The Forgotten Templars Vol.1 The Manuscript

Prologue

PROLOGUE

 MAY 1307

THE ROYAL DUNGEONS, PARIS

Philippe walked gingerly down the steps into the dank, fetid air of the dungeons, a trip he had done weekly ever since Jaques De Molay had been captured.  ‘God willing, the old fool will talk this time.’  Philippe thought to himself.

So far, despite horrendous tortures De Molay had refused to speak.

Philippe stepped over the freshly laid straw and gagged at the smell, feeling his shoes sink into whatever excrement and urine was underneath.

He looked over at the naked De Molay crouched in a corner, suspended by chains that held him in position, not allowing him to sit properly and causing him severe pain in his broken legs.

The signs of torture were to be seen all over his body, welts from the whip, burns from the irons.  Bruising and blisters covered his body, but it was the face that shocked Philippe the most; his eyes were bloodshot and the skin around then was purple.  His mouth hung open showing empty tooth sockets where the torturers had yanked teeth during previous attempts to have De Molay confess.

‘Well old man.  Are you willing to talk this time?’  Philippe snarled at De Molay.

‘I will talk with you, but only alone.  If you wish me to speak, remove these cretins from my sight.’  De Molay answered.

‘Be gone all of you.  I will be alone with this blasphemer.’

When all had left, De Molay motioned Philippe over.

‘My Lord King you may ask of me what you will.’

‘Old man, you know why I keep returning.  I want the location of your Templars and the treasure.’

‘Sire, you have our treasure, unless your men stole our gold for themselves.’

‘Don’t fool with me De Molay.  You know of the treasure I seek.  I want the blasphemous head your minions pray to.’

De Molay shook his head and smiled before answering.  ‘You can never be one who looks on the head; you are a heathen and blasphemer to the true God.’

Philippe raged towards De Molay kicking his legs.  All De Molay could do was let out a quiet whimper.

‘Philippe, you and your puppet Pope are nothing.  I am nothing.  The word will live on.  For every one Templar you have captured one hundred and more are now in hiding, and will wait their time, for it will come, and you and your like will kneel before the Knights of Solomon and beg for mercy.’

‘Old man, I promise you will beg for mercy before my inquisitors have finished with your body!’

‘I may be an old man, but I chose this end for myself.  I will make you a promise as well.  You should heed this as a final warning.  Note to yourself the date I die, for within the following twelve months, you and your pope will also die, and it will be in my name.  If I were in your shoes, standing in my shit, I would ensure that I came to no further harm and lived a long life.  For when I pass to my Lord, the sands in the timer start running out for you, and my will be done, heed this you bastard oaf.’

Philippe stuttered, he knew of the power of the Templars and that ninety percent of the Knights, along with their prized treasures, had escaped his clutches.  He knew that if De Molay said this then it would happen.

‘Old man, I will keep you alive, not out of fear, but because it will prolong your suffering, and I wish to see you beg to die.’

‘I am already dead to this world; you can only keep this husk as a reminder of your limited time.  I am in another place which is great and good, now be gone you putrid imbecile or I might just stop breathing and start your death throws.’  De Molay then looked into Philippe’s eyes and let out a cackle showing his tortured mouth.