It took two weeks for him to secure a ship that would risk the journey up around the northern coast of Scotland. It was a ship from the Baltic Sea, a sea that Salvatore had not known existed until now. The captain and owner was a Latvian called Kristian and his crew was from the Nordic peoples who lived along these frozen coasts.
The ship itself, called a cog by locals, was a high-sided vessel, powered by a single square sail and navigated by a long steering oar lashed to the stern.
"Good ship," said Kristian, slapping the hull. "Good ship for any weather. You go to western islands, yes?"
"Yes," said Salvatore. "The main western island, Lewis, on the western coast."
"Bad waters, very hard sailing," said Kristian, shaking his head at the heroic act he was being asked to take on.
Salvatore knew this last step on his journey would be difficult. He needed an anonymous ship with a crew who would care nothing for their destination or their cargo. He needed to become lost in the riffraff of coastal traders, people who would take their fees and forget him the moment they were paid off.
A day's haggling set the price for the journey and at first tide the next morning, Salvatore oversaw the transshipment of his cargo from the Templar post to the cog, marveling at the effect of the tides. In the Mediterranean there were no tides, so seeing the sea rise and fall twice a day was something that caused Salvatore endless hours of wonder and thought.
With his cargo stowed in the open hold, Salvatore watched the last traces of Templar order slip away as the cog moved slowly down the river and into the North Sea.
"Nothing to worry," said Kristian, beaming widely. "Good ship, good captain. No problems. Trust Kristian."
Salvatore wrapped his cloak around him and rested his hand casually on the hilt of his sword.
Screen
Tilly woke up to the silence of the Tuscan countryside. It was only the absence of traffic noise from her home in Edinburgh that made her aware that she lived in a world with a constant rumble of other people. She walked down the stairs of the villa, wondering if Sparke was awake yet.
The kitchen was full of summer sunshine. The large table was still covered by her own computer and scanning equipment, but Sparke's gear was missing. As she put the coffee pot on the stove, she heard a murmuring noise from the lounge. She waited for the coffee to brew, then took two cups through to the lounge. The room was dark, the wooden shutters pulled across the windows blocking out all light. Sparke sat on an armchair, his computer perched on a kitchen chair in front of him.
"Screen," said Sparke, "show output Boston Search one."
"Hey, you've trained your new computer to talk," she said handing a cup to Sparke.
"Old habits die hard. Keyboards are distracting. Screen, map output Boston Search One."
"Watcha doing?"
Sparke peered at his screen for a moment, then stood to connect his computer to the projector that sat on the floor near his chair.
"My pal from Boston has run his semantics analysis system through all the archives and databases you gave me access to," said Sparke. "I am having the system map them out now. Thanks for the coffee. Sleep well?"
"Like a corpse. Must be the air round here. I've never slept so deeply in my life."
The projector threw an image of Sparke's screen onto the wall almost ten feet across.
"Screen, show logic rules."
The screen flashed a long series of text lines onto the wall.
"What are we looking at?" asked Tilly.
"Well, what I did was have the system crawl through all the information we have, and now it is applying sequences of logic rules to the database."
"What sort of rules?"
"You know, like taking the population of a city and asking it to show you the names of everyone with red hair who bought a car in the last year and watches videos of funny cats on YouTube more than once per month, that sort of thing." He bent to peer at a line of text, then made a correction using the keyboard. "Good to go, I think."
Tilly wrapped herself into one of the armchairs with her coffee. "Better than watching morning television. What does it tell us?"
"Let's have a go. Screen, show map all locations."
The screen switched to a map that covered Europe from the Baltic in the north to the Mediterranean in the south, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Middle East. Scattered across the map were large red dots.
"Screen, give total number."
"Four hundred and thirty-seven," said a voice from Sparke's computer.
"It speaks too," said Tilly. "Unfortunately, it doesn't make sense. There were nowhere near that many locations of Templar positions."
"Your archives disagree," said Sparke. "Screen, show list of locations." The screen began to scroll through a list of all the locations. "We went through almost three hundred different archives using your login details, removed duplicates and compiled this list."
Tilly stood up and examined the list. Next to each name was a list of sources which referenced the location.
"Bloody hell. You know that you could earn a Ph.D. just for creating this list? It's a lifetime's work, more than a lifetime."
"This is every single site from the founding of the Order right up to their collapse," said Sparke, “so I guess a lot of them were short term. From what I read, some of them were tiny, basically farms. Some get only one or two mentions, so I would assume that they might have been short term military positions. Screen, show all locations referenced from year twelve eighty AD to year thirteen twelve AD."
The map reappeared, this time with less than half the number of dots.
"So, this is a map of all active Templar posts round about the time of their suppression?" said Tilly.
"Uh huh. Now let's see how the logic rules work out. Screen, eliminate all locations within ten miles of major cities and ports. Eliminate all locations of major fortifications."
Scores of dots disappeared, Paris, Rome, Acre, Genoa, Marseilles, Tripoli and most others went dark, leaving a scattering still lit up.
"Screen, show the Saint Jacques map."
"The Saint Jacques map?" said Tilly. “You've uploaded the map of the main pilgrim routes?"
