The Temple Legacy Read online

  THE TEMPLE LEGACY

  (Book 1 of The Temple series)

  D. C. Macey

  Copyright © 2015 D. C. Macey

  All rights reserved

  Published by Butcher & Cameron

  D.C. Macey asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and names are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Also by D. C. Macey

  The Temple Legacy

  published August 2015

  The Temple Scroll

  published August 2016

  The Temple Covenant

  published April 2018

  The Temple Deliverance

  Publication late 2018

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE - COAST OF LOTHIAN, 1308

  CHAPTER 1 - WEDNESDAY 1st MAY

  CHAPTER 2 - THURSDAY 2nd MAY

  CHAPTER 3 - FRIDAY 3rd MAY

  CHAPTER 4 - WEDNESDAY 15th MAY

  CHAPTER 5 - THURSDAY 16th MAY

  CHAPTER 6 - FRIDAY 24th MAY

  CHAPTER 7 - WEDNESDAY 29th MAY

  CHAPTER 8 - SUNDAY 2nd JUNE

  CHAPTER 9 - MONDAY 3rd JUNE

  CHAPTER 10 - TUESDAY 4th JUNE

  CHAPTER 11 - WEDNESDAY 5th JUNE

  CHAPTER 12 - THURSDAY 6th JUNE

  CHAPTER 13 - FRIDAY 7th JUNE

  CHAPTER 14 - SATURDAY 8th JUNE

  CHAPTER 15 - SUNDAY 9th JUNE

  CHAPTER 16 - MONDAY 10th JUNE

  CHAPTER 17 - TUESDAY 11th JUNE

  CHAPTER 18 - WEDNESDAY 12th JUNE

  CHAPTER 19 - THURSDAY 13th JUNE

  CHAPTER 20 - FRIDAY 14th JUNE

  CHAPTER 21 - MONDAY 17th JUNE

  CHAPTER 22 - TUESDAY 18th JUNE - DAYTIME

  CHAPTER 23 - TUESDAY 18th JUNE - EVENING

  CHAPTER 24 - WEDNESDAY 19th JUNE - AM

  CHAPTER 25 - WEDNESDAY 19th JUNE - PM

  CHAPTER 26 - THURSDAY 20th JUNE

  CHAPTER 27 - FRIDAY 21st JUNE

  CHAPTER 28 - SATURDAY 22nd JUNE

  CHAPTER 29 - SUNDAY 23rd JUNE

  CHAPTER 30 - MONDAY 24th JUNE

  CHAPTER 31 - THURSDAY 27th JUNE

  CHAPTER 32 - MONDAY 1st JULY

  ABOUT D. C. MACEY

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  PROLOGUE - COAST OF LOTHIAN, 1308

  All afternoon the old man stood staring across the broad waters of the Firth of Forth. He saw high tide come in around two. Later, as it turned to ebb, he dispatched four ships to the north. One after the other they slowly tacked away, struggling out into the worsening weather. He watched the winter afternoon darken away into evening and witnessed the sea grow ever wilder, driven by the strengthening wind. Time and the growing distance shrank the ships to bobbing flecks. And one by one, they were hidden from his sight. His worry grew with the fading light; here the water was angry, but this was just a fraction of what his men faced as they sailed out beyond the firth and into the open sea.

  They had set off in good spirits but even as the first of the ships pulled away from shore, that wind had started to freshen. In less fevered times he would have called a halt, waited another day, but theirs was an important task that could not be delayed. There was as much danger here on the land as there was at sea, perhaps more. He would trust in his men and thank God that the four ships he sent south the day before were already beyond the storm’s reach.

  The cold of the evening suddenly struck him and a shiver went to the marrow of his ageing bones. Henri de Bello turned his back on the sea and pulled his cloak around him; it was emblazoned with the distinctive Templar cross, now suddenly picked out by the flickering light of two torches. The torchbearers had been standing well back but quickly closed ranks with the old man as he turned. They were fitter and stronger, but there was no doubt authority sat on the older man’s shoulders. The wind tore at the torchlight, throwing shadows that danced around the men as they moved steadily towards the shelter of a low building behind the headland.

