Marcus stepped forward, the young man clearly terrified at the prospect of disturbing his master. He rapped three times on the door, the sound echoing through the narrow hall.
Nothing.
He repeated the knock, harder this time. “Sir Gilbert de St. Leger, this is Sir Marcus de Rancourt. I must speak with you.”
Again, nothing.
“Perhaps he isn’t here?” suggested Xavier, false hope in his voice.
“Perhaps.” Marcus opened the door and stepped inside, his heart sinking at once with the sight. A man he presumed to be Gilbert, sat on his bed, his arms out to his side, his shoulders and head resting against the stone wall, his mouth agape and eyes wide with the final moments of horror that were the end of his life.
A life ended with what appeared to be a single stab wound to the heart.
“Oh my!” cried Xavier, who swooned before collapsing. Simon reached out a hand and caught him by the belt before he slammed onto the floor. He lowered him gently to the cold stone.
Marcus’ eyes swept the room. It was sparse, as to be expected for a knight of the Order. A bed, a nightstand, a desk and chair, with a small wardrobe in the corner, the doors open, revealing the limited possessions of a man sworn to a life of poverty. A candle had burned on the nightstand, the wax now spent, probably left to burn all night. On the desk were several pieces of paper, a seal, along with another candle and a pen with ink.
And nothing more.
And nothing less.
Exactly as he would expect for a knight of the Order.
Yet this room had clearly been searched. The papers on the desk were in disarray, the lone drawer opened, and the wardrobe doors ajar. The clothes inside had been shoved apart, and the boots tossed aside.
No self-respecting knight would leave his quarters in such a state before retiring for the night.
“If there was something to find, it’s been found.”
Simon grunted. “Agreed. That document again?”
Marcus shrugged. “One would assume. Obviously, they didn’t find it at Mr. Fabron’s residence, though we were quite confident they hadn’t.” He stepped closer to the body, gently patting the man down to make certain his cold corpse concealed nothing.
Xavier moaned, and Simon gave him a gentle kick. “You okay, lad?”
Xavier stared up at him then thrust to his feet, staring at his master, his eyes wide. “Is he—?”
Marcus glanced at him. “Dead? Yes.”
“Who-who could have done such a thing?”
“Presumably the same men who killed Mr. Fabron and his wife in Crécy-la-Chapelle yesterday.”
Xavier gasped. “Who? How?” He stopped. “How do you know of this?”
“We just came from there. It is one of the reasons we came to see your master.”
“But who could do such a thing?”
“Three men dressed as Templar knights, if the lone witness is to be believed.”
Xavier gasped, his hand slapping against his open mouth. “You don’t…”
“No, we don’t. We believe the men to be imposters. We believe they are looking for a document that may have been written at a meeting your master recently attended.”
Xavier’s eyes widened. “What document?”
“We don’t know. We were hoping Sir Gilbert could tell us that.”
Xavier stared at the body, visibly shaking. “I-I know of only one document that my master returned from that meeting with. Merely a record of what was discussed.”
Marcus inhaled with excitement. “Do you have it?”
“Locked away in his office.”
“We must see it. More lives could be at stake.”
Xavier appeared torn as his eyes flitted between his master, and the imposing figures of Marcus and Simon. Marcus decided to let the young man figure out his duty on his own, though his patience would last only so long.
Xavier nodded. “Very well.”
He bolted from the room, and Marcus turned to follow. He glanced over his shoulder at Simon. “Remain here. Question everyone. See if they heard or saw anything. Someone must know something.”
Simon fell back and rapped hard on the first door as Marcus picked up his pace, Xavier already out the front door.
Was I ever that young?
He grunted.
Younger. But never so anxious.
Xavier didn’t appear to have the temperament for battle, though sometimes when put to the test, a man could surprise even himself.
Marcus sighed.
Please Lord, let us find something that can put a stop to this insanity!
19
Outskirts of Paris, Kingdom of France
It had been a forbidden friendship. Or at least an accidental one. Sir Bernard had met Thomas Durant when he was a boy, when he had accompanied his father to a strange part of the city to do business with a man with a crooked nose and a hunched back.
It was an exciting journey.
He had never known such parts of Paris existed. The squalor and filth were something to behold for a young boy raised among the elite, and while they rode in their ornate carriage, he had reveled in the awe shown by those his age.
It had been a rush, a rush he wished he could feel once again.
Yet today, riding through these streets, nobody showed him any respect beyond getting out of his way. He was just another knight on horseback, to be ignored lest he ask something of them. Even the children kept their distance rather than chance asking for a spare coin or two.
And though on any other day he’d have actually missed the attention, today he was grateful he wasn’t receiving it. For the man he wanted to meet, was not a good man, though a necessary one, and if he was good enough for his father to do business with, then he was good enough for him.
