CHAPTER EIGHT

Brychan had not given his answer to Reverend Abbot and it was time. Outside in the bleak cold, he and Brother Justin sat where, in summer, a lush rose garden bloomed. Now the bushes, deep in winter’s sleep, spread naked stems bristling with ice-covered thorns. Nearby, a statue of Our Lady watched with chill marble gaze.

“Tis a great honor, Brychan,” Justin said. His breath blew a fine mist. “Would it had come to me at your age.”

“I never considered any order but the Cistercians. Not Franciscans, nor Carmelites, and certainly not Dominicans. But Templars?”

“Hear me, Brother! They are warriors first. With no Crusade, they have become rich moneylenders. But by the rood, they are still Templars!” Justin jumped to his feet. “Mother of God! Is your blade quicker than your wits? As a Templar ye can pledge self, soul, and sword to God’s service!”

“Yes, but I am not certain if . . .”

“Brother Brychan! Suppose, God willing, there is another Crusade! How will ye feel rotting in your books knowing ye could have been in the thick of it as a Templar, but refused?” Justin shook his head. “Zuggers! ’Twould drive me mad!”

•••

In a lightly blowing snow in February 1307, Brychan arrived in Paris and entered the city wall through the Temple Gate. He saw that the Templar preceptory had another wall surrounding it, a complete and separate fortress within the city. With its stone walls and high towers, it was the grandest in all the Templar Order, with the exception of Acre in the Holy Land.

Once inside, Brychan was ordered to change his white Cistercian robe for the gray of a Templar novice. It was to be worn over his regular clothing, for now he was neither noble nor monk. If he survived the rigorous training and was accepted by the Order, he would be given the coveted white mantle with the blood-red splayed cross. It would seal him as a Knight Templar and he would be buried in it.

In other religious orders a new name was taken with the monk’s vows, but as a Templar, Brychan would keep his baptized name as a constant reminder of the world he had given up and the behavior expected from one of noble rank. Instead of the title novice, he would be addressed as Childe Brychan until he was knighted or dismissed as a failed candidate.

On the second day, he had an audience with Brother Guy d’Orléans, master of initiates. Sir Guy was revered for his considerable learning, having attended Oxford before becoming a Templar. He was also an intimate of Grand Master de Molay.

They met in the chancellery room where a fire burned, and a novice scribe waited to take down every word. Brother Guy questioned him, carefully considering each answer. When finally they discussed his gift, Brychan was assured that here it would be respected and encouraged to develop. In parting, the master cautioned, “I shall be watching you closely, Childe Brychan.”

In the following days Brychan was surprised to discover that there were only seven novices. They had been training for months, except for Miguel the Spaniard who arrived only a week before him. Miguel was nineteen, small and pale with enormous dark eyes, and appeared an unlikely warrior. Brychan immediately sensed that Miguel would not survive the rigors of a Templar postulant. It was an instance where Brychan found his gift painful to the point of wishing he did not have it.

Four of the seven novices were from France and Normandy. Only one other was from the English Isles. He was called Childe James and was a year older than Brychan. In the days following, the two, one Scot and one Irish, forged a bond that would last all their lives.

James McGill was a boisterous Irish lad from a ranking noble family. Both being “Celts,” they spoke Gaelic to each other, especially when they didn’t want the Franks to understand. In the very first week, they were disciplined with three days on bread and water for rowdiness: they had laughed out loud.

James, like Brychan, was a second son, and would inherit neither lands nor title. “It was either the Templars or Franciscans,” James explained. “Can ye see me-self a ragged Franciscan, where the most in life would be to receive a bleeding stigmata?”

“You’d have made a terrible Franciscan, Jamie. Better give your wily ways to the Templars. They’ll use it to slay infidels.”

“Now that’s a true calling.” James laughed.

In this new Templar world Brychan worked hard to adapt. He was accustomed to the Cistercian order where all monks had the same tasks: the five daily offices, manuscript copying, working fields, and tending flocks. They ate meat only on feast days.

