The next few days passed quickly and easily for both Sparke and Tilly. Each morning they went out for breakfast, and then worked silently in the flat until lunch. She prepared for the history conference, Sparke for his meeting with the Swiss Emergency organization. Evenings were spent cooking and eating together and long, rambling conversations on the Templars and the mysterious Mrs. Nagel and her companion.
Far too soon for Sparke, they had to leave for Lausanne railway station for Tilly to catch the high speed train direct to Paris.
"Railway stations are so much nicer than airports," said Tilly as they stood on the platform.
"Need anything for the journey?" said Sparke. "We have time to run to the shop before the train goes."
"Nope, I have a good book, a cup of coffee and a big bag of toffees. What more could a girl want on a long train ride?"
Sparke looked at his watch. "Well, I´ll be hearing from you."
"Uh huh, enjoy your meeting about disasters and chaos with the Swiss."
"And you enjoy your conference about Non-Feudal Landholdings in the High Middle Ages."
"Who wouldn´t? Look, you don´t have to stay and wave me off. You can go if you like. I hate saying goodbye."
"Me too," said Sparke. A moment of awkward silence fell between them. Tilly took a sip from her coffee and Sparke looked at his watch yet again.
"I´ll be going then," he said. He leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek, but found himself on the receiving end of a hug from Tilly who threw one arm around his shoulder as she held her coffee in the other hand. He put his arms around her and hugged her back for a moment, then straightened up, smiling.
"I´ll call you from Paris," she said.
"Better had," he replied. Then he turned and walked along the platform and down the steps towards the car park.
He had only just driven into the streets of Lausanne when his phone rang.
"Peter," said Tilly, "I´m an idiot, I left my camera in your flat."
"Your camera? Bloody hell, wait a minute, let me think. I can have it sent to Paris for you by courier. Would that work?"
"I won´t need it in Paris, I don´t think."
"Should I send it to Edinburgh?"
"I hate trusting couriers with things like cameras. Maybe you could drop it off, if you´re thinking of coming to Edinburgh anytime."
"Yes, maybe that makes sense. Edinburgh sounds like a good idea. Let´s talk about dates after my meeting."
"Let´s," said Tilly. The line was dead for a moment as neither of them could think of what to say next. "We´re leaving," she said, finally.
"Good trip," said Sparke.
"Talk soon," said Tilly, hanging up the phone.
Sparke drove the rest of the short journey to Morges in a better mood than he could ever remember. By the time he had opened the door to his flat, he had decided on a date to visit Edinburgh.
He had been born in bred in Scotland but his parents were both dead and he had no family there at all now. He had spent most of his adult life as a member of the wandering community of men and women who run the world´s oil and gas industry, then moved to Munich, and so he had lost contact with anyone in his home country. Scotland, for Sparke, was a place to be rediscovered.
It took him two hours to put the flat back exactly as he liked it. Tilly was a relaxed guest and had seemed perfectly comfortable leaving things wherever she felt they should be, rather than where Sparke had thought they belonged.
The next day was spent in doing some final research for the strategy meeting with the Swiss and he jumped into his Range Rover the day after, thoroughly looking forward to spending time with like-minded professionals talking about a subject he was a recognized expert in.
The Swiss Emergency team was based, as many things in Switzerland are, in an underground bunker. From the end of World War Two, the Swiss had taken their policy of armed neutrality to the highest possible level. Most of their military equipment was housed in secret bunkers, and despite hundreds of years of peace, the country still had conscription. Sparke had been surprised at how common the sight was of army reservists waiting at rail stations with their assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
Getting through security at the bunker involved a thorough, but fast, process and he parked his car in the numbered spot he had been allocated.
At reception he was greeted by a beaming Pascal, head of the Swiss Federal Emergency Response Team. They had not met since bumping into each other in Morges market and this was the first time they had spoken since the tunnel fire.
"Peter, Peter," said Pascal, "it is so good to see you. We have a lot to talk about, but first let me introduce you to the team."
He took Sparke by the arm and led him into a brightly lit meeting room containing a dozen people, mostly in civilian clothes, but some in uniform.
Sparke´s eyes scanned the room, then stopped dead at one face.
"Hello Peter," said Karin, smiling.
The Column
The column of horsemen rode with the speed and intent that only men at war display. They were helmeted and bore shields on their left arms. Even at a distance of half a mile Salvatore could hear the sound of their iron shod hooves on the hard ground and see the breath of the three dozen horses fog the air. The lead rider carried a banner showing a white cross on a field of red.
A small knot of village men, working too far from the sanctuary of the walls or the woods on the hillside, turned and faced the road behind them. They bunched together, their shovels and staves raised towards the approaching column in pathetic defiance. Every person watching knew that they were about to die.
The armored horsemen did not slow or speed up as they rode down towards the huddled group. They did not bother to drop the points of their lances and none drew a sword. As the lead rider reached them, one of the men swung his shovel wildly at the head of the horse, but the blow bounced off the armored plate on the beast´s nose. It was the only blow struck against the horsemen who simply rode over the villagers as though they were not there, the pounding hooves of their horses smashing their bodies into the frozen road, leaving them like broken dolls in pools of their own blood.
