The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  Sparke put down his coffee cup and said, "Screen, sleep." The image projected onto the wall faded away and the room returned to normal. "This has been a pretty terrible weekend, I´m afraid," he said. "I invite you over to see my new flat and you get accosted by a stalker, insulted by a fake archivist and caught up in a tunnel fire. You´ll never come back here again."

  Tilly smiled. "Don´t worry about that. I also had a great meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant, got a pile of groovy new clothes and had the chance to hang out with you. On balance, it's been a better weekend than staying home in Edinburgh replacing the brake cables on my bike. Besides, it´s only Saturday afternoon, lots more can happen before I fly home tomorrow."

  "Okay, so what do you fancy doing tonight?"

  "Glad you asked," said Tilly. "I think the best thing to do is to make sure we avoid horrible fires, lunatic men and stalkers. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," said Sparke.

  "Logically, I think all those things are to be found outside this flat, not inside the flat, right?"

  "Sounding logical so far."

  "Therefore, I think we should not go out, but stay in this absolutely beautiful flat, eat whatever you have in the fridge and let the rest of the world go to hell in a handcart. Whatcha say?"

  "I love a good plan," said Sparke.

  "I´m cooking, assuming you have some food," said Tilly heading into the kitchen.

  Cooking had never been a source of much pleasure for Sparke. He had learned enough as a student to make sure that he didn't need to survive on pasta and sauce from a jar like most of his peers, but once he reached a stage of modest competence, he saw no reason to learn any more. Tilly´s approach to food preparation was clearly in a different league. Sparke watched her as she gutted his fridge of its contents, then began peering into cupboards. After a few minutes she turned to Sparke.

  "You´re, like, terrible at shopping for food," she said.

  "Functionally incompetent by the looks of things," he said, surveying the paltry sum total of his food stocks on the counter before him. "But I have only had the kitchen for about three days, so cut me a bit of slack."

  "Right, normally you have all kinds of good stuff in the place?"

  "No, actually, no, I never have all kinds of good stuff. Got some wine though, want some?"

  "Does a one legged duck swim in a circle?" asked Tilly.

  Sparke went to fetch the wine.

  "We probably won´t starve," shouted Tilly. "Just keep your expectations low."

  Sparke opened the wine and poured two glasses. "I don´t think you understand exactly how low my standards actually are," he said, passing Tilly her glass.

  The next hours drifted past in the easy conversation that people have when they are totally relaxed in each other´s company. Sparke´s ability to chop an onion was elaborately praised and Tilly´s knowledge of food received the recognition it deserved. They moved from the kitchen to the dining table and by the time the meal was over darkness had fallen.

  "You drink wine now," said Tilly. "I´m sure you didn´t drink when I first met you."

  "You drove me to drink," said Sparke. "Actually, I never really enjoyed it before, now I enjoy a glass or so."

  Tilly picked up the empty bottle from the table. "I think," she said, "I might enjoy it a little bit better than you do."

  "Let me get another bottle," said Sparke, smiling.

  "You´ll make some lucky lady a marvelous husband," said Tilly, picking up her glass and walking towards the window.

  "Never happen," said Sparke. "I´m not the kind of man women find interesting, even though I can chop an onion."

  Tilly leaned against the window. "You must be joking," she said. "There are so many creeps out there that any woman with half a brain would leap at the chance of being with a man like you."

  Sparke walked over to Tilly, holding the new bottle of wine out to refill her glass. She smiled at him and held the glass out, then looked out the window again, absently.

  "Tilly," said Sparke.

  "What the hell?" said Tilly. "Look, there´s that loony Dr. Laszlo out there. What the hell is he doing?"

  Sparke peered out the window to the lakeside street below. Clearly visible in the glow of a street lamp was Dr. Laszlo.

  "He is actually standing under a street-lamp spying on me now,” said Sparke.

  "This weekend gets better and better," said Tilly.

