Saint and the Templar Treasure Read Free Page B

Eventually, under pressure, the Pope outlawed them and they were persecuted throughout Europe. Very many were tortured and burned. In France they were completely wiped out.”
    “Was that what happened to the Templars at Chateau In-gare?”
    Pascal shook his head.
    “No. They were besieged for many weeks by the King’s army, but somehow most of them escaped just before the walls were breached. That is probably why there are so many legends about the place, for the Knights were never seen again and no one knows where the survivors went.”
    At least one of them, the Saint figured, must have found his way to England. He decided that one day he would have to do some more research into his infamous ancestry.
    A road sign told him that they were just entering the town of Carpentras, and with a trace of reluctance he inquired: “Which way do you go from here?”
    “Chateau Ingare is to the north, but perhaps that is not your direction.”
    Pascal turned and considered his friend, who appeared to have fallen into a light doze. He leaned over and prodded him sharply in the stomach, and the youth stirred and sat up. Pascal turned back to the Saint.
    “It is only a few kilometres and I think Jules has had enough rest.”
    A low moan of protest from Jules showed that he did not agree with his friend, but the Saint had already made his decision. At the next sign-posted intersection he spun the wheel to the left.
    “Since I’ve come this far out of my way, a few more kilometres are not going to make much difference. And they might even let me buy a few bottles to take home with me.”
    His tone was matter of fact but his eyes narrowed as he spoke. There was a strange, almost eerie, tingle of excitement beginning to bubble in the pit of his stomach, a tightening of nerves for which there was no logical explanation. He tried to shake off the feeling, but instead it grew stronger as the miles were covered.
    Two coincidences involving the Chateau Ingare could be brushed off; but the third, linking it with his own name, looked too much like the weaving of fate to be fluke. Even in his most determined realism, Simon Templar had an Achilles’ heel for the sense of destiny that had made his life so different from all other lives.
    After a while, following Pascal’s directions, he turned off the secondary D7 on to an even lesser road that wound up a range of rocky but still vine-clad foothills, and as they came over one of the lower rises he saw the smoke. It was curling into the sky from beyond a copse of tall cypress, halfway up the hillside about half a mile away.
    “Looks like a fire,” he observed casually.
    Pascal’s reaction was more dramatic.
    “C’est la grange!”
    “Does it belong to the chateau?” Simon asked, and already seemed to know the answer before the lad replied.
    “It is where everything is stored ready for the recolte. They would not light a fire there!”
    Before the final word was spoken the Saint was on his way. In a synchronized flow of movements he flicked the gear lever into third and pressed the accelerator towards the floor as the clutch bit. The big car awoke like a jungle cat, roared and catapulted itself forward.
    If he had had any lingering doubt, the last trace of it had vanished. He knew now that all his premonitions had been right, and that he was irretrievably caught again in the web of Kismet.
    3
    Like a bolt from a crossbow the Hirondel sped towards its target. The lane snaked into a chicane of S bends, and the two students grabbed desperately at the side of the car as the Saint threw it into the corners with one hand juggling the steering wheel as the other changed gear with a smooth confidence that would have done credit to any Grand Prix professional. But then, the Saint could have qualified as one of those himself if he had not chosen a more hazardous way of life.
    Just around the second curve, a horse-drawn cart suddenly appeared in front of him, barely fifteen yards ahead and taking up