Fortunately, we would not be marching out of Montsègur with the other men-at-arms tomorrow. Our departure would take place tonight, despite the risk to the remaining garrison and the hostages still being held by Hugues de Archis. Even if the Franks kept their word and permitted our warriors to depart with their wealth and weapons, they would be searched for the legendary treasure that had spawned the forty-year crusade against our people.
To do honour to the tens of thousands who had already given their lives for the cause, all survivors at Montsègur were prepared to make the same sacrifice to ensure the escape of my party this night. At all costs the secret we harbour must not fall into the hands of the papacy.
MARCH 17TH 1244
After two days of solid travel we have reached the chateau of Blancheford, the ancestral home of the fourth Grand Master of the Temple knights, Bertrand de Blanchefort, whose descendants still provide a safe haven for all of our faith.
As I am alive to pen this account, I need not dwell on the success of our escape from Montsègur, except to mention that one of the two Credenti warriors assigned to protect my sister and I perished during our treacherous descent of the sheer western face of the mountain. For it seemed that Pierre-Roger Mirepoix did not trust the guide appointed to us by the Order of Sion as well as our Perfecti leaders had done—for the knight did not subscribe to our faith. To add to our suspicions, the only member of our party to have witnessed the death of our Credenti protector was the Sion knight who went by the name of Albray Devere. According to his account, our colleague had lost his footing and in his panic to right the situation he’d wriggled so much that he’d worn the rope to shreds; Sir Devere suspected the rope had begun to fray as the three of us had each descended. Our Sion guide had then employed a spare rope to lower himself to the ledge and passage where we awaited him. The passage led into myriad secret tunnels through the mountain.
To add to the shadow cast over our guide, at the exit from the mountain our party was surprised by a band of Sion knights, who claimed that they were the true representatives sent by Marie de Saint-Clair and that Sir Devere was an impostor.
As their leader, Sir Christian Molier, is a Frenchman, it seemed more likely that he is of the Order de Sion, and after having our Credenti colleague perish at the hands of Sir Devere, our remaining Credenti guardian was more inclined to believe Molier’s claim.
Sir Devere was seized and disarmed by Molier’s men, two of whom were instructed to escort him back to Sion headquarters in Orleans immediately.
The Scottish knight protested strongly to his removal from duty and swore blind that it was Molier who was lying, despite being beaten for his accusations. Devere was then bound, and dragged from our midst on foot behind the horses of his captors.
Molier has swiftly delivered us to our first destination and hence I can only assume that our decision to trust him is a sound one. Our Credenti guardian, Pierre de Saint-Martin, and I both feel quite confident in entrusting Molier and his men to arrange the second leg of our journey.
Part of the treasure we have removed from Montsègur is a document of vital historical import. It has been in the possession of our holy order since the Visigoths sacked Rome in 410AD. It is hoped that in future times this sacred relic will authenticate the validity of my bloodline. As this document shall be no safer where I am bound than it would be in the hands of the papacy, it must remain here with my sister Lilutu who, with the aid of our Blancheford allies, will see to a suitable place of concealment. However, the treasure that has been entrusted to me does not belong in this world. And as I know of only one remaining passage that leads to the realm of its origin, I must make the perilous journey to Outremer—the land beyond the sun—otherwise known as the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
A late note: I have just been informed that the two knights who were assigned to escort Sir Devere to Orleans have been killed. One of the knights perished at the time of Devere’s escape and the other has died from his wounds upon arrival at Chateau Blancheford with this news.
As the impostor is again at large I have been warned to be on my guard, in case he attempts to acquire my sacred charge. Molier has posted guards outside the door of my quarters and I feel confident enough of my safety. The god of light and spirit is surely guiding my quest to a speedy conclusion.
There is no community left that can be entrusted to harbour and not misuse this great gift from heaven. Hence, the creator must be most eager to have his sacred treasure back in His fold where it shall be safe from mankind once more.
MARCH 25TH 1244
For a week now I have been a prisoner and have been forced to move at such a relentless pace that I have not had a moment to put pen to parchment.
The same night when last I wrote, my Credenti guardian, Pierre de Saint-Martin, was murdered as he slept and so would I have been, had I not vowed I would cooperate with my abductor.
The traitor Devere managed to gain access to my quarters at Chateau Blancheford via a window and bolted my room shut from the inside. Sword to my throat, he requested I accompany him or hand over my treasure into his safekeeping.
If not for the threat to my life, and my quest, it would have been difficult not to scoff at his demand. Still, I insisted upon knowing for whom the knight was working before I would consider either of his requests.
He replied that he had already told me that he was in the service of Marie de Saint-Clair, and applying more pressure to the sword tip at my throat he stressed that he would not allow my burden to be stolen due to the bad judgement of a naive girl. I was not given the opportunity to protest to his insult as he advised that he intended to see the treasure to its resting place, alone if he must.
Sir Devere had no need to lie to me with the situation as it was, and for a moment his conviction to the cause swayed my better judgement. I warned him that any man would perish on this quest without a daughter of the blood as a guide.
