The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4

by Scott Chapman

  "What is here?" said Salvatore to Ulli.

  "We are here," said Ulli. "We are here at the orders of the Mason and that is all the reason we need. What is to be done with your cargo?"

  "The Mason tells me it is to be held in a place of greater safety."

  "This place is safe enough. They call it Carloway and we see no ships that are not ours. Who are your crew?"

  "Hired men."

  "And what about these hired men, what do they know?"

  "They know too much," said Salvatore.

  "What did the Mason tell you about people who know too much?"

  "He told me to leave no open doors behind me," said Salvatore, his relief at meeting his brothers now evaporating, replaced by the horror of what he knew he had to do.

  Ulli's men stripped the cargo of its outer casing, hoisted it ashore and swiftly moved it inland. No word had passed between Salvatore and Kristian since the Templar ship had been sighted, and the crew had done all they could to make themselves invisible as the knights took possession of their ship, taking the mysterious box with them.

  "Captain!" said Salvatore as he left, "I owe you the rest of your pay. I will be back in a few hours." Kristian smiled warily and bowed slightly.

  As the tide crept back up the long beach, the cog refloated, and it was full darkness when the captain saw the Templar's ship approaching.

  Salvatore pulled himself easily over the side of the cog and walked towards Kristian and the handful of men who formed the night watch standing by the helm of the sleeping ship. In his hand, Salvatore held a heavy purse and he bounced it as he approached. Kristian smiled his broadest welcome and stepped towards Salvatore, his hand outstretched in welcome.

  Salvatore's blade sliced his throat open before Kristian noticed any flicker of movement. He slumped slowly to the deck. By the time his body landed on the planking, the next two crewmen had suffered the same fate. The third sailor, seeing the silent explosion of violence from Salvatore, raised his arms to his face and barely felt the dagger plunge into his chest. The last member of the night watch stood, stunned by terror and disbelief at what he was seeing. He did not even cry out as Salvatore took his life. The ship rocked slowly, creaking on the tide, but there was no sound from below. Salvatore closed his eyes for a moment, then descended the short ladder to where the rest of the crew slept.

  Borders

  Switzerland was an eight-hour drive from Tuscany. The Range Rover consumed the miles of Italian autostrada effortlessly. The engine was almost inaudible and the seats were more comfortable than the Ikea sofas that Sparke had in his spartan apartment in Munich.

  Tilly looked at the screen of the computer perched on her lap. “I’ve never even heard of a car that has its own Wi-Fi system. This is awesome. You should buy one now you’re a rich guy.”

  “It is awesome and I think I might just buy one, now that you mention it. What are you looking at anyway?”

  “Background. I am digging deeper into some of the Templar archives. Their arrests were so sudden in most cases that they were literally half-way through writing letters when the doors were burst in. Heartbreaking.”

  "What have you found?"

  "Oh, just bits and pieces. I'm afraid that your software pal in Boston is going to make a lot of academic researchers redundant. Not a lot left to find, but there are few things that intrigue me, especially about our new friend Saint Prothius."

  "I thought he was just another obscure medieval holy man."

  "That's just it, he is, but there are some things that don't quite gel." Tilly looked back at her screen and tapped on the keyboard for a few seconds.

  "First off," she said, "he’s the person who gave his name to the town in Switzerland we are heading for, only now its name has morphed into Saint Prex. But there is no known connection between him and the region."

  "That's unusual?"

  "Almost unheard of. Second thing is that his name is associated with a very peculiar document that people get all excited about every ten years or so, the Concordat Of Sion."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It's only of interest to people who care about the most obscure parts of Templar history." Tilly looked closely at her screen. "The Concordat was a letter pledging friendship, hospitality and mutual support between the Templars and what is called 'The People of Sion' in the document."

  "Sion being what, a version of Zion, I guess?" said Sparke.

  "That's just it, the accepted understanding is that this is a letter to the people of Zion, sometimes spelled Sion, meaning Jerusalem."

  "What's so surprising about that? I mean the Templars were all about Jerusalem, no?"

  "Yup, but this was written a hundred years after Jerusalem fell back into Arab hands. The Templars would never have made any pact with the people of Jerusalem. They were their greatest enemy at the time."

  "So how is St Prothius connected?" said Sparke.

  "Here's how. These formal letters were always wrapped up in pretty elaborate language. Normally they would spend the first few paragraphs talking about how they were writing it by God's grace and so forth. Sometimes they would ask for a specific blessing of a particular saint."

  "And in this document they invoke the name of..."

  "Yup, St Prothius," said Tilly, "a virtual nobody in the who's who of saints and angels."

  Sparke fell into a deep silence as the northern Italian landscape sped by. They had left the hilly Tuscan countryside of forests and vineyards, and were now in the long flat wheat country of the Po Valley. Tilly worked on, absorbed by the archives she was scanning, until Sparke interrupted her.

  "You're fairly happy that the wreck in Scotland has connections to the Templars because of the coins that were found there," he said. "OK, that makes sense. Next, it looks as though the Fra Muratore medal shows a link to Radda, and we are almost certain that we found a former Templar fort in the middle of Tuscany. Now, it looks as though that fort may have some link to this town up in Switzerland, which also had a Templar position that seems to have a lot in common with Radda, but I can't see how your Concordat of Sion has any connection."

