The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  "Not militia," said Henk.

  Salvatore looked at the man who led the squadron. Unlike the others he had not yet donned his helmet. If Salvatore had any doubt, the bright yellow banner held by the squire behind him confirmed that he was watching the English mercenary, Jon Falco, plying his trade.

  Historian

  "Please don´t insult me any further by pretending to be surprised," hissed Laszlo. "You´re not even good at this play acting. And you," he said, turning to Tilly, "don´t imagine for a moment that I do not know who you are."

  "You know," said Tilly, "people usually get to know me a bit before they start insulting me. You really are getting off to a flying start."

  If anything, Laszlo seemed triumphant at this response, and was about to reply when Sparke interrupted him.

  "Let´s pretend," he said, "that you are talking to two idiot children and you need to explain to us what the hell you are talking about in a way that no one could misunderstand."

  Laszlo snorted softly, then walked over to the plaque on the wall.

  "Even though you are English I suppose you can understand enough French to read that? This was the house of Madame Preverenge, one of Switzerland’s first and finest women medievalists. A great mind, much ignored by the mainstream, she was decades ahead of her time; a twentieth century woman in the nineteenth century.”

  "We´re not English," said Sparke and Tilly in unison. This appeared to throw Laszlo slightly for a moment, but he quickly recovered his composure.

  "You," he said, glancing at Tilly, "are a moderately accomplished medieval historian of the provincial sort who seems to seek television fame, and you," he said pointing to Sparke, "are an amateur treasure hunter. You are both here in this chocolate-box backwater because you believe that the work of this woman might bring you either some financial reward or a chance to impress cretins on television."

  Both Sparke and Tilly took a moment to absorb this tirade.

  "That´s impressive, rude but impressive," said Sparke.

  "Plus," agreed Tilly, nodding, "he called us English"

  "Dr. Laszlo," said Sparke, "you obviously know who we are and you´re obviously mad. I think," he said, looking at Tilly for agreement, "that we will now go away and try to forget that we have ever met you. Try and do us the same favor, would you?"

  Sparke and Tilly turned and walked away, through the crowds of a Saturday afternoon in a busy market town.

  "I take my hat off to you, Mr. Sparke," shouted Laszlo from behind them. "You are a more accomplished player than I expected."

  They walked to the end of the main street before Tilly spoke.

  "Right, back to your flat so we can find out who this woman was."

  "You´ve never heard of her?"

  "Maybe a vague bell ringing somewhere at the back of my head. There were not too many women medievalists in the ninetieth century. It´ll take ten minutes on the computer once we get back to your flat."

  "You don´t want to go for a walk then?"

  "Are you kidding? I´ve been here less than twenty-four hours and I have already met a stalker and a mad dwarfy guy in a bowtie who seems to hate us both. If you leave out the fire in the tunnel, this still looks like being the best weekend I´ve had for ages."

  As soon as they reached the end of the street, they doubled back along the lake-front and took the elevator up to Sparke´s apartment.

  "You have Wi-Fi?" asked Tilly, rummaging in her bag for her laptop.

  Sparke snorted. "I have all the Wi-Fi," he said. "This is Wi-Fi heaven. Leave your computer. I´m all set up."

  Tilly walked into the lounge, holding her laptop, to see Sparke picking up a small remote control. He clicked a button and placed it back on the coffee table.

  "Screen," he said.

  "Good morning, Peter," said a voice that came from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. There was a subdued click from a unit on the wall that Tilly had assumed was an air-conditioning control panel and a beam of light cut across the room and lit up the wall opposite creating a computer screen six feet across.

  "Screen, open filename Switzerland," said Sparke. The screen flashed and the wall space was filled with images of maps, notes, carvings and copies of medieval manuscripts.

  "Nifty," said Tilly.

  "I was aiming for nifty. Thanks. Ask the screen about our lady historian."

  "Hello, screen," said Tilly.

  "Hello, do we know each other?" said the voice.

  "Screen," said Sparke, "this is new user Tilly, she needs access all research files."

  "Hello, Tilly," said the screen, "nice to meet you. How can I help you today?"

  "Screen, can you access files on Preverenge, Swiss historian, nineteenth century?"

  There was a pause of a few seconds.

  "Nothing is posted on public sites. I will look in academic archives," said the screen. "References, files or synthesis?"

  "Synthesis, please," said Sparke to the screen, and then turned to Tilly. "The reference will be a list of anything she published, or when she was quoted as a reference in another academic´s work. Files will be anything that has been uploaded onto any of the archives we can access, but they will be in French I guess, so not much use right now. The synthesis will be the screen´s summary of what it finds put into text."

  "It can write its own articles?"

  "Yes. A contact of mine in the commodity trading business developed the software for writing market reports. It´s not Shakespeare, but it is pretty decent and readable. It´ll take about twenty minutes. Fancy a coffee?"

  "Sure," said Tilly peering at the images on the wall. "What´s all this?"

  "Some of them are maps, based on the research you and I did in Italy, showing the Templar locations that seem to have no obvious logic. There are thirteen of them in total. The manuscripts are mostly copies of the document called the ´Concordat of Sion´ that might refer to the town of Sion in the valley at the end of the lake and the treaty they signed with the Templars. The rest are notes I made about the political situation around this part of Europe at the time."

