Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

De Charney looked for a piece of linen the same size as the Holy Shroud. He did not want the precious cloth exposed to the rigors of the journey, but this time he thought it best not to convey it in a chest. It would be hard to reach Constantinople, from whence he planned to set sail for France, and the less baggage he carried, the better.

Like Said, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground, eating what they could hunt on the road, whether in the forest or the desert. They needed only two good steeds.

He was overcome with remorse for leaving, for he knew that his brothers-in-arms would surely die. He knew that he was leaving this land forever, that he would never return, and that in sweet France he would remember the dry air of the desert, the happiness of the Saracen camps in which he had forged so many friendships-for in the end, men were men, no matter what god they prayed to. And he had seen honor, justice, grief, happiness, wisdom, and misery in the ranks of his enemies, as he had seen in his own. They were no different-they but fought under different banners.

He would ask Said to accompany him for a while, but then he would ride on alone. He could not ask his friend to leave his homeland-Said would never become accustomed to living in France, however much de Charney had told him of the wonders of Lirey near Troyes, the town of his birth and boyhood. There, de Charney had learned to ride through the green meadows near his family home, to wield the little sword that his father had the ironsmith make for him and his brother so that his sons might grow up to become knights. No-Said had grown old, like him, and it was too late now to learn to live another life.

He carefully finished folding the shroud within the new linen and then he slipped it into the leather shoulder bag he always carried. Then he found Said and told him of the Grand Master's orders. Said simply nodded when de Charney asked him if he would ride with him for a time before they separated to go their own ways. The squire knew that when he returned, there would be no more Christians in Acre. He would return to his own people, to live out what remained to him of his life.

It was raining fire. Hosts of flaming arrows flew over the top of the walls, igniting all they struck. The Mameluke siege of Saint-Jean d'Acre had commenced on April 6 of that year of our Lord 1291. For several days now, after weeks of attacks, the enemy army had been battering the fortress, even as the Templar knights fiercely defended it. How many knights remained? Barely fifty were defending the walls they refused to surrender.

On the day the siege began, Guillaume de Beaujeu had ordered his knights to make their confessions and take communion. He knew that few if any of them would survive, and so he had asked them to make their souls' peace with God.

Now, within the walled city of Acre, in the great Templar fortress, the fighting was body against body as the walls were at last breached. The Templars refused to yield a palm of ground; they defended each inch with their lives, and only when that life was taken from them could the enemy advance.

Guillaume de Beaujeu had been wielding his sword for hours; he did not know how many men he had killed or how many had died around him. He had urged his knights to try to escape before Acre fell, but the petition fell on deaf ears, for they all fought in the knowledge that soon they would be with God.

Even as he fought on, he took comfort in imagining the miles unfolding before Francois de Charney as he rode ever farther away, bidding farewell to all those places he had called home. He trusted that the knight would save the shroud of Jesus and see it safely to France. His heart had told him to give the cloth over to de Charney, and he knew he had made the right decision. The man who forty years ago had brought the shroud from Constantinople in his youth was now keeping custody of it once more, on the road toward the West.

Two fierce Saracens bore down on the Grand Master, and he felt a new surge of strength, furiously fending off their great scimitars with his sword and shield. But oh! What had he done? Suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He could see nothing-night had fallen. Insh'Allah!

Jean de Perigord pulled the body of Guillaume de Beaujeu over to the wall. The word spread fast: The Grand Master had fallen. Acre was on the verge of being overrun, but God willed that it not be that night.

The Mamelukes returned to their camp, from whence came the smell of spiced lamb and the sound of songs of victory. The knights came together, exhausted, in the chapter meeting hall. They had to elect a new Grand Master, there, now-they could not wait. They were bone tired, and they cared little who became their leader, for tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, they were all to die-what difference could it make? But they prayed and meditated, and they asked God to enlighten them. Thibaut Gaudin was elected successor to the valiant Guillaume de Beaujeu.

On May 28, 1291, it was hot in Acre, and it smelled of death. Before the sun rose, Thibaut Gaudin ordered his remaining knights to Mass. Then they took their positions and once more met the enemy. Swords clashed unceasingly, and arrows blindly found their targets. The fortress resembled a cemetery. Only a handful of knights remained alive.

Before the sun set, the flag of their enemies flew over Acre. Irish'Allah!

ANA WOKE UP SCREAMING, HER HEART pounding in her chest as though she were in the middle of battle. But she was in the heart of London, in a room in the Dorchester Hotel. Her temples were throbbing, and she felt the sweat running down her back.

Overwhelmed by a sense of grief and anguish, she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Her hair was stuck to her face and her nightgown was soaked through. She pulled it off and stepped into the shower. This was the second time she'd had a nightmare about a battle. If she believed in the transmigration of souls, she'd swear she'd been there, in the fortress of Saint-Jean d'Acre, watching the Templars die to a man. She could describe the face and behavior of Guillaume de Beaujeu and the color of Thibaut Gaudin's eyes. She had been there; she could feel it. She knew those men.

She stepped out of the shower feeling better, and pulled on a T-shirt. She didn't have another nightgown. The bed was soaked with sweat, so she decided to turn on her laptop and surf the Internet awhile.

Professor McFadden's thoughtful explanations, plus the documentation he'd provided on the history of the Templars, had affected her deeply. And he had showered her with details on the fall of Saint-Jean d'Acre- according to him, one of the most bitter days in the order's history.

That was surely why she'd dreamed so vividly of the doomed defense of the fortress, as she'd done when Sofia Galloni told her about the Byzantine troops' siege of Edessa.

Tomorrow she was scheduled to see the professor again. This time she was going to try to get something concrete out of him-something other than colorful stories about the slow fall and terrible deaths of the Templars.

The smell of the sea lifted his spirit. He didnot want to look back. His years were taking their toll, for he had wept without shame when he set sail from Cyprus, the last port of the East, as both he and Said had done when they at last made their farewell. Their parting was akin to one man being cut in two. In all these years it was the first time they had embraced.

For Said, the time had come to return to his own people, while he, Francois de Charney, was returning to his native land, a land about which he knew almost nothing nor felt to be his own. His homeland was the Temple, and his house, the East. The man who now made his way to France was but a shell. He had left his soul at the foot of the walls of Saint-Jean d'Acre.