A loud pounding on my door prevented me from confiding in him further, praise god.
It was Molier who yelled through the thick wooden door to warn me that Pierre de Saint-Martin had been slain and he ordered that I unbolt my door at once for my own safety.
What little favour Devere had gained was abruptly dispersed, and I accused him of murdering yet another of my guardians.
Devere simply pointed out that his sword was clean. Then, wrapping my long dark braid around one hand, Devere dragged me from my bed and tossed my warrior disguise at me. ‘No time for a judicial inquiry now, princess,’ he hissed.
His lack of respect for my station infuriated me—no knight of the high orders would treat a priestess of the blood in such a manner, whether he subscribed to the faith or not. This seemed to confirm Devere’s falsehood in my mind and I glanced to the solid timber door that was being rammed, hoping the guards would break through.
‘You are not the only daughter of the blood left on Earth,’ Devere commented, as he spotted the two chains around my neck disappearing under my long undershirt.
He was implying that my sister would serve his purpose just as well as I, and she would prove a far less troublesome hostage. My sister was needed at the chateau and I was hardly going to expose her to further danger; she did not have the constitution for such an adventure. Too many people had died to aid my quest for me to be parted from my burden so easily.
I dressed quickly, but before we descended the rope to the courtyard that would soon be swarming with guards, Devere stole one of the chains from around my neck. It was the chain of gold that hosted the Star—the Highward Fire-Stone.
‘Stay close or lose it,’ he warned.
It puzzled me then, as it does now, why Devere didn’t take both sacred vials? Why bother extending me such a show of faith? And yet, if Devere had indeed been a knight of the high orders of Sion, he may well know that the Fire vial I carry is of little use to me or anyone else who is not a male of my bloodline, for it is meant for their consumption alone. Only the contents of the Star vial heightened my a
wareness and the supernatural talents inherent in me. Those of my order only partook of the Highward Fire-Stone during sacred rites or holy feast days and even then, it was in the smallest of quantities so that its influence was of a temporary duration. Too much psychic talent had been known to drive women of my order insane with visions of the dark times ahead and the evil thoughts and intent of the non-Perfecti. In this instance, however, I feel the creator would have forgiven me for using the sacred substance to divine the truth about my abductor.
As it is, I am in a complete quandary with regard to his true loyalties, for he has made it quite clear that he does not subscribe to the beliefs of my faith. And when I asked him why the Grand Master of Sion had chosen him for this mission, Devere claimed he was the only knight of his order who had previously visited our final destination. This seemed a satisfactory reason and yet I sensed there was something he wasn’t telling me. I fear that only when we reach the Sinai will I be enlightened to his true character and intent.
In a few days we will reach Marseilles, and board a vessel bound for Outremer. Once our sea voyage has commenced it will prove nearly impossible for Molier’s rescue party to find us. I can only pray that he will hunt us down before then. For, despite his tolerance so far, I do not trust Devere. The way he observes me at times is most unnerving. I can almost hear the selfish voice of Rex Mundi at work upon his mind and heart.
MARCH 28TH 1244
I found my abductor’s choice of transport for our sea voyage curious. Although the Templar Knights have many vessels that sail between their coastal strongholds on this side of the Mediterranean coast, Devere opted to purchase passage on an Armenian trade ship headed home to Cilicia, via Antioch. The ship and captain may have been Cilician, but the crew was a mix of Armenians, Christian Palestinians and Arabs—there were even a couple of Turks. Despite the cultural diversity of the crew they conversed mainly in Arabic, except for when they were socialising within their own ethnic group.
I suspected Devere’s choice of transport had something to do with the rift that had caused the formal separation between the Order of Sion and the knights of the Temple at Gisors in 1188. Since then the Templars’ parent order has slipped quietly into obscurity, whilst the Templars, free to pursue their own objectives, have dramatically increased their fame, wealth and power. It is my guess that the separation was all show, for the knights of the Temple are fast becoming more influential than any one king, emperor, or even the Church of Rome. I fear the papacy will not tolerate such undermining of their authority, and once they have finished with the persecution of my people, they will be looking for new wealth and knowledge to covet. One thing I do know for certain is that the two orders of knights no longer share the same Grand Master and have not done so since the time Bertrand de Blancheford held the high position.
Watching Devere converse with the captain and crew of our vessel, it is clear that he feels far more at ease with these men of the East than he did with the men-at-arms at Montsègur. It is also apparent that his colouring—dark hair, eyes and skin—is similar to these men. He certainly has no problem conversing in the foreign dialect. In fact, Arabic seems to roll off his tongue more readily than D’oc or English; for a Scot his accent had, from the start, seemed rather lacking in colour.
I, too, had dark colouring, for it is said that the blood of Judah still runs strong in the females of my line. One day, should I survive this quest, I shall be called upon to mate with a male of the blood and produce an heir to carry on the holy traditions and keep the sacred knowledge until such time as mankind is ready for an awakening. Three-quarters of a century ago, St Bernard had hoped that this time was nigh, but the past forty years of terror and torture have extinguished all hope in that regard.
