Parceval barked again, a hoof exposed.
Oh my!
He made the sign of the cross, then leaped to his feet, grabbing Parceval by the scruff of the neck and pulling him from the mass grave.
A mass grave that had to belong to Templar knights.
The only Order he knew of who had taken a vow of poverty, and were limited to no more than four deniers on their person.
25
Outside Saint-Augustin, Kingdom of France
Sir Valentin stood, arms stretched out to the sides as his squire prepared him for the journey ahead. They were less than an hour’s ride from their next target. They would interrogate him, eliminate him should they not find what they were looking for, and continue on to the next.
But if we do find it…
The mission would immediately change. He had arrest warrants with him already, just awaiting the names to put on them. The initial document they had recovered named names, but there was nothing incriminating. It was a useless document beyond identifying who should be questioned.
It would lead to no arrests, no convictions.
And a disappointed King.
Something he dared not risk.
“Done, sir.”
He tested his range of motion, nodding with satisfaction. “Where is Sir Bernard? Has he returned yet?”
His squire shook his head. “I have not seen him, sir. And I already inquired of his squire, as I knew you would ask.”
Valentin frowned. “If that fool doesn’t return before dusk, I’ll issue a warrant for his arrest!”
Several of his men within earshot glanced in his direction before returning to their duties, none wanting to risk his attention when he was angry. He didn’t blame them. When he wanted to be, he could be quite friendly with his men. After all, many were knights, many equal in family name, attending the same parties and schools.
But here, in these woods, he was in charge. This was his mission.
Its success would be his.
And its failure.
He mounted his horse, using the vantage point to scan the area for the incompetent second-in-command thrust upon his handpicked group of the best.
And he had no success.
The man is a bumbling fool, and could sabotage this mission through ineptitude.
He grunted to himself.
Perhaps not having him here would be a good thing.
26
Durant Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
The hairs on the back of Sir Bernard’s neck rose as he examined the document prepared by his friend’s father. It was incredible. If he didn’t know it was a complete fabrication, if he wasn’t the one who had helped script its dastardly contents, he could be forgiven for rushing into the streets and demanding the arrest of every signatory to the treasonous document.
But he did know.
And it still thrilled him.
This one piece of paper will secure my future, and rid me of my inglorious past.
He stared at the signatures, comparing them to the original document he had stolen, trying to find any hint they were forgeries, and failing. As explained by Mr. Durant, slight variations were included so that no one could claim these were just a copy of those on the original document, but where it counted, in the swirls and spacing, everything matched just so.
No one would know.
He closed his eyes for a moment, massaging his temples as the unforgiving headache he had suffered all morning continued its assault. He had drunk far too much the night before, though from what he remembered, it had all been good fun.
He had missed Thomas, and was determined to maintain their friendship.
Did you promise to give him a job?
His eyes narrowed as he strained to remember the conversation.
“So you are satisfied with the work?”
Bernard nodded, immediately regretting it. “Yes. You have outdone yourself, as I’m sure you did with my father’s work so long ago.” He smiled, lowering his voice. “Does my father still avail himself of your special talents?”
Durant waved his hands in front of him. “I never discuss the affairs of others, as I’m sure you wouldn’t want me discussing yours.”
Bernard smiled, pleased with the answer. “Of course, as you shouldn’t.” He rose from his chair carefully, taking care not to move his swollen head too swiftly. The old man placed the finished work in a large folded piece of thicker paper, handing it to him, along with the original document. Bernard placed both in his pouch, wishing for a moment his squire was here to tend to him.
Oh my!
The evening’s conversation suddenly came rushing back. His shameful admission of his past failures, his revelations of a plan to earn his title, and then, most horrifically, the painstaking details confessed to a boyhood friend he barely knew anymore, with the promise to take care of him should anything happen to him in the future.
Thomas knew.
He knew everything.
His heart slammed, and his panic roared through his ears as his head pounded in protest. Nobody could know. Nobody. If it should ever come out what he had done, it could mean his life. It would mean his life. The boy he knew years ago could be trusted, but could the young, desperate, starving man he had reunited with last night? And could his father, a man struggling to survive with a failing business?
What set of circumstances would cause either one of them to decide discretion wasn’t worth an empty belly?
He placed his hand casually on his dagger. “Where is your son? I would like to say goodbye to him.”
Durant rose, rounding the table. “I’m afraid he’s already gone. He had some work in the market. It’s rare to be hired, so despite his condition, he did his duty.”
“A fine son you have raised.”
Durant smiled. “He’s my greatest creation. Far more so than anything these hands have done.”
Bernard patted the pouch. “A wonderful sentiment.” He returned his hand to the dagger. “And when shall he return?”
