The Victory Conspiracy on going

Prologue

The entrance to the cells from the Notre Dame were dangerously steep each step twisted around a main column of stones and motor. The steep steps were only half the size of a mans tread. The walls decorated with art stolen from countless wars each a reminder that power belongs to those that dare.
At a depth were the air no longer exists, breathing in cold damp vapours mixed with life's waste the art disappeared, the walls covered in slime thick sticky green slime where water its only friend. The water had channeled itself from the Seine above as it descended back into the earth. One hundred and sixty steps and more to tread a feeling of despair cloaked itself around you, with every step you knew one slip and you were gone, involuntary shivers and shakes made the journey even harder.
Reaching the bottom and being able to stand straight, was a huge relief. The relief heightened by the fact that along the way countless other exists leading off the main stairwell had been beckoning yet where they led was only bleak blackness. The height of the tunnel was 5'10" I can only say that as my own height is about 5'8" an average height for a man, I was glad to stand tall.
The smell hit you taking your breath away, causing involuntary choking the only way to carry on was to wrap your cloak around your head and face. Another small group of steps five to be precise then four paces in front of you stood a magnificent carved door, at the top of the door carved grotesquely was a webbed foot, a daisy, a chain and a swan the meaning of I have no idea. Heraldry has many of these symbols yet I had not seen one with them all.  In stark contrast the rest of the door was panelled the studs every two fingers apart, they were round made like shields forty six in total, the workmanship was good far to good for down here. The door handle and lock mechanism matched expertly made a fine craftsman indeed. The door stood ajar the first sign of light seeped out from a candle on the wall following along other candles lead the way in, the acid in the air tore deep into the lungs causing pain on every breath. The tunnel led off to the left where four barred cells were, two the the right and two to the left the only light here was from a large candle standing on a small round wooden table with a chair to one side.
The guard one of several  knights the king used for special duties had been asked by the Cannon himself to take on the duty of guarding the prisoners. It had been an honour to take the role his duty was light, the men in the cells could hardly move from their torture, not that they had an option to walk about, the chains around their ankles held them firm his job to give food and water, keep them all alive.
Being a personal guard of the King meant loyalty and trust his family had grown wealthy, all was good in his life.
The shock he felt when the Templar's were first captured had not left him, the charge of Heresy against the King and Church had made him overview his loyalty to the crown at first, the guard knew his King must be obeyed yet something in his mind was not sure of the truth.
Most of his life he himself had wanted to ride with the Templars, God and Jesus Christ his believe and faith, the stories of conquests of chivalry were unparalleled, to up hold the glory of God with the sword was the right of kings. Countless stories followed each campaign, the caravan of people, traders and families that flowed with these knights made the stories more normal. Myths sprang up with new idols to follow spreading good tidings with murmurs of treasures beyond even the wildest of dreams. His fortune to work for the king had ended the dreams, yet he had watched the knights Templar's work tirelessly for the Kings of Europe and beyond, joining them when extravagant ceremonies were held at court. 

A serf had come to see the Cannon he had heard that one of the Knights Templar's had dealings with a Monastery, visiting this Monastery several times a year arriving each time laden with treasure and leaving with nothing.  The serf knew the king was on the lookout for information leading to the person whom could shed some light on the whereabouts of all the hidden assets of the Templar's. The serf could for he had found out that the Monastery used the wealth it was given to further its own grandeur, building magnificent-healing gardens with an annex for the noble people's to come  to stay.
Canon Simpson held the ears of Royalty and the Pope, his presence seeped into every nook and cranny of grandest homes around Europe some say spreading into the holy lands. He had come to realise that the power of the Templar's was at odd's with his King. Whispers in noble houses of the distribution of wealth amongst the Knights and the tightening grip was causing severe doubt of there true ideals.
The Canon knew he had to do something for he could see the wealth the knights held being very useful to the King and himself, the network a wide web of control carrying vast information was without doubt in the wrong hands. The conspiracy theory that the two men created covering their own wants was an act accomplice. Staying true with out remorse the king and the Canon found the fall easier than they first thought it would be. As control shifted so did the people's love of the Knights Templar's. Loyalty is never true, The French Crown had won.