The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  "A letter," said his father, gesturing to the desk at which Podesta normally perched. "To the hand of the Bishop of Siena."

  Massimo rushed to the high desk and grabbed a sheet of parchment, sending an avalanche of documents to the floor. He grabbed a quill from the cup and dipped it into the pewter well.

  "The peasants here are now ever more lazy and insubordinate. The merchants have no respect for anything beyond their own purses," said his father.

  Seeing no action from Massimo, he flipped his hand towards the pen and parchment. Massimo struggled with the words. Was this how a lord wrote to the Bishop of Siena? He held the nib above the parchment for a second then wrote.

  "My Lord Bishop, under your care and protection, the peasants here grow ever more peaceful and prosperous. The merchants pray for your good grace and thank you daily for the increasing wealth you allow them to gather."

  Massimo stopped writing and looked up.

  "The cost of keeping the peace and justice on your behalf leaves me penniless. I am a beggar in my own home," said his father.

  Massimo bowed over the parchment again.

  "I welcome the honor of being the lord of this land under your benevolent care and authority. The cost of dispensing your law and justice falls heavily on the shoulders of my humble estate."

  "I will tax those who use the bridge at Melton one twentieth part of their value from today."

  Again, Massimo leaned over the parchment.

  "I am sure that you will permit our house to share a little of the wealth of this land for the better provision of your law and peace. We humbly seek to take only one part in twenty of the value of goods being transported over our bridge at Melton."

  "Another," said his father. "This to the hand of Armando of the house of Mutiny. I require the loan of one hundred thousand florins. This sum will be repaid before the third Day of Ascension from today. What is the price you will take for this loan?"

  Massimo grabbed another sheet of parchment. This sounded like a simple contract, and Massimo wrote quickly and without flourish.

  "Another," said his father. "This to the hand of the English Captain Jon Falco in the service of the Lord of Employ. You will send me forty men, twenty of them in horse and armor, five of them with crossbows for forty days."

  Massimo did not have the faintest idea how to write such a letter.

  "The Lord of Radda requires the service of twenty men," wrote Massimo, struggling to remember the details of his father's command. After a few minutes of writing, he raised his head to look at his father.

  "Wax,” said his father, removing his seal ring. His father folded the letters without reading them and closed each with a pool of red wax and his own seal.

  “Give these two to Podesta. He will know what to do with them. Take this one to Siena yourself." His father pushed the letter to the bishop towards Massimo. "Get an escort from Rosso. Gaiole will be watching for you. Give the letter only into the hand of the bishop, not one of his lackeys, and come back with an answer only when it is done."

  The Mark of Fame

  Templars had walked the streets that Sparke was now looking at. The village of St Prex had maintained much the same layout for at least a thousand years and, since he had good evidence that the church had, at one time, been under the patronage of the Order, it stood to reason that Sparke was following, literally, in the footsteps of the Templars.

  The village was quiet and he was the only customer in the cafe. He stirred frothed milk into the hot chocolate, lost in thought. He reached for the paper napkin that lay on the table-top and pulled a pen from his jacket. He had a lifetime habit of doodling maps on napkins and found the constant repetition of drawing an image drove him to look beyond his own immediate interpretation of what he was seeing.

  The sketch he made looked like a child's first attempt at drawing geometric shapes. To the left was a rough hexagon, towards the bottom a long rectangle, to the top, a fat, blunt triangle pointing downwards and to the right, a skewed four sided shape, narrow at the left but flaring out as it stretched towards the right. In the center, where all four shapes almost joined, he drew a small, flattened diamond. After a moment's thought, he circled the central diamond with a jagged circle.

  To any casual observer, it was a meaningless jumble of shapes, but to Sparke it was a schematic, a logical map of the world from the perspective of medieval Switzerland; a tiny mountain fastness surrounded on all sides by the most powerful forces in Europe.

  To the west lay France. To the north was the conglomeration of states known as the Holy Roman Empire; in practice a Germanic empire, convinced that it was the sole heir to the empire of the Caesars. Austria and Hungary lay to the east; here was the power that served as the Christian bastion against Islamic expansion into Europe. To the south was the Italian peninsula; a wild patchwork of dukedoms, independent city states, Papal territory and kingdoms, often under the control of French or Spanish monarchs.

  Sparke had found the famous Templar Vault in the Scottish Highlands precisely by understanding the strength and limitations of medieval power structures, and he believed that he had found the same pattern here. Geographical and social barriers made it exceedingly difficult for thee great powers of Europe to exert their will over the area for any length of time.

  The discovery of the Vault had proven to the world that at least part of the Order of the Knights Templar had escaped the suppression of their organization. More than this, it had proven to Sparke that there had been a group of men in the Order with a contingency plan, and the resources to protect their greatest treasures.

  He looked again at the rough drawing, and then crumpled it up as he finished his hot chocolate and wandered through the gateway into the old town of St Prex.

