‘All right, let me go. I’ll tell you.’ John backed the knife off a few inches, but kept it hovering before Bernardus’ face.
‘We couldn’t discover the whole story, we had to piece together overheard fragments of talk between the Master and other more senior officers. Then we accidentally came across some documents no one was supposed to see, which sent us covertly searching amongst the secret archives in Paris. It took a year to make sense of it all.’
‘Come on, get on with it! My sister told me that de Ridefort hinted it was something to do with the mass.’
Thomas, who stood listening open-mouthed alongside them, groaned and convulsively crossed himself, but de Blanchefort smirked. ‘The mass? You could say that, though it’s a detail. The early Templars found inscriptions on tablets in the catacombs beneath the Temple in Jeruslaem that recorded that Christ, though crucified, did not die on the Cross. The resurrection was a revival of the near-dead body, all prearranged by some influential friends. He lived for another thirty years, a great man, teacher and prophet, but he was mortal, so the concept of the Trinity is fiction, knowingly perpetuated by Rome.’
There was a second’s silence then, with a strangled cry of desperate fury, little Thomas de Peyne launched himself at de Blanchefort and futilely tried to batter him with his small fists. The other pushed him away impatiently and the clerk subsided on to the floor, his face in his hands, weeping and keening.
De Wolfe pulled him gently to his feet, as Gwyn and the other abjurers watched in astonishment from across the church. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Thomas. This madman’s pack of lies isn’t worth a clipped penny.’
He turned back to de Blanchefort. ‘And is that all your precious secret amounts to? A fairy-tale, some legend peddled by Templars as deluded as yourself?’
A supercilious expression came over the man’s face. ‘There’s more. The Templars have always had a special regard for Mary Magdalene and we discovered that not only was she Jesus’s wife but she bore him several children. She went with many other Jews to live in southern France, though we could not discover whether Christ himself went there or remained in Palestine.’
This all sounded so outrageous to de Wolfe that he never for a moment contemplated that there was the slightest truth in de Blanchefort’s babblings. ‘I’m not sure whether you are to be condemned for your blasphemy and sacrilege or pitied for the unhinged state of your mind,’ he said scornfully. ‘Where is the proof of these preposterous ideas?’
‘Buried in a hillside in the foothills of the Pyrenees,’ replied de Blanchefort sharply, now incensed at being ridiculed. ‘The early Knights of Christ were ordered by Rome to place the evidence where it could never be rediscovered, so they brought it back to France when they returned in about 1127 and, with the aid of German miners, buried it within Mount Cardou, concealed for ever by an immense rockfall.’ He paused, as if momentarily overcome by his own revelations. ‘It was even suggested by some documents – though I can hardly credit it myself – that the bones of Christ himself were also found and buried with the tablets.’
There was another groan from Thomas, who was rocking back and forth, his face still covered by his hands.
‘My own family comes from this area and the Chateau de Blanchefort, a former Templar possession, sits opposite Mount Cardou and guarded it in the early part of this century. You see now why I have such a personal interest in this momentous discovery!’
De Wolfe was still convinced that the man was a dangerous lunatic, but any further revelations were cut short by Gwyn, who bellowed from across the church. ‘We have to go, Crowner! It’s broad daylight and the tide will soon be ebbing.’
De Wolfe gave the former Templar a rough push and sent him stumbling on his way. With a shaken Thomas trailing behind, mumbling in Latin under his breath, they filed out of the church and into the final and most dangerous part of the escapade.
The tide was full and the Brendan well afloat when the procession came down the track alongside the stream. A soldier walked in front, then came the five abjurers, each barefoot, each holding their cross two-handed before their faces. They looked like a line of scarecrows, shuffling along in their shapeless hessian robes, with their scratched, tufted scalps. The dwarf Eddida was the leader, and after the last man, another soldier was followed at a distance by the coroner, his officer and clerk. The older, tallest man came in the centre, the hands holding his cross tight against his face.
De Wolfe was tense with anger at Bernardus and apprehension in case his elaborate plot was discovered at the last moment. As he walked, he cursed himself for allowing his sense of duty to Gilbert de Ridefort to have landed him in this situation. Far from wanting to help this man escape, he would now have cheerfully cut his evil, demented head from his shoulders – but it was too late and he was caught in a trap of his own making.
The sad cavalcade reached the bottom of the track where it became pebbled. This was the most dangerous spot for the venture: it was nearest the alehouse where, in the doorway, Abbot Cosimo and the three Templar knights stood to see the departure of the abjurers. The sheriff was not there: he was too incensed at their easy escape to want to witness it and was at the back of the tavern with Ralph Morin as they supervised the impending departure of most of the men-at-arms, the rest being left to secure the village for a few days.
As he came level with the alehouse door, de Wolfe saw that Cosimo’s gaze was again directed at Eddida and he wondered what strange emotions so attracted the abbot to the dwarf. He suspected that unnatural desires were the most likely reason for his fascination, though these little men were always objects of curiosity and cruel derision. The Templars watched the procession clamber across the pebbles, then turned back into the room behind to collect their arms and saddle-pouches ready for the journey home.
De Wolfe sighed with relief, especially when the Italian priest also vanished into the tavern to join them. He strode across the stones to where the forced emigrants were wading through the knee-high wavelets to reach the side of the knarr. As the crew hoisted up little Eddida with coarse comments about his size, John splashed into the shallows and caught up with de Blanchefort. For a moment, he even considered sticking his dagger under the killer’s ribs, but good sense prevailed. ‘You evil bastard, I hope you rot in Hell!’ he offered as a farewell.
As he grabbed the ship’s side, de Blanchefort gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘If there is a hell, brother – though I’ve come to doubt it – then I’ll see you there!’
He swung himself aboard and de Wolfe backed away in frustration.
The small vessel was pulled astern by a pair of long oars until it had enough sea-room to raise the clumsy sail and turn out into the bay.
In sullen anger, the coroner walked back to where Gwyn and Thomas waited for him at the edge of the beach. The little clerk was still pale and shaking with the insult his faith had received from de Blanchefort’s blasphemy.
‘Shall we saddle up with the rest of them?’ asked Gwyn, pointing to the preparations behind them where the men-at-arms were checking their horses’ harness. The sheriff and constable were already mounted and the Templars were helping Cosimo’s surviving guard to saddle the abbot’s mare.
‘Let’s wait a while. I’ve no stomach for listening to de Revelle complaining half-way to Exeter.’ John turned to watch the Brendan moving away from the shore, her sail now filled with the breeze. ‘Maybe a bolt of lightning will strike that black-hearted swine out there.’