A chorus of wails went up from the people on the wall as they saw the dead bodies of their men sprawled on the ground. Some of the defenders were frantically cocking aging crossbows or unwinding leather slings as women and children piled rocks on the walkway near the wall.
The column wheeled to a halt twenty paces from the main gate and a man in full plate armor walked his horse forward.
"Do you know this banner?" he shouted towards the villagers, pointing back at his column.
There was no reply from the people crowded on the wall above him.
"More fools you for not knowing the banner of your own lord. Will you open this gate for the men of the Duke of Savoy? Open or closed is all the same to us. The price is yours to pay." Again the villagers stared back mutely.
"You have had the only chance you were going to have," said the man. "We will return to collect the price for your stupidity." With that he turned his horse and led the soldiers back to the main road that led up the valley.
As soon the column was a safe distance away, the gate was opened and a stream of people rushed towards the shattered remnants of their men in the road.
The young priest turned to the kitchen boy who was standing on the wall holding a meat cleaver as a weapon and ordered him back to the church to collect his sacraments. He had work to do. As he waited, Salvatore walked over to him.
"They are headed up the valley, to the fort we found earlier," Salvatore said. "When they find the bodies of their men they will be back."
The priest nodded. "That is why the gate stayed closed. Once they are inside the wall they will stay. There is no middle path with these men."
"Is obedience to the Duke of Savoy really so terrible?" asked Salvatore. "Other villages pay their dues to dukes and lords."
"All he wants is all we have," answered the priest, the bitterness
clear in his voice. "To please his lordship, these people would have to surrender all that they have and show gratitude when he deigns to give them back a small portion to live on. They would have to live with the boots of his men on their necks to please him. Ask any of these people. They will tell you the same thing. They will choose to die free, rather than live as a slave to a foreign lord."
Salvatore looked carefully at the priest. He had heard sentiments like these expressed before, but normally they came from the rich merchants who ran the great commercial city states in northern Italy; men who could pay for their own defense and had the financial power to stare down the nobles who claimed to be their superiors. These villagers were peasants, almost alone in a frozen valley facing one of the most powerful houses in Europe.
Salvatore watched as the first of the bodies was brought into the town on a handcart. There was no loud wailing or lamentation, only silent sorrow and dark fury in the faces of the people who surrounded it.
"And Sion," said Salvatore, "does the city also close its gates to the Duke´s men?"
"No, Sion is the Bishop´s city. He ignores the Duke and the Duke ignores him. Each pretends that the other does not exist. The Bishop´s troops do not intervene with the business of the Duke. We ask for no help from him as none would be forthcoming. If you are going to Sion you should leave. The Duke´s men will be back before nightfall and they might attack."
Salvatore shook his head. "No," he said, "they are equipped to fight, but not to take a walled position. Without ladders or heavy weapons they would waste their time. They will come back when they are ready and when they do they will take down these walls like they were bails of straw."
"You are right, but still, you must leave if you do not want to be counted amongst the rebels by the Duke."
Salvatore turned and shouted a command to his troop, who immediately began to prepare to leave.
"How will this end?" asked Salvatore, turning to the priest.
"End?" said the priest, taking the items which the kitchen boy had brought to him from the church. "It will end when the Duke stops coming, or we are all dead."
No Space for Mediocrity
"Why are you here?"
If the directness of Sparke´s question surprised Karin she did not show it.
"How are you Peter?"
She put her hand out to shake his, and then leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks.
"I had no idea you would be here," he said. "Why didn´t you mention that you would be coming?"
"It was a last minute thing. I have to be in Geneva later this week and my diary became clear for today. So I thought it I would make best use of the time and join you and our Swiss friends..."
"Peter, Peter, do you have a moment?" It was Pascal and he seemed surprisingly animated. "General Defarge has asked me to find out if you are able to join spend a few moments with him before we begin. He is very keen to meet you." Pascal looked at Sparke and Karin, realizing that he had interrupted something more than a casual conversation. "Perhaps later," he said, slightly deflated.
"No, not at all," said Sparke. "We were just chatting. I´d love to meet the General."
Pascal flashed a nervous smile and took Sparke by the elbow and guided him through the knots of people that filled the room.
The General stood surrounded by a small group of people, some military, some civilian. Although he was not speaking, he was still the obvious center of their attention. At the sight of Pascal, the General immediately lost any interest that he had had in the conversations that were washing around him. He stared directly at Sparke and offered him his hand, giving a passing nod of thanks to Pascal who was about to make the introductions.
"Mr. Sparke, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said. "I have wanted to meet you for some time."
"Really?" said Sparke. "Any special reason?"
On several occasions, Sparke´s work in crisis management had brought him into contact with the military forces of various nations, but he had never had any dealings with the Swiss army.
"We share a common interest, I believe," said the General.
"Really, I´m surprised. Apart from work I suppose I only have one interest," said Sparke.