  He would pray for the crews. They are in God’s hands now, he thought. And he must hurry; the task was not yet complete. There were plans still to execute and arrangements to make, while he was still able.

  • • •

  The storm had driven the ships apart and in the darkness, each now fought its own desperate battle for survival. The last of the four ships to leave had fared worst, a later start into the ever-worsening conditions had handicapped its progress more, and now it laboured alone as the wind screamed threats through the near empty rigging. A solitary patch of sail was up, trying to maintain some vestige of control, though the master and his crew had long since surrendered any attempt to hold the original course. Spray flew through the dark, soaking those trying to find some shelter around the deck while the remorseless roll and pitch of the ship synchronised with each wave as it surged beneath.

  It was miserable. The crew understood the circumstances and muttered quiet prayers for their lives. Meanwhile, the passengers, four Templar Knights and their sergeants, all crouched low, held tight where they could. Beneath them, in the hold, horses were crying. Earlier, while still in the firth, one horse had broken a leg, caught unawares and stumbling as the ship lurched violently in the growing seas. The horse had been quickly dispatched, its throat opened by a sergeant’s blade, but in the fermenting sea it had not been possible to put the carcass overboard. The ship’s master had insisted the hatch be closed and sealed at once. The remaining horses were distressed by the sudden flood of equine blood as it flowed to and fro with the roll of the ship. The blood was now slowly congealing around their hooves and their dead stablemate’s body. They were frightened. They had good reason.

  Impassive, crouched near the deck’s stern shelter, the senior Templar Knight kept a firm grip on the bulwark while he watched the shipmaster’s frantic exchange with his mate. Waving hands sometimes pointed south, other times westward towards distant lights on the shoreline of Fife; the men’s shouted words were lost to the wind. Finally, they nodded in agreement. The master turned and struggled across the heaving deck towards the watching Templar Knight. The master’s world was his ship, on board his word was law, yet he still felt slightly uneasy as he approached this man of God and war.

  The master crouched down beside the Templar. ‘My lord, we must make for shelter or we will all be lost,’ he shouted and pointed towards the twinkling lights on the shoreline that called them to safety. ‘A fishing village. We can shelter there and move on when the storm is past.’

  For just a moment, Francis de Bresse held the master’s gaze. Seeing fear in the man’s eyes, he recognised it for what it was: truth. He had seen it before in other eyes: in battle, in execution, in many forms of death. In his experience, the eyes of men did not lie as they explored their own fate. He nodded, leaning forward to shout his words into the master’s ear. ‘Move quickly then. Is it a safe coast?’

  ‘Safer than here,’ screamed the master. Momentary relief propelled him up, shouting orders to his crew. Their responses quickened as they realised the ship was to head for land and safety.

  De Bresse signalled the change in plan to his huddled knights and he saw their relief, shared it too and then wondered at more screaming from the hold. Another leg broken? He hoped it was not his own favourite, but whichever one, it would have to suffer unattended until they reached the haven. The crew were too busy saving the ship to open the hold now, even if they dared.

  The combining wind and tide carried them towards land surprisingly quickly. The little cluster of distant lights had now opened into a wide
r arc, signalling the presence of fishermen’s homes and a place of safety.

  The master was peering ahead as the ship surged landward, his eyes searching for the breakwater, some feature that he would need to guide his ship past to reach safety, but he could not see it. He searched and searched again. Suddenly uneasy, he cast about. Where was it? All he could see was the string of lights flickering behind and above the surf as the great breakers rolled and foamed across the beach. A sudden fear struck him. A beach! Lights set in the dunes above! No lee, no safe haven. His stomach tightened into a knot and he turned to everyone and no one at once. ‘Wreckers! Wreckers! We are lost!’

