The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3)

by Scott Chapman

  “Let’s leave out the Hollywood version of medieval battle for the moment, but on the whole you are right.”

  “That means that if this is the site of the battle” said Sparke, slowly, “the battle must have been pretty small?”

  “That,” said Tilly, “is a logical conclusion. There could have been an ambush, or an attack. But the chance of there being, physically, enough space to fight a significant battle just isn’t there. What else do you see?”

  “Well, the obvious thing that you notice is that there are a bunch of building contractors on horseback, who seem to be in charge of a group of Knights.”

  “And how likely do you think that would be?” said Tilly.

  “Is this a trick question?” said Sparke.

  “It’s a pretty simple question.”

  “I would imagine that it is highly unlikely that something like that could happen,” said Sparke, cautiously.

  “That’s what I think, too,” said Tilly, “which creates an interesting situation. This illustration is obviously quite accurate in some details, but highly questionable about the big facts.”

  “If you want to tell a big lie, get the details correct, right?” said Sparke. “I wonder where the details came from?”

  “Now, that is a good question,” said Tilly. “The State Archive here has a lot of manuscripts from the medieval Bavarian Court. At that time, the Court was one of the richest and most advanced in Europe, and they had what you might call a ‘house style’ for their manuscripts and illustrations. This is a perfect match for many of the other documents you can find there.”

  “The people who created this manuscript were based here, at the Bavarian Court?”

  “Looks likely. So, that means what?” said Tilly, sounding more and more as though she was leading a seminar.

  “That they got their information second hand?”

  “At best. I would say that they had reasonably accurate source material, but their finished product diverged from reality in some important ways.”

  Sparke was a happy amateur in the field of history, and he hated to make himself sound as though he believed that he had any real degree of expertise, especially in the company of a true expert like Tilly.

  “Where does all this take us?” he said.

  Tilly had no reason to be unsure of her facts, or of her interpretation of what she could see before her, but she had not become a respected academic by making wild guesses in front of anyone. She thought carefully before answering.

  “It’s highly likely that this came from an original source document, one that probably contained a good depiction of the events,” she said. “The Bavarian Court was big enough and important enough at that time to have received such a communication directly, particularly since they had what amounted to an ambassador in Constantinople at the time.”

  “But,” said Sparke, “I guess you didn’t find that in the archives here.”

  “Nope. The Court archives all became part of the State library many years ago, but a lot of the personal documents from the family of the Dukes of Bavaria remain in private hands.”

  “They still exist?” said Sparke.

  “Oh yes, and it is possible to get access, but it is not an easy task, and certainly not automatic. A request normally has to come through the German Library network, for a starter.”

  “Any German library?”

  Tilly stopped to think for a moment. All archives had a variety of means to make sure that their precious contents were not subject to random browsers leafing through their contents at a whim, and private collections had no obligation to allow entry at all.

  “Pretty much, yes,” said Tilly. “I’d say that any library here could make a valid request. Why do you ask?”

  “We have some friends in a library just south of here. In fact, we are one of their corporate sponsors. Should I call them?”

  “You should call them.”

  Sparke turned to the screen.

  “Screen, phone Feldkirchen library.”

  The room filled with the sound of a phone ringing, and then a voice came on the line.

  “Eisenmann.”

  Despite having lived in Germany for many years, Sparke had never become used to the German habit of answering the phone by barking out your own surname.

  “Hi, it’s Peter Sparke here. I hope you are well.”

  “Hi, Peter, good to hear from you. Things are well with you?”

  “Very well, thank you. I am hoping that you might be able to help us with a little piece of research.”

  “Of course,” said Eisenmann.

  The library that Eisenmann managed in the village of Feldkirchen had achieved some significant fame for a project they had worked with Sparke’s company on. The company had shown their appreciation by providing some valuable IT support as a form of sponsorship.

  “Well, I am here with Professor Matilda Pink. We are working together on a project that involves the Bavarian Court of the fourteenth century and we need access to some private archives. We wonder if you might be able to help us. Of course, if you can, your library would be cited as a research partner in any paper or publication.”

  Sparke looked quickly to Tilly to make sure that he was not making any rash promises, but she nodded her agreement.

  “Ah, you need a Blue Slip for research, I think,” said Eisenmann. “Your colleague can provide his qualifications and an outline of his project?”

  Sparke motioned to Tilly that it was her time to speak.

  “Hello, this is Professor Pink here. Yes, I can provide all the documentation you might need. Just let me know how to reach you and I’ll pop over with them as soon as you like.”

  Tilly and the librarian then fell into the sort of conversation that experts in any field have with each other, full of technical terminology and the little bits of shorthand that indicate to the other person that they are both in the same club. Sparke’s attention wandered and he glanced at the computer screen on his desk and looked quickly through his diary. Unusually, there was an entry for the next evening; Sparke’s diary was not normally a list of hectic social activities.

  With a start, Sparke realized that the next evening was the date of Karin and Dieter from Compliance’s engagement party. He had two terrible options: he could not go, which would be a statement on his part, or he could go, which would be horrible. He thought about this dilemma as Tilly wound up her call, arranging to visit the library the next morning.

  “Tilly,” said Sparke, “would you like to come to a party?”

  Reunion

  Bastian’s footsteps echoed through the hallway of his home as he was led by his mother, still clutching his hand, towards his father’s study.

  “Bastian,” she said, “your father has been unwell.”

  The words were no preparation for the sight that greeted Bastian. His father sat slouched in a long wicker chair, as though he was taking a nap. The chair had large wheels at the rear and one wheel at the front and a thick rug was laid across his lap. Bastian’s father turned his head slightly at the sound of the door opening.

  At the sight of his son, Bastian’s father stirred, but barely managed to move.

  “Sebastian?” his father’s voice was thin and weak.

  “Papa,” said Bastian, unable to move from the spot where he stood.

  “Bastian,” said his mother, “there is something you need to know. Your brothers, while you were away, Adrian and Matthew, you see...”

  Bastian saw his mother struggling to find the way to tell him that he was now an only child.

  “Mama, the Turkish police have told me that Matt and Adrian were both killed.”

  At this, his mother finally gave way and sat heavily down on a chair, tears running down her face. The three members of the family shared a long, painful silence until his father finally spoke.

  “I have been in this chair ever since we heard. All I have is this.” He raised his left hand and waved it feebly. “Are you back home to
stay, or is this just leave?”

  “I have no idea,” said Bastian. “They sent me ashore to deal with the Turkish Army and to begin getting the docks back in operation. If they keep me in the Navy, it won’t be for long, I think.”

  His father smiled at the thought of having his eldest son home.

  “You are back, so we need to celebrate,” he said. “Bastian, you should find the housekeeper and tell her we need some immediate...”

  “Lemon Fizz,” completed Bastian, smiling for the first time since he landed.

  The day passed swiftly and with every hour his father seemed to grow back into himself, becoming more animated and his mother more concerned about what the Navy had been doing to her boy. They were shocked to find out that he had spent several months leading armored cars and riding along the Gallipoli beachhead on a motorcycle, and were relieved to discover that his life at sea had been uneventful.

  Eventually, his mother rose and went to organize the meal. His father turned to Bastian and gestured with his good hand for his son to close the door. There was only one topic for them to discuss.

  “The boys took the hill road up to the mine,” said his father. “There was snow, but the pass was open, and there was no petrol for the cars. We heard nothing for days, and then a monk from the Monastery came to the door. They had found Matthew and Adrian not far from the old fort. Both had been shot as they slept. It was probably just a robbery. They were both alive when they found them, lying in the snow. The monks did what they could, managed to get them inside the Monastery, but both died. They buried them up there.”

  Bastian found it hard to relate this discussion to the memory of his two brothers - noisy, messy boys who often followed their elder brother around, much to his annoyance.

  “As soon as I get things organized,” said Bastian, “I will go up there.”

  The family sat down to their first meal together for four years, the house still feeling empty. Bastian wondered how it must have felt for his parents, alone with all three boys gone. Their meal was interrupted by a messenger from Bastian’s ship, accompanied by a Turkish Army officer. Bastian took the envelope, read it quickly and glanced up towards his parents.

  “I am posted ashore,” he said. “I have been told to organize civil aid to our people and get the docks open as soon as possible. They are sending my things tomorrow.”

  “You’re home for good, do you think?” said his mother.

  “There is no shortage of officers in the Navy. I reckon I can be of more use here than anywhere else.”

  Bastian slept in his own bed for the first time in four years. The mattress was so soft that he woke several times and, unable to sleep, he walked into the bedroom his two younger brothers had shared. The room had been tidied, but their clothes were still hanging up. He reached into a cupboard and lifted out a flat tweed cap. Sown into the lining was a label saying ‘A. Drysdale-Behier’. Bastian put the hat on his head and was amazed and saddened to find that it fitted. When he had sailed out of Smyrna in 1914, his youngest brother, Adrian, had been a foot shorter than Bastian. Now, they would have been virtually the same size. He had missed seeing his brother become a man. He took the hat back to his own room and fell into a troubled sleep.

  The next morning he went to work at the dock, arranging for parties of Royal Navy engineers to overhaul the cargo cranes and the dock pumping house. With few detailed orders, he looked for things that needed attention and began to work his way through them. The Navy sent a Purser ashore with a strongbox full of cash and Bastian had gangs of local laborers clearing the quayside by the end of the first day. A Navy fuel tender ship was brought into the harbor and, for the first time in many months, petrol flowed into the harbor-side tanks, and the noise of long-sleeping engines started to echo in the broad streets as cars and trucks returned to life.

  As the Navy work parties returned to their ships at the end of the day, new groups of sailors began to disembark at the quayside. These men were being given that most prized gift in any navy: shore leave.

