The hidden keystone, p.1
The Hidden Keystone, page 1
Nathan Burrage lives in Sydney, Australia with his wife and two daughters. He is the author of FIVEFOLD, a supernatural thriller first published by Random House and subsequently translated into Russian, and Almost Human a collection of short fiction published by IFWG.
A graduate of Clarion South—an intensive, six-week residential writing program based on the famous US workshops of the same name—Nathan has been shortlisted for both the Aurealis Awards and the Ditmar Awards in Australia.
Intermittent transmissions can be intercepted at www.nathanburrage.com.
“A rich and vivid historical fantasy grounded in meticulous research, The Hidden Keystone is a powerful tale of political machinations, terrible persecution, and the indomitable hope of the human spirit. Against the bloody backdrop of the First Crusade of 1099 in the Holy Land and the shocking oppression of the Templars in the 1300s France, this masterful work pits the cosmic forces of Mercy and Severity and their human agents against each other in a never-ending battle for the human soul, holding the reader in its grasp well beyond the last page.”
- Dr Karen Brooks, author of The Brewer’s Tale, The Darkest Shore, and The Good Wife of Bath.
The Hidden Keystone
Book 1 of the Salt Lines
by
Nathan Burrage
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.
The Hidden Keystone
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1-922856-34-0
Copyright ©2023 Nathan Burrage
V.1.0
This ebook may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
IFWG Publishing International
Gold Coast
www.ifwgpublishing.com
For Liz, Liana, and Brielle.
A Cast of Characters can be found on page 297
A Glossary of Terms can be found on page 301
First comes the Shroud,
Second the Keystone,
Third the Test,
Unto eternity,
’Til we may rest.
Translated from Hebrew.
Author unknown.
CHAPTER 1
12 October 1307
Commanderie, south of Brienne-le-Château
During the coldest part of the night, well before the morning bell of Matins, Bertrand de Châtillon-sur-Seine knelt in the Chapel of St Anne and silently begged for forgiveness.
An icy draft whispered across the green tiles. Even though it was only October, the chapel was quick to forget the kiss of summer. His habit of thin black wool and linen breeches provided scant protection from the chill. Thankfully, he had been given a strip of lambskin to kneel upon. If it was not for that concession, he might never be able to straighten his legs again.
Bertrand faced the simple wooden altar. The Lord’s Table stood before the stained-glass windows that faced east. Dawn’s first light would end this all-night vigil, and if he proved worthy, see him join the ranks of brother-knights. However, that moment seemed an eternity away.
He drew in a ragged breath.
The vigil had sounded simple enough when Laurent, the Chaplain, had explained it. Utter no word other than prayer throughout the night. Commend your spirit into the safe keeping of God. Then take the vow at dawn, arise, and be reborn.
There had been no mention of how the stillness magnified doubt or how the silence echoed with the sins of the past. After all, would the Order really choose to elevate someone stained by disgrace so early in life? Could he really claim to be of noble spirit when all he could find in the quiet places of his soul was the memory of a woman’s face?
Justine.
No, he must not think of her. Not now.
Her name was a promise on his lips, awaiting only breath to take life in his imagination.
Bertrand’s gaze slipped past the altar to the three panes of stained glass. Instead of glorious depictions of the Bible like those in the great cathedrals of Troyes and Reims, the brothers had to be content with a simple border of green vines that occasionally sprouted a dull flower. A hint of the Garden of Eden perhaps, long since dimmed after that ancient fall from grace.
Once again, his thoughts returned to sin. Refusing to give in, Bertrand chanted the Prayer of the Heart, the words a plea for purity and strength.
“Domine Iesu Christe, Fili Dei, miserere mei, peccatoris.” Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
This was his chance for redemption, an opportunity to weave a new life from the tatters of his past mistakes. But how was he to be reborn when Justine haunted him still?
Memories wove through his frosting breath. Pale, soft skin sliding against linen sheets. Slender, deft fingers clutching his curly brown hair, guiding his explorations. The soft gasps as he pleased her and the leap of his heart in response.
Justine was the widow of his father’s former vassal. As the third son, it fell to him to collect the tithe from her estate in exchange for his father’s protection. Bertrand had understood what was expected of him and had been prepared for any attempts to negotiate a reduction in what was owed. He had not been prepared, however, to find her quite so sophisticated and alluring. Young, and unfamiliar with the ways of women, he had ended up in her bed on the second night of his visit and remained there until it came time to depart. He liked to believe they had taken unexpected delight in one another, although in hindsight he could no longer be sure. It was only when he returned to his father’s castle with a lighter tithe than anticipated that he realised the extent to which he had been manipulated. Furious, his father had shipped him off to the Commanderie three days later. On the morning of his departure, Armand—his eldest brother—told Bertrand what the entire household knew: Justine had been having an intermittent affair with his father even before her husband died.