  De Bresse looked on in horror. His task! God’s task! Was it to fail even before the first day had passed? Now he could see the danger clearly, the ring of torches above the beach, bait luring them in and they were caught, carried forward by the driving force of combined wind and tide. There was neither time nor way to turn the ship around. Now he could hear the surf roaring, he could feel the keel grounding in the troughs between waves, then lifting again only to ground harder again and again as the ship was carried closer to shore on successive waves. The end seemed imminent and inevitable.

  Bracing himself against the bulwark De Bresse signalled his knights, not even trying to speak over the roaring wind and surf. He looked each in the eye, and then took the heavy purse of gold from his waist and threw it far back out to sea. The wreckers would not have the Templars’ gold, God’s gold! The other knights recognised his purpose and each stood in turn, bracing themselves against the storm to hurl similar purses overboard. The funds for their mission, the labours of perhaps a thousand lifetimes, lost to the deep in just an instant.

  The Templars edged forward along the ship, the sooner to meet their foe. Around them crewmen knelt down and cried or mouthed silent prayers while others milled about cursing the wreckers. They cursed the Templars too, for their pig-headed determination to set sail in such conditions. Others went overboard, hoping to swim through the huge waves and beyond the arc of torches. Futile. All knew they were already dead men.

  Suddenly, as the ship ground on to the beach with a final backbreaking lurch, a rain of arrows showered down. Men fell, some pierced by arrows, some thrown by the force of the boat’s impact. The mast groaned and broke loose; it fell, crushing others. Screams and cries and blood mixed with the howling wind and whipping spray. De Bresse leapt ashore, followed by his two surviving knights. Together they charged up the beach towards the torches that burned in the dunes. The open beach was a killing ground; any man left there was dead or waiting for death, from an arrow or a cutthroat’s blade.

  ‘Beauseant!’ Now De Bresse was shouting as he ran up the beach, the battle cry of the Templars, Be Glorious. ‘Beauseant!’ The knights to either side of him picked up the cry too, screaming for blood and vengeance. For De Bresse, events seemed to play through in slow motion. He had expected to die in God’s service, probably violently, but here? On a dark nowhere beach? To die for no reason save the greed of local brigands? No honour here, it was not how he had imagined so many years of loyal service to God would end. But the task: he must get the box safely away from these attackers. Somehow, get it back to the master, back to Henri de Bello so he might start the mission again.

  Without their shields, helmets or chainmail the three surviving Templars were vulnerable to the arrows that traced their path up the beach. The knight to De Bresse’s left fell with a gasp and two arrows through his chest. Reaching the top of the dunes, the two remaining knights were met by a surge of attackers. Amidst swinging sword blows, the two parties were past each other in a moment. Four wreckers were down, chopped, cut, butchered in the flashing of the great Templar swords, but De Bresse was wounded too. A sword cut through his left arm, hard into bone.

  The wreckers paused for a moment, suddenly shocked by what they had brought ashore. This was no soft touch merchant ship. The unharmed Templar turned to face them, shouting that De Bresse should go and see to their task. De Bresse hesitated, he was not afraid to stand and fight, to die, but there was still work to be done, and to do anything of use he would first need to tend to his wounded arm, to stop the flow of blood. He turned towards the darkness, moved beyond the torches and struggled away into the dunes as the remaining knight fought a short and futile rearguard.

  The knight sliced open a wrecker, splitting his side and belly with such force that his blade lodged in the man’s spine and as the body collapsed it momentarily trapped the knight’s sword. In a flash, the wreckers took their chance, slicing at the Templar’s hamstrings, bringing him down to his knees. From that angle, he could never free his blade; suddenly he was defenceless. The wreckers closed in and the Templar suffered a flurry of wounding blows. He was chopped and slashed and made to feel pain as the assailants sought to exact a bloody and protracted vengeance for their own dead.

  Cheering in triumph, their leader made a fatal error, getting too close too soon; he stood over the dying Templar and prepared to deliver the killing stroke. In his death throes the Templar stretched up and with the iron grip of his warrior’s sword hand grasped the leader’s genitals through the thin cloth of his trousers. In one fluid motion the knight’s fingertips probed and positioned, sliding in behind the testicles while thumb wrapped tight round the penis, encircling all, then tightened hard and ripped everything down and off. For a moment the leader froze in silent shock, then, suddenly a woman, he collapsed squealing in a castration flood of blood and urine and pain. The Templar died a much faster, easier death.

