The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  The Templar Tower

  By

  Scott Chapman

  KINDLE edition

  Copyright 2015 Scott Chapman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this

  book, or portions, thereof in any form. No part of this text may

  be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse

  engineered or stored in any form or introduced into any information storage

  and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical

  without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the

  author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Tower

  He was watching his brother die. The heavy dagger slipped in Salvatore's sweat-soaked hand and his body shook uncontrollably as though he was caught in a fever. He listened to Rosso fighting desperately for breath as the man in the chain-mail armor leaned his whole body weight down on his throat.

  Salvatore looked down at the dagger as though he had never seen it before. Was he supposed to walk over and stab the man? Should he scream and charge? Or challenge the man somehow? He looked around the courtyard, but all he could see was a mass of figures, hacking and slashing at each other. On the walls of the tower he could see more of their men still clambering over from the ladders they had placed there.

  The chain-mail man turned and caught sight of Salvatore in the firelight and saw the dagger he was holding. He leapt towards Salvatore with his right hand raised like a hammer, bringing it crashing down on the side of his face. The blow pitched Salvatore towards the wall and the man reached for Salvatore's throat. He felt himself being lifted off the ground and pinned against the stone as the man's fingers closed around his neck.

  The glare of the firelight in the background and the hood of the metal coat made the man's face invisible. Despite this, Salvatore tried to turn his head away from looking at his attacker.

  From the corner of his eye he could see Rosso struggle to his feet, wrenching at the top of his breastplate as he sucked air back into his body. The chain-mail man saw the look, and turned back towards Rosso, crossing the space between them in two long strides, stooping to pick up Rosso's sword from the ground between them. One backhand swing of the sword crashed against the side of Rosso's breastplate, sending him to the floor. Salvatore saw the man reach out his left hand to grasp his blade halfway along its length and aim the point down towards Rosso's head. Salvatore felt himself move. He leapt forward without thought or plan and was stunned when the man froze, the sword unmoving but still pointing down towards Rosso's prone body. Salvatore stepped back and saw the man drop his right hand from the hilt of the sword and reach down towards his leg. Protruding from the back of the man's right thigh, just below the edge of the chain-mail was Salvatore's dagger.

  Still holding the sword's blade in his left hand, the man reached down and heaved the dagger out of his leg and dropped it on the stone flags. Even in the poor light, Salvatore saw the man's woolen leggings darken as blood poured from the wound. Salvatore struggled to understand what had happened, then realized with a shock that he had been the one who had plunged the dagger into him. The three figures were frozen for a moment, then the man dropped the sword and moved towards the open gate, brushing Salvatore aside. Rosso pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the wall, gasping.

  "They are running. It is over," he tried to shout, his voice struggling through his battered throat. "The tower is ours."

  Almost immediately, several figures broke away from the melee and began to rush for the gate and the darkness of the black Tuscan night.

  Rosso walked through the gate and found a rock the size of his fist. He paused for balance, squinted for aim at the retreating figure of the man in the chain-mail and then threw the rock high into the dark sky. For long seconds, the rock hung on its arc, Salvatore watching in silence as Rosso stood, putting his hands on his hips. The rock caught the figure on the back of his head, the blow spinning him off the track and down into the blackness of the scrub-covered hillside.

  The gateway was now full of struggling men dressed in pieces of armor, steel caps and heavy quilted coats. Many had pikes or staffs, some had short swords, others wielded only the heavy tanning sticks used for their leather work. Four of Rosso's men now stood outside the gate and pulled long leather sling straps from around their waist and rocks from pouches on their belts. They spun the slings and released a hail of rocks on the fleeing defenders. The night was dark, but the narrow gravel pathway shone almost white against the black countryside. Steep slopes on either side of the path made it hard for the fugitives to avoid running the gauntlet of stones, and the slingshot men cheered with laughter at the screams they heard as their missiles found targets.

  "Let them go," ordered Rosso, as some of his men rushed past him to pursue the routed garrison. "The tower is ours. Let them run. We're here to take back the tower not to make widows."

  Rosso's men, seeing their enemies run, now shared a surge of elation as they realized that they had won. Salvatore looked on, disgust mixing with amazement as he saw the victorious men of the Five Villages leaping and shouting as though this was a horse race.

  "It is ours!" shouted Rosso, snatching up his sword from the ground and raising it high in the air. A ragged cheer broke out from the men, which turned into a chant.

  "Radda, Radda, Radda." Rosso took up the chant, and turned, looking directly into Salvatore's eyes.

  "Radda, Radda, Radda," he chanted, and then broke into a broad grin and sheathed his sword. He placed his two hands on his younger brother’s shoulders.

  "See, little brother," he said. "I told you it would be easy."

  Morning

  "Priest," said Massimo, "you need to stop trying to tell me what to do and start thinking of ways to be my friend." The priest stared up at Massimo, who stared back, openly enjoying the shock and anger in the older man's face.

