Pierre tried to tell himself he was only imagining things. (He did have an active imagination, after all.) But when the papal procession was finally ready to proceed, and the Knights of the Hospital of St. John were invited to ride just behind King Philip and the cardinals themselves, the message was made clear. The Temple was in trouble.

Pierre’s head ached and his arms were stiff with tension. As Procurator of the Temple in Rome, he had been assured by the Italian cardinals that Clement V highly favored the Templars; not a single man had hinted at the slight to come on this day. But as the Temple’s leading priest/lawyer (and, he often reminded himself, its only intellectual), Pierre knew at least one possible reason for the snub.

While his knightly brethren had been practicing their military maneuvers, and his serving brethren performing their myriad tasks of money-handling and money-making, Pierre had been immersed in the latest challenge to his Order. Many men wished to see the Temple and the Hospital merge into a single entity. Many men felt that two Orders of military monks were excessive and that Holy Land recovery would be better served by one united Order, which would almost be a crusading army in and of itself.

King Philip the Fair was one of these men.

Pierre knew the merger idea was popular with the Hospitallers, because they wanted more than anything to become privy to all the secrets of the Temple—and, of course, to claim the Temple’s wealth, which dwarfed that of any king. But Pierre shared with his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, a determination not to allow this to happen. For de Molay, it was a matter of maintaining the Temple’s military superiority in advance of another attempt to regain the Holy Land. Pierre de Bologna had the more serious goal of guarding the Temple’s esoteric lore, both written and oral, from the prying eyes of outsiders.

No one in the Order knew more about the Temple than Pierre de Bologna. In the twenty-five years he’d spent as a Templar priest, he’d read the Temple’s entire archives and had attended every top-secret chapter held in Rome, Cyprus, or Paris. Moreover, he’d made a point of interviewing all the eldest Templars and taking from them every detail they could recall of every battle, every chapter meeting, every leader and brother they had met. “Walking, talking library,” de Molay called him (with some derision, as the Grand Master could neither read nor write). Pierre had grown used to being the butt of jokes in this grand spectacle of military knighthood. But someone had to guard the true secrets of the Order, from the centuries past when knights’ whole lives might be spent in Palestine, and peacetime hours were expended upon more than raking in ducats. Whether he believed all he’d read and heard, Peter felt deeply that the great secrets of the Order should be kept in as few heads as possible, heads that could digest sensitive material without becoming maddened by it. Better no one should know the truth than a single Hospitaller, for some of the secrets were . . . well . . . unorthodox.

So for highly varied reasons, Pierre de Bologna and Jacques de Molay had allied themselves to save their Order from the inevitable dilution of power that merger would bring. If they had to count King Philip the Fair as an enemy of this goal, then they had a formidable enemy indeed.

Their other enemy—more dangerous, from Pierre’s point of view—was public opinion. Since the Christians had been expelled from the Holy Land , the Temple had been unable to regain even an acre of lost ground there. The Templar fighting force was thrown back into Europe, where they were resented for their idleness and wealth. It was even whispered that the Temple had lost the Holy Land for Christians through its own perfidy. How badly matters had become twisted since the fall of Acre in 1291!

Jacques de Molay had been elected Grand Master on his vow to rehabilitate the Temple’s reputation. In this, as in so many other things, he had failed. He seemed to think that ostentatious displays of wealth and power would win people’s hearts back to the Templar Order and fire them for crusade. Thus, when he traveled, he outfitted himself and his retinue in magnificent trappings, and poured out empty promises of glory and salvation to be found in the sands of Syria. The people sneered and spat . . . and speculated in the vilest ways about what really went on in secret Templar chapters.

Pierre sighed, massaged his throbbing head, and tried to concentrate on the ceremony. He’d come into the Temple with every bit of collegiate and ecclesiastical training he could receive. He’d spent the next twenty-five years accumulating additional knowledge. For what? To be marginalized by an ambitious French king? To be spat upon in public and reviled as a drunk and a usurer and a sodomite?

In his younger years, he thought he could tackle this whole problem himself, give the Order—and perhaps the whole Catholic Church—a new and glorious direction. Now he felt he would be lucky if he could find one man, one successor, to carry his weight of gnosis into the next generation . . . where it might be better received.

Hugues de Pairaud poked Pierre’s arm to get his firm attention. “Why didn’t you warn us this snub was afoot, priest?” de Pairaud whispered angrily. “You were in a perfect position to see it coming.”

“Was I indeed?” Pierre retorted. “Perhaps you should tell me the extent of the bond between Clement and Philip the Fair. If they are plotting to merge us with the Hospital, they certainly haven’t been doing it in Rome.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Pierre de Bologna. With one stroke of the pen I can have you sent to wild Ireland, or off to fight the Moors in Spain. At any rate, you won’t be going back to Rome anytime soon. This pope will have the sense to stay out of that rat nest, and wherever he goes, you will go also.”

