The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five

by Scott Chapman

  "But what does it say, dear, what does it say?" said Nagel.

  Tilly looked hard at Nagel, saying, "This is not a formal translation. That is best done by an expert, but let me tell you own understanding."

  She bent down to inspect it once more, then stood back, glancing at Sparke.

  "This to the hand of Brother Salvatore di Radda, Cavalieri, sorry, Knight of the