The Hidden Keystone, page 11
Hugues gestured towards the interior of the rotunda. “Duke Godefroi, you must be first to cross the threshold.”
At last, something he understood: action, movement, leadership. Shaking off his concerns over Achambaud, Godefroi strode into the apse, passed the altar without genuflecting, and entered a low archway. A ring of shadow circled the space that enclosed the burial site of Jesus Christ.
Godefroi felt like he had stepped into another world. Perhaps it was the dome that curved overhead but remained open to the heavens at its apex. Or it might have been the soft sunlight that filtered into the chamber and bestowed a deep, lustrous glow upon the tiled floor. Whatever it was, no sounds of pillaging violated the cool serenity of this place. The air was sweet and free of smoke. While the stone of the rotunda was old and weathered, the light softened it, revealing hues of grey that reminded him of the morning mists in lower Lorraine.
In the centre of the Anastasis, the worn tiles gave way to rocky ground and a pile of jumbled stone. A simple wooden cross, taller than Godefroi, marked the site. He moved closer to examine the pile of stones. No cave or tomb was visible. The debris must have covered the opening.
“They’ve destroyed the Acdicula and filled in His tomb,” Hugues said quietly at Godefroi’s shoulder. “I knew this from the reports of pilgrims, of course. But to see it in person—” His voice trailed off.
“I don’t understand,” Achambaud said. “What is this Acdicula?”
“Back in the time of the Lord Jesus,” Godwera said, “this whole area was a hill.” Now that they were away from prying eyes, she had drawn back her cowl. “Back that way,” she pointed towards the courtyard and the rubble, “was Golgotha, the site of the crucifixion. Emperor Constantine had the entire hillside excavated, levelling it so that his church could be built around the cave where the Resurrection took place. The Acdicula was an elaborate altar that protected the burial site.”
“After Caliph Al-Hakim burned down the church,” Hugues continued, “he ordered the tomb of Jesus be covered with rubble. It’s somewhere beneath those rocks.”
“Then what we seek is either buried or destroyed.” Achambaud searched each face in turn. “All this death has been for nothing.”
“It was always a possibility,” Hugues replied, “but I don’t believe so.”
“Explain,” Godefroi commanded. This was not the triumphant moment he had dreamed of. First the despoiled church, now the desecration of the Saviour’s tomb.
“The Salt Lines came into possession of an ancient scroll from Judea some hundred years ago.” Hugues replied. “It was just a fragment and badly damaged. Moreover, it was written in Hebrew and protected by a cipher, preventing our scholars from translating it. We only managed to decipher it with the assistance of Rabbi Ephraim ben Davide.”
“Go on,” Godefroi said.
“The text only contained a few lines. Even so, it remains a closely guarded secret. You must swear to never repeat what I’m about to say.”
The others nodded.
Hugues closed his eyes and recited.
“Humble pilgrims from afar,
With hearts steeped in honour,
Remember who came before,
Five as one forever.
When sacred points are unified,
O’er the ancient Sepulchre,
Baphomet rises to once more,
Her wisdom eternal’s flower.”
The verse settled in Godefroi’s mind, light and fragile as thinly spun glass.
After a long pause, Etienne said, “Who is Baphomet?” He frowned at the rotunda, as if the answer lay in its architecture.
“A reference to the Virgin Mary perhaps?” Achambaud suggested.
“A reasonable guess, but no.” Godwera had released Achambaud’s arm but remained next to him. “The reference to wisdom makes me think of Sophia, the Greek Goddess of wisdom. Some believe she’s the feminine aspect of God.”
Hugues grimaced. “A dangerous view.”
Godefroi sensed an old argument resurfacing and a bitter tide of resentment rose inside him. Not only had Hugues arranged Godwera’s marriage to Baldwin and then staged her death, it was obvious that Hugues had confided in her.
“This is all you have,” Godefroi said. “This is the only clue to locating the great artefact the Salt Lines refuses to speak of. No wonder you need me to be crowned king. It’ll take months to excavate the tomb with the clergy crawling over every inch of rubble. No secret can possibly survive such scrutiny.”