  "It's an anomaly, that's all," said Tilly. "You're not the only one who gets to make big leaps of intuition you know. I get to make wild guesses too."

  The next two hours disappeared easily as Sparke sought in vain to establish that he did not make wild guesses, but, as he put it, "built logical scenarios based on probabilities".

  North of Turin, they started to climb up into the Alps through the dark, narrow Val d'Aosta. As the valley sides closed in, the number of castles and fortified buildings perched on rocky outcrops increased in frequency, bearing witness to the bloody history of this path between northern and southern Europe. Sparke wondered how many armies had fought their way along its length, and how many had not made it.

  The Mont Blanc tunnel was quiet and once they broke back into sunlight they were in France.

  "We'll be in St. Prex in less than two hours," said Sparke. "There's no hotels there, too small, so I've booked us into somewhere just along the coast, town called Morges."

  "You never told me," said Tilly. "Have you ever been to Switzerland? And before you answer, don't say that you once spent three days in a conference at the airport, because that doesn't count."

  "No, not just three days," said Sparke. "I've spent a lot of time here. My wife, my ex-wife, worked in Geneva for the United Nations for a while. I used to fly down here most weekends when I could."

  “Are you still in touch with her?” asked Tilly.

  “Got a card the first Christmas after the divorce, since then nothing. She remarried.”

  The mention of Sparke’s personal life brought a pause to their conversation.

  “Have you been to St. Prex?” said Tilly.

  “Nope. Geneva is a bit of a strange place. Most people who live there treat it like an island. They scoot along the coast of Lake Geneva to get to the ski slopes, but the rest of the Romande is a mystery to them.”


  “Romande?”

  “It’s the local name for the French-speaking part of Switzerland. It’s still called the Roman part.”

  “Slow to change then?”

  “Swiss don’t move fast,” said Sparke. “They virtually never knock anything down, so I’m quite optimistic that any buildings the Templars used have a pretty good chance of still being there.”

  Tilly looked across at Sparke. “You look a bit tense. Worried that we don’t find anything up here?”

  “No,” said Sparke. “I’m worried that there’s nothing to find.”

  Ships

  Nothing about Scotland or England appealed to Salvatore, everything was mud and money. Even in his Templar garb, he was treated as little better than a common peasant. It was only when he came here that he realized that normally peasants and townspeople elsewhere in Europe stepped out of the way when a man with a sword wanted passage.

  In these countries, everyone was in trade. Even the nobility dealt in wool, trading as equals with men of no rank.

  The ending of his mission left Salvatore empty, devoid of life. The killings on the ship had placed a distance between who he was now and the man he had thought himself to be. The memories of his youth in Radda now felt like the stories he might have heard from someone else. He constantly felt the absence of the Fra Muratore medallion he had worn since childhood, but he did not regret throwing it away. It belonged to another man.

  Almost alone amongst his brother Templars, he kept himself clean shaven. It was never remarked upon, but he knew it was noticed. The daily life of frequent prayer and ritual lacked any meaning for him. He was a Templar, but he was an exile amongst his own kind.

  From England, he took a ship to France, and this time he took the land route south and east, travelling between the network of Templar preceptories and commandaries when he could, staying at monasteries when there was no other option. Sometimes, in his lonely journey, he simply wrapped himself in his cloak and slept on the ground.

  From the Mediterranean coast, he travelled by ship to Genoa, the heart of most of the shipping in the Christian west, and from there he sailed down the Italian coast to Pisa.

  Although winter was now closing in, he felt the sun of his homeland wrapping itself around him. People spoke in a dialect he could easily understand and the roads and buildings had the look of long familiar faces. The journey from Pisa to Radda took only three days.

  He followed the main pilgrim road, then turned east, into the hills of Chianti where his home town lay. He had left this town as a young man of sixteen, pledged to the ranks of the Templars and banished from the lands of Radda and its neighboring town in penance for a killing he had been forced to carry out, a killing that had taken place in exactly the fortified tower he was now heading for. The road he followed was the property of the Bishop of Siena. He could travel on it, but could not leave it and trespass on to territory he was banished from ever setting foot on.

  At the fork in the road near the old bridge, he could raise his eyes and see the outline of the dark tower on the hilltop. To his left he knew he would be able to see the outline of the roofs of Radda, but sheer willpower made him look away.

  The old path up to the tower had been widened and Salvatore could see the impact of many horses and carts on the ground. As he crested the hill, the tower came into full view. There was building work in progress, as he had expected. He knew the Mason had possession of the Tower and wherever the Mason went, the building workers were never far behind.

  “You travel slowly, Brother.” The voice came from a man who had appeared from nowhere a dozen paces from Salvatore. He was wearing the garb of the Templars.

  “I am in no hurry to arrive. My name is Salvatore.”

  “You are expected, Brother Salvatore.” The knight whistled softly and another figure materialized from behind a rocky outcrop. He was dressed in the uniform of a Templar sergeant and held a cocked crossbow in his hand.