  Sparke made the coffee and brought it across to Tilly. They curled up on the sofa, watching the screen.

  "You´ve put together a machine that automates historical research," she said. "Smart machine."

  "Machines are all dumb, but they are getting dumb in better ways all the time."

  "I have something for you," said the screen´s voice. "Text or voice?"

  "Text, please," said Sparke.

  "You just said ´please’ to a machine," said Tilly.

  "The screen is a machine. I´m not. Let´s see what we have."

  The screen filled with a page of text and Sparke and Tilly both read the file, sipping their coffee.

  "Bloody typical," said Tilly after a few minutes.

  "What is?"

  "Preverenge was almost certainly a historian of professorship standard, but because she was a woman she was hardly published. Look at the amount of references she gets as a correspondent of other historians. Reads like a who´s who of nineteenth century medievalists. These guys were big hitters," she said, standing up to point to the list of academics who had exchanged letters with Preverenge. "She was obviously smart enough for these people to spend time swapping letters with her, even if the old boys’ clubs wouldn´t publish much of her work."

  "Screen," said Sparke, "find me anomalies and outliers."

  "What does that mean?" asked Tilly.

  "It´s a new thing. The guys who wrote the software wanted it to find things in the commodities markets that don´t seem to make sense. They need to see things that are out of the ordinary. That´s how they make money. Works for them, but I´ve no idea if it will find anything."

  For a moment the screen paused, then changed and new text began to fill the wall.

  "The subject is the source of the Savoy Dominions Alliance Premise," said Sparke. "Ever heard of it?"

  "Not even a little bit," replied Tilly.

  "Screen, def
ine last statement," said Sparke.

  Again the screen switched images.

  "The Savoy Dominions Alliance Premise is an undocumented claim that the Order of the Knights Templar sought to establish dominion over the lands bordering Lake Geneva in the thirteenth century."

  "Screen, find all source documents for this Premise."

  "References found in a series of three letters between Preverenge and Chief Keeper of Imperial Archives of the Hapsburg court. 1877 to 1879."

  Flank

  The battle was decided in a single charge. Falco´s men emerged unseen from the fold in the land and formed up into a line on the trot with the practiced ease of professionals at work. Their charge was only three hundred yards in distance, and well before they reached the flank of the men from the river town, the battle was over. Except for the killing.

  Foot soldiers from the ranks of their startled enemy began to break away as soon as the mercenaries appeared. Some tried to turn and face the new threat, but as soon as this happened, their opponents from the valley town surged forward in a mob. By the time Falco reached them, the field was a mass of fighting, running men. He led his charge through the broken line of troops, knocking all of the enemy´s mounted men to the ground and then turned and began to race along the road towards the river, picking off the fleeing militia as they sought the refuge of their own walls.

  Salvatore and his sergeant, Henk, watched the mercenary knights as their lances dipped and raised, each movement signifying a man speared through the back.

  The unhorsed men from the river town, at least those still alive, tried to struggle to their feet in their heavy armor, but were knocked flat by the charging men from the valley. Their helmets were wrenched from their heads and their prized weapons and spurs stripped from them as they were punched and kicked by the victors. The common militia were stripped of armor and all possessions, and beaten, herded with kicks into a huddle where they stood, heads craning towards their home town.

  Falco´s men reached the gate of the river town. It was too far for Salvatore to see, but he knew exactly what was happening. The few men left behind in the town were being given a chance; open the gate and surrender, or force the mercenaries to fight their way in. It was no choice. The gate would be opened and the soldiers admitted. Mercy might be given, but it could not be demanded.

  Salvatore could clearly see the banner of Falco turn and head back towards the battlefield, away from the town as his men rushed in through the open gate.

  "Wait for me here," Salvatore said to his men.

  He walked towards his pack horse, took his white Templar habit from a saddlebag and pulled it over his head. Then he mounted up and rode down the road towards the debris of the battle.

  He trotted his horse to intercept Falco as he rode back from the riverside, avoiding coming too close to any excitable archers amongst the victorious valley militia. Despite the glowing white of his tunic he was a man on a horse and liable to be a target.

  Falco rode alone, except for a single squire who carried his banner. He gave no sign of noticing Salvatore until they were twenty paces apart.

  "If the Templars have any business here, they need to talk to our glorious client," said Falco, barely glancing at Salvatore.

  "We have no concerns with your business, Lord Falco."

  "I am no lord, but I have been called worse things. You know me, I see."

  "Know you? You are the famous Captain Falco, victor of the great Battle of the Two Hills."

  Falco peered at Salvatore.

  "I know you," he said, smiling. "You are the pup of old Lord Radda." He flicked his gauntleted hand towards Salvatore´s surcoat. "And you are still a Templar. I remember now. Your family sold you off like a gelding to keep the peace with those pig farmers."

  Salvatore nodded. "My whole life in one sentence. You still seem to be in business."