  Moncalieri

  "Impossible," said Salvatore. He raised his hand to halt his troop, and turned to his sergeant. "Henk, ride ahead. Tell them you are the scout for our party and you want to make sure they are ready to receive us. Find out who else is there."

  Henk nodded, then spurred his horse forward across the low valley to the Templar Commandery known as the Fields at Moncalieri. Salvatore already knew what Henk would find. One glimpse of the group of priests had been enough for him to recognize the banner of the Church´s Inquisitor and it was more than instinct that told him that this inquisitor was his own brother.

  Salvatore had left the Radda tower three days after meeting Massimo. So, even allowing for the fact that the Templar troop had moved slowly northward through Tuscany into Piedmont, it would only have been possible for Massimo to arrive here ahead of him if he had left immediately and travelled directly to Moncalieri.

  By the time Henk returned with the confirmation that Father Massimo and his party were guests of the Templars, Salvatore had managed to put the shock into perspective. Any group of Templars heading to the north west would be bound to rest at Moncalieri on their route, so if anyone watching Salvatore and his troop had seen them leave Radda for the north it would not have taken an act of genius to decide to wait at Moncalieri for them. Salvatore´s suspicion that there was a spy within his troop faded.

  If that answered the question of how Massimo was there, there was no reason to wonder about why; every one of the few conversations that the brothers had shared these past years had been laced with the obvious contempt that Massimo had for the Order.

  Templar knights tended to spend many years at each posting, so Salvatore knew that his frequent travels could only raise suspicions, in a mind as sharp as his brother´s, that he was involved in matters that fell outside the realm of conventional Templar business.

  The line of horsemen filed into the courtyard of the Templar house, every knight and sergeant except Salvatore dismounting with weary relief. There was nothing to be gained by putting off the inevitable meeting. Salvatore strode towards the main hall of the small Commandery, his long spurs striking sparks against the flagstones.

  "So many unexpected guests," said a voice at his shoulder. Salvatore turned, his thoughts suddenly pulled away from his brother, to see the Knight Commander of the house. Salvatore nodded briefly.

  "We will trouble you only for one night, sir," he said before turning back and walking into the hall where his brother sat with his retinue of three priests on small stools drinking warm wine.

  "My brother, you are in Moncalieri," said Salvatore, the loud tension in his voice making the priests almost leap with surprise.

  Massimo smiled widely at the sight of his brother.

  "We are, we are indeed. What brings you here, Salvatore?"

  "Here? This is a Templar house. I am at home here. Is the Inquisition needed here in Piedmont? I had not heard there were heretics here who needed your attentions."

  Massimo nodded his head slowly. "I am the humblest of all the servants of the Church. I go where I am bidden and help where I can.”

  "Massimo," said Salvatore, "I saw you only a few weeks ago in Radda and now I find you here in Moncalieri. This is not chance. Why are you here?" The sharp tone of his voice produced a look of pain on Massimo´s face.

  "Salvatore, Salvatore, you must realize that you are not invited to question the movements of the servants of the Inquisition. It is not for you to worry about the great matters of the Church. It is your position to offer all support and obedience."

  Massimo placed
his hand on his brother´s shoulder and steered him out of the hall, away from the priests who stared, open mouthed, at anyone speaking so disrespectfully to such a leading light of the Inquisition.

  "Why do you and your fellow Templars take such pains to make yourselves troublesome?" said Massimo. "It can only be that you are poorly advised."

  Salvatore struggled not to shrug off his brother´s hand. "I count myself blessed a thousand times by my leaders within the Order."

  "I admire your loyalty to them," said Massimo, "but I know you take orders only from that man who chooses to call himself ´the Mason´ and that you have been persuaded to take part in activities that you dare not even share with your own brother. I fear you have been misled, directed away from the path that most pleases the Church."

  "What pleases the Order pleases me."

  "The pleasure of the Church should be your only concern," said Massimo, his voice hardening. "You must learn the joy of obedience."

  "Obedience to you, is that your idea of joy?" said Salvatore, unable to hide his contempt.

