Silas grey religious con.., p.1
Silas Grey Religious Conspiracy Archaeological Thriller Collection: Holy Shroud, The Thirteenth Apostle, Hidden Covenant (Order of Thaddeus Collection Book 1), page 1
Silas Grey Religious Conspiracy Thriller Collection 1
Holy Shroud, The Thirteenth Apostle, Hidden Covenant
J. A. Bouma
Contents
Holy Shroud
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Author’s Note
The Thirteenth Apostle
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Author’s Note
Hidden Covenant
Prologue
Day I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Day II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Day III
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Day IV
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Day V
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Author’s Note
About the Author
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Also by J. A. Bouma
Holy Shroud
Book 1
Prologue
Paris, France. 1314.
It was the spicy scent of something burning that first needled Jacque de Molay’s consciousness to awaken. Crackling pine logs and burning hay connected the synapses in his brain to the impression of a distant childhood memory, when times were simpler, happier, less threatened.
It was the putrid smell of burning flesh that snapped him back to reality.
Jacques' eyes flittered open, a darkened picture fading in and out of focus. The right side of his head made him regret his decision.
What…Where am I?
A wave of nausea crashed against his stomach, forcing his eyes shut. He caught his breath, suppressing the urge to retch. It wasn’t working. He tried to sit as his mouth watered and the gag reflex began working overtime, but he was bound. Both arms, both legs. He strained weakly against the cords, the tide rising within. There was nothing he could do. He strained again, trying to pivot his body and head as much as he could, but it was no use. His mouth exploded in sour bile, and half-digested potatoes, carrots, and venison awash in fermentation.
Jacques gulped for air and spat to clear his mouth, then weakly sank back against the table, the memory of the events from so long ago beginning to surface in his aching head—reminding him of what had led to this fateful day.
The Brotherhood had been celebrating the birthday of one of their members the night before. Ian, the youngest of the brothers and his godson, had turned twenty-five. Which meant he was now a full member of the religious order. Smoked venison from the day’s hunt, and tart mead brewed from the early spring, were plentiful. As was enough song, dance, and laughter to last a lifetime of memories.
Jacques was in high spirits and beaming with pride. He raised his glass, brimming full with the finest wine from the choicest grapes from Burgundy, ready to toast the young man’s milestone, when it happened. So suddenly, so unexpectedly.
A series of thumping sounds beating rhythmically, like a war drum from the outer wall, first caught his attention. At first, he mistook them for the sounds of celebration. But shouts of disturbance rising from the outer courtyard of the mighty fortress of the Brotherhood quickly dispelled those impressions, twisting his gut with fear. A large crashing sound was immediately followed by more shouts and then screaming. The unmistakable sounds of thousand-pound horses and a raging fire removed any confusion.
They were under attack.
Jacques hurried to a large window in the gathering hall of the second floor. Flames were consuming the gatehouse. Mounted horse units and infantry bearing the seal of King Phillip IV of France were flooding the courtyard, their navy-blue banners bearing gold fleur-de-lis, demanding entrance into the main compound. He caught sight of women and children running, seeking shelter from the onslaught, before he rallied his men for the fight ahead.
Rumors had swirled for months among the fellow Brotherhood chapters across Europe and the Holy Lands that the king was moving against them, having become panicked over their outsized wealth, power, and influence. Reports told of mounted units of fury and fire raiding secret compounds in outer regions. Arrests were made. Brothers were tortured. "Confessions" were extracted, though for what reason was beginning to come to light.
An ancient holy relic bearing the power of faith and life was being sought.
They knew the day would come. They had prepared for it. Signed up for it, even. The holy relic had been entrusted to their care, and they would die protecting it. Some did that day almost seven years ago. Many more through the years undergoing “ecclesial procedures.” Also known as the Inquisitorial hearings.
Now it appeared his day had come at last.
A face emerged from the soft light and hard shadows sending a jolt of adrenaline to Jacques’s stomach, threatening another round of retching.
It was the face of an ancient threat, the dreaded ibis Bird-Man. Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge. The man who wore the ancient face was bare-chested and tanned to a burnished bronze, his upper shoulders ringed by an intricate weave of gold and turquoise beads at the base of his neck. A long beak of onyx black, silent and probing, peered down at Jacques from behind a mask of gold, flanked by ribbons of indigo.
It can’t be true…
Jacques swallowed hard, his head throbbing in protest. He strained forward against the thick cords of rope holding his well-muscled body, tilting his head for a better look at his surroundings. He was in the center of a large rectangular barn made of stone and vaulted by solid oak beams, punctuated with the sour smell of manure. Stacks of hay were shoved to the periphery. The stalls had been emptied of their four-legged creatures, and in their place were his brothers, strapped to tables like his own. Shadows danced around the vast interior, mirroring the ghastly beings hovering over his brothers.
Like the one staring him in the face.
A bloodcurdling cry sent his skin crawling with static shock, snapping Jacques’s head toward the large entrance drenched in dancing yellows and oranges and reds. The view through the maw of darkness sent his stomach to the dirty ground beneath. Within minutes the screams faded, and Jacques’s brother was resting in the arms of his Savior.
“That,” said Bird-Man, “was a trial run for the main attraction.” He leaned in, a large grin of white gleaming behind the gold mask. “The lad who I’ve been told is your godson, Ian.”
Jacques went pale, and bowels went weak, at the mention of his precious son. He eased himself upright, straining to see into the nightmare of darkness beyond, seeking a glimpse of the young man.