Bertrand directed a silent appeal for strength at the three windows. If only his spirit could be gathered up into the dark, inert glass. When the sun rose, he would be wrapped in light, protected forever from temptation.
A candle on the altar suddenly flared. Strange, silver sparks crackled and snapped through the flame. The hiss and splutter were loud in the stillness of the chapel. A second taper flickered into silver, followed by the remaining candles.
Bertrand sat back on his heels in astonishment. Silver lines and whorls had appeared in the dark glass behind the altar. The vines, normally so wan in candlelight, sparkled a vivid green. Each flower had become a burst of yellow petals.
The silver threads combined to form a tree whose slender trunk rose from the base of the central window and brushed the uppermost arch. Five circles glistened in the central bole, spread evenly from apex to base. Two boughs split off from the main trunk, each stretching up the panes on either side to support three more of the strange circles.
Bertrand recalled Brother Laurent’s words as the old Chaplain left him to his solitary vigil. To see clearly, you must first gaze within.
Had Laurent known this vision would appear? If so, what did it mean?
The silver sparks in the candles began to fail. Already the unearthly tree was fading. Bertrand noticed the second circle in the central pane had remained darker than the rest. By day, this part of the window was marred by a brown stain that resisted all attempts at cleaning. Now a ruby glow infused that blemish, revealing a rose with five petals.
The candles gave a final sputter, and the tree sank back into the depths of the glass. Forgetting his vow, he murmured, “A tree with the heart of a rose.”
“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” The words were gruff, and pitched low, as if the speaker was trying to mask their true voice.
Bertrand twisted towards the sound. After remaining still for so long, his back cracked at the sudden movement. A figure leaned against the south wall, just beyond the circle of candlelight. Dressed in an ordinary black habit, the speaker was slight and had drawn the cowl low to hide his face. Bertrand gaped, shocked at the blasphemy of this intrusion.
“You show restraint. That’s good.”
The priest skirted the candlelight. “Judging from your expression, you have many questions. An inquiring mind can be a dangerous trait.”
The only warning he had was the soft scuff of leather on the tiles behind him. Bertrand rose into a crouch as strong hands seized him. He flung an elbow at the second intruder, but it failed to connect. Tiles slammed into Bertrand’s face. Before he could recover, his arms were pulled back and efficiently bound together.
“Forgive these precautions,” the first man said, “but it’s important that I have your attention.” Footsteps drew closer. With his face squashed against the tiles, Bertrand could see nothing.
“You’re weary and no doubt berating yourself at having broken your silence. So, I’ll be brief. Despite your past disgrace, I’ve come to offer you a choice. Say nothing of this visit and you’ll be welcomed into the Order as Chevalier Bertrand.”
Shame prickled across Bertrand’s scalp. Did this stranger know about Justine?
“Or you could aspire to something far greater. You could bear witness to a deeper truth, known only to members of the Salt Lines.”
Bertrand stilled.
The Salt Lines.
He had caught whispers about the secret Fraternity. Sometimes a snatch of conversation from the top of the stairs in his father’s chateau, other times late at night, when troubling dreams had woken him and he went unnoticed by powerful relatives who had drunk too much wine.
The Salt Lines were part of his ancestry and never to be spoken of. Questioning his father had taught him that much. But he had gleaned enough to know they involved the deeds of his ancestors in Outremer, the fabled Holy Land. No doubt Armand had been initiated into their mysteries, but his brother had also refused to speak of them.
“We require a commitment,” the priest said. “A statement of good faith.”
An object slid across the floor and stopped in front of Bertrand’s face. It was a simple wooden cross, unadorned, like those pilgrims or penitents might carry.
“If the cross remains whole and undamaged by dawn, we’ll know you’ve chosen not to join us. There will not be a second invitation.”
How could they ask him to defile the cross? Bertrand ached to denounce this sacrilege but that would mean breaking his vow of silence again.
Slow footsteps paced across the tiles. Bertrand caught the sound of the latch of the door in the south wall. “A good Christian would think ill of me for what I’ve asked of you. Believe me when I tell you the Salt Lines are the foremost servants of God. Remember, a tree that bends in strong winds won’t snap.”
The door creaked and a gust of wind swirled through the chapel. “We’ll leave you now, as we found you. If you try to follow us, your vigil will have been abandoned and you’ll never wear the white of a chevalier. Do keep that in mind.”
The hands pinning Bertrand untied his bonds. Heavier footsteps hurried across the tiles. Bertrand rose to his knees and caught sight of a large shadow passing through the doorway.
He glanced around the chapel, but all remained still.
Bertrand picked up the cross. Should he tell Laurent?
No. If one of his brothers had asked him to deny Christ, the repercussions would require careful consideration. Better to remain silent for now.
Bertrand squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the cross against his forehead. What did the Salt Lines want with him when his own father refused to speak of them?