Templars were different. All worshiped the five offices together and recited an additional twenty-five Pater Nosters daily. Being subject to combat, they ate three meals a day and meat thrice weekly. As a military order, their number was far less than their peak estimated at 150,000 worldwide a few decades ago. It had now dwindled to about 6,000 knights and men-at-arms.

Brychan’s first task was to learn everyone’s name and status. Ranking first were the white-mantled knights, which in Paris numbered twenty-eight. There were also approximately 260 brown-garbed sergeants and men-at-arms, which allowed seven to ten per knight for their particular battle tactics. They all drilled together—a system well established for almost 200 years. No other Crusader troops from any country were so consistently trained. In battle, Templars were unmatched among all Crusaders and the equal of any foe.

Next were the fifteen green-robed cleric monks: scribes who managed both banking and vast land holdings. They were headed by Friar Luke, a legend for his mastery of mathematics, geometry, and astrology. The clerics were also responsible for teaching the novices all 686 paragraphs in the Rule of the Order. These were memorized verbatim and recalled on command—a daunting task, especially for those unlettered.

Last in rank were the novices, like Brychan. They exercised daily in combat drill with the knights and sergeants. The most concentrated training was cavalry tactics. Templars were famed horsemen; it was critical to their success in battle. Each Templar was allowed three chargers, handled by a squire or sergeant. They were constantly rotated in battle so a Templar’s mount was usually fresher than his opponent’s. Horses were so regarded that one could miss a daily office if necessary, to care for them.

Finally, there was a separate group of five brothers requiring special care. Four were elderly knights, long retired. All were infirm and battle-scarred; one was blind and another had left his sword arm in the Holy Land.

The fifth, Brother Deagan, required special attention. Once destined to become a Templar knight, he became instead a permanent postulant. He lived in his cell, leaving only for meals and the canon offices. He was unable to remember names or faces, but knew all variations of the Mass and plainchants verbatim. He could recite hundreds of verses of scripture and all 150 Psalms in Latin without error—an incredible feat. Beyond this, he responded to no questions, shared no thoughts.

Brychan was surprised when Brother Deagan was appointed his exclusive responsibility. None of the other novitiates were so charged.

Every day Brychan led Brother Deagan to Mass. He watched as Deagan never faltered in scripture or chant, reciting entirely from memory. Even at meals, while a brother friar read aloud in Latin from scripture, Deagan silently mouthed the words.

Rarely did he acknowledge Brychan’s presence. Brother Deagan, for the most part, did not seem to know he was there.

Both Brychan and the Spaniard Miguel were given a separate schedule from the others because of their gift. Brychan drilled with the others on the tilting field but afterward disappeared into the preceptory. No one dared to question why.

It began on a Monday following lauds. Brychan had returned to his cell and was washing himself with cold water, a daily penance. Brother André entered without knocking. Brychan had not seen him since his recruitment in Scotland.

“Follow me,” André ordered.

Brychan trailed him through torch-lit corridors and down a winding stone passage never touched by daylight. When the torches ended, André took the last one and kept going deeper where the dark weighed heavy as Hades’ cloak. Should the torch fail, Brychan knew he could never find his way back. André suddenly turned into a narrow passage. He stopped before a door and slid back its bolt.

They entered a great chamber that echoed their steps. In the center was a table with a single candle casting barely enough light to reveal the room’s cavernous size.

Brychan turned to see André go back through the door. He heard the bolt slide and lock. He was alone.

Uneasily, he looked around. On the opposite wall was a huge tapestry of two knights riding the same horse: the Templar seal. Set in the wall were rows of iron fittings, some with rings. With a chill, he realized this was also a dungeon.

The door bolt clattered again. He turned to see André enter with another man who, from his dress was an Arab, by his dark skin, a Moor.

André presented him. “Childe Brychan, this is Assam ibn al-Din, your new master.”