  Massimo ignored the comment, then his face softened into a picture of concern.

  "Brother, all the time you spent in Radda working on the old tower, you never once asked anyone you met about the rest of our family, did you? No concern for our dear elder brother, Rosso?" Massimo paused, watching Salvatore closely. "Or his wife, your little boyhood sweetheart, Lady Mellissa?"

  Salvatore fought to suppress a tremor of anger at the half smile that slid across Massimo´s face.

  "You imagine you are the only one who paid a price for the stupidity of that little war with Gaiole all those years ago? You have no idea that her stupid infatuation with you has brought such pain to our family?"

  Salvatore had pushed all thought of Mellissa from his mind he day he rode out of Radda ten years ago. The vow of celibacy within the Templars had been an easy burden to bear for him once he learned that Mellissa was to marry his own older brother.

  "Ah," said Massimo, "I see that you really do know nothing. Then let me give you some old news. You see Mellissa did her duty by her father, she married Rosso as he ordered, but it seems that she has not done her duty as a wife. There are no children, no heir to carry on our family name. It is idle to listen to the gossip of servants, but it is known by all in Radda that Rosso has never crossed the threshold of his wife´s chamber. Perhaps it is, as people say in the marketplace, that she waits for you."

  Fight

  "Should we go out and talk to him?" said Sparke.

  "No," said Tilly.

  "Maybe call the cops?"

  "Hell no. Switch the lights out so we can watch him."

  “Why would he wait out there where we can see him?” said Tilly. “Not exactly undercover. You don’t think he is trying to, you know, freak you out, do you?”

  "Professor Pink," said Sparke, "I think you might be right."

  "So what´s the plan now, I wonder?" said Tilly as they looked back at the street.

  "Step away from the window, would you?" said Sparke.

  Tilly moved back into the room and Sparke reached over to turn on the lights. Suddenly, he was thrown into view to the figure in the street below. Sparke looked at him and he looked back.

  "What is he doing?" said Tilly.

  "Looking up," said Sparke. "Oh, now he is waving." He turned and walked away from the window. "My guess," he said, "is that tomorrow, sometime, I´m going to find out what all the nonsense is about and all I´ll have to do is show my face in the street for a few minutes."

  "I´m in," said Tilly. "This is not something I want to miss."

  The rest of Sparke and Tilly's evening was spent in speculation over what could drive someone like his stalker to cross the Atlantic to meet him, uninvited, then presumably hire Dr. Laszlo to help follow him around.

  Sparke let the conversation roll on in silly nonsense. Sometimes it was easier to enjoy the moment he had than risk things for what might be.

  Mornings were either a blessing or a curse when you owned an apartment with south facing windows. Sparke was wide awake by seven thirty and in the kitchen before eight. Tilly was already there making coffee.

  "How long do you think it will take them to track you down once you step outside?" said Tilly.

  "Let’s find out. Fancy a walk?" he said.

  Sparke and Tilly had walked less than five yards before Laszlo stepped in front of them.

  "You´re invited for breakfast," he said tonelessly.

  "Where?" asked Sparke.

  "I´ll take you."

  "No you won´t. Tell us where you will be and we will join you, but if you think you are going to escort us there, my friend and I will leave immediately for a long lake trip and you can tell your boss you lost us." Sparke looked at the big man. "Your call."

  Laszlo paused for a moment, then said, "The hotel at the end of the road, opposite the car park."

  "You mean the Petite Manoire?"

  "That's it. How long?"

  "Ten minutes after you disappear," said Sparke.

  The small man shrugged and walked off towards the hotel.

  "You are such a tough guy," said Tilly. "Where did you get all that gangster talk from?"

  Sparke turned to Tilly and said with a serious face, "I just look like a mild-mannered crisis manager type. In fact I really am a tough guy, no really, I mean it, I´m dangerous tough, why are you laughing?"

  Both Sparke and Tilly laughed as they turned and slowly followed the path Laszlo had taken a few minutes before.