“The verse was but the beginning, messire.” Hugues crouched at the lip of the tiled floor. “Whatever the Caliph sought to destroy in this holy place, we must first believe that it endures. Second, we must trust the artefact never resided in such an obvious place.” He reached underneath the tiles that jutted over the rubble and ran his fingers along the underside. “All I hope for is a marker.” Hugues stopped. “Ah, the seventh. Godwera, please stand here.”
Godwera moved to stand above the tile that hid whatever Hugues had found. Hugues paced around the edge of the circle, counting under his breath. He squatted again, searched beneath the lip of the tiles and placed a pebble to mark his spot. The process was repeated three more times as he circumnavigated the collapsed tomb.
“Etienne, your place is by that first stone. Achambaud, you take the second.” After a brief hesitation, both men adopted their positions. The looks of bewilderment on their faces suggested only Godwera understood what Hugues was about.
“What is this?” Godefroi asked, refusing to budge.
“Ephraim, the Rabbi who helped us, warned that we’d have to assemble the Sacred Points in their correct positions,” Hugues replied. “Godefroi, if you’ll take your place by that third rock, we’ll soon see if the way remains open.”
Godefroi frowned but strode to the position Hugues indicated. He squatted and felt beneath the scorched tile. The ground was dry and dusty. The underside of the tile was covered in grit, except for a small, smooth section. Tiny grooves had been carved into the surface of the tile. Godefroi could not decipher them.
“What does it say?” He rose to his full height and directed the question at Hugues, who had taken up a position on Godefroi’s left.
“It’s the Hebrew numeral for ten, or in this case, the tenth,” Hugues replied. “I’m standing before the eighth and moving around the circle to my left is the sixth, the seventh and the ninth.”
“The tenth what?” Godefroi demanded. “Why have you never said anything about this before?”
“There was no need unless our siege proved successful.” Hugues clasped his hands together. “I promise upon this holy site to explain everything I can, but we must complete the ritual before Raymond’s forces arrive.”
“What ritual?” Godefroi snapped.
“It stands for the tenth aspect of the Holy One,” Godwera cut in. “Please Godefroi, Hugues is right. We must hurry.”
“I need each of you to close your eyes and focus inwards,” Hugues instructed. “Do it now.”
Godefroi glanced at Godwera, who nodded in encouragement before clenching her eyes shut. He closed his eyes grudgingly.
“Picture your strength, your will and determination,” Hugues said, his voice surrounding Godefroi in the circular chamber. “Gather it inside your body. Pull it inwards from your feet and hands. Feel it pooling in your chest, pressing against your ribs. Now imagine your strength transforms into light. It burns against your eyelids. It boils your breath and sears your scalp. The light is pouring forth from your skin. You’re glowing brighter than a thousand candles. Now push the light out. Push it out into the place where Christ rose again. Release the light. Release it now.”
Purple dots swarmed across Godefroi’s eyelids. Despite his armour, he felt light enough to float above the tiles. The barest breath of wind would send him fluttering about the chamber. The light sank from his eyes, ebbing towards his stomach. It pooled in his bladder, hardening into a knot of pressure. For a moment he was afraid that he might urinate. The pressure between his legs became a physical weight pressing against his skin.
Release it now.
The knot split open and light surged outwards.
Godefroi’s eyes flicked open in shock. He had never experienced anything like that before.
Floating above the rubble was a five-pointed star. The manifestation was faint, like a heat haze. Motes of dust floated through the pentacle, sparkling silver as they drifted through the connecting beams. Godefroi glanced down. One tip of the star radiated from just above his pubic mound.
“The Pentemychos,” Hugues said in wonder.
The star wavered and drew inwards to the centre of the tomb. Godefroi experienced a sense of loss, a lessening, as it receded from him. Each of the points contracted into the centre of the rotunda. Only Etienne’s lingered longer than the others, before collapsing into a single point and winking out.