Gone, too, is any hope of Molier’s rescue party finding me, now that we are at sea. I have spent every free waking hour praying that I shall still succeed in my quest before I am delivered from this loathsome existence—this is my only wish for this life.
MARCH 30TH 1244
My earthly vessel has been so wretchedly ill these past few days that, even now, to write this account is a great effort. Yet I am compelled to attempt to purge myself of these undesirable feelings in the hope of soothing my agitated spirit. For I cannot honestly say whether it is the sea voyage, or my companions, that sickens me more.
I still wear the apparel of a knight and the crew of this ship has conveniently resolved to treat me as a man, despite knowing full well that I am not. Devere has made an arrangement with the captain for me to use his quarters to relieve and refresh myself. Nonetheless, this seems to be the only allowance made for me.
I am not as fluent in Arabic as my abductor, yet I do comprehend enough of the language to understand a lot of the banter of the men whose company I am forced to keep day and night. They converse openly about their most base and perverted desires in regard to those of my sex, and it is obvious that there is not an honourable or pure soul amongst them. Some have even asked for my thoughts on their foul subject matter and they find it most amusing that I want to ignore their questions and refrain from comment.
As there is no escape for me from such circumstances and, clearly, I am surrounded by infidels despite their claim to be Christians, I asked Devere yesterday if he would please consider returning that which he stole. My request, as with everything else I have said in the last few days, was received with great amusement.
‘And grant you the power to manipulate us all? I don’t think so.’
Devere’s protest made me furious. Either he was a Sion knight and thus bound to oblige me, or he was the scoundrel I took him for, and I stated as much in no uncertain terms.
My abductor claimed that he had taken no oath binding him to my service. ‘It is my ancestry that granted me a place in my order and which binds me to this quest,’ he explained.
This response puzzled me, until he clarified his statement.
‘Although we must be distantly related, it will not prevent me from killing you, should you threaten to thwart my mission.’
Devere was implying he was of the royal line of Judah! I had never met a male of the blood before and my first reaction was to reject his claim—he was just trying to throw me off guard, and perhaps he was succeeding. He was standing over me, using our private business as an excuse to stand at uncomfortably close quarters to me.
‘Don’t think I have not considered that it might be easier for me to seek another daughter of the blood to aid me with this task, upon reaching Outremer.’ Devere’s voice was uncomfortably intimate and menacing.
‘You speak as if we were in plentiful supply and discernible at a glance.’ I could see through his game and would not be played for the fool.
‘It is not with my eyes that I can scry out such a woman, but with my heart,’ he said, in a tone that some might consider seductive.
Then, to my great horror, Devere stripped off his chain mail and exposed his bare chest to me. I was shocked to witness indisputable proof of his claim, for on the smooth skin of his torso he bore the same birthmark as I did, a red cross, and in the same place—just to the right of his heart.
‘I am only ever attracted to women of the blood.’
His conclusion made me gasp. Devere may have just confessed lust—for me, a holy virgin priestess. Such a confession was unforgivable and certainly not indicative of a knight of the higher orders and their vows of chastity. Marie de Saint-Clair would never have sent such a knight to protect me. ‘You could never be who you claim to be,’ I stated, and immediately departed his company to pray for his soul…and for my safety during this mission, which was now severely in doubt.
‘My apologies.’ Devere followed in pursuit to torment me further. ‘I forgot you Perfecti consider earthly love to be nothing more than prostitution, even when it is sanctified by marriage.’
‘You forget nothing,’ I accused. ‘You deliberately attempt to offend me and destroy my peace of mind.’
He smiled, again amused
by my disapproving reaction. ‘Your thoughts regarding me must already have been on shaky ground, if I can rattle you so easily. Still, now you see why I left the Fire vial in your possession…to avoid the temptation of the power it would give me.’
I was doubly shocked and confused. How could I possibly believe he had any admirable intentions after the confession he had just made? ‘You seem to think very highly of yourself, Sir Devere, but I can assure you that I do not share your delusions. No mortal man could ever rival my love of the one true god.’ I hurried below decks to avoid any further debate and to escape the despicable laughter of the crew, who no doubt ascribed all sorts of disgusting motives to my hasty retreat.
Ever since Devere revealed his birthright to me I have been ailing, for I literally cannot stomach our association when I suspect that he is entertaining impure thoughts about our relationship. The constant rocking of this vessel, caused by rough seas, only accentuates my revulsion.
Why could I not have escaped this world with my fellow Perfecti in the burning fields of Montsègur? I had never thought to have my faith so sorely tested and in such a seductive fashion, nor had I ever imagined that I could find such a test so deeply disturbing. How could I have known that the face of Rex Mundi might haunt one so, his smile and manner so charming while also tormenting. I could accept any other man as being a vessel for the supreme corrupter of the world and the human spirit, but not a son of the blood.
Already I feel his words twisting my thoughts to his own ends and setting me at odds with everything I hold to be true and good. It was disturbing that Devere had made it sound as if an attraction between us was inevitable. The seductive expression on his face as he wove his spell only adds to its potency as the confrontation plays upon my memory.