He hadn’t seen Thomas in years, and in fact, had only seen him perhaps a couple of dozen times in their youth, and then only when one of them sneaked away. Boys of his station weren’t supposed to associate with the great unwashed, yet he had the most exciting conversations with Thomas, some of the best he had ever had.
But in time, as most things from childhood had a habit of doing, the relationship grew more distant, and eventually ended, as the realities of manhood thrust them apart, the innocence of youth’s ignorance no longer permitted.
Yet to this day, he still missed Thomas, and a surge of excitement gripped him as he spotted their humble home, a shingle out front indicating the proprietor inside offered reading and writing services.
What it didn’t mention was his side business.
He dismounted in front of the residence, and a young boy rushed forward to tend to his horse. He dropped a coin in the boy’s hand, and a grin revealed rotting teeth.
“Make sure she is watered and fed, and brush her down good. There’ll be another of those for you if I’m satisfied.”
“Yes, m’Lord!”
Bernard opened the door to the small shop on the main floor of the residence, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Someone in the shadows rose, chair legs scraping on wood revealing their position.
“Ah, may I help you, sir?”
Bernard closed the door behind him and stepped forward. “Are you Mr. Durant?”
The man bowed. “At your service, sir.”
“I am Sir Bernard de Claret. Perhaps you remember my father. You performed a service for him in the past.”
The man bowed even deeper. “Of course! Of course! How is your father? He is well, I trust?”
“He is, thank you. And your good wife?”
The old man sighed. “I’m afraid we lost her some years ago.”
Bernard frowned. “You have my sympathies. And your son? Thomas?”
Durant wagged a finger at him. “Ahh, your old friend, correct? I knew of your secret. Foolish boy, he was. You broke his heart, you know.”
Bernard’s chest ached, and his throat went dry. “It is one of my greatest regrets.”
“But unavoidable, I’m s
ure. Nobility does not mix with the peasantry.”
Bernard remained silent.
“But you asked of him, and I failed to respond. He is well. In fact, he should be here any minute. Why don’t we discuss your business before he returns?” Durant gestured toward a chair, and Bernard took it, the old man returning to his perch behind his desk, a desk covered in documents and letters. “What is it you need from me?”
“What I am about to ask of you must never be discussed with anyone, understood?”
“Oh, of course. Discretion is extremely important in my business.”
“Should it be discovered that what you produce is not, shall we say, genuine, it could bring embarrassment to the King himself.”
Durant’s eyes widened.
“You understand what that could mean?”
Durant’s head bobbed rapidly. “I do.”
“And you wish to proceed?”
“I-I’m not sure—”
Bernard tossed a purse filled with coins on the desk, the thud indicating a generous offering.
“—if I could possibly say anything to the contrary.” The purse was quickly grabbed and emptied into a shaking left hand, counted with a steady right. “You, sir, are either very generous, or very, umm, motivated?”
Bernard smiled. “I see we understand each other.” He produced the document, handing it over to the old man. “I need a document created, the text of which we will create together, as I suspect you may have a more devious mind than I, but the signatures at the bottom of this one must be transcribed exactly onto the new document. There can be no margin for error. The men whose signatures these belong to must themselves believe they actually signed the document we are to create. Are you up to the task?”
The old man examined the document with a magnifying glass, leaning in closer to read the signatures, his eyes widening as he no doubt recognized some of the names. He put the magnifying glass down, then looked up at Bernard with a smile. “Absolutely, but I have one question.”
Bernard frowned. “What is it?”
“Who is this for?”
Bernard debated giving the man an answer, then decided if he should, it should be one that elicited the desired response. “The King himself.”
Durant sucked in a quick breath and nodded. “Then we shall begin at once.”
20
Templar Barracks
Crèvecœur-en-Brie, Kingdom of France
Simon rapped on the next door, having learned nothing of value so far. Few who had spent the night were still there, and those who were, remembered nothing. From all accounts, it was an uneventful evening, with most retiring early for their journeys or duties the next day.
And this room appeared empty as well.
He opened the door and confirmed it.
He sighed.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?”
Simon turned to find a short, large woman, mixing a bowl of something. “No, but I am looking for information.”
She laughed. “Information! What kind of information could you possibly find here?” She stepped back out of sight, and Simon followed her into what turned out to be a kitchen, preparations for lunch already underway.
“Were you here last night?”
She nodded. “Until the last of your brothers retired for the night, then I left for home. I barely got to see my husband. If he doesn’t get his attentions then he gets cranky!” She roared with laughter, tossing the bowl onto the table occupying the center of the room.
Simon smiled slightly, the woman no doubt a handful in the bedchambers. “Did you see any strangers?”
She picked up a knife and paused, giving him a look. “You are aware of what this place is, aren’t you? Strangers are our business. We have men coming and going constantly. Only those stationed in the town stay here more than a night or two.”
Simon frowned. “Did anyone visit Sir Gilbert?”
