in hopes that it might keep him from following in their footsteps."

"Well, he didn't follow in the footsteps of his parents or the Church fathers, did he?" Baudoin said slyly, sucking the stickiness from his ?ngers. "You don't suppose this is where his parents were burned, do you?"

Both his companions gave him warning looks, which Baudoin shrugged off as he leaned forward to pitch another chunk of wood on the ?re.

The appearance of a servant at the door brought all three visitors to their feet.

"Magister Nogaret is ready to receive you now," the man informed them. "You will come with me."

He led them to the topmost room in the east tower. As they approached the door, Valentin detected a lurking tingle of power in the air. It was not suf?cient to prepare him for the scene that met his eyes when they entered the room beyond.

The chamber itself was circular, its stone walls perforated by four deep lancet windows. But the windows had been blocked and then covered over with screens of silk, embroidered with traceries of Hebrew writing. In the absence of daylight, the room was illuminated by four bronze lamps placed at the four cardinal points of the compa.s.s, whose amber glow picked out an a.s.sortment of chests and bookshelves ranged about the chamber's perimeter.

Dominating the center of the room, upon a raised dais paved with alternating squares of black and white, was an altar draped with a rich cloth of creamy silk, beneath a silken canopy. A seven-branched candelabrum guarded one end of the altar; at the other, a bronze lectern supported a large leather-bound volume of Hebrew arcana, held shut by a pair of jeweled clasps. It was, Valentin realized, quite a pa.s.sable imitation of a Jewish sanctuary.

More astonishing still was the sight of Guillaume de Nogaret standing in the shadows behind the altar, arrayed in a purple tunic embroidered with scarlet and gold and wearing the priestly ephod upon his breast. Draped over his shoulders was a rich mantle, also of violet silk, and on his head he wore a turban secured with a jeweled brooch-the complete raiment of a Jewish High Priest, save for the Breastplate.

Peret and Baudoin both were gaping. Belatedly Valentin discovered he was doing likewise. Nogaret smiled thinly at their astonishment.

"What you see should come as no surprise," he said mildly. "Perhaps this will speak more eloquently than mere words concerning my motives and intentions."

From the folds of his mantle he produced what he had taken from the body of Gaspar des Macquelines some months before. It was the shape and the size of a small book, and swathed in muf?ing layers of crisp white linen. Power emanated from it in palpable waves, like the ?uctuations of the tide. At the very sight of it, an expression of greedy concupiscence trans?gured Baudoin's large features. Valentin's expression was more one of concern.

"It wasn't damaged by its immersion, was it?"

"No, it was sealed in wrappings of waxed cloth."