“But how? Through what organization? I haven’t found historical references to the order operating as such. What are they called?”
“Miss Jiménez, through the years the Templars have lived silently, dedicated to reflection and study, taking part as individuals in these events, although always with the knowledge of their brothers. There are various organizations—lodges, if you like—in which groups of knights meet. These lodges are legal; they are scattered through many countries, and they exist under the laws of each one. You should change your focus on the Order of the Temple; as I say, in the twenty-first century you will not find an organization like that of the twelfth or thirteenth—it simply doesn’t exist.
“Our institution here is devoted to studying the history of the Temple and the individual and collective events associated with it, from its founding to our own day,” the professor continued. “We examine archives; as historians we review certain obscure events; we seek out old documents…. I believe I detect a look of disappointment on your face.”
“No, it’s that…”
“You were expecting a warrior knight? I’m sorry to disappoint you. I am just a professor retired from the University of Cambridge who, in addition to being a believer, shares with other knights certain principles: a love of truth and justice.”
Ana sensed that behind Anthony McGilles’s words there was much more, that everything couldn’t be that clear, that simple.
“Professor, I appreciate your kindness in explaining all this. I know I’m taking advantage of your patience, but I wonder if you could help me understand an event that I think the Templars were involved in?”
“I’ll try, of course. If I don’t know the answer, we’ll go to our computerized archive. What’s the event?”
“I’d like to know whether the Templars took the Holy Shroud that is now in Turin from Constantinople during the reign of Balduino the Second. The shroud disappeared at that time and didn’t reappear, in France, until almost a century later.”
Had she imagined just the slightest ripple in his urbane demeanor?
“Ah, the shroud…So much controversy! So many legends! My opinion as a historian is that the Temple had nothing to do with its disappearance.”
“Would it be possible for me to explore a bit in your archives? I’ve come all this way….”
“I think we can arrange that. I’ll have Professor McFadden help you.”
“Professor McFadden?”
“I must go to a meeting, but I leave you in good hands. Professor McFadden is our chief archivist, and he’ll help you with anything you need.”
McGilles picked up a small silver bell and rang it gently. The butler entered immediately.
“Richard, take Miss Jiménez to the library. Professor McFadden will meet with her there.”
“I appreciate your help, professor.”
“I hope we may be of service to you, Miss Jiménez. Good day.”
A.D. 1291
Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the Temple, carefully slid the document into the secret drawer in his writing table, his lean face troubled. The missive from the brothers in France was yet more proof that the Temple no longer had as many friends at the court of Philippe IV as they’d had in the time of good King Louis—may God protect him and glorify him, for there had been no more chivalrous and valiant king in all of Christendom.
Philippe owed them gold, a great deal of gold, and the more he owed, the more his resentment against the Temple seemed to grow. In Rome, too, there were religious orders that could not hide their festering envy of the Temple’s power.
But in that spring of 1291, Guillaume de Beaujeu had another problem, more urgent than the intrigues within the courts of France and Rome. François de Charney and Said had returned from their incursion into the Mameluke camp with devastating news.
The Mamelukes dominated Egypt and Syria, and they had taken Nazareth, the city in which our Lord Jesus grew from childhood into manhood. Today, their flag flew above the port of Jaffa, scant leagues from the Templar fortress Saint-Jean d’Acre. For a month the knight and his squire had lived among them in their advance military encampment, had listened to the soldiers and shared bread, water, and prayers to Allah the Merciful with them. They had passed themselves off as Egyptian merchants who wished to sell provisions to the army. The information they had gathered led to one inescapable conclusion. In only a few days, fifteen at the most, the Mameluke army would attack Saint-Jean d’Acre. That was what the soldiers were saying, and it had been confirmed by the officers with whom de Charney had fraternized. The Mameluke commanders had boasted that they would be rich when they seized the treasures safeguarded in the fortress at Acre, which they vowed would fall, as so many other fortresses had fallen to their armies.
The soft breeze of March presaged the intense heat of the coming months in a Holy Land watered with Christian blood. Two days ago a select group of Templars had filled chests with the gold and treasures that the Temple kept within the fortress. The Grand Master had ordered them to set sail, as soon as they were ready, on a course for Cyprus and from thence to France. None of the brothers wanted to leave, and they had pleaded with Guillaume de Beaujeu to allow them to stay and defend the city. But the Grand Master would not be swayed: The survival of the order depended in great part on them, for they were charged with saving the Templar treasure. Now all was ready for their departure.
Of all the knights, François de Charney was the most distraught. He had held back bitter tears when de Beaujeu ordered him on a mission far from Acre. The Frenchman begged his superior to let him stay and fight for the Cross, but de Beaujeu forbade further argument. The decision had been made.
The Grand Master descended the stairs into the cool dungeons of the fortress, and there, in a room guarded by knights, he inspected the massive chests that were soon to depart for France.
“We will divide the treasure among three galleys so as not to stake all on one. You each know which ship you will be embarking on. Be prepared to set sail at a moment’s notice.”