The General smiled. "I am greatly looking forward to visiting the site of your discovery in the Highlands of Scotland. The public opening of the exhibit of this famous Vault is only a few weeks away. You must be very excited?"
"Is it? I´m sorry but I´m not involved in that in any way. Mind you, if you plan to go and see it I am good friends with the professor who is in charge and I´m sure she can organize some special access for you."
"Of course, that would be Professor Pink, I think, yes?"
"You´re well informed," said Sparke, who was rarely surprised by the range of knowledge of military people. "I take it that our common interest is the history of the Templars?"
"A little more specific," said the General. "My interest is in the idea that there may be a connection between the final days of the Order and the earliest days of the Swiss Confederation. I take it you have a similar premise in mind?"
Until now, Sparke had shared his ideas on this with virtually no one except Tilly. "I do actually," he said, "but how would you know that?"
"Our friend Pascal tells me you now live in Morges and I find it hard to believe that this is just a coincidence," said the General. "Given your interests."
"And why would you believe there is a link?" asked Sparke. "There is almost no documented evidence to support the idea."
"When there is no evidence, we turn to logic, no? And the logic here is clear. At the end of the thirteenth century our people suddenly turned from being the victims of constant invasion to a force that was almost invincible. There was no major change in the political structures of the people, no great increase in resources that would be needed to fund military forces, their enemies did not become powerless overnight. In the absence of any change inherent in the local region, it suggests strongly that there was outside influence. The people here had no outside allies so that leaves some other outside influence we do not understand yet."
The group of people had begun to move towards their seats, but the General seemed unaware of their presence.
"You feel that the Swiss perhaps learned from the Templars?” said Sparke. “Maybe borrowed some military expertise from them?"
The General smiled. "Mediocrity borrows, Mr. Sparke. Genius steals. And I think the Swiss have always aspired to genius. Even today we use German tanks, American jet fighters and our special forces are modeled precisely on your own SAS. My belief is that the peoples who formed our country probably stole the means to defeat their many enemies from the Templars. Or they were given them. Who else would want to help a bunch of mountain people, and who else could?"
Sparke looked at his coffee cup. This was a part of his life that he rarely spoke about to anyone except Tilly and he felt the insecurity of an amateur in this conversation.
"I think we are holding up the conference," he said.
The General looked around the room, aware for the first time that only he and Sparke were still standing. He looked at his watch.
"Well, we cannot be late in starting, now can we?" he smiled, leading Sparke to the large conference table.
The meeting was a succession of discussions on possible events that would have filled any reasonable person with horror. Sparke could not have been deeper in his own comfort zone. He became lost in the world of disaster recovery planning, happy to be using parts of his brain that had lain dormant, like underused muscles, since his firm had dismissed him. When the group broke for lunch, a young army officer materialized at his shoulder and he was ushered into a corner where he shared a small table with the General and Sparke quickly forgot any restraint he had felt in discussing his ideas on the Templars.
When the meeting was brought to an end, Sparke felt as though he had been through a long, but enjoyable, hike in the hills. He was tired, but happy that he had bee
n spending time and effort on something worthwhile. As he snapped shut his laptop and began packing up, he felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to see Karin standing close to him.
"Peter, can we make some time for a chat before you leave?" she said.
Sparke looked at her for a moment. Then she spoke again.
"We need to talk about us, don´t you think?"
City
Sion was a city remaking itself. Everywhere Salvatore looked there were buildings being pulled down and rebuilt, walls being extended and dirt roads paved. Above the city, on a high spike of rock, was the driving source of this change and the biggest transformation of all. The summit of the hill was a mass of masons and laborers. Timber scaffolding ringed the main tower and a line of masons´ lodges circled its base. Stark curtain walls were rising around the cliff edges in a stone ring that merged into the cliff edges.
The crowds milling around the city´s east gate made way for Salvatore and his troop. A group of armed and armored Templars did not wait in line and did not pay tolls to any gatekeeper. Standing in the lee of the gate tower was the figure of Salvatore´s sergeant, Henk, talking casually with the officer of the guard.
"All is ready, sir," he said as Salvatore approached. "The Bishop himself has ordered accommodation for us at the old palace. It is warm and dry and he has sent some of his own servants to provide for us."
"A generous man," said Salvatore.
"Much loved here," said Henk. "He is called Boniface de Challant, and he has brought good fortune to the city since he moved the seat of the Bishopric here. That is his new palace." Henk jerked his thumb upwards to where the castle was taking shape. "They call it ´The Tourbillon´, an excellent position."
"You are well informed."
Henk nodded and said, "The people here are happy and secure. They seem happy to talk. With the Bishop here there is no fear of the Duke of Savoy or his men. This is a free city."
Salvatore looked at Henk, weighing him up yet again. He was a talker, but also a thinking man. A Templar sergeant for all of his adult life, he had never given any sign of disloyalty. But, for Salvatore, the question was still open as to whether he had thought and talked his way into the good graces of enemies of the Order.
The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five Page 16