He could make out a tall, slender figure t
“Noooo!” Jacques screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth. Another wave of vomit threatened to arise as he strained uselessly against the thick cords bound to his wrists and ankles. He screamed until his lungs gave out, his voice fading into hoarse nothingness, face darkening crimson as he raged and strained forward. He paused and heaved large breaths, then screamed and strained again, mind swimming with delirium.
“Molay,” Bird-Man intoned silkily. “I had no idea you were such a sentimental man.”
The figure masked in gold and indigo pressed a glove-encased hand on Jacques’s chest, shoving him back against the table with purpose, stilling him. He turned back and stared into Bird-Man’s beady, little eyes. Then launched a well-aimed glob of spittle into Evil Incarnate.
Bird-Man recoiled. Pale goop dripped off the golden mask onto the dirt floor. A smile curled coolly upward as he slowly wiped what remained of the insult away. Then he leaned down over Jacques’s face, holding his gaze.
“What a beautiful lad,” he said. “A real shame he has to die. Unless, that is, you co-operate.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Jacques roared uselessly.
The masked figure leaned in closer, his beak nearly touching Jacques’s chest. “I think you know exactly the meaning of this.”
He did. Jacques sank back against the wooden table, then turned his head, panic welling within as he stared at a shadow on a distant wall.
His Brotherhood had been commissioned to keep the holy relic safe stretching back a hundred years. Since the sacking of Constantinople, they had pledged their treasure and lives to keep it from falling into the hands of the wicked once again. Given their unique position within the political and religious climate, the Brotherhood was strategically positioned to act as the relic’s guardians. Their heavily guarded fortresses would ensure the secrecy and safety of the Church’s most important object of veneration.
For decades rumors had swirled that the Brotherhood was in possession of an object of great religious prestige and power, capable of turning the hardest of hearts and doubters into true believers. During their initiation ceremony, members were given a momentary glimpse of this most sacred object: the supreme vision of God attainable on earth. The Image of Christ himself.
Even more, rumors circulated throughout Europe of an idol before which they prostrated themselves at their headquarters at the Villeneuve du Temple, a massive fortress complex of stone and iron in Paris. The holy object was said to be like an old piece of skin, as though embalmed, and like polished cloth, pale and discolored with a divine image etched in its fibers.
Several groups and individuals had attempted to seize its likeness over the centuries. One, in particular, had attempted for generations to destroy it, with ancient roots stretching back to the early Church. At times they had sought a syncretic version of the faith, resulting in aberrant variations deemed heretical by the Church. Ultimately, it sought the Church’s extinction.
And the face representing that ancient evil was now hovering over Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. Also known as the Order of Solomon's Temple.
The Knights Templar.
Suddenly Jacques’s face exploded leftward in pain. A geyser of blood burst from his nose.
“Where is it?” Bird-Man roared.
Jacques sputtered and coughed as blood poured down the front of his face, the metallic taste of copper threatening another retching episode.
“My patience is thinning, Molay,” Bird-Man said silkily. “We know the Order assumed guardianship of the Church’s most prized relic a century ago. We’ve been tracking its movement for decades, biding our time until we had full confirmation, until the moment presented itself. Fortunately, one of your own was willing to offer us the necessary information.”
Shock pinged Jacques’s gut. The right side of Bird-Man’s mouth curled upward.
“Oh, yes. Squawked like a chicken, telling us quite a tale about a long span of cloth with the faint image of a man in death’s pose.”
Jacques strained toward Bird-Man with all his might, coming within an inch of his face. He roared and snapped his jaw at the abomination, but it was useless. He collapsed onto the table, weakened and breathing heavily.
So the secret is out. The one the Church has been guarding for nearly thirteen centuries.
“And you’ll be as cooperative, won’t you? Because if you aren’t—”
Bird-Man took Jacques’s head in both hands and shoved it up off the table so that he was looking once more at his helpless godson outside. Bird-Man nodded, as if signaling to someone far off into the dark of night.
A few seconds later, a faint light flickered to life in the distance beyond the open barn door. It bobbed and weaved in the blackness, growing with each second. Then the tiny flame roared to life near the ground beneath someone else’s bound, erect body just beyond Ian. Long, undulating, breathy cries of agony joined the snapping flames as the fire started at the base of the pole and worked its way upward, crescendoing into a dirge of death.
“Do you see that, Jacques?” Bird-Man whispered, steadying the Grand Master’s head and eyelids. “There are eleven more left, just like him. Including your precious godson. All waiting to die for your secret. Is it worth sacrificing these lives to protect your pathetic relic?” Bird-Man shoved him against the rough wooden surface, the cries of agony dying down to nothing as the victim passed on from this life to the next. “Now tell me. Where is the Holy Shroud?”
I cannot. I will not. The Shroud must be protected at all cost.
“I will spare the young man’s life and yours and the rest of your brothers if you tell me the location of the Holy Image. Last I knew, it was safely tucked inside the parish within your compound. Now it’s missing!” Bird-Man slammed Jacques’s head against the table, the sounds of agony outside drowning out Jacques’s own pain.
Lord, Jesus Christ, I will not abandon you. I will not forsake your Image.
“What was that?” Bird-Man asked in irritation. “Do you have something to say?”
Jacques swallowed, trying to clear his dry, raw throat. But it was no use. He winced instead, and whispered, “I have nothing to say.”
Bird-Man stood next to Jacques’s table, head cocked. “Nothing to say? Really?” Then he paused, nodding off to the side again. “So be it.”