“I do not yet know my ship,” said de Charney.
Guillaume de Beaujeu’s iron gaze fixed upon de Charney. More than sixty years of age but still strong, his face weathered by the sun, he was one of the most veteran of the Templar knights. He had survived a thousand perils, and as a spy he had no equal unless it be his late friend Robert de Saint-Rémy, who had been killed during the defense of Tripoli when a Saracen arrow pierced his heart.
“You, good sir, will accompany me to the chapter meeting hall. We will speak there. But before you depart on your own mission, I must ask you to return to the camp of the Mamelukes. We must know whether they are able to prevent the ships from arriving at their destination, whether some ambush awaits us at sea.”
The Grand Master read in de Charney’s eyes the anguish it caused the old knight to leave the land that he now called his own, that life in which most nights he slept on the ground under the stars, most days rode with caravans in search of information, and for weeks at a time lost himself in Saracen camps, from which he had always successfully returned.
For François de Charney, returning to France was a tragedy. The master clasped his shoulder when they were alone together in the meeting hall.
“Know, de Charney, that you are the only man to whom I can entrust this mission. Years ago, when you were little more than a boy and newly initiate in the order, you and Saint-Rémy brought back from Constantinople the only certain relic of our Lord, his grave cloth, upon which was imprinted his face and his figure. It is thanks to that Holy Shroud that we know the face of Jesus, and to it we pray as to the Lord Himself. This has been both our singular privilege and our sacred trust. Knowing the shifting vicissitudes of time and politics, of nations and religious hierarchies and the frailties of the human heart, we have sworn as brothers to hold this precious cloth in secrecy and safety so that it might endure through all the ages of man.
“You are now an old man but serene in your faith
, and your strength and valor stand as an example to us all. It is for that reason I am entrusting you with saving the shroud of Christ our Lord. Of all the treasures we possess, this is the most precious, for not only the image but the very blood and holy essence of Jesus are entwined within its threads. You shall save it, de Charney! Once you return from the Mamelukes’ camp, you shall leave for Cyprus with whatever men you may choose. You may also choose the route, whether by ship or on horseback. I trust in your good judgment, your devotion, and your strong arm in this mission to bear the Holy Shroud to France. No one must know what you are carrying; you yourself must make all the arrangements for the journey. And now, prepare yourself for your mission.”
De Charney, accompanied by his faithful squire, old Said, once more infiltrated the Mameluke camp. Among the soldiers he could sense the heightened tension that preceded battle, as around the campfires they recalled their families and dreamed of the hazy images of their children, who were now growing into men and women. Soon enough the knight felt sure that no attack was planned against the Templar ships, and he sent Said back to the fortress with the word that they might sail.
For three days more the Templar listened to snatches of conversations between soldiers and among the officers and also to those of the numerous servants to the Saracen leaders, hoping for information that might aid his brothers in defending their redoubt. When he overheard one of the commanders telling his lieutenants that the attack would occur two days later, he hastened back to the fortress.
He entered Saint-Jean d’Acre as the first light of morning was turning the stone walls of the imposing Templar bastion into shimmering gold.
Guillaume de Beaujeu ordered the Templar knights to make their final preparations to resist the attack. Christians raced through the streets frantically, many overcome by hysteria when they could find no means of transport away from the fort, whose fate no one could guarantee. The last ships had sailed, and desperation was spreading among the populace.
De Charney helped his brothers to complete preparations for the defenses, rehearsed a thousand times over, and to calm the disputes among the population—there were men who were capable of killing their neighbor in order to escape.
Night was once more falling when the Grand Master sent for him.
“Dear brother, you must depart. I erred when I sent you to the Mameluke camp—now there is no ship to carry you.”
François de Charney struggled to control his emotions.
“Master, I know. I must beg a favor. I wish to travel alone, in company with only Said.”
“It will be more dangerous.”
“But no one will suspect us—two Mamelukes.”
“Do as you deem best, brother.”
The two men embraced. It was the last time they would see each other on earth; their fates were cast. Both men knew that the Grand Master would die there, defending the fortress of Saint-Jean d’Acre.
De Charney looked for a piece of linen the same size as the Holy Shroud. He did not want the precious cloth exposed to the rigors of the journey, but this time he thought it best not to convey it in a chest. It would be hard to reach Constantinople, from whence he planned to set sail for France, and the less baggage he carried, the better.
Like Said, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground, eating what they could hunt on the road, whether in the forest or the desert. They needed only two good steeds.
He was overcome with remorse for leaving, for he knew that his brothers-in-arms would surely die. He knew that he was leaving this land forever, that he would never return, and that in sweet France he would remember the dry air of the desert, the happiness of the Saracen camps in which he had forged so many friendships—for in the end, men were men, no matter what god they prayed to. And he had seen honor, justice, grief, happiness, wisdom, and misery in the ranks of his enemies, as he had seen in his own. They were no different—they but fought under different banners.