The Procurator’s heart sank, and not because of the threatened exile to Ireland. As if carrying the Temple’s secrets wasn’t enough, Pierre de Bologna had personal secrets of his own. He belonged to a cabal of extremely discreet Roman intellectuals who met regularly for free discussions of everything from the sorry plight of the papacy to the miracles of alchemy. He was fascinated by the cabal’s explorations of—how was it best described?— alternative possibilities. Ten years ago, when his dissatisfaction with the Order had begun to mutate into a distrust of all Christian institutions, Pierre had joined the group to become more deeply invested with the spirit of God and Christ. Now, having read the Koran, Greek philosophy, and the writings of magi of many countries and faiths, his horizons had broadened to such an extent that the whole façade of formal Christianity had cracked to pieces for him.

Pierre was on the verge of sharing the Temple’s lore with his cabal, just to put it into the hands of men who could digest it and blend it into a whole cosmic scheme. (In fact, he was sure he’d been invited to join because they wanted to know what he knew.) No one had pressured him to reveal anything, but he could feel the eagerness in the group. They treated him like gold, like a living . . . well, yes, a living library. It would indeed be a relief to share everything with them. But he hadn’t done that yet. He knew the penalty for spilling Templar secrets, and he was not the bravest of men.

The fact that he had to keep so much within himself contributed to his anxiety. Perhaps he would be better off in France, beyond the little cluster of scholars and schemers who called themselves “the illuminati.” But the prospect was grim. In disgust, he imagined the entire papal court, with all its intrigues, perversions, and lust for creature comfort, lodged in some provincial capital like, say, Lyons. Horror.

Exile in Ireland would be preferable. He wanted to learn more about the legends of the British Isles. Those standing stones, for instance . . .

“Are you listening, Father de Bologna? How did this happen?”

The procession had started moving. Pierre gripped his horse’s reins with thin hands, saw smug disapproval of his diminutive stature all around him. Brawn. That was all these Templars respected, the ability to swing a sword or mace and inflict mayhem all around.

“I will tell you plainly what I think only in chapter, Hugues. Here in the light of day I will only urge you to keep well apprised of King Philip’s activities.”

“Do you slander King Philip? Christian King Philip? He loves our Order! When I come to his court he serves me with his own hands! We hold his crown jewels in safekeeping at our Paris Temple! The very jewels worn by Charlemagne! That’s how highly he thinks of us.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Pierre said. “How much money has he borrowed from the Order this year?”

“One more word, Father de Bologna, and you will be saying mass for snot-nosed Scotsmen! I’ll hear no more unfounded suspicions from you. I will expect a full report on this situation before I leave Lyons. Now, sit up straight. It’s only a horse, it won’t bite you.”

The procession started through the narrow streets of Lyons, which mercifully had been swept clean and strewn with fragrant rushes for His Holiness. Progress was at a snail’s pace, though, because unusually good November weather had brought out the entire population of the city plus several thousand visitors from the countryside. People hung from makeshift slings thrown out open windows; any roof sturdy enough to hold human weight was completely covered with viewers; throngs six-deep cheered from wall-tops; and every aspect of humanity clogged the streets—sick and well, old and young, happy and miserable—all longing to touch the pope for healing and health.

Such blind devotion to one rheumy old man. Such hearty cheers for a king who had devalued the currency and thrown the French economy into chaos. Why is it always thus? Peter asked himself. Where are the doubters? Where, indeed, but in a few secret clusters here and there, in university settings and the wildest rural areas where church and state policy did not penetrate because there was no financial profit to be gained.

Bad thoughts with which to greet a new pope. Perhaps this man will be different. Dear Lord, let it be so!

The papal parade was passing a high stone wall that literally swarmed with peasants. Suddenly Pierre heard a rumble . . . and then screams, many screams . . . and the street filled with dust and commotion.

Pierre’s horse reared, sending his heart into his throat and a surge of blood to his pounding head. The screams intensified, and the crowd behind Pierre began rushing in the direction of the noise, causing a complete jam and panic. As the dust began to rise, he saw that it was not dust at all, but tiny flecks of dried mortar, released violently from between the stones. He struggled fruitlessly to calm his mount while even more panicked peasants poured out of a brand-new rift in the wall. Behind them a mournful band of very old monks wrung their hands in dismay.

“A wall has fallen on His Holiness and the king!” Hugues de Pairaud shouted above the din. “Templars, to the rescue!”

Like a pride of lions working together for a kill, the 48 Templar knights fanned out in all directions. Some stayed mounted and, with much hollering and a show of weaponry, beat back the pressing crowd. Others dismounted and waded into the din, quickly disappearing amidst the confusion.