  De Bresse hurried away towards the darkness; he was followed by a final hopeful arrow. It plunged into his back, knocking him forward and down. He rolled into the darkness, over and down between the dunes. The arrow’s shaft snapped and each roll pressed the head deeper into his body. Finally, he came to rest at the dune’s base. He was still, staring up at the dark and angry clouds, watching bright starlit gaps that opened and closed at the whim of the driving wind. He felt everything was becoming distant, knew he was fading, dying.

  He experienced a passing pang of distress at not completing his task: that faded as he anticipated death and thirsted for life eternal. His hand still kept tight hold of his sword and his body felt the comforting pressure of a slim lead box, his task, pressed into his waistline. He was aware of sand from the disturbed dune trickling slowly down to cover him, hiding him from view. De Bresse faded, the task faded: slipping under the sand, buried, it was as though they never were.

  CHAPTER 1 - WEDNESDAY 1st MAY

  Cassiter sat at the desk in his private office. His firm occupied the whole self-contained top floor of a building on Edinburgh’s Princes Street. The floors beneath his office were occupied by a department store. Set high above the capital’s most famous thoroughfare, the office suite had wonderful panoramic views. His private office looked south, towards the Old Town and the castle, which together combined to form an almost Disneyesque backdrop. Between his office and the fantasy scene were the Princes Street Gardens, creating space to offset the theatrical skyline. Looking down into the gardens Cassiter could see the warm midmorning sun had already attracted some eager early season sun worshipers to the benches.

  There was no obvious public access point to his office, a private lift carried staff and invited visitors directly up from the car parking bay in the building’s basement. On exiting the lift, visitors immediately encountered a sour faced woman sat behind a reception desk; she seemed slightly out of place in the exclusive environment. Running off to left and right, a broad and bright corridor fed into the office spaces from which a tight little team ran a thriving international trading business, buying commodities and products in transit and selling them on for a modest return long before they reached their destinations. No products to handle or warehousing to secure, just money to move and records to keep. Other work was planned here too, but that sat off the public record: Cassiter’s world.

  Far below, the basement parking was accessed from a lane at the
rear of the building. A lane that sat in near permanent shadow save for a few days at the height of summer.

  During working hours, the lane was frequented by delivery vehicles and department store staff slipping out for a quick smoke. By night, the lane was the preserve of the carnal, courting couples who could not wait to get home or those who had someone else waiting at home. No office signs and no welcome mat; his was an invisible business. Most people working in the department store below were oblivious to its presence and those few that were aware had no idea what it did: some IT stuff probably.

  Cassiter’s office contained the highest quality furnishings, but in a simple understated style. Spinning his chair away from the window and back to his desk, he read and reread the newspaper article in front of him. A sense of anticipation prickled his spine. Could this be it? After searching for so long, a genuine breakthrough? He carefully folded the newspaper so just the relevant article was visible, framed the paper in his phone’s view screen and photographed it. This might be big news and he must get it to Eugene Parsol as soon as possible. Before sending it, he expanded the picture, checking the text was clear and legible. Satisfied, he immediately sent it off. Then he turned his attention to other things while waiting for events to unfold.

  His was a challenging role. Often the silent observer, the monitor and reporter of events. Yet, as and when occasion demanded, he and his team could and would rearrange the pieces: a cruel tool of swift response. Few ordinary people could sustain such a conflicted mix of attributes without becoming blunted. But Cassiter was not ordinary; he relished the contrast and thrived on his work, loving both the still and the storm. He returned to the article. Could this old church minister really hold the key? Had this old man in an unguarded reminiscence let slip the clue they needed? His team had conducted endless searches, silently scouring the country, trawling through church records and academic libraries, checking and rechecking. Now, here at last was a possible reference, just popping up in a local newspaper’s profile page.