"Yup, took a bit of time, but we got there in the end."
"How long have you been awake?"
"Awake? You know how these things are, once you start you just get a bit absorbed."
"You didn't go to bed at all last night, did you?" said Tilly.
"Not as such, no. Look."
The screen now showed several routes snaking their way across the face of Europe, the paths that medieval pilgrims took on their way to major shrines. Many of the dots were close to these paths.
"You always told me that the mission statement of the Templars was to protect pilgrims, right? So it makes sense to see which positions were basically garrison points for that sort of guard duty. Screen, remove all locations within twenty miles of Saint Jacques routes."
Across the map, dots began to fade, until only two dozen remained.
"What are we looking for?"
"I'll tell you," said Sparke, suddenly animated. "One thing you told me about this tower in Radda was that there was a reference to it being paid for out of the funds of another Templar preceptory because it had no farmland or holdings that could allow it to maintain itself. Why would the Templars keep a fort in the middle of nowhere with no pilgrims to guard, no big city nearby, no ports and nobody to fight?"
Tilly thought for a moment. "It would be a mistake to apply to much modern logic to the medieval mind, don't you think."
"Nope, logic is logic. I don't think those people did anything without a reason. We just need to understand it. Screen, remove all locations showing references to farming, land holding, or money sent to Templar treasury funds."
The screen processed the request, then dots began to disappear. Sparke and Tilly both watched the screen in silence until only a handful of locations remained, widely scattered across Europe.
"Thi
rteen," said Tilly quietly.
"Thirteen, including Radda," said Spark. "Screen, show references." Next to each remaining dot, a text box appeared listing the documents which referenced each location. The Radda position showed four references.
"Your chum in St Andrew's University found one reference to Radda, but there are three others, one a letter from Smyrna in Turkey ordering building works to be extended. It refers to Radda as being dedicated to the honor of Fra Muratore."
Tilly sipped her coffee and looked at the other dots. One was at the top right-hand edge of the map, at the southern edge of a lake which both she and Sparke knew to be Loch Lomond in Scotland. There was a second not far from it, high on the coast of the Western Isles of the Outer Hebrides, on the island of Lewis. Another was on the edge of the Baltic, another on the coast of Spain, one deep in the mountains far to the north of Italy at the northern edge of Lake Geneva.
"You'll like this," said Sparke, looking at this last dot. "Look." He pointed to the references around this spot. "What was the name of the carving to the right of the image of Fra Muratore on the archway?"
Tilly looked at the text box linked to this dot.
"Saint Prothius," she said, reading the same name from the screen. She turned to look at Sparke. "Ever been to Switzerland?"
Arrivals
"You travel alone," said Kristian as the cargo ship cruised through calm waters along the northern edge of Scotland.
Salvatore was sitting on the deck of the hold, next to the casket he guarded. Since he had boarded the vessel he had never been more than a few paces from the cargo he was pledged to protect, and he had never had his hand far from his sword.
"When will we reach the island?" he asked.
"Tomorrow we leave the coast. The north of the island is close. Western side is bad, bad waters. We go to east side. Unload you there."
"We go to west coast," said Salvatore, calmly.
"West coast is bad. Nothing there. East is good, good harbor."
"No west coast, no money," said Salvatore.
"Money," repeated Kristian, nodding as though the topic had never crossed his mind. "West coast is bad. More expensive."
Salvatore loosened his cloak, letting it fall open to reveal his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"No more money. West coast."
Kristian shrugged his shoulders and smiled broadly, then turned and climbed up the short ladder back onto the deck.
Salvatore stood for a moment, then reached inside his collar and fished out the medallion bearing the image of Fra Muratore. He ran the tips of his fingers over the icon, muttering silently to himself, then crouched down by his cargo to wait.
They came that evening. Kristian climbed slowly down the ladder, followed by two of his men. The others sat on the edge of the deck and simply dropped down into the hold, their feet thumping on the rough wooden boards.
Kristian smiled, as his crew fanned out around him. All carried knives in their belts. “What is in box?" he said.
Salvatore shrugged his cloak off, but said nothing.
"Pilgrim bones?" asked Kristian, shaking his head from side to side. "Not pilgrim bones. No pilgrims on west side. Not pilgrim bones." His smile never faltered, but his eyes flitted from side to side. "What is in box?"
Salvatore knew they had rounded the northern tip of Scotland and were now headed south, down towards the island. Even if the crew rushed him there was little chance that they could overwhelm him. His sword and dagger would cut the life out of the first rush. He was wearing his mail coat, so their knives would skid off and only a lucky close cut to his face would disable him. The pressure he felt to step forward and take Kristian's head off with a single cut was almost irresistible. He knew that by cutting a wide figure of eight in the air with his sword he could walk into the crew and leave half of them corpses before they could get within arm’s reach of him. Once the deck was thick with their blood, and the hold piled with the first corpses, he knew the others would falter, but then what? Despite the time he had spent on ships, he knew that he lacked the skills to sail the cog, and he had no ability to navigate in these wild waters.
