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He walked over and brushed the snow from another marker.
1357.
Another.
1419.
He came upon the largest tomb, over which lay the worn stone figure of a knight set to rest in his armor. De Molay knew the arms carved into the petrified knight’s shield, but he brushed the snow away enough to read “Rossal de Molay. d. June 28, 1098.”
At his bellow, birds fell dead from the sky, the cross fell from the church’s steeple, de Molay’s tomb cracked in half, and the knight’s statue crumbled.
Barred and locked, the doors to the church crumbled with one kick from his boot. The entry disintegrated in a cloud of smoke, brimstone, and falling embers. As he walked toward the altar, frescos of Christ and the stations of the cross turned black, paint and plaster bubbling and releasing the odor of burned hair and rancid oil.
Above the altar was an image of Christ more dire and horrifying than any he had seen before. Emaciated, like his comrades at Antioch, Christ’s body was twisted in agony as blood flowed from the wounds. In the agonized face of Christ, de Molay could see the weight of his own sins.
This wasn’t the Christ of a sect that did not believe Our Lord had actually walked the earth as a man.
Crowded at the altar, under the suffering figure of Christ, were two dozen people. A priest stood before the frightened mob, holding a crucifix before him.
De Molay’s armor burned and pulled at his body. He glanced at his hand and saw his fingers. They were long, black, and taloned, his mail gauntlet little more than tattered remnants.
“Begone, demon.” The priest spoke in Latin. “The power of Christ compels you.”
De Molay looked up at the priest. “And what Christ is it you refer to?” he answered, speaking church Latin himself.
The priest stared. Either he was surprised at de Molay’s Latin, or surprised he spoke at all.
De Molay reached up and tore free the remnants of armor binding his chest. Underneath, his skin was scaled and black. “Do you speak of Christ, son of man and God? Born of Mary? Or is it the false Christ of the Cathars you implore?”
“Cathars?” the priest looked confused. “No Cathars have walked the earth for a hundred years.”
“You acknowledge the Trinity, the God of Moses, and the Pope?”
The priest nodded.
De Molay removed his helmet, revealing a horned, goat-shaped head. “And Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy?”
The priest shook his head, not understanding.
“Robert, who traveled to free the Holy Land.”
“I don’t know what you ask.” The priest stammered in French and seemed on the verge of tears.
“Do you acknowledge fealty to Robert Duke of Normandy?”
One of the others from the village spoke, “Demon, we pledge allegiance to Phillip the Good, Duke of Burgandy.”
“What crown does he serve?”
“Duke Phillip is allied with the English King Henry,” the priest said.
“King Henry?” De Molay shook his head. His mind was a confusion of images, one set from a crusading knight whose only purpose was to serve his Lord and his God. The other set came from something much darker.
He could feel enormous leathery wings unfurl from his back and thought again, how come I to be here?
A great trickery it was. Even though he thought himself de Molay, even that part of his muddled mind knew it false. De Molay was dust outside the gates of Antioch, and whatever was of him was now in heaven or in hell, remembered only by the wrecked stone cenotaph outside this church. The false shreds of de Molay were falling off his mind just as the remnants of his armor fell from his distorted body.
“We have committed a great sin,” he whispered. “Priest, you will hear my confession.”
The priest shook his head, backing away, his face white.
The thing that had been de Molay for one long bloody night, knelt before the priest so its gore-stained shaggy face was even with the priest’s own. Its breath stank of an abattoir and its blood-red tongue left a trail of slime across its jagged teeth.
The thing reached and took the crucifix from the priest with a long-taloned hand. “Hear my confession, speak the mass, give communion. Do this because it is your duty as a servant of Christ.”
“But-”
“Hurry, I must be shriven,” the demon pushed the priest toward the altar. Women screamed, and the villagers scrambled toward the doors. The demon ignored everyone but the priest.
The priest pushed himself up, next to the altar.
“Please,” said the demon, “I beseech you in the name of God, while I can still claim de Molay’s repentance as my own.”
After a moment, the priest approached the altar and, with shaking hands, reached for the host and the wine.
Below the great vaults, the high windows began to show a ruddy light. “Dawn is approaching,” spoke the nobleman with the jeweled doublet and the greasy beard.
“Worry not,” responded his monk. “It will be compelled to return, just as it was compelled to serve you.”
“Is it enough time?”
“For what? To destroy a single Burgundian village? We are talking of a sergeant from the deepest circle of hell. Less than a heartbeat and your traitorous peasants are less than ash.”
“Then why hasn’t it returned?”
“It walks with the pace of a man now.”
The nobleman shook his head and turned to face the circle inscribed on the floor before them. “If I hadn’t seen such with my own eyes, I would not credit such a thing.”
“You are troubled.”
“Would you count me sane if I was not?”
“Do you doubt the rightness of your cause?”
The noble glared at the monk, “Was it not you who first told me that God himself had taken a lowly farm girl and led her to break the English siege of Orlèans?” He shook his head. “When such forces walk the land, how can I but solidify my service to the French crown?”
“You are on the side of God, My Lord.”
The noble shook his head, “Our servant was not from God.”
“Wasn’t he? The demon is but a vessel.”
“But how can a centuries-dead knight control such a being?”
“The same way demons have possessed men for mille
“But a man possessing a demon?” he looked up at the dawn light in the windows. “What if the spell is broken? What if this sergeant of hell throws off our yoke?”
“Only faith can break such bondage. Whose faith could free such a beast? Whose faith would?”
At the monk’s word, the great doors to the hall blew open with a crash. The candles around the circle blew out. The monk and the nobleman turned to face the doors. Sunlight streamed in, causing both men to squint at the silhouette in the doorway.
“Who’s there?”
A deep voice seemed to come from everywhere. “Whose faith indeed?”
The nobleman took a step back, knocking over a candle. “Who are you?”
“You called me Rossal de Molay.”
The nobleman shook his head and grabbed his dark-cloaked companion. He pushed the monk out in front of him. “No, take him. It was his doing. He bewitched me.”
The old man fell to the ground. As he pushed himself up, he spat. “Bewitched by your own desire for power, more like it.”
The silhouette walked into the hall, its wings broad and golden. Its skin emitted a white light that hurt the two men to look at. He reached down and cupped the monk’s chin.
“I am not the one you should fear,” it said.
The nobleman shook his head and the glowing apparition lifted the monk to his feet.
“I had fallen, turned from God, cast into the lake of fire with my Master.” The apparition reached out a glowing hand and caressed the nobleman’s cheek. “You gave me enough of a soul that I could truly repent and pledge my fealty to God.”
Both men stood in the circle, shaking.
“I offer you the same chance you gave me.” The apparition waited, but both men stared, speechless. When no response was forthcoming, the apparition turned to leave.