The Moor said something in Arabic to André, who answered and bowed. Brychan was surprised: a Templar bowing to a Muslim infidel? Without a word, André left. The Moor turned and looked at Brychan. Never had he seen such eyes—a gaze one surely could feel in the dark.

“You will address me as Master Din. Bolt the door. It will remain so whenever we are inside.” His French had a Spanish accent rather than Arabic.

“Yes, Master Din.”

Brychan went to the door. The sliding bar’s edges were worn smooth by use and time. When he tried the slide, it jammed. He pushed with all his strength, sliding back and forth until it noisily fell in place.

He turned. Master Din was gone.

Brychan looked around. There was no other door. He rushed to the tapestry and pulled it back, certain there was a hidden door. There was only a stone wall lined with more bolts and rings.

“If I were an assassin, you’d be dead, novice.”

The voice came from above. Brychan looked up into the darkness to see Master Din slowly lowering on a rope. He had swiftly ascended by a device pulled from the outside, while Brychan noisily worked the door slide: a simple trick.

The master’s tone was accusing. “You just failed your first test. Where we will go, if you fail, you can never return. Failure there means madness.”

Brychan now understood the cause of Brother Deagan’s tragic affliction. He had been Master Din’s novice before Brychan.

“How’s your monk?” Vicky asked. Kate was driving them in an unmarked cruiser to track down a lead on the Hollander homicide.

“Totally driven. Works round the clock on the diary. I’ve hidden him at our family beach house. I hope to heaven nobody tracks him there.”

“You staying there too?”

“How else can I protect him?”

“Right,” Vicky smiled. “And how is that going?”

“Great. Well . . . stressful.” She sighed. “Hell.”

“Yeah. A monk must be as bad as falling for a gay guy.”

“Who says I’m falling?”

Vicky realized that Kate’s attitude toward Thomas was changing and that could be disastrous. Unlike some police departments, the Santa Barbara PD operated strictly by the book. If Kate had an affair with a witness involved in a case, she would be fired. Yet she seemed in total denial.

The day after talking with Fallon, Burns and Sawyer arrived in Santa Barbara. They used a multiple-car system, renting two per day, never using the same make or color on succeeding days. Sometimes both were in one car and, when they drove separate cars, they communicated by disposable burner cell phones.

They assumed that since Kate was working homicide during the day, she and the monk would only be together at night. The next day they began tailing her after work. When following her that afternoon, they lost her on a freeway when she made a quick switch at an off-ramp. Kate, routinely protecting herself, sensed she was being followed. That night they parked outside her apartment; she didn’t show. Obviously, she and the monk were someplace else. But where?

At the Santa Barbara beach house Thomas was reading and taking notes on Brychan’s narrative, which described a meeting with his Muslim master after a period of brutal training.

When I entered the chamber this time there was great change. Master Din was waiting but now the room glowed with light. Along the walls were seven blazing torches, and on the floor seven standing candelabra as tall as a man, each with seven burning candles thick as a warrior’s forearm. All were repeated by sevens, following the Book of Revelation.

Master Din stood beside the table. On it was an iron chest bound with riveted straps. He motioned Brychan closer and pointed to a single word etched on the metal lid: VERITAS.

“Childe Brychan, do you know its meaning?”

“Truth, Master Din.”

“Truth,” he repeated. “I must prepare you. Your previous exercises were simple mimicry. Now, your path will be more severe.”

Brychan wondered how it could be more difficult. During the first month he performed a grueling series of chants daily; words repeated in specific order hour after hour in a peculiar changing rhythm until they made no sense and he was exhausted.

Master Din explained that their sound was as important as their meaning. “Each exercise creates a different vibration at your deepest center. Repetition increases sensitivity. Eventually, they will blend and become one sound. Then, a voice will speak to you through your gift.”

After one particularly grueling session Brychan asked, “How do I know that I am doing this right?”

“You don’t,” Master Din snapped. “It chooses you.”

The drills were like a bard’s incessant chanting. One night, the sound awoke him from a deep sleep. His gift, his awen, usually worked through dreams and visions. It was from there the voice had spoken.