Silence and stillness were on his side. Every second that passed would make the crew more nervous. They had the look of tough men, but they knew as well as he did that up against an armored knight they would take heavy losses.
Salvatore allowed the silence to stretch, listening to the cog creak and groan in the light breeze. A smile now stretched across Salvatore's face. “West side bad." He nodded. "More money."
Carefully he reached down to his belt with his left hand, his eyes never leaving the face of Kristian, his right hand ready to reach across for his sword. He found the coin purse he carried and tugged it open, withdrawing a handful of coins. He looked at the coins, probably half as much as he had already agreed for the trip, and stepped forwards suddenly towards Kristian.
The captain stepped back in alarm, then reached out his hand to take the money, looking appreciatively at the silver and gold coins. He reached down to his belt and opened his purse, placing the coins into it with a loud clink.
"Money for ship and for Kristian," he said. "Now, money for the boys." He looked closely at Salvatore. "West side is dangerous. You have interesting box. Boys need to be careful."
Salvatore reached back into his purse, still smiling broadly, and gave the nearest man a handful of coins. The man's eyes lit up. The gold coins came directly from the Templar treasury in Acre. He had had seen few like them, but he recognized gold when it was in his palm. The silver coins were familiar, smaller and bore the emblems of the Church, the currency of the Italian states.
Salvatore gestured the next man forward to receive his bonus and in seconds the crew turned from a dangerous mob to a group of happy sailors, talking in their mongrel collection of languages about the value of the coins.
Once all the men were paid, Salvatore smiled again at Kristian, bowing slightly. "West side."
"West side," answered Kristian. "Where?"
"Ten leagues from the north point of the island."
"Ten leagues,” said Kristian, rubbing a coin between his fingers, glancing again at the box sitting in his hold.
The cog edged along the coast of the island, half a league from the rocks that seemed to cover much of the shoreline. Waves, which rolled in from the deep Atlantic smashed themselves to pieces endlessly. A vessel the size of the cog would last minutes if it was pinched against them and the driving seas.
Between the rocky outcrops were long stretches of brilliant white sand, surrounded by the long grass that seemed to be the only vegetation on the land. Salvatore had not seen a single tree now for four days.
Night had begun to fall by the time Kristian shouted down to Salvatore, "Ten leagues. Nothing here. Dangerous."
Salvatore scanned the coastline. He knew that the ship could not remain this close to the shore in the dark, even if it was anchored. Spending a dark night alone with Kristian and his crew was not an option Salvatore looked forward to. He had barely slept in the past few days. Tiredness would overtake him at some point and his life would be worth nothing if he dropped his guard. The coast slid by slowly.
"Tomorrow. We come back tomorrow," said the Captain.
Salvatore said nothing, his eyes searching the coast for any sign of life. The lightness of the wind made progress agonizingly slow and the land slid past at less than walking pace.
"This is ten leagues from the north of the island?" said Salvatore.
Kristian shrugged, smiling. "Ten leagues? I think."
Salvatore knew that measuring distance at sea was almost impossible.
"We continue," said Salvatore.
"No, dark soon."
"Continue."
Kristian looked at Salvatore, then shouted to one of his crew who began to haul the sail around, bringing the ship's prow about until it pointed away from the land. Kristian felt the blade of the knife in Salvatore's hand before he saw him move.
&
nbsp; "Continue. Back to land," said Salvatore. It was hard for Kristian to turn, so tight was the pressure of the knife tip, so he shouted to the crew without moving. There was a moment's debate, shouted between Kristian and the crew member, before the sail was returned to its previous position and the cog began to shadow the coast again.
Salvatore kept his hand on the collar of Kristian’s coat, his eyes glued to the coast. He could not see all the crew. He did not see one of the men slip down from the deck and into the hold and walk towards the prow of the ship. Neither did he see him emerge, and carefully approach him from behind. Salvatore was still holding Kristian and watching the coast when the man got to within three paces of him, his dagger in his hand.
Salvatore heard the light scuffing of the man's foot on the deck and spun around, hauling Kristian with him as a shield. The man froze, knife in hand, his eyes darting from Salvatore to the face of the captain.
"Ship, ship from the shore!" The voice came from the stern of the ship where Kristian's crew was gathered. All now looked towards the coast where the low outline of a small ship sped towards them over the calm sea. The ship's oars lifted and heaved in practiced harmony, bringing them to the cog. In the rear of the ship, Salvatore could make out the figures of a group of men. Men wearing the uniform of the Knights Templar. Relief and exhaustion flooded through Salvatore and he pushed Kristian away from him.
The Templars said nothing as they scrambled over the high side of the cog. Their leader took in the scene in an instant. He spoke directly to Salvatore.
"Why are you here?" he said.
"I seek a brother called Ulli."
"Brother?"
"I am of the Order. I am sent to find Ulli."
"By whose command."
"You are Ulli?"
"I am."
"I am sent by the Mason."
The leader looked around the deck and said, "Put up your blade. You are amongst friends."
It took the Templars an hour to bring the cog to the shore, and the outgoing tide soon left it sitting high on the hard sandy beach.
The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4 Page 19