  “Friend,” said the knight, and then, turning back to Salvatore, “Proceed. Our good brother, the Mason, will be pleased that you have finally decided to arrive.”

  Salvatore nodded and sent his packhorse ahead of him along the thin ridge that led to the tower. Voices could be heard shouting, but they were the relaxed, busy voices of working men going about their business.

  The tower was being transformed. From a simple building, built to command the local road and bridge below, it was becoming a permanent fortified position capable of holding dozens of men in comfort. Stones and timbers lay scattered around the inner yard and canvas-covered workshops had been built for the stone workers.

  In the midst of this chaos, Salvatore saw the figure of the Mason. Several workmen and knights turned to see Salvatore as he walked his horse slowly through the archway, which was being broadened and rebuilt. Noticing the intrusion, the Mason slowly turned to face Salvatore and, for a long moment, stared at him without speaking, silently assessing him.

  “You are here,” he said, finally.

  “I am here.”

  The Mason walked across the courtyard and grasped Salvatore by the arm. “But are you well?”

  “I am alive, and as well as I should be. Our brother, Ulli, sends his greetings.”

  The Mason nodded. “Did you spend time with him?”

  “No. I left as soon as I delivered the thing I carried for you.”

  “Success then,” said the Mason. “But you seem troubled.”

  “As you ordered, I left no doors open behind me. No one can speak about what they saw me do. No one who is still alive.”

  The Mason put his hand on Salvatore’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “Everything you did was in the cause of something so great, that few know its importance. The Order and the Grand Master himself stand behind every decision you took and every act you did.”

  Salvatore looked around the building site. “Why did you bring me here, back to Radda?”

  “This is where you are needed most, but you have earned the right to ask for any other task, in any part of the Order. What is your will?”

  “My will? I have no will, only the need to continue on the path the Order sets for me.”

  “If that is your choice, then I will tell you the path I have chosen for you. You are to continue my work here. I must leave, and you will command here. You will be Knight Commander of this bastion.”

  Salvatore looked around at the tower. “This place? Why do we have need of a small tower far from anywhere?”

  “I will tell you, but first you need to rest, and there is something else you need to know. Something about the object you sacrificed so much to recover for us and take to the ends of Europe.”

  “I have no desire to know.”

  “But you must know,” said the Mason. “Only two men on earth know the contents of that box, and now you will become the third.”

  Hot Chocolate

  “Is this the best hot chocolate you have ever tasted?” said Tilly. “I’m pretty sure I have never in my life tasted hot chocolate that was any better.”

  Sparke and Tilly were sitting outside the small chocolatier and patisserie in the village of St. Prex. The village itself looked like something a Hollywood set designer had dreamed up. The medieval stone wall that had protected the village was still visible, enclosing a small maze of narrow stone streets and buildings.

  “This,” said Sparke, “is very good hot chocolate. So, now we are here, where do we start?”

  “According to what I can see online, the oldest building here is the church, which, I guess, might be that one.” She pointed across the small vineyard that reached down to the village where a church spire could be seen. They finished their drinks and walked the short distance to the church, which stood on a hill a hundred yards from the village itself. At the foot of the lane that led to the church, there was an information board telling the story of the building. It was in French. Both Tilly and Sparke pulled out their phones and began to translate the text.
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  “Have I got this right?” said Sparke. “This says that the church was built in the fourth century AD? The fourth, not the fourteenth?”

  “Yup,” said Tilly. “This is one and a half thousand years old, and still in use.”

  The church was locked, but a small printed sign posted on a noticeboard by the door contained a phone number. Sparke dialed it, and voice answered almost immediately, “Bonjour.”

  “Ah, hello, do you speak English?”

  “English, yes, a little,” said the voice.

  “Great, my name is Peter Sparke and my colleague and I are working on some historical research. Would it be possible to see inside the church?”

  “You are at the church now?”

  “Yes, we’re at the main door.”

  “A moment.” The phone went dead. Sparke turned to Tilly and shrugged. Almost immediately they heard the latch of an iron gate click and they turned to see a smartly dressed middle-aged man appear through the gate facing the church.

  “Good morning,” said Sparke. “This is Professor Tilly Pink from Scotland.”

  “Hello,” said Tilly, stretching out her hand. “We’re sorry to disturb you. Is this an inconvenient time?”

  “No, not so much,” said the man. “I am the pastor. You say that you are conducting research?”

  “Yes,” said Tilly. “We are looking into links between St. Prex and medieval Italy. The church seemed a good place to start.”

  The pastor nodded. “The village has several medieval buildings, but the church is the oldest. It was built when the Romans still ruled here.” He pulled a large set of keys from his pocket and opened the door. “It has many points of architectural interest, but it is not typical of the time. Very plain.”

  They walked through the door to see a stark, plain interior almost devoid of ornament or decoration on its whitewashed walls.

  “How old is this part of the building?” asked Tilly.

  “Probably from the twelfth century. It was rebuilt around the end of the thirteenth century. It would have been more ornate perhaps, but during the period of Calvin, churches were made to be more simple.”