Jose Sa Beiro gently caressed the cloth, knowing what a monumental privilege it was to do so. Here at his hand was the true image of Jesus, the very image the Templars had worshipped in the privacy of their chapels since Grand Master de Vichiers had sent copies to all the houses of the brotherhood.

The master bade Beltran sit as he read Jacques de Molay's letter. When he had finished, his eyes burned with the same intensity that had carried him through countless battles in the Holy Land.

"Good knight, we shall defend this cloth with our lives. The Grand Master asks that for the present we tell no one that it is in our possession here. We must wait to find out what happens in France, what effects the decision of the Council of Vienne may have on the order. Jacques de Molay bids me send a knight at once to Paris, as a spy; he must go in disguise, and he must neither go near the Temple nor try to communicate with any Templar, but only look and listen, and when he has discovered the fate that is to be the order's, he is to return immediately. Then shall be the moment to decide whether the shroud is to remain in Castro Marim or be taken to another secure place. This is what the Grand Master instructs, and this is what we shall do.

"I shall send for Joao de Tomar. He is the man for this mission."

The town of Troyes was behind him, and it was only a few leagues to the seigneury of Lirey. Geoffroy de Charney had journeyed alone, in the company only of his squire, and he had felt the gaze of Philippe's spies following him all along the road. In his shoulder bag he carried the linen cloth that had protected the shroud, as his uncle Francois de Charney had done before him.

The laborers in the field were gathering their tools in the fading light. The Templar felt his heart lift, seeing the fields of his youth that had long come to him in dreams, and he spurred his horse, eager to embrace his older brother.

His reunion with his family was filled with emotion. His brother, Paul, pulled him into a fierce embrace, assuring him that he had come home to his own house. His father, closer to death than life, shook with sobs as he gazed upon his younger son. He had never wavered in his admiration for the Temple and had aided the order whenever he had been asked. The renowned service of the family's sons in the Templar ranks had been a source of pride and honor to the de Charneys through the years, and it would stand with the order now.

That night, when the household had retired, Geoffroy revealed to his father and brother the sacred cloth that had been entrusted to their family. He was iron-bound by his vows and by the master's explicit orders from relating the whole of the story to them. But that did not lessen the vital importance of the task before them or the profound devotion with which they undertook this trust.

Knowing the fate that all but certainly awaited Geoffrroy, the older men begged him to remain at Lirey, with them and with the miraculous cloth, to guard it until the end of his days if he might. But he was resolved to rejoin his brothers of the Temple and would not be dissuaded. Nor would he obey his master, for he knew his presence in Lirey would only call attention to the place in which the cloth was to remain hidden. His duty and his destiny lay elsewhere, in Villeneuve du Temple at the side of Jacques de Molay.

For several days, however, Geoffroy allowed himself to bask in the warmth of his family. He played with his nephew, who bore his name and one day would inherit the family home. The brave, bright little fellow followed his uncle about wherever he went, asking him to teach him to fight.

"When I grow up I shall be a Templar," he would say.

And a lump would come to Geoffroy's throat, for he knew that the doors to the future had been closed to the Temple, probably forever.

On the day of his departure, young Geoffroy bade his uncle farewell with tears in his eyes. He had asked the knight to take him with him to fight in the Holy Land, and he was inconsolable that he could not go. In his innocence he could not know that his uncle was about to enter the worst of battles, against an enemy who knew no nobility in combat and made no claim to honor-an enemy who was no Saracen but rather Philippe of France, their king.

Jacques de Molay was praying in his chamber when a servant announced the return of de Charney. He had the knight brought to him immediately and, on seeing his face and receiving his terse report on his successful mission, wasted no time in chiding him for rejoining his brothers.

All along his journey back to the Templar fortress, de Charney had heard rumors of Philippe's latest movements against the Temple, and the Grand Master now apprised him of the most recent, fatal developments. In no more than a few days, it seemed, they would be tried en masse and burned at the stake. First, though, they would be tortured and calumnies would be heaped upon them, for the king was accusing the Templars of paganism and sodomy, and also of worshipping the devil and of prostrating themselves before an idol they called Baphumet.

And indeed there was a figure to whom the Templars prayed throughout the world in every chapter house, though His name was not Baphumet. Perhaps somewhere, some unfaithful servant had been bribed to reveal the details of life within the Temple's walls and had whispered that the knights often closed themselves up in a chapel that no one else might enter, and there they prayed. And that upon the wall of the secret chapel had been glimpsed a painting, an image of a strange figure, an idol, whom they worshipped.

The fortress Villeneuve du Temple was a sacred and impenetrable sanctuary no more. The king's soldiers had marched in with impunity and seized everything they found. There was little left to take and no sign of where the riches had gone. Months before, Jacques de Molay had divided the remaining gold and distributed it among distant chapter houses and moved the temple's treasures to Scotland, where its secret documents had also been sent. Philippe's fury was terrible. Yet there was one treasure, the greatest of all, that he felt sure must still lie within his grasp.

He sent an emissary to the fortress-the Comte de Champagne, who presented himself at the gate and demanded to see the Grand Master. Jacques de Molay received him with his characteristic tranquillity and grace.

"I come in the name of the king," the nobleman said grandly when the two men were alone.

"So I imagined. Otherwise I would not have seen you."

The Grand Master remained standing, and he did not invite the Comte de Champagne to take a seat, a snub that inflamed the count's tender sensibilities and his finely honed mastery of courtly etiquette. He was there representing the full authority of the king of France. Yet he squirmed uncomfortably beneath the knight's steady gaze.

"His Majesty wishes to make you an offer: your life in exchange for the Holy Shroud in which Jesus was buried. The king has not a doubt that the relic is in the Temple's possession-our sainted king Louis believed so too. In the royal archives there are documents concerning this matter, reports from our ambassador to Constantinople, volumes from our spies at the imperial court, confidences from Emperor Balduino himself to his uncle the king of France. We know that the shroud of Christ is in the possession of the Temple. You are hiding it."

Jacques de Molay listened to the Comte de Champagne's speech in silence, revealing in neither his face nor his posture any reaction, any emotion at all. But mentally he gave thanks to God that he had foreseen the necessity of removing the relic-which by now, he thought, must be safe in Castro Marim, under the protection of good Jose Sa Beiro.

When the count finished talking, the Grand Master answered coolly, "My dear count, I assure you that the relic to which you refer is not in my possession. You may be certain, however, that even if it were, I would never make such an exchange. The king should not confuse the values of other men with his own."