At their next training exercise, Master Din was watching him as they stood before the VERITAS chest. “Can you recall the voice?”

Brychan closed his eyes and began the rhythmic chant in his head. “Yes, Master Din.”

“Open your eyes.”

Brychan saw that the chest lid had been raised.

“Hold the sound!” Master Din commanded.

But Brychan concentrated too hard and the inner voice stopped. He breathed deeply, enforcing relaxation from many hours practice. He broke a sweat; though he relaxed. After a moment it came back, a pulsing he could hear even when listening to the master.

From the iron chest Master Din removed a scroll of copper. It was of great age and covered with inscrutable writing. He took out two more, laying them side by side. Then another scroll, a parchment wrapped around two spindles of gold.

He unfurled the scroll to the first page, where Brychan saw three sentences in three different languages. “Can you read this?”

“No, Master Din.”

From the folds of his robe the Moor produced a pointer, its silver tip in the form of a small hand. It was a treasured gift from Abram of Avila, a revered rabbi and renowned scholar. Master Din pointed to each line and spoke the words aloud; then, the translation.

In Hebrew of the prophet Moses.

In Aramaic of the prophet Jesus.

In Arabic of the prophet Mohammed.

All read: “The Gift is not for gain.”

Thomas made another note and underlined it. In Templar legends, among the treasures found under Solomon’s temple were scrolls made of copper. He wiped his forehead, surprised to find a light film of stress sweat. He continued reading.

Master gave another warning. The scroll contained a discipline much more difficult than the previous exercises. Again, he reminded me of the terrible price of failure. I must risk reason, body, and soul without knowing why: my test of absolute Templar obedience.

Thomas closed the diary feeling uneasy, his fingers damp inside the latex gloves. He peeled them and wiped his hands while trying to grasp what he just read.

The Al-Din Discipline, which enhanced psychic ability, must be what Fallon was after. Finally, this was a direct link between the medieval diary and the present. But since Fallon could not translate the Gaelic portion of the diary, how did he even know the Din scroll existed?

Thomas got up from the table and stared out the window. He had spent his life thinking and acting independently, even when married to Lois. But this situation was different. From now on he would have to include Kate in every decision, for her safety.

When Kate arrived that evening after work, Thomas had dinner ready. The linguini with garlic, herbs, and white wine sauce was exceptional; he had learned a few monastery recipes. He waited until they finished eating.

“Kate, there is something we need to discuss about the diary.”

“Okay, fire away.”

“I’ve got to give you some background.”

“It’s been a tough day. Keep it simple.”

“During the Crusades both Christians and Muslims committed the same blasphemy—they believed that killing each other was doing God’s work. But the Templars were unique among Crusaders in that they played both sides. When they weren’t actually fighting Saracens, they traded with them and engaged in scholarly debates, many of which were written down. As a result, they acquired great wealth, a wide range of knowledge written in books, scrolls, manuscripts, and many religious artifacts. By far the most important was the Holy Grail.”

“You mean there actually was a grail? I thought that was just King Arthur fiction.”

“The grail was real, but there is no definition of what it is. It is not mentioned anywhere in the Bible. The most popular belief says it was the cup from the Last Supper. And that centers on Joseph of Arimathea.”

“The man who put Jesus’ body in his tomb?”

“Very good, Kate.”

“How did Joseph get the cup?”

“The evidence is circumstantial but convincing.” He thought for a moment for the best example. “Kate, as a cop, imagine the Crucifixion as a heinous crime scene; the murder of a beloved rabbi. The night before, at the Last Supper, we know that John who almost certainly was a teenager, sat next to Jesus. He may have taken Jesus’ cup because he sensed its significance since everyone drank from it. The next day John was the only one of the twelve at the Crucifixion. The other disciples fled, leaving Jesus to his fate. But Joseph of Arimathea, a secret follower, was there. With his servants, he took down Jesus’ body from the cross for burial. If John had the cup from the night before, he probably gave it to Joseph for safekeeping because he was a prominent, wealthy man. Joseph may have used the cup to gather some of Christ’s blood, making it a holy relic. After that, the cup ends up in England.”