  "Don't be so scandalized, old man," he said. "You are not such a fool that you do not understand the situation. One day my father will die and my ox of a brother will be lord here. Do you think he has time for your rosary? If the Church wants a friend in the House of Radda, then it better realize that it is me, or no one."

  The faint morning noises from the castle courtyard below made the silence in the room all the more oppressive.

  "Your father entrusts me..."

  "My father barely knows you exist," said Massimo. "If you were replaced by some other village priest, someone would have to tell him or he would never notice the difference. He could not pick your face out in a crowd. Now, if you want to find out where my brothers are, then I suggest that you go and find them yourself and don't take it on yourself to order me to do it." With that, Massimo sat down at the bench and picked up his copy of Lapo Gianni, an author whom the priest particularly hated.

  Massimo started reading, ignoring the priest but smiling when he heard him leave the room in search of Salvatore and Rosso. Whatever nonsense Rosso had been involved in last night, it would mean that Massimo would almost certainly be free being troubled for a while.

  He looked up from the book only when he heard at the door the footsteps of his father's steward.

  "You are alone?” said Podesta. “Where is everyone else?"

  "The priest has gone to find Rosso and Salvatore. They seem to have overslept," answered Massimo.

  "The priest has gone to fetch them? He did not ask you to do it?"

  "It was his idea to go," said Mas
simo. "Anyway, I am busy." He held up the copy of Lapo Gianni. Podesta looked at the book.

  "Interesting reading for a man who plans to become a Prince of the Church. What happened last night?"

  "I really have no idea," answered Massimo, organizing his features into an expression of surprised innocence. This was getting better. "All I know is that Rosso and Salvatore disappeared after supper last night and came limping in just before dawn. The priest has gone looking for them."

  Podesta stood looking at Massimo for a moment. "I believe you," he said.

  "I am honored by your trust," said Massimo. "What makes you think something has happened anyway?"

  "The Night Watch tells me the village was in an uproar last night, half the houses had lights burning at dawn and there are men from the Five Villages sleeping in the stables by the Square."

  "You're right," said Massimo innocently. "Sounds like something did happen."

  "Rosso," said Podesta.

  "Undoubtedly," said Massimo. "Rosso."

  Both men turned to look back to the doorway as the sound of the priest's plaintive voice filled the corridor. He flapped into the room, his threadbare robe making him look more like a crow than a man, tutting and mumbling his disappointment at the two figures who shambled into the room behind him. Salvatore followed first, a blue-black bruise covering half his face.

  "Have you been... fighting?" said Massimo, incredulously. Before Salvatore could answer, the large figure of Rosso filled the doorway. The flesh of his throat was a necklace of livid red and yellow marks and he held his right arm close to his chest. His long red hair, normally well dressed, was matted with last night's sweat and dirt.

  "Podesta," boomed Rosso, "are you joining us for our lesson? I think we are learning about St Jacob the Stylite today. Is that right Father?"

  "What happened last night?" asked Podesta.

  "Last night?" said Rosso, feigning confusion. "Oh, last night. Well, we took back the Watch Tower from the Gaiole men. It is back in our hands, where it should always have been."

  Massimo watched with unconcealed enjoyment as Podesta struggled to deal with this unexpected information.

  "Were there any deaths?" Podesta asked finally.

  "None on our side," answered Rosso. "The Gaiole rabble did not leave any bodies that we could see. I left a dozen men guarding the place and I brought this." He pulled a rumpled piece of fabric from his tunic, a small pennant with the emblem of the House of Gaiole. "We had to put up the banner of Radda and there was no room for two on the pole."

  Podesta glanced at the little flag, and then looked out the window towards the distant hilltop where the Watch Tower stood.

  "I think," said Massimo, "that today is going to be an interesting day. Father will be intrigued."

  "I'll send the Master at Arms up there," said Podesta. "Have you been near the bridge yet?"

  "Not yet," answered Rosso, sitting on the bench, wincing slightly with pain. "I thought you might want to do take care of that."

  "The Gaiole men will have abandoned it once they knew the tower was gone."

  "I would think so too," said Rosso. "Once you have the tower, you have the hill. With the hill comes the road and with the road comes the bridge."

  "You called out the men of the villages without your father's authority," said Podesta, flatly. Rosso nodded slowly, as though this was new information to him.

  "That is just what I did. And now we have the tower and the bridge. But don't rush to thank me. It was my little brother here who had the idea."

  Podesta and Massimo both turned to look at Salvatore.

  "That's not true," said Salvatore. "All I did was tell this madman about a ruse used in a war in ancient Greece. I never for one moment proposed that we start a fight over the stupid tower with Gaiole."

  Podesta looked closely at Salvatore.

  "Do I need to ask for an explanation?" he said.

  Rosso sat back on the bench smiling and waved towards Salvatore as though to give the floor to him.

  "We," began Salvatore. "No, not we, he loaded a mule with charcoal and wine and had one of the village boys take it along the high road, knowing that the Gaiole men in the tower would steal it. It was cold, so they used the charcoal to light fires for their night watch. The fires made them blind in the dark and the wine..." He waved his hands, failing to finish the story.