  The hotel was only a short walk and the breakfast crowd was thin. Two people sat at a table. As they approached, Dr. Laszlo stood up and nodded, almost bowed, towards Sparke and Tilly.

  "Mr. Sparke, Professor Pink, may I introduce Mrs. Louise Nagel of Kansas City, Missouri," he said.

  "Thank you," interrupted Mrs. Nagel, "but we have already met."

  She extended her hand towards Sparke who shook it perfunctorily. Tilly was only slightly more gracious.

  Sparke looked across the table and said, "Mrs. Nagel, how can I make you and your little friend disappear from my life forever?"

  "Now, Mr. Sparke," she said, "that´s not the way to speak at all. After all, I think I might be able to provide you with the most important discovery of your life. Unless you´re not interested that is."

  Hills

  From the moment he turned his back on his brother in Moncalieri until his troop entered the Aosta valley that took the road up into the Alps, Salvatore shared perhaps a dozen words with his men and he was oblivious to the world around him. Thoughts of what might have been, visions of a lost life, enveloped him as he led his men into the long dark pass that led into the heart of the highest mountains in Europe. His eyes stayed focused on the road ahead. He had little thought for the roads he had travelled and things he had left behind. For over a decade he had worn the uniform of the Order and he had lived in near constant motion. To stop, to think, to wonder what his life might have been if he could have remained an ordinary man, was too dangerous. He knew that to think of that other life could only lead him to thoughts of the one thing in the world that he found unbearable. Even the name of Mellissa was pain to him.

  As they rode, the fields shrank, the slopes steepened, the streams ran faster and the sun struggled to reach the bottom of the narrowing route towards the pass known as the Grand St. Bernard. This was the valley of Aosta, a dark, wet, joyless place with only one reason for outsiders to visit; it was one of the few land routes from the Italian peninsula up into northern Europe through the deadly barrier of the Alps. Every hour took them further from the world the men recognized. The mountains grew in until they blotted out the sky. The road behind them shrank to a ribbon of thread. The very scale of the landscape oppressed them.

  Until Hannibal, no large group of people had ever crossed these mountains and even after him, it had taken the mighty Roman Empire centuries to build a route of their own. Now even a group of armed Templars took the route with caution
. The people who lived in the small, high valleys to either side had no respect for strangers and regarded it as their right to slit the throats of any travelers stupid enough to leave themselves unprotected.

  Salvatore kept his eyes on the hillsides as his troop progressed. Every village looked like a castle and every hill that overlooked the road was fortified. This was the route for every invading northern army who wanted to gorge on the fat lands of Italy and the treasures of Rome. Every inch had been fought over.

  The silence of the valley and the blackness of his mind forced Salvatore to focus on the mission which he had been given by the Mason in Radda. The conversation had been short, Salvatore had asked few questions, and those had all be tactical. He had never once considered questioning an order from the Mason.

  His mission was simple, but simplicity did not imply ease. He was to take money, gold coins that filled four heavy leather pouches hidden inside the padding of his wooden battle saddle, and give it to a man he would find in the land beyond the mountains. The gold would buy influence and the influence would buy security, perhaps, for the Order in a future time of danger.

  They had left the Templar fields at Moncalieri before dawn, picking their way down the small hill road and looking towards the vast white barrier of the Alps where they were headed.

  Salvatore had no expectation that his brother would not be able to follow him. From Moncalieri there were only three roads that could be taken and anyone taking the road north would be easy to trace.

  Salvatore could only follow the example of the Mason and hide in plain sight. Templars often travelled between the powerful south and the rich north of Europe. The only thing that separated Salvatore from his generations of fellow brothers was that he was not passing through. His journey was his destination.

  Breaking through the Grand Pass of St. Bernard was painful, tiresome and exhausting, but nothing at all worthy of mention to a troop of Templars. Their horses skidded and danced on frozen stone. They had to stop and heave slabs of snow, rock and ice from their paths several times. They burned their mouths sucking ice when their water pouches froze.