“How did it get there?”

“Joseph was an importer of tin from the British Isles, the source of his wealth. The Romans needed his tin to forge iron weapons. After Joseph became an evangelist, he went back to England. Many believe Joseph founded the Celtic church there. It is speculated that he brought the cup with him. Even the Roman Catholic church officially declared that England was where the Gospel was first preached.”

“But after the Templars were destroyed why didn’t they simply disappear?”

“The Templar mystique. They were associated with the Holy Grail, the Arc of the Covenant, the Shroud of Turin, the missing Templar treasure, and those mysterious manuscripts in the chest.”

She was learning to read his pauses. “What’s wrong?”

“Kate, I have to tell you something you are not going to like. I must find that chest and see what it contains before Fallon gets his hands on it. That means following the diary wherever it leads.”

“Leave the country with two million dollars’ worth of Fallon’s property? What about all those crazies after the diary? Nora’s killing crew? The goons who pulled the raid? And Fallon, the bad-assed billionaire? There’s a whole frigging army after you.”

“But I have the advantage.”

“What advantage?!”

“I can track the diary; they can’t.”

“What if the diary is not authentic? You could be chasing some forger’s scam. The last time you did that, it ruined your career.”

“Kate, I have no choice. I must go to France.”

Locked in an impasse, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Then, I’ll have to go with you.”

“What?”

“The diary is evidence in my homicide case. I have to protect the diary and you. Thomas, you’d never make it to the airport, much less to France.”

“Your department will never let you go.”

“I won’t tell them.”

“That is extremely risky.”

“But worth it if I catch the killer.”

In the edgy silence, she poured a glass of wine that she didn’t want and he finished his cold coffee. Neither mentioned another complication; they would be together day and night.

She moved toward the kitchen, then turned and looked at him. “This is going to be very difficult.”

Leo’s executive Learjet was circling Santa Barbara at 21,000 feet. It seated twelve: four forward cabin, eight rear. Carver sucked in the rich leather aroma.

A man sat by the cabin door facing him. From the moment Carver boarded, the man silently watched him. Thick-muscled and gorilla-hairy. He probably had to shave twice a day.

Carver tried a stare-down. Gorilla was unblinking as a shark.

The cabin door opened and Leo entered. Carver had to fight the impulse to stand.

Leo looked at the other man. “Eu chamarei se eu o preciso.”

Gorilla gave Carver a final look, went in the rear cabin, and closed the door.

Carver nervously smiled. “Your f-f-friend is not very talkative.”

“Try Portuguese.” Leo sat in the diagonal seat.

The pilot’s cabin door opened and a stunning blond woman appeared, a statuesque six feet. Carver’s mouth gaped. He was rewarded with a look that told him he was dog shit on her shoes.

Leo frowned. “What is it, Andrea?”

“The pilot says that because of storms, we should re-route to Hong Kong or change itinerary. What do you want me to tell him?”

“I’ll decide after we drop Carver off.”

“I vote for shopping in Hong Kong.”

“After your last trip, there’s probably nothing left to buy.”

She laughed, kissed his cheek, and went back into the pilot’s cabin.

Carver was still focused on her figure as the door closed. Leo was human after all: he had incredible taste in women.

“Carver, what is this new development?”

“We spotted two men who arrived yesterday. They are following the woman cop.”

“Refresh me.”

“Detective Flynn. She’s connected with the monk.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.”

“These guys are very good. She hasn’t made them. Yet.”

“Obviously, they’re following her to find the monk just as you did. Stay close to them.”

Carver hesitated, then said, “Wouldn’t it be s-s-safer to snatch the monk before they do?”

“No. He must be free to go wherever he wants to lead us to the chest. After that, I assure you, we will take care of him. Permanently.”