The sound of horses clattering on flagstones and men hailing each other in French broke the spell. Godefroi stepped back from the tomb and immediately felt giddy. The disorientation passed after a few moments, leaving behind a cold certainty.
Count Raymond’s retinue had finally arrived, so any further questions would have to wait.
CHAPTER 14
18 October 1307
Underground
The ground slammed into Bertrand’s feet. He fell onto his side and lost his grip on Everard. The air throbbed again, an unearthly pulse that wrenched through his guts.
“Roard!” Grief splintered through the woman’s cry.
Bertrand rose to his knees and blinked furiously. It was almost completely dark. Only a few rays of light filtered down from the left, about head height. He squinted. Where were they? He couldn’t tell for sure. The air was musty and stale with a whiff of damp.
They had moved. Somehow—impossibly—the woman had transported them from their camp to this place.
Somewhere away from the soldiers. And his fallen brethren.
Bertrand sat in the dirt, too stunned to do anything else.
The symbol the woman had traced on the menhir glowed faintly in the darkness. The outermost circle around the flower stem was fading from silver to grey. It cast enough light for Bertrand to see that it was carved into a slab of rock like the one at their campsite.
Mercifully, the woman—the witch—had stopped screaming. She moaned “Roard” under her breath instead. The wheezing breathing of the wounded chevalier was thick and clotted with blood.
“Rémi?” Bertrand’s voice was hoarse.
“I’m here, cub. Wherever that might be.”
Bertrand released a pent-up breath. At least he was not alone with the witch and her fallen protector.
Everard moaned. Bertrand crawled across the hard packed earth, following a sticky trail of blood back to Everard.
“Rest easy,” Bertrand whispered. “We’re safe, I think.” He lifted Everard’s head into his lap. With the arrow lodged below Everard’s collarbone, blood might be leaking into his lungs.
Everard moaned again. Was that an attempt to speak? He clutched at Bertrand’s hand.
“Rémi, I need light to staunch his wound. Can you widen that gap to allow more sunlight in?” Bertrand pointed in the gloom.
“If I can reach.” Rémi stumbled and something crunched beneath his boots.
The witch ignored them. Roard’s breathing had become a horrible gurgle. “No, no, no,” she whispered.
Bertrand clutched Everard in the gloom. So many of their brothers had died. Poor Arnaud and Roland. He pictured the savage intensity of the commander who had thrown the spear. The only reason Bertrand and Rémi had been spared was through witchcraft. He was not sure how he felt about that. Perhaps a clean death might have been better?
“Why would the King’s Guard attack us?” Bertrand whispered, desperate to make sense of this situation.
A tremor shuddered through Everard’s body. His breathing became shallow and fast. When Everard tried to reply, he gasped like a landed fish. Bertrand touched Everard’s face and was horrified to find blood trickling down his chin. He knew what this meant.
“Rémi,” Bertrand called. “I need more light. Now.”
“I’m doing my best,” Rémi snapped.
Metal struck rock. Another blow followed. Dirt and pebbles poured down onto Rémi, who spluttered.
“Careful,” Bertrand called. “Don’t bring it down upon us.”
“Do you want out or not?” Rémi grunted and a boulder thudded onto the dry, packed earth. A cloud of dust billowed through the cavity and set Rémi coughing.
Tentative sunlight filtered through the breach. Bertrand blinked away the grit in his eyes. They had ended up in a chamber shaped like a beehive. Broad upright stones placed in a semi-circle supported the roof.
A large, black rock jutted from the centre of the chamber. Carved into the face of this stone was the stem-and-circles symbol that reminded Bertrand of a flower. Small cairns of rock had been placed between the makeshift pillars. Crude stone knives and wooden spears surrounded each cairn. A passage facing the central rock extended into the darkness.
The witch had brought them to a burial chamber.
Rémi retrieved his axe and staggered away from the breach. Dust had turned his bristly hair grey. Shards of pottery crunched beneath his feet.
“Help me,” the witch cried out. She cradled Roard’s head in her lap much like Bertrand held Everard.