He would ask Said to accompany him for a while, but then he would ride on alone. He could not ask his friend to leave his homeland—Said would never become accustomed to living in France, however much de Charney had told him of the wonders of Lirey, near Troyes, the town of his birth and boyhood. There, de Charney had learned to ride through the green meadows near his family home, to wield the little sword that his father had the ironsmith make for him and his brother so that his sons might grow up to become knights. No—Said had grown old, like him, and it was too late now to learn to live another life.
He carefully finished folding the shroud within the new linen and then he slipped it into the leather shoulder bag he always carried. Then he found Said and told him of the Grand Master’s orders. Said simply nodded when de Charney asked him if he would ride with him for a time before they separated to go their own ways. The squire knew that when he returned, there would be no more Christians in Acre. He would return to his own people, to live out what remained to him of his life.
It was raining fire. Hosts of flaming arrows flew over the top of the walls, igniting all they struck. The Mameluke siege of Saint-Jean d’Acre had commenced on April 6 of that year of our Lord 1291. For several days now, after weeks of attacks, the enemy army had been battering the fortress, even as the Templar knights fiercely defended it. How many knights remained? Barely fifty were defending the walls they refused to surrender.
On the day the siege began, Guillaume de Beaujeu had ordered his knights to make their confessions and take communion. He knew that few if any of them would survive, and so he had asked them to make their souls’ peace with God.
Now, within the walled city of Acre, in the great Templar fortress, the fighting was body against body as the walls were at last breached. The Templars refused to yield a palm of ground; they defended each inch with their lives, and only when that life was taken from them could the enemy advance.
Guillaume de Beaujeu had been wielding his sword for hours; he did not know how many men he had killed or how many had died around him. He had urged his knights to try to escape before Acre fell, but the petition fell on deaf ears, for they all fought in the knowledge that soon they would be with God.
Even as he fought on, he took comfort in imagining the miles unfolding before François de Charney as he rode ever farther away, bidding farewell to all those places he had called home. He trusted that the knight would save the shroud of Jesus and see it safely to France. His heart had told him to give the cloth over to de Charney, and he knew he had made the right decision. The man who forty years ago had brought the shroud from Constantinople in his youth was now keeping custody of it once more, on the road toward the West.
Two fierce Saracens bore down on the Grand Master, and he felt a new surge of strength, furiously fending off their great scimitars with his sword and shield. But oh! What had he done? Suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He could see nothing—night had fallen. Insh’Allah!
Jean de Perigord pulled the body of Guillaume de Beaujeu over to the wall. The word spread fast: The Grand Master had fallen. Acre was on the verge of being overrun, but God willed that it not be that night.
The Mamelukes returned to their camp, from whence came the smell of spiced lamb and the sound of songs of victory. The knights came together, exhausted, in the chapter meeting hall. They had to elect a new Grand Master, there, now—they could not wait. They were bone tired, and they cared little who became their leader, for tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, they were all to die—what difference could it make? But they prayed and meditated, and they asked God to enlighten them. Thibaut Gaudin was elected successor to the valiant Guillaume de Beaujeu.
On May 28, 1291, it was hot in Acre, and it smelled of death. Before the sun rose, Thibaut Gaudin ordered his remaining knights to Mass. Then they took their positions and once more met the enemy. Swords clashed unceasingly, and arrows blindly found their targets. The fortress resembled a cemetery. Only a handful of knights remained alive.
Before the sun set, the flag of their e
nemies flew over Acre. Insh’Allah!
ANA WOKE UP SCREAMING, HER HEART POUNDING IN her chest as though she were in the middle of battle. But she was in the heart of London, in a room in the Dorchester Hotel. Her temples were throbbing, and she felt the sweat running down her back.
Overwhelmed by a sense of grief and anguish, she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Her hair was stuck to her face and her nightgown was soaked through. She pulled it off and stepped into the shower. This was the second time she’d had a nightmare about a battle. If she believed in the transmigration of souls, she’d swear she’d been there, in the fortress of Saint-Jean d’Acre, watching the Templars die to a man. She could describe the face and behavior of Guillaume de Beaujeu and the color of Thibaut Gaudin’s eyes. She had been there; she could feel it. She knew those men.
She stepped out of the shower feeling better, and pulled on a T-shirt. She didn’t have another nightgown. The bed was soaked with sweat, so she decided to turn on her laptop and surf the Internet awhile.
Professor McFadden’s thoughtful explanations, plus the documentation he’d provided on the history of the Templars, had affected her deeply. And he had showered her with details on the fall of Saint-Jean d’Acre—according to him, one of the most bitter days in the order’s history.
That was surely why she’d dreamed so vividly of the doomed defense of the fortress, as she’d done when Sofia Galloni told her about the Byzantine troops’ siege of Edessa.
Tomorrow she was scheduled to see the professor again. This time she was going to try to get something concrete out of him—something other than colorful stories about the slow fall and terrible deaths of the Templars.