Pierre found himself clinging to the reins of a half-dozen horses besides his own, and every beast among them fractious. He panicked as he began to slip in the saddle; three of the mounts broke free and tried to bite and stomp their way out, to no avail. One of the horses screamed (or was it Peter himself?). Another reared and lunged, half pulling Pierre’s arm from the socket. He felt an ugly wrench in his shoulder, let go additional reins. Now the Templar horses added immeasurably to the chaos, and it was all his fault.

I’ll surely be killed, Pierre thought, his stomach churning as he confronted the sea of stomping hooves and felt his own horse’s rising anger. Why don’t we ride humble palfreys? These animals are primed to kill.

Then, just as suddenly as the debacle began, it ended with the return of a mere three Templars, who took control of the herd and even went so far as to lead Pierre to safety. He was still gasping for breath when their party reached the square outside the cathedral and found just a modicum of space to wait for the other brethren. More than an hour passed before Hugues de Pairaud and his retinue strode into the square.

“His Holiness is badly shaken and bruised, but he appears not to have taken a mortal wound,” Hugues said. “He was pulled from the wreckage by one of our own, that English youngster . . . what is his name? . . . Robert Brinham of Bristol. Strong fellow. Carried His Holiness right through that crowd until they found a clean bed to lay him on. As far as I know, our Robert is still by the pope’s bedside.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Hugues smiled. “We put the Hospitallers to shame back there! They’re probably still sitting there with their thumbs up their arses.”

Pierre crossed himself. “Thank God the pope is alive. And King Philip?”

“Escaped all injury. Not so his brother, though. Charles of Valois sustained serious wounds. He has been taken to the Hospital preceptory, so I suppose our black rivals do have some important task to perform.”

“Is there any chance we can return to our preceptory?” Pierre asked.

Hugues looked at him disdainfully. “None. We’re needed here in the city to keep order. Riots could ensue. Come along, brothers, let us return these horses to their owners and keep the peace for pope and king! Oh, not you, Father de Bologna. Yes, go ahead, sigh with relief! I suggest you pay some stout fellow to watch your mount and get yourself back into the church. Prayers are in order.”

Pierre slid off his mount and was immediately surrounded by pinch-faced lads eager to do him the service of holding his horse (or, for that matter, any service he would like, if it payed). He handed off the reins and headed for the cathedral door.

Yes, prayers were certainly in order.

In chapter two nights after the accident, Hugues de Pairaud calmly pronounced it an act of God, engineered to illustrate the superiority of the Temple to doubters like Clement V and Philip the Fair. De Pairaud made a great show of decorating the English hero who had waded in at great personal peril and saved Clement. For his part, the Englishman seemed to want no more special acclaim, having been anointed by the Holy Father himself. He seemed blissfully unaware that such exploits could make a career in the Temple, elevate him to a position of leadership and privilege. He had done it, he said, because he was a soldier of Christ following the will of God.

Jacques de Molay would love this beardless English youth who, after personally guarding a pope for 36 hours, would not even take a second ration of meat and wine. Even Pierre was impressed by that. He watched the fellow for a day or two, hoping to see a modicum of extra intellect, a curiosity, a tendency toward individual initiative. Alas, he was disappointed again. Robert Brinham of Bristol was a great soldier who was pious, orderly, and obedient to every rule and command. Nothing more.

Was it an omen? When asked to comment in chapter, Pierre said simply that one must ever try to comprehend the Almighty, that true Christians should only thank God that the vicar of Christ and a most Christian king were saved.

Privately, Pierre was chilled. A stone wall, falling on the pope and the king? What did it mean? One of the thinkers in his cabal said there was no such thing as coincidence, that every action had a meaning, even if that meaning could not be readily divined by conscious thought. Synchronicity was the word he used. A wall falling on the pope and king simultaneously could be the first revelation of true oncoming peril for both the papacy and the monarchy. The two greatest institutions, the two most powerful persons, both felled by stone . . . by the humble work of masons. Could this be a harbinger of the kind of peasant uprising that Pierre sometimes saw in his dreams? Like the song, “Today the folk are raised up, and casting down the proud?” Would the humble populace take a stand against the two consuming powers that fleeced them of their last sou and worked them, soldiered them, riddled them with guilt till they wound up in early graves?

The next thought chilled Pierre even more. Stones falling on pope and king. He himself was Pierre, the rock! What part would he play in an uncertain future? Who or what had read his thoughts, seen how he inwardly railed against the abuses of the powerful, then staged this near-fatal accident to warn him that he, Pierre de Bologna, would have to raise up and cast down the proud?

Oh, for the love of Mary. It was just a stone wall, overladen with worshippers. Just a wall that fell at an inopportune time. Both pope and king are shaken but unharmed. And I am just a craven chain link in the power structure. I will never be more than that.