  By six o’clock the first bars had been reopened and by eight the brothels were greeting blue-clad sailors clutching handfuls of cash.

  Leaving the harbor side to the care of the Navy’s Shore Patrols, Bastian made his way back to the family home.

  As he walked into the hallway and threw his hat onto the table, he heard a quiet murmuring voice coming from his father’s study. It was a woman’s voice and not one that he knew. He followed the sound and found a scene in the study that looked, at first, unchanged from the day before. His father was in the wicker chair by the fire, but next to him on a low armchair was a new figure. His heavy service boots broke the quiet atmosphere and the young woman stood quickly, startled by Bastian.

  “Good evening,” said the woman. “You must be Sebastian, my name is Clarise.”

  Bastian allowed himself to stare at her. He had spent the past four years of his life in almost exclusively male company, and every man he had spoken to was either his senior, a subordinate, or a fellow junior officer. None of those experiences could help him work out how to behave at the moment.

  “Good evening,” he said. Then he looked down at the old newspaper in her hand. “You were reading?”

  The woman smiled.

  “Just sitting with your father, keeping up with the news, as far as we have any. I’m afraid this paper is a bit out of date.”

  Bastian had already run out of conversation. His father seemed to be asleep, so the two young people stood for a moment in silence.

  “I would offer you tea,” said the woman, “but this is your house, so I am not sure if it is my place.”

  “Tea,” said Bastian, “yes, tea sounds like a good idea.” He thought for a second. “I suppose I should ring for tea? Or should I go and find someone do you think? I have rather forgotten what to do.”

  “Normally, I go to the kitchen if we need tea,” said Clarise, and led Bastian through the big house.

  As the kettle boiled, Clarise decided that Bastian was not going to lead any conversation.

  “I saw your ship in the harbor, and your mother tells me that you are back home?”

  “Yes, with any luck they will forget I am here.”

  After thinking for a while about what to say next, he finally ventured a question.

  “You know my parents well?”

  Clarise smiled.

  “Not just your parents,” she said shyly. “You and I have met before. Before the war. In fact I have been in this house several times when you were here.”

  “Really,” said Bastian, embarrassed at his lack of recall. “I can’t imagine forgetting having met you.”

  “I was far too young and quiet for you to have noticed. You called me a ‘little mouse’ because I never spoke,” she said. “Our fathers knew each other well. My father was Andrew Dillon, perhaps you remember him?”

  “Mr. Dillon…of course. And you are his daughter?”

  Bastian had a hazy recollection of a young girl standing in the background at the many family parties held at his house.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid he passed away two years ago and my mother died when I was young. Your parents have been kind.”

  She handed him his tea. As he took the cup from her, he noticed her pale, slender fingers and that the delicate cuff of her dress sleeve was slightly frayed and the color of the fabric faded. She was a full head shorter than he was, but did not look in any way frail and she looked at him with an open, direct gaze.

  Standing in the kitchen of his own house, looking at Clarise, he realized that peace might be more than just an absence of war. For the first time since he had left Smyrna four years ago, he was now seeing life as something with another potential dimension. It was like a dusty curtain being pulled from a forgotten window. Bastian took the cup and smiled broadly.

  “Clarise Dillon, I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Letters

  “You like pigs?”

  “Pigs?” sa
id Tilly. “I’ve never thought about them. I suppose.”

  She was keen to show herself to be sociable and assumed that it would make sense to flatter the subject of the conversation.

  “I understand they are very intelligent.”

  “Intelligent? Perhaps, but certainly good to eat,” said the man.

  “Very good to eat, indeed,” agreed Tilly, adding, to show that she was not just being polite, “Pork flavored.”

  The man nodded, apparently distracted by the thought of eating pork.

  “We are pig farmers, of course, but we are also Dukes. One of my ancestors was related to your own Queen’s family. But, since 1920, we are mainly pig farmers. After the Great War, the revolution, everything went to hell, so we had to do everything ourselves and we did pigs. It was the only thing we could do with the woods to make food, and food was all that mattered.”

  As Tilly and the Duke struggled to find some common ground for conversation, she looked around the hallway of the baronial mansion where the archive was held, and where the Duke’s family lived. With its stone walls, oak timber paneling, and carved heraldic shields it looked like the reception area of a high class country hotel. But this was no mock facsimile of nobility, this was the footprint created by the Duke and thirty generations of his family.

  “The people from the library service speak very highly of you,” said the Duke.

  Despite his age, his social background, and his apparent obsession with pigs and pork-related products, he was not even slightly surprised that such a young woman was an internationally respected scholar.

  “I understand you are interested in the Constantinople Packets from the turn of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, yes? Interesting times.”

  His loud jokey bonhomie now evaporated and he was all business.

  “Yes,” said Tilly. “I have seen Court documents from the State archives, but I would love to be able to have access to the original communiqués from the Duke’s people.”