“Not until nightfall, I’m afraid. He did ask me to tell you that he had a wonderful time, and should you ever be so inclined, he would enjoy dining and conversing again with his old friend.”
Bernard’s chest ached for more than one reason. He had enjoyed himself. More than any time he could recall in his adult life. He did want to maintain that friendship lost so long ago.
And he had to make certain there were no witnesses.
He drew his dagger, plunging it into the old man’s stomach, then yanked the blade high, scrambling his innards. The old man gasped, his eyes widening with confusion and pain as he gripped at the dagger.
“Why?” he croaked as Bernard pulled the knife free before stepping back as his friend’s father reached out with a blood-soaked hand.
“Because none can know our secret.”
“Please, not my son.” Durant collapsed to his knees, then fell to his side, still reaching toward Bernard. “Please, spare him.”
Bernard’s eyes clouded with tears as his chest burned. “I’m sorry, but he knows too much.”
“Please…”
Bernard couldn’t watch any longer, and instead turned on his heel and left the humble shop and home of the only true friend he had ever had, with the realization that the next time he saw Thomas, he’d be forced to kill him too.
For he must preserve the secret.
At all costs.
27
Templar Commandry
Coulommiers, Kingdom of France
Sir Raimond leaned back in his chair, thankful his glory days were over. He had fought too many battles to count, some with thousands of his brothers against the Saracen hordes, some alone against brigands determined to steal from the defenseless pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land.
But he hadn’t spilled a drop on the soil of his home, France.
He had fully expected to die long before reaching his current age, but the good Lord had watched over him, preserving him for some
reason, a reason that though he wasn’t aware of, he was certain his Lord was.
And that was good enough for him.
Life was a gift, and he wasn’t going to waste it, nor question why he had been left to live long past his time.
And he also wasn’t going to begrudge himself a nap, whenever he felt the need.
As he did now.
His eyes drooped, the price to pay for remaining awake late into the night, worrying about Sir Marcus and his men, about the murders—now numbering three—and the whereabouts of the missing delegation from the Holy Land.
He let out a long, loud breath, his head tilting slightly to the side as blissful sleep finally overwhelmed him.
A hard rap on his door had him bolting upright in his chair, wondering how long he had been out. He frowned, the sun, visible through his window, in the same position it had been the last time his eyes had gazed upon it.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and his young clerk stepped inside, bowing his apologies. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but someone is demanding to see you.”
Raimond sighed. “Who?”
“He says his name is Sebastien. He says he found something you must see.”
Raimond closed his eyes for a moment, a frown spreading.
He wiped it off.
He didn’t know what this man’s business was, and the stranger at least deserved his initial respect. Whether he continued to have it, remained to be seen. “Show him in.”
His clerk disappeared, returning a moment later with a humbly dressed man, his well-worn face and rough hands indications he led a hard, honest life.
“I am Sir Raimond, commander of this outpost. State your business.”
“Sir Raimond, I found something that you must see.”
“What is it?”
“Bodies, sir. At least two. And a horse!”
Raimond’s eyes narrowed, tensing as his immediate thoughts were of the missing delegation. “Where?”
“In the forest outside of town, near my farm. I was taking my morning constitutional when my dog ran off. I found what looks to be some sort of grave.”
“Why would you bring this information to me, and not your local officials?”
The man lowered his voice. “I fear they may be yours, sir, they may be Templars.”
Raimond’s heart was hammering now, but he had to be cautious. “What evidence do you have of this? Were they wearing our markings?”
The man shook his head rapidly. “No, sir, they weren’t. In fact, they weren’t wearing anything that could identify them.”
Raimond relaxed slightly. “Then why would you think they were of the Order?”
The man held out his hand, a small purse clasped within. “Because of this.”
Raimond took the purse and emptied it into his palm, gasping at what he saw.
Four deniers.
“Bring me my horse at once!”
28
Approaching the Durant Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Thomas Durant was both angry and disappointed. He had hoped to earn some much-needed money today working in the market, but when he had arrived, he was informed the shipment had been delayed, and he shouldn’t bother returning the next day.
The anger came from spotting the shipment in an alley, a crew he knew belonged to a local gang, unloading it. If he were willing to compromise his principles, he too could have been working that load, but in exchange for half his pay.
He wasn’t there yet.
But someday, he might be.
That’s when you call upon Bernard.
He smiled. He had truly enjoyed himself last night, and he had never feasted or drank like that in his entire life. In fact, his head still pounded, and his full belly was still protruding more than he recalled, though he wondered if that were just his imagination.
A full belly.
What a wonderful feeling.
