The Templar Legacy Read Free

man and not the son of God? You defile the true cross? Very well. You will see what it is like to endure the cross.”
    The whip came again—to his back, his buttocks, his legs. Blood splattered as the bone tips ripped skin.
    The world drifted away.
    Imbert stopped his thrashing. “Crown the master,” he yelled.
    De Molay lifted his head and tried to focus. He saw what looked like a round piece of black iron. Nails were bound to the edges, their tips angled down and in.
    Imbert came close. “See what our Lord endured. The Lord Jesus Christ whom you and your brothers denied.”
    The crown was wedged onto his skull and pounded down tight. The nails bit into his scalp and blood oozed from the wounds, soaking the mane of his oily hair.
    Imbert tossed the whip aside. “Bring him.”
    De Molay was dragged across the chapel to a tall wooden door that once had led to his private apartment. A stool was produced and he was balanced on top. One of the guards held him upright while another stood ready in case he resisted, but he was far too weak to challenge.
    The shackles were removed.
    Imbert handed three nails to another guard.
    “His right arm to the top,” Imbert ordered, “as we discussed.”
    The arm was stretched above his head. The guard came close and de Molay saw the hammer.
    And realized what they intended to do.
    Dear God.
    He felt a hand clamp his wrist, the point of a nail pressed to his sweaty flesh. He saw the hammer swing back and heard metal clang metal.
    The nail pierced his wrist and he screamed.
    “Did you find veins?” Imbert asked the guard.
    “Clear of them.”
    “Good. He is not to bleed to death.”
    De Molay, as a young brother, had fought in the Holy Land when the Order had made its last stand at Acre. He recalled the feel of a sword blade to flesh. Deep. Hard. Lasting. But a nail to the wrist was something altogether worse.
    His left arm was pulled out at an angle and another nail driven through the flesh at the wrist. He bit his tongue, trying to contain himself, but the agony sent his teeth deep. Blood filled his mouth and he swallowed.
    Imbert kicked the stool away and the weight of de Molay’s six-foot frame was now borne entirely by the bones in his wrists, particularly his right, as the angle of his left arm stressed his right to the breaking point. Something popped in his shoulder, and pain pummeled his brain.
    One of the guards grabbed his right foot and studied the flesh. Apparently, Imbert had taken care in choosing the insertion points, places where few veins coursed. The left foot was then placed behind the right and both feet were tacked to the door with a single nail.
    De Molay was beyond screaming.
    Imbert inspected the handiwork. “Little blood. Well done.” He stepped back. “As our Lord and Savior endured, so will you. With one difference.”
    Now de Molay understood why they’d chosen a door. Imbert slowly swung the slab out on its hinges, opening the door, then slamming it shut.
    De Molay’s body was thrust one way, then another, swaying on the dislocated joints of his shoulders, pivoting off the nails. The agony was of a kind he’d never known existed.
    “Like the rack,” Imbert said. “Where pain can be applied in stages. This, too, has an element of control. I can allow you to hang. I can swing you to and fro. Or I can do as you just experienced, which is the worst of all.”
    The world was blinking in and out, and he could barely breathe. Cramps claimed every muscle. His heart beat wildly. Sweat poured from his skin and he felt as if he had the fever, his body a roaring blaze.
    “Do you mock the Inquisition now?” Imbert asked.
    He wanted to tell Imbert that he hated the Church for what it was doing. A weak pope controlled by a bankrupt French monarch had somehow managed to topple the greatest religious organization man had ever known. Fifteen thousand brothers scattered over Europe. Nine thousand estates. A band of brothers that had once dominated the Holy Land