And what of the tree that still glittered in his mind?
Suddenly, he was glad of what remained of the night and the solitary contemplation that it offered. He began his prayers anew, this time asking for guidance as the wind moaned outside.
CHAPTER 2
12 October 1307
The Commanderie
Bertrand’s thoughts swung between his complex feelings for Justine and the unexpected offer from the Salt Lines. Try as he might, he could not dispel either from his mind.
The bell tolled outside, striking five times in its tower. Doors banged in the distance. The brothers would be filing from the dormitory in dutiful silence, responding to the call of Matins, the morning devotion. Frost crunched underfoot in the courtyard.
Bertrand straightened with a wince. He only had a few moments to muster a semblance of calm.
A door at the back of the chapel opened with a creak. The scrape of one shoe across the tiles could only belong to Brother Laurent. Bertrand closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Despite all that had tormented him throughout the night, he must strive for worthiness now. His future as a chevalier depended upon it.
A light touch on his shoulder interrupted his fervent thoughts. Bertrand’s neck cracked as he looked up at the Chaplain.
Brother Laurent was lean to the point of infirmity. Unlike the chevaliers, he was clean-shaven. The little hair that Laurent’s tonsure allowed him was white and so fine that it wafted about his head whenever he moved.
Laurent smiled before noticing the simple wooden cross lying on the tiles before the altar. Using his fingernail, Bertrand had scratched a second cross into the soft timber. Did Laurent recognise the significance of this message?
Laurent’s wispy eyebrows bunched together as he shot Bertrand a quizzical look. Bertrand dropped his head. It was obvious that Laurent was not his night-time visitor, nor had he instigated the mysterious offer.
“Shall we commence?” another person murmured. Bertrand knew that voice, although he was more accustomed to hearing it raised in command.
“Are the brethren assembled?” Laurent asked.
“They are. In fact, they’ve probably been awake almost as long as poor Bertrand here.” Bertrand’s tension eased as he caught the amusement in the Preceptor’s voice. If his commander, Everard de Chaumont, was in good spirits, it boded well for the rest of his initiation.
“Then please bid them enter,” Laurent replied.
Bertrand caught the faint sound of Everard striding back down the nave.
Moving slowly, Laurent bent down on his good leg and retrieved the wooden cross. He turned it over in hands dusted with white hair. “I would very much like to know where these keep appearing from. At least this one isn’t damaged.” Laurent gave Bertrand a sharp look.
The slap of leather shoes and the rustle of habits filled the chapel. This small Commanderie only boasted six brother-knights at present, so the initiation of a new chevalier was a rare deviation from routine.
Bertrand suppressed a shiver. A least two people entering the chapel at this moment had visited him last night. They knew about his passion for Justine. And they were part of the Salt Lines. Who were they?
He pictured the serving brothers in their brown tunics and leggings gathering against the south wall. Was it one of them?
The sergeants and squires would be forming ranks on the northern side of the nave. The front rows belonged to the Preceptor and his key aides: the Marshal, Steward, and Almoners. Surely, it couldn’t be one of them?
Once the entire community had gathered in the chapel, Brother Laurent began the usual dawn service in a strong voice. Bertrand’s attention wavered as Laurent began the recital of the required twenty-eight Pater Nosters. Faces paraded through his mind, each a possible candidate for his nocturnal visitors.
Eventually, Laurent rose, blessed the kneeling congregation, and bade them rise except for Bertrand. Standing before the altar and facing the assembly, Laurent said, “There is one here, known to all of us, who seeks admission to the rank of brother-knight.”
Bertrand thought he caught a hint of pleasure in Laurent’s serious expression.
Laurent spread his hands wide. “Are there any gathered among us with cause to deny that request?” Bertrand’s breathing became fast and shallow. Would his mysterious visitors choose this moment to denounce him?
“Very well.” Laurent motioned for Everard and his six chevaliers to approach. “As the shepherd of Bertrand’s soul, I confirm that I have no objection to his petition.”
Laurent limped to one side as Everard’s bulky figure moved in front of the altar. Flanking Bertrand on either side was a row of three chevaliers, each dressed in the pure white cassock with the Cross Pattée on their left breast, signifying their rank as knights of Christ.
Everard gazed down at Bertrand with a serious expression. Time had salted his beard and left white streaks at his temples. “Brother Bertrand, do you come before us, willingly, and free of encumbrance or obligation?”
“Willingly and humbly, do I come before you,” Bertrand replied. “Free of encumbrance, both physical and spiritual.” The practiced words slipped from his lips, yet he felt like a fraud. He had looked into his heart and found Justine, not God.
Bertrand focused on the cord knotted around Everard’s waist and kept the guilt from his face.
“Then Brother Bertrand,” Everard said in a loud voice, “repeat after me. I, Bertrand de Châtillon-sur-Seine, do solemnly swear to observe my original vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.”