  Podesta thought for a moment, then turned to Rosso.

  "I think I might say goodbye to you as you are, Rosso. By the end of today, your father may have knighted you himself, or skinned you alive," he said before leaving the three brothers alone again with the priest.

  "I would ask you what you were thinking," said Massimo, looking at Rosso, "but that would assume that there was any thinking going on at all inside that enormous head of yours."

  "My head," said Rosso, "is no bigger than yours, but since you like to dress your hair as though were already a priest, your head looks so much smaller than mine. Also, my head is well shaped, and yours is pointed at the top, so it looks smaller."

  Salvatore watched as his elder brothers fell into the bickering that had made up virtually all of their conversation since he had been born.

  "Do I have to sit and listen to you nipping at each other, today of all days?" he said. "People were hurt last night, very badly. Men could have been killed."

  Rosso and Massimo looked at Salvatore for a moment in that way that he hated so much, the way that suggested to him that they had temporarily forgotten that they had a younger brother.

  "Your point is?" said Massimo, eventually.

  "My point is that Rosso had more than a score of men from the villages up on the hill attacking the men from Gaiole in the middle of the night. It was a battle, horrible."

  "I am still trying to understand what point you are trying to make," said Massimo. "Would you prefer that Gaiole had the tower or that we had it?""

  "That's not the point," said Salvatore.

  "It is exactly the point," replied Massimo. "The sole value of thugs like our elder brother is that they can go out and kill other thugs on our behalf. Civilization requires brute guardians."

  "Somebody has to keep the world safe for bookworms like you two," agreed Rosso, nodding thoughtfully. "I mean, I have one brother who plans to live off the labors of the world by being a priest, and another who thinks he can make his way in life by reading books and writing letters like some clerk. At least you," he said reaching out and ruffling Salvatore’s hair, "have enough about you to fall in love."

  "He´s in love?" said Massimo.

  "Smitten like a puppy."

  "Who is the victim of your childish affection?" asked Massimo.

  "Rosso, shut up," snapped Salvatore. "You have no idea what you are talking about."

  "Our reading today..." said the priest and looked pointedly at Salvatore. He had lost any authority he had ever had over Massimo and Rosso, but there was still enough youth and malleability in Salvatore to sometimes make him conform. Once he came round his elder brothers tended to follow.

  "Our reading today..." the priest began.

  "What do you write in all those letters anyway?" asked Rosso, keen to delay the priest from beginning his lesson on the lives of the saints. "I mean the bookworm letters, not your love poems."

  "What are you talking about letters for?" snapped Salvatore. "Are you trying to pretend that last night did not happen?"

  Massimo smiled and said, "He's probably forgotten it already."

  "Actually, I have," said Rosso. "It was such a small affair. Not really worth my attentions, but the tower needed to be seen to."

  "Our reading today..." began the Priest again.

  "Anyway," said Rosso, "you were quite the thug yourself from what I saw."

  "I did nothing wrong!" exclaimed Salvatore.

  "He was like a lion," said Rosso to Massimo. "He leapt across the tower and stuck one the Gaiole men like a pig with that old dagger he keeps. I would say that he saved all of our lives. A g
reat hero."

  "You actually stabbed someone?" asked Massimo in mock incredulity. "How... quaint."

  "Our reading today..." said the priest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  "What is our reading today, then?" snapped Salvatore. Sixteen years of fighting his brothers had taught him that he stood little chance against either one, and no chance at all when they were arrayed against him. The priest turned to Salvatore, his mouth open like a dead fish in shock at being spoken to like this by Salvatore.

  "Your forgiveness, Father," said Salvatore. "My tormenting brothers made me forget my manners. Please, what is the topic of your reading today?"

  "Our reading today…" The Priest's eyes flicked rapidly between the three brothers for a moment. Then, hearing no further objection, he continued, "…is the life and great works of Fra Muratore."

  "Wake me when he finishes," said Rosso, pushing his back against the wall and closing his eyes. Massimo picked up the book which had been lying, forgotten in his lap for the moment, and began to read. The priest picked up the tattered book of the Days of Fra Muratore.

  Salvatore had heard all of the stories many times, but he saw no harm indulging the priest. He looked at the book and tried to guess which story it was going to be by how far through the book the priest seemed to be. Salvatore hoped that it was not the story of how Fra Muratore rebuilt the old church roof in one night all by himself as that was a stupid story. There had been nothing to stop the people of the town rebuilding the roof themselves and there seemed to have been no rush. Rather, he hoped it was the one where there had had been no rain for a long time, and then the rain came because Fra Muratore prayed for it. That was a nice succinct story with a clear benefit to the town. The priest closed his eyes for a moment, and then dropped his head reverently towards the book.

  "The roof of the old church..."

  "Lord Radda is in progress." A servant´s voice echoed along the hallway and threw the room into immediate confusion.