“I don’t want him dying where the light can’t reach him,” the witch said. “Please.” Rémi hesitated, glancing between her and Everard.
“Help her,” Bertrand said. “I can manage Everard.”
Rémi nodded and strode over to the witch.
“Let’s get you outside,” Bertrand murmured.
With Everard’s injured leg all but useless, Bertrand was forced to drag the Preceptor across the ground. Taking care to avoid the arrow, Bertrand looped his arms around the older man’s chest. Everard moaned in pain.
The breach in the earth wall was narrow. Bertrand had to crouch down and drag Everard through the gap by his arms. Soil showered them as they passed through. Thankfully, the wall held, even when Everard’s hip caught on a partially embedded rock and tore out a chunk of earth.
A chilly but fine autumn morning greeted them. Their makeshift tunnel emerged from a steep mound covered in thick grass. The sun sat low on the horizon, casting long shadows amongst the trees.
Bertrand dragged Everard away from the entrance and gently laid him out on the dewy grass. Blood oozed from the wound in his leg and the arrow quivered through the rings of his hauberk. Everard’s face was a mask of pale, drawn skin. His eyes were sunken and bruised. More blood trickled from his mouth when he tried to speak. His eyes rolled in their sockets with desperation as he tried to force words past his throat.
“What is it?” Bertrand asked.
Everard tried again, but the guttural sounds he made were indecipherable.
“What would you have me do?” A tear ran down Bertrand’s cheek. Everard saw it and smiled through his pain. The blood coating his teeth turned the expression into a grimace.
Bertrand gripped Everard’s hand. “Let me carry your burden, brother.”
Everard squeezed his fingers and fought for breath. His gaze flicked towards the hole in the side of the mound. Rémi emerged dragging Roard. The big chevalier was a dead weight that tested even Rémi’s strength. The witch followed, staggering as she carried his feet. Roard was obviously dead and she knew it. Tears streamed down her face. In the sunlight, Bertrand saw faint white scars covered her face and hands.
Everard lifted a trembling hand towards the witch. Silent agony pulled at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes pleaded with Bertrand. The strength left in the Preceptor in a rush. Everard’s head lolled and his slack gaze found the sky. A final breath whispered through his lips in a long, low sigh of surrender.
Grief tore through Bertrand. A gaping emptiness opened inside him that was so deep and so wide, he feared he would tumble in and never escape from it. Bertrand tore furrows in the rich soil with his bare fingers. He ripped out chunks of grass and smeared dirt across his face. He took hold of Everard and shook him, demanding answers.
Why did this happen?
What am I supposed to do?
You were meant to be my new family!
Everard was gone and so were Bertrand’s brothers. The thought of them watching him, judging, gave Bertrand the strength he needed. He arranged Everard’s body into neat lines. Using dew from the grass, Bertrand gently wiped the worst of the dirt from Everard’s slack face.
He said a short prayer over the corpse and rose to his feet. Rémi leaned against the slope of the barrow, watching Bertrand’s ministrations. He nodded in quiet approval, his face impassive. Bertrand was grateful for that. Any expression of sympathy, no matter how small, would have shattered his fragile composure.
Bertrand’s gaze slid to the witch. She had slumped over the body of Roard, sobbing softly into his chest. Everard had died because of her. And if the soldiers that attacked them truly were from the King’s Guard, fleeing with her made him an outlaw. This was not the future he had hoped to carve out.
Bertrand took a step towards her. Grief switched to cold rage like parry to counter-stroke. “Who are you?” Bertrand demanded.
Rémi rose from his slouch and glanced between the two of them. “Have a care, cub.”
Bertrand was beyond caution. “Answer me!” He took another step towards her. Fury prickled across his scalp and scalded the back of his eyes. “Look at me, witch.”
She looked up at him, her face a mask of misery. Brown hair, almost black despite the sunlight, fell like a veil across one cheek. Her scars had faded since he first noticed them, now barely visible. Her dark eyes were wet with pain, and beneath that, something worse, something darker.