  "Business is business," said Falco. "Talking of business, if yours takes you to that town, I would leave it for a few days. My lads will have the run of the place until dawn tomorrow. Best give them some elbow room. I wouldn´t want to cause distress to your religious sensibilities."

  "I thank you for your consideration. Our journey takes us takes us north of here."

  "Where have you come from?"

  "South of here."

  "As I recall," said Falco, "you used to be a much better conversationalist."

  Salvatore smiled and nodded. In the Order, there was no place for idle conversation. "I am out of practice. What news do you have from the mountains in the north?" he asked.

  "There is no business for us between Aosta and Bavaria," said Falco, shaking his head sadly at the waste. “The mountains are as they always are. The fool Duke of Savoy spends his summers trying to get the goat herders up there to kneel before him. They ignore him and kill any of his men that they can get their hands on. Nothing changes. Why would the mighty Templar Empire care about the games of such idiots."

  "We find everything interesting," replied Salvatore. He flicked his head towards the men milling around the battlefield. "What was all this about?"

  "I know as much as I care. They could only afford to hire me for ten days, so I told them that we needed all the plundering of the other town and the ransoms of any prisoners who can raise any money. God only knows what they are fighting over. I´m sure they told me, but I forget. But of course, you know all about peasant squabbles."

  Salvatore looked over and saw the victorious men from the valley town march their prisoners away with loud catcalls and frequent blows. The prisoners would not be killed, but their freedom would only be bought with pledges of debt that would reduce them to penury for years to come.

  "Where will you go from here?" asked Salvatore.

  Falco shrugged. "The Duke of Milan wants Verona. Genoa feels the need to push Turin back into its box. Venice seems to believe that the world needs them to claim all the lands to the Dolomites. There will be no shortage of business this season."

  The two men paused as a group of townsmen from the valley pushed a handcart loaded with captured armor past them. The helmets, breastplates and arm-coverings had the look of metal corpses to Salvatore.

  "It is good to see a man happy in his chosen profession," he said. "What happens between these towns now?"

  "Now?" said Falco, as though it was the first time he had considered the idea. "Now the victorious heroes from the valley will celebrate their victory."

  "And the other town?"

  "Oh, the usual. To pay for us, the losing side will be made to pledge whatever ransoms they can afford. It will take them ten years to work their way out of debt. Then, they will save every penny they can find and wait until they can revenge themselves on their oppressors."

  "It will take them ten years to buy themselves back?" said Salvatore.

  "That is the normal amount of time," said Falco, "but of course I am not an expert on that side of things."

  For a moment, Salvatore looked at the gaggle of prisoners being escorted back to their enemy´s town to face their reckoning. Then he turned to the English mercenary.

  "You know the Templar fields at Moncalieri?"

  "Moncalieri?" said Falco. "I know where it is."

  "If you pass there, leave word of where you are to be headed. I may want to find you."

  He nodded to Falco, turned his horse and headed back to his troop.

  Screen

  "That explains the wee lunatic man," said Tilly.

  "And the lady stalker," said Sparke. "They both think I have moved to Morges to find out more about the famous Mrs. Preverenge and her research. Do you think there might be some truth behind the idea that she turned up something of real value?"

  Tilly furrowed her brow, then said, "Certainly possible. Medieval historical research only really began in the nineteenth century. Up until then people were content to believe that the whole period from Charlemagne to the Enlightenment was nothing more that fairy tales and romantic nonsense. It was only when people like W
alter Scott started writing his fiction that people began to take the era seriously."

  "So it´s possible that Preverenge found a document that had been sitting around on a library shelf for hundreds of years that nobody else had bothered to read?"

  "Absolutely," said Tilly. "Virtually none of the major collections of political documentation had even been archived, let alone studied, until the Victorian era. The Hapsburgs, the Austrian royal family, had an unbroken line from the Dark Ages right up until the end of World War One, so their archives would be one of the smartest places to look, for anyone researching this part of Europe in the middle ages."

  Sparke pulled a business card from his pocket. "I wonder how this all fits in with Mr. Short Angry Man from the café. Screen, references for Dr. Istfan Laszlo." He squinted at the card again, adding, "Archivist and researcher." The ink from the card smudged in Sparke´s hand.

  The screen cleared and the voice reported, "Eleven references of that name, none associated with academic research or archiving."

  "I think that comes under the category of being slightly interesting but not at all surprising," said Sparke.

  "So, he's a phony," said Tilly. "That might go some way to explaining why he's so angry all the time."

  "Strange thing to pretend to be, don´t you think?" said Sparke. "I mean, if you´re going to lie about your profession why not say that you're an astronaut or a brain surgeon rather than an archivist."

  "Don´t underestimate the world of archiving," said Tilly. "Some of the top archivists are treated like rock stars in their own little world."

  "Seriously," said Sparke, "is that true?"

  "No, I made it up," said Tilly, laughing. "I love to see your face when you get surprised. Even in the very dull world of academic research the part inhabited by archivists is considered mind-numbingly boring. The people who do it are the most thorough, diligent and patient creatures you´ll ever meet."

  "Doesn't sound like Dr. Angry Laszlo," said Sparke.

  "No, I would say that it´s fairly safe to say that he´s not what he says he is."