  The gateway looked like a piece of flamboyantly picturesque scenery, but it had not been built with aesthetics in mind. He looked up at the Roman numerals painted on the wall and struggled to remember the Latin system for rendering numbers. MCCXXXIV corresponded to 1234 AD. The wall and its clock tower were almost a thousand years old, and the chateau that formed the southern tip of the village was the same age. It seemed easy to imagine castles, palaces and cathedrals of that age, but this was a tiny lakeside town of no real importance.

  He walked the short distance through the town and stopped at a bench on the water's edge, looking out over Lake Geneva. How many Templars had looked at this same view, and what plans and dreams did they have, as the Holy Land, and with it their reason to exist, was wrenched from Christian control and their world started to collapse?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

  "Peter? Hi, my flights are booked. I get to Geneva at seven on Friday night. I can jump on a train and be in Morges before eight."

  "Don't worry. I'll pick you up at the airport. Listen, when you come, do you think we can spend a little time talking through some ideas I have?" said Sparke.

  "Sure, so long as we can do it over a glass of wine. What sort of ideas?"

  "I suppose it's nothing new, but I want to see how strong the logic is for the idea that the Templars might have been looking at Switzerland as something more than a bolt-hole."

  "Ah," said Tilly, "on that front, I have a wee present for you."

  "A present?"

  "Uh huh. I could tell you over the phone, but that would spoil the surprise. And I assume, since you are now such a spontaneous dude, you love surprises."

  "Is that part of the spontaneity package?" said Sparke. "Not such a fan of surprises. How about a hint."

  "Hints are fun," said Tilly. "Let me think... right, here we go. You told me that you think that the Templars set up bases in Switzerland because they wanted to build their own homeland, right?"

  "Right."

  "And the only problem with that is?"

  Sparke sighed. Tilly rarely rushed a good thing, and she obviously felt that lecturing him was something to be savored.

  "The only problem is that there is no evide
nce to support the idea?" he said.

  "Exactly," said Tilly. "Or, perhaps not."

  "Now I'm actually interested," said Sparke.

  "You mean you were just pretending to be interested up till now?"

  "Yup, getting good at it too."

  "Whoo, a big surprise and a visit to a salt mine. Going to be a wild weekend. Right, I'm off. This call is costing me a fortune. See you Friday?"

  "Friday," said Sparke.

  The next few days passed in a flash as the team from the furniture store invaded his flat and transformed it, in the course of single day, from an empty apartment into a home that Sparke immediately felt belonged to him. The casual conversations in the store had given the team enough of a feeling for what Sparke liked to allow them to design an interior that he could not find fault with. He spent all day Friday walking from room to room, marveling that something as simple as furniture could bring him so much pleasure. He left the apartment spotless when he headed to the airport to pick Tilly up.

  The cold night air plucked at Sparke's face as he walked from the car to the terminal and his phone rang just as he stepped inside the sliding doors. Tilly walked through the arrivals door, her phone to her ear, at almost the exact moment Sparke arrived. He beamed with pleasure at seeing her and smiled all the wider when she threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek before they headed to the car park.

  "So, you bought the car?" she said, running her hand over the dashboard of the Range Rover.

  "Bought the car of my dreams and the apartment of my dreams," said Sparke.

  The two chatted happily as he drove the short distance from the airport to Morges.

  "I need to park here," said Sparke as he guided the large car through a narrow backstreet. "No parking at my building, but it's only a two-minute walk."

  They pulled Tilly's luggage from the car and walked towards the waterside where Sparke's apartment was.

  Tilly saw Sparke stiffen and stop dead, his eyes fixed on a figure standing near a streetlamp.

  "What's up," said Tilly, unsure at this unusual behavior.

  "Nothing. Well, not nothing. That woman."

  "What about her?" said Tilly, craning her neck to see her without approaching any closer.

  "You won’t believe this, but she has been following me. She came here all the way from America just to see me. No idea who she is or what she wants."

  "Bloody hell. You mean you've got your own stalker?"

  Falco

  "Father and I have been discussing what to do," said Massimo.

  Salvatore smiled.

  "Father has asked for your advice?"

  "Of course," said Massimo. "Now that Rosso and you have started this stupid war somebody has to think ahead."

  "And what have you both decided?" said Salvatore.

  "Where is Podesta? I need to give him his instructions before I leave to meet the bishop."

  "You are going to Siena?"

  "I am. We need two things now; diplomacy and money. I'll leave the swords and sweat to Rosso."

  Massimo looked past Salvatore along the steep road up to Radda where a group of horsemen led by Podesta were approaching. The gates to the town had been closed and barred at the first sound of the alarm, and armed men now walked the thick walls, all wearing leather armor, studded with steel plates. Podesta dismounted and led his horse through the narrow quarter door, his face and hands smeared with soot and the heavy smell of smoke following him like a cloud.

  "Where is Rosso?" asked Massimo.

  "Pursuing the Gaiole men," said Podesta.

  "A waste of time," said Massimo.

  "We need to show our intent," said Podesta. “Gaiole needs to see our men under arms. Rosso knows what he is doing. What do you have there?"

  "Letters," said Massimo. "Father wants you to handle these two. I have to take this one to the bishop personally."

