The Templar Vault *** NUMBER ONE BOOK ***: A Peter Sparke Book, page 3
The team had been drawn from both European and North American staff of his firm to mark the launch of the corporate "Summit" programme that had taken the company's earnings past the five-billion-dollar mark. The video of the event was required viewing for all new staff members.
It had taken five days of hard hiking and climbing to reach the top and was at the limit of physical and emotional endurance for everyone involved, mostly amateurs in the outdoors. At the summit, the head of the North American team had been so overcome by emotion and exhaustion that he was almost in tears but found time to thank his family, his team members, God and the company for their inspiration.
As the camera had turned to Sparke, leader of the European team, he had pulled down his face mask, looked over the huge expanse of millions of square miles of Alaskan wilderness and, fighting for breath, pointed into the distance and said, with profound feeling, "I think I can see the car park from here."
It had caused confusion to the Americans but had been wildly popular with Europeans.
He stood before the big screen and tapped the small control panel, "New File". The screen immediately glowed with a pale light, ready. A few seconds of internet searching brought up a map of the loch and surrounding area which he moved to eye height on the left of the huge screen. A few seconds more searching found an image of the small plaque from Paris commemorating the death of the last Grand Master of the Templars.
He looked at the screen but could think of nothing more to add so he tapped the 'save file' button on the screen. The control panel prompted Sparke, "File Name?"
Strangely, the question stopped Sparke. Giving a file name meant he had to go beyond some vague, unformed thoughts in his head into some concrete statement. What was it that he actually wanted to look at?
He had two solid facts that he wanted to capture. One was that there was a plaque in a small garden in Paris to a long-dead knight who had been tortured to death by a French king. The other was that a charming lady on a pleasure boat had told him that some of the knights from the same order were buried on an island in a loch in Scotland. Not a lot to go on really.
Sparke was a firm believer in the importance of small things, small things like file names, so rather than rush his decision he wandered out of his office and down to the ground floor of the building. In order to remove the feeling that people were working in a conventional office block the architects had paved the whole ground floor with cobbles and created what amounted to a street, with open spaces, seating areas and most valuably to Sparke, good coffee shops.
He waved his ID badge over a scanner to pay for his coffee and found his favourite seat free. He sat down and stared off into the middle distance, his mind almost in neutral.
There was nothing more than the most superficial connection between the two thoughts, but Sparke was very aware that there was something more than gut feeling here. The human brain is the most sophisticated tool in the known universe for analysing data, it can absorb far, far more information than it can consciously process so Sparke knew that what people often thought of as instinct, was actually the unconscious brain trying to tell the logical mind that there was something happening which it needed to be aware of.
Unable to find a clear way of linking the two small points of data, and unwilling to settle for an ill-suited file name, Sparke bought another coffee and headed back to his office.
Karin was standing in front of his big screen looking at the images of the map and the photograph of the plaque.
She smiled imperceptibly, gesturing to the screen, "And this is?"
"This is me making personal use of company equipment for no good reason, I'm afraid," he answered.
"You do things without a good reason sometimes?" asked Karin, "I think I am not so convinced about that."
Talking with Karin was never straightforward. Sparke thought again before he answered. "There is a reason, but I am not sure what it is." He paused, and then, deciding that there was no value in holding back, he summarised the few things that he knew.
"This is a memorial to the last leader of the Christian military organisation, the Knights Templar. He was killed as part of a massacre of the knights across Europe. The whole organisation was wiped out and everything it owned was seized. This is a map of an area where there is a small island which seems to have been the burial place of some of the knights."
Karin ignored the image of the memorial and looked closely at the map. Sparke stood close to her and pointed out the small islands at the south of the loch. "This is where some of the knights seem to be buried."
She looked carefully at the map. Having been in the business of finding and extracting raw materials for her whole career, often in some of the world's most inaccessible spots, she read maps in the same way that other people read newspapers.
Encouraged by her silence Sparke continued. "The lake, they call it ‘loch’ there, is interesting because at the time when the knights were destroyed the northern end was...well it was not really like the rest of Europe."
"Wild Scotch Highlanders?" smiled Karin.
Sparke smiled back. "As far as I know they were certainly wild when they wanted to be."
"You may be wrong to look at a lake like this in isolation," said Karin. "Here at its south end it is very close to a major river, and at its north it seems not too far from these sea fiords. Good access."
To Sparke the map suddenly looked remarkably different. Rather than a mass of land with some areas of water it now looked like long fingers of open water separated by a few narrow bands of land.
"That is an interesting thing," said Sparke.
"Unfortunately it will have to wait," said Karin. “We need to call on you for more mundane matters."
Sparke turned his head away from the map and found himself looking directly at Karin, his face only a few inches from hers. She made no move to back away. He had seen her hundreds of times but now he found himself looking at her almost as though she was a stranger. Her face suddenly seemed unfamiliar. The curve of her cheek and the warm glow of her skin were shockingly new to him.
She did not make any move to increase the distance between them.
"You need to go to the London office," she said in a quiet but very matter-of-fact manner. "We need to be ready for the Riggins enquiry and it seems that the lawyers in London expect that you will be called."
Sparke nodded slowly, struggling with the notion of carrying out such a mundane conversation with their faces so close together.
"The enquiry starts on Monday," he said. "I probably should leave tomorrow."
"That would make sense," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "I hope it does not disturb any plans you have for the weekend."
Sparke wondered if she was daring him to move away first. He had no idea what to do, moving closer towards her was unthinkable but he did not want to move away.
"I had best go and pack, I suppose. Organise travel."
Still, she made no move away from him, but said quietly, "Good, good," and then turned and walked out of his office leaving Sparke with the strong feeling that something, he had no idea what, might have just happened.
Chapter 4
To commoners, the knights were warriors and monks, but in royal courts, bishops' palaces and the halls of the aristocracy they were recognised as bankers and lawyers.
For a merchant who was moving money from the Rhine to northern Italy he had a choice. He could stuff his bags full of gold livres, buy a sword to defend himself for the several weeks it would take him to reach his destination, and set off. He might make it alive and he might even arrive with his wealth intact, but the odds were not in his favour. Alternatively he could hand his gold coins to the knights in Germany, send a few pieces of parchment to his man in Milan and the job was done.
For a lord in England who married well in France, there were contracts to be written, dowries to be paid, tithes to be accounted for and obligations met. The Order was there to make each of these headaches easier to bear. The knights sat at the right hand of many of those who made the western world turn, and few had a better feel for the beat and rhythm of the powers that ruled the lands they lived in.
It was the change in this heartbeat that warned the Order that the balance of power had shifted against them. Those close to the Frankish king were more rude than normal, more extravagant gifts and hospitality were extended to other Orders, more drunken aristocratic abuse was hurled towards the Templars, who seemed to be growing ever richer when money was harder to find for everyone else.
The Masters had seen the worst of times before and could see when the world of power was turning against then. The Order had not survived catastrophe and defeat for generations by failing to read the tides. If the king of the Franks was turning against them there would be no refuge for them to be found by running over the Alps, the Pyrenees or the Rhine. There was nowhere to run so they needed to stand, but they were not children, if they were going to face the fury of the Frank king, they would prepare like men who took their oaths seriously.
In the days before the fall the Mason was summoned urgently from his rebuilding project on the Order's huge base on the Bordeaux coast. He rode for days with only his personal guard and servant, snatching food, shelter and sleep in houses run by the Order or in monasteries along the way. The beat of disruption could be felt everywhere.
They arrived at the Great House, called The Temple by outsiders, in Paris in late evening and the Mason was shown directly into the company of the Grand Master without even having time to wash.
The tension among the knights was almost palpable and grew steadily by the hour. The Mason watched as couriers came and left the House constantly, often walking into the Grand Master's presence without announcement. The Grand Master worked in the library never leaving his desk, hurried meetings took place where brothers from across France and beyond stood talking, often arguing loudly. It was a sound that was never heard within the Order.
The Mason looked into the face of the Grand Master and saw the eyes of a man with no options and less time. They spoke alone for almost an hour but no written instructions were given. At the end of the discussion the Grand Master made the Mason repeat his orders in detail, and then asked him several questions to test his understanding of his mission. Satisfied, he clasped the Mason's hand in both of his and kissed him on the forehead. They parted silently.
The Mason left the great house after midnight taking only his sergeant retainer and a string of five horses.
For the first seven days they rode steadily but swiftly north and east, avoiding the Houses of the Order, which they would usually seek out when travelling, and staying clear of even churches and monasteries where they would normally stop for food, water and shelter. On this trip they dined from their saddlebags and the horses drank from streams.
It was only once they crossed the Rhine that they slowed down and settled into a routine of rest and travel. They shared the hours of watch, never sleeping near even the smallest village. They approached only isolated farmhouses to find fodder and wine, always moving far and quickly once they spoke to anyone.
People rarely looked at them with any interest but, still, they stayed away from the main roads as far as they could until, cresting a low hill, they could see the banks of a great river flowing north. There were few boats to be seen and the only way to cross would be through the river port to their south.
The town sat on a rocky spur of land that ran from a low ridge of mountains out into the river itself. People said it looked like a dragon drinking from the river, with its snout deep under the water. The ridge formed a natural choke point in the river and created its own fortifications with steep slopes of grey stone. The town itself seemed to be piled chaotically onto the ridge and strong walls ran down either side to the river's edge. The only way to reach the harbour was through the town and those who ran the town made sure there was no way to cross the river except through their harbour.