If Bernard were successful in his plan, there could be little doubt word would spread, and at least then he would know he had a way out of this horrible life. Though he would never leave his father. He would stay to take care of him until God finally came for him, and he prayed that was many years yet.
But he was getting old.
And he wasn’t well.
The tremors were getting worse, though only affected his left hand and arm for now. The moment it spread to his right, their main source of income would disappear. And no matter how meager that income might be, it was essential to their survival.
Maybe you will have to leave him, to save him.
The very thought broke his heart. To leave and work for Bernard, sending money to his father, yet not seeing him, was a nightmare imagining.
But if it meant saving his father’s life?
He sighed. Leaving the old man alone would probably kill him. The death of his mother almost had, yet his father had pushed on for his son. It tortured him daily that his father was suffering, continuing to work, just to support him.
I need to do something more!
He rounded the corner and smiled as he saw Bernard mounting his horse, though before he could call out to him, he was already galloping away, charging through the crowds as if the King himself had ordered him to ignore the safety of those he shared the road with.
I hope he succeeds, for Papa’s sake.
Though part of him didn’t. The bits and pieces he remembered from last night were horrifying, if recalled correctly. The document his father had created was meant to bring down the Templars. Though he had no love for them, he had nothing against them. His dealings with them had always been of indifference. They were warrior monks with vast holdings across Christendom, and he was not.
Perhaps I could join them.
His eyebrows rose at the prospect. He was already poor, so a vow of poverty would mean nothing. But chastity? Only the knights were truly sworn to that, and he could never rise to that level, yet the very thought was horrifying.
He loved women.
Though he had never been with one.
He had kissed Sophie once, in the alley behind her home, and it had been the most thrilling experience of his life, stirring things he didn’t know could be.
But that was years ago.
Young women weren’t interested in men with no prospects, and he had none. He could read and write, which was unusual in these parts, but that was it. If he were to open up his own shop, all he would do was put his own father out of work, there not enough business for one of them, let alone two.
He opened the front door, stepping inside. “Papa! It’s me! They stole my shift again.” He blinked several times then gasped at the sight before him. His father was lying on the floor, in front of his desk, a pool of blood surrounding him. “Papa!” He rushed forward and dropped to his knees, shaking his father by the shoulder. “Papa!”
His father groaned.
“Papa! Who did this?”
“Ber…”
“Bernard?”
His father grunted.
His world closed in around him at the very notion, at the very idea that his friend could have done such a thing. It was inconceivable.
Yet was it?
His so-called friend was plotting to destroy the Templars to curry favor with the King. He had his father create a forged document that would lead to the death of untold numbers of innocents.
Why should he be at all surprised this man, this stranger, had tried to kill his father?
“Why, father? Why did he do this?”
“Document.”
“The forgery?” His jaw dropped as he realized why. “He didn’t want anyone who knew it existed to live?”
His father nodded, his skin so pale and cold to the touch that Thomas knew the poor soul only had minutes to live.
“I’ll go get help.”
His father reached out with what must have been the last of his strength, and grabbed his wrist. “No. Stay.” He moaned, then opened his eyes,
staring into Thomas’. “Must save yourself. He-he’ll be back.”
A shiver raced up his spine at the thought. His father was right. If he hadn’t gone to work this morning, Bernard likely would have killed him too. The fact he had left without finishing the job, meant either he didn’t remember his confession of the night before, or he didn’t have time to waste.
But he’d be back, for if Thomas could recall the conversation, surely Bernard could as well.
And men willing to destroy one of the noblest groups to have ever existed, merely for personal gain, were men that wouldn’t hesitate to kill a friend to preserve the secrets of their crimes.
“Drawer.”
Thomas stared at his father. “What, Papa?”
“Drawer.”
Thomas rose and rounded his father’s desk, pulling open the drawers. He found mostly blank pages, some practice documents, but in the bottom drawer, tucked in the back, he found a carefully wrapped bundle. He removed it and brought it to his father. “Is this it?”
He nodded. “Open.”
Thomas opened the bundle and gasped. It was a document with words so shocking, so treasonous, that it must be what Bernard had been talking about. And at the bottom, were the signatures of a dozen men that Thomas was certain were about to die because of it.
His father reached out and pressed a bloody finger against a second page. Thomas quickly read it, tears forming. It was a confession, from his father, to what he had done, and at the bottom were the forged signatures, as proof that he had created the original.
He must have known all along that he was going to die.
He stared at his father. “You knew!”
His father nodded, then reached out, his right hand trembling now. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For leaving you alone.”
He shuddered, his eyes closing as one last sigh escaped.
Leaving Thomas alone in a world that preyed on the weak and the innocent.
And those not born privileged enough to live above the law.
29
The Templar Detective Page 10