She paused before attacking several carrots with the blade. “Yes, now that you mention it. Two men arrived, just before I was about to leave, asking to see him. I showed them to Sir Gilbert’s chambers, then left for the night, as they said they weren’t staying.”
Simon’s heart rate picked up a few beats. “Could you describe them?”
She shrugged. “Two men, about your height, one with a beard, the other just a mustache. That’s about it.”
Simon hesitated to ask, but knew he had to. “Were they, umm, Templars?”
“Of course they were. Only Templars are permitted in here.”
Simon sighed. “Knights?”
She nodded. “I hardly think a sergeant or lowly squire would impose upon Sir Gilbert at that time of night.”
“Did you hear any of their conversation?”
“None.”
“None at all? Even when they exchanged pleasantries?”
She paused, knife in mid-slice. “Yes, I suppose I did, though I quickly closed the door. I heard little beyond ‘hello.’”
“Did you hear any names?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“Were they friendly?”
“Quite. Gentlemanly as I should expect from the Order, though one seemed a little uncertain of himself.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“He just didn’t have the bearing of a knight, as I’ve come to expect. You lot are usually quite confident. This one seemed…”
“Nervous?”
She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t call it that.” She snapped her fingers. “Deferential! He rarely spoke, and he never looked anyone in the eye, as if he were inferior to his companion.”
Simon grunted. “Doesn’t sound like any Templar knight I’ve ever met.”
“So, why all the questions?”
Simon frowned, this woman obviously not yet having heard the sad news. “Your master is dead. Murdered in the night, quite possibly by the very men you described.”
The knife dropped onto the cutting board, the woman onto the floor.
21
Durant Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Sir Bernard reread the proposed document, and a shiver rushed up and down his spine. It was good. It was devious. It was everything Valentin was searching for.
And now he had it.
Or he soon would.
The old man stared at him, worry on his face, his left hand still trembling, though he thankfully wrote with his right. “Are you sure you want me to create this?”
The fear in his voice was evident from the tremor not there earlier, and the hushed tone suggested he feared the ears that passed on the other side of the dilapidated walls. Yet Bernard understood his fear. In fact, he shared it. But this was a means to an end. A way for him to be the hero, to earn his station and name on his own.
So what if the document was a forgery? Nobody beyond him and Mr. Durant would know, and this terrified old man would tell no one. He would create a forgery so perfect, no one would be able to tell, not even those purported to have written it, and he would be the one who found what the King had sent his best to find, and he would be the hero at the end of the day—not that disrespectful cretin Valentin.
He stared at the old man. “Absolutely.”
Durant sighed. “Very well.”
“How long will you need?”
“I will work through the night. The sooner this is out of my home, the better. You shall have it tomorrow morning at first light.”
Bernard leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Excellent. That gives me plenty of time to get back, and this can all be finished before day’s end.” The front door of the shop opened, and Bernard spun toward the new arrival, his hand reaching for his sword. He stopped, a smile spreading across his face. “Thomas!”
His boyhood friend stared at him for a moment, puzzled, no doubt still trying to recognize a voice from the past while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Bernard? Is that you?”
Bernard leaped to
his feet, rushing toward his friend and embracing him. “Thomas! It’s so good to see you! How long has it been?”
Thomas stared at him before replying, his mouth agape. “I-I’m not sure. Four years? Five?”
Bernard held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down, his heart heavy with the sight of his emaciated frame and threadbare clothes. Business obviously wasn’t good, though perhaps the heavy purse he had laid upon Thomas’ father might buy him a new set of clothes and some good, solid food for a time. “You look good.”
“And you still lie well.”
Bernard tossed his head back and laughed, letting go of his friend. “Your brutal honesty is what I have missed, my friend.”
“You look like you’ve done well for yourself.” Thomas held up a bag of potatoes, showing it to his father.
“Is that payment from Mr. Rivard?”
“I’m afraid so, Father.”
Durant shook his head. “No one pays in coin anymore.” He held up the purse presented earlier. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Bernard bowed slightly.
Thomas rushed to the table, taking the purse from his father, tossing it from one hand to the other, as if trying to guess its weight. “What is this for?”
“Some work I’m having your father do for me. Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“I, umm, must get started. Why don’t you two boys go somewhere and catch up? Leave me to my work.”
Bernard beamed. “A splendid idea. Let us go somewhere and get us some food and drink.” He poked Thomas’ ribs. “You look like you could use a good feeding.”
Thomas turned away slightly, as if ashamed, leaving a pit in Bernard’s stomach. Thomas motioned toward Bernard’s garb. “I don’t think there is any place near here that you would be satisfied with.
“Nonsense! You wouldn’t believe the taverns I have frequented on my journeys throughout the kingdom. And besides, I want to spend time with you! Who knows when I’ll be back in these parts?”
The Templar Detective Page 8