The Mason waited until mid-morning when the main gate of the town was busy with wagons and livestock being brought in for market. With himself at the front of the line of horses and his retainer at the rear they mingled easily with the crowds, helped in their invisibility by a steady rain.
They climbed up through the steep, narrow stone streets of the town until they reached a flat irregular square at the top of the ridge. At one end of the square stood the huge church, at the other, the gate of the castle. Most of the space between was filled with market stalls and small livestock pens, but near the castle the space opened up and the Mason could see uniformed men standing guard at the gate.
The Mason kept close to the edge of the crowds, his head covered and his body bowed to try and hide his large frame.
They were far across the square and almost starting to head down again towards the river, when a noisy wave of pushing shouting and swearing townspeople suddenly heaved against them, pushing the Mason, his retainer and their horses sideways against a wall.
The noise and movement in front of the Mason increased and he saw a group of liveried men pushing through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of market stallholders and taking delight in the mayhem they were creating. Immediately behind the men he could see a group of three priests, one carrying a cross twice as high as a man, made of dull metal. The priests were chanting, their eyes fixed upwards and unfocused as they trod their way through the filth created by the market and the animals.
Behind the priests he saw a large, seemingly empty cart pulled by four oxen. He was pushed further out of the way of the ragged procession and the ripple of people that it created. Being on horseback, he could easily see over the heads of the townspeople. Covering his face with his hood he looked into the cart.
In the flat bed of the cart he could see several bodies, bloody and battered and possibly dead. Behind the cart was worse, he saw a dozen stumbling prisoners chained to the rear of the wagon and obviously the victims of prolonged and savage beatings. Their faces and hands were bloody pulp, their feet black and broken.
Dragging on the ground in the filth and trampled by the prisoners were a dozen white robes. The robes were the uniform of the Knights Templars and the battered wretches were brothers of his own Order. For a moment he caught the eye of his own sergeant, his face a mask of shock and incredulity.
The Mason tried not to look at the prisoners and turned his eyes swiftly away, hoping to avoid recognising any of them and headed downwards, through the steep streets, towards the river port. The distraction caused by the movement of the prisoners from the castle to the church made the Mason's river crossing easy.
This was the first sign that the Mason had that the worst fears of the Grand Master had been realised. There was no possibility that the Duke of this land had acted alone. Even here, well beyond the authority of the French king, the Order had been smashed. They crossed the river by barge, listening to the boatmen chattering in their local dialect. The Mason stared silently at the rushing river, knowing that his life as he knew it was over.
Later that day, as evening drew in, they passed within a mile of one of the Order's houses. The doors were broken open and the animal pens empty. People wandered in and out of the courtyard searching for anything left which they could loot. The Mason and his sergeant watched for a moment, and then moved on wordlessly.
That night, before they began to look for a camp site the Mason spoke to his retainer. He had known the sergeant for a dozen years, and now told him that he was relieved of all obligations to the Order. He offered the man a small bag of coins and a horse with the choice of staying with him or leaving to find his own way in this new world where Templars were now hated outlaws.
The sergeant looked back towards the distant town they had come through that morning, and then looked north, where the Mason was heading. Kneeling suddenly, he asked the Mason for his blessing then took the purse and turned, leading his horse, heading back the way he had come, leaving the Mason entirely alone.
After a few hours’ sleep the Mason moved on. On this side of the river he could travel with more freedom. The land was less settled, and with his provisions he had no need to speak to the local people.
Within eight more days he felt a sudden change in the air. His horses raised their heads testing the new scent. He had reached the sea.
Early the next day the Mason and his few horses carefully approached a large, three-storey, stone house on the seashore which had several stout outbuildings and well-kept stables. A wooden jetty ran out from the beach towards a broad, flat-bottomed ship.
As he approached he dismounted and, leading his string of horses, he walked slowly towards the gate. He stopped a hundred yards short of the building near a horse trough and an old upturned boat, and watched as the gate was opened. A man, obviously a soldier, walked towards him until they were face to face. They stood looking at each other, and then both smiled. The soldier turned to his left and said loudly, "This is a friend." At this, a man armed with a cocked crossbow aimed at the Mason stood from his hiding place by the boat and nodded, making his weapon safe.
"Ulli, it is good to see you," said the Mason.
Chapter 5
The Riggins incident was not something that Sparke had been directly involved in managing, but since he sat at the heart of his company's communications network he was the only person in the organisation who had been witness to the whole event.
Some disasters were perfect storms of once-in-a-lifetime events that came together with catastrophic impact. The Riggins incident was simplicity itself. An ageing bulk carrier en-route from Argentina to the Baltic loaded with thousands of tons of ore lost all power in the North Sea. The crew made several attempts to restart the engines while the owners delayed calling for assistance for as long as they thought they could. They delayed too long. By the time help had been requested the powerless ship had drifted into the oil fields and was on a high probability course to strike a production rig which was operated by Sparke's company.