  If Podesta felt anything about his position as the family steward being usurped by Massimo, he showed no sign of it as far as Salvatore could see.

  "You'll need an escort to reach Siena," he said.

  "My father and I think four men," said Massimo.

  Podesta looked at the other two letters.

  "This one is for an English Captain of mercenaries, Falco," said Podesta, thinking for a moment. "He is only two days ride from here. Salvatore, would you be willing to carry it? It is better for these things to be managed by someone of authority. He might ignore a courier if he thinks he can get a better price. We can send some men with you as escort and I will give you some pledge money to help him think faster."

  "Of course," said Salvatore. "Whatever I can do."

  "You will need to travel fast, but clothe yourself properly. We are at war now and we need to be seen in armor."

  Without thinking, Salvatore moved his hand to the hilt of the old dagger at his belt. Podesta smiled at the gesture.

  "Keep your hand close to your blade. I will prepare the money and the escorts. If you both leave before noon we will save a day."

  "How is the Winter Store?" asked Salvatore.

  "The roof will need repair but we saved four fifths of the feed. It stinks of smoke but we can air it. Lucky last year had a strong harvest. Now hurry, we need to move quickly."

  Within the hour, Salvatore and Massimo stood by the stables, both weighted down in armored tunics made up of sheets of plate steel fixed between two layers of thick leather.

  "Now you will be glad you spent so much time with me doing all those tedious sword exercises," said Rosso, smiling at Salvatore. "You look like a perfect knight."

  "I hope that I never need to use anything I have learned about fighting," said Salvatore.

  "Still, be glad that you can actually use that sword and buckler. You will need them soon enough," said Rosso.

  Salvatore hefted the small shield slung over his shoulder. For him, the practice with Rosso and the Master at Arms, the endless repetition of the scores of movements and positions that made up the choreography of fighting using practice swords made of flat whalebone, had been a tedious part of each day.

  "What will happen when I meet this Englishman?"

  "He'll come fast enough," said Rosso. "There is nothing for his men to do where they are. He will be glad for the work."

  "How many men do we need?"

  "We need more men than Gaiole can muster and we need them in the field faster than he can move, that's all that matters. Now go. The escort is waiting for you and we need to stir the pot a little here. We can't let Gaiole come into our land and burn our winter stores without making a move against him."

  Rosso held out his right arm towards Salvatore. More than anything at that moment, Salvatore wanted to throw his arms around his older brother, but the time for such gestures had passed. He reached out and grasped his brother's forearm, then turned to mount his horse. In his pocket, he carried his unfinished letter to Mellissa explaining the horror of the fight at the tower. Once this stupidity was over there would be time to talk.

  The ride was fast and uncomfortable. The weight of his armor slammed Salvatore into the wooden saddle with every step of his horse and his head ached with the pressure of the iron cap. As well as his sword and small shield, he carried a lance in his right hand which caused his arm to grow stiff and painful.

  They spent the night at an inn, the other guests choosing to give the armed men a wide berth. By the evening of the second day, they crested a small pass and looked down at a scene Salvatore had never witnessed before. It was a scene from a tapestry. Ranged around the walled town was an army with tented villages placed on the plane and astride each of the three roads. Salvatore counted over a hundred tents. Groups of horsemen moved between the camps and patrolled the road near the walls. He could see three large wooden structures. He had never seen such things in real life, but he knew immediately that they were siege machines, catapults and trebuchets.

  Falco and his men were easy to find; bright yellow banners streamed from his tents and lances
, each bearing the image of a hawk.

  "I am looking for Falco," said Salvatore to one of the guards in front of the largest tent. He tried to project his voice with a confidence he did not feel.

  The sentry looked at Salvatore and his small escort.

  "The Captain is busy," he said. "Come back tomorrow."

  Salvatore had rarely left the region around Radda before, and as a consequence he had little experience in talking to strangers. He looked back at the men of his own escort, who were watching him intently. He dismounted and threw his reins to one of his men. After a second's pause, he walked past the sentry into the tent.

  "Find your Captain and tell him that Salvatore di Radda will speak with him."

  As he entered the dark tent he heard the sentries laugh.

  "You heard the young Lord, go fetch your Captain," said one of the guards.

  The inside of the tent was furnished as luxuriously as any room Salvatore had seen and he dropped into the large chair that faced the doorway. He could hear the muffled voices of his own escort talking with the sentries, then more laughter. Now that he was in the tent, it was impossible for him to imagine any way he could leave without appearing foolish.

  Despite the cold air outside, the tent was warm and Salvatore felt drowsy. After a few moments he struggled to stay awake. The weight of the armor and the heat of the trapped sunlight lay on him like a heavy blanket.

  "You are in my chair," said a flat voice from the doorway. Salvatore forced himself not to jump up.

  "You are Captain Falco?" he said.

  The man smiled, stared directly at Salvatore, noticing the raw mark on his face from the blow he had received in the fight for the tower, and then bowed elaborately.

  "At your service, Lord Salvatore di Radda."

  Salvatore stood and fumbled for the letter he was carrying. Falco took it, broke the seal and read it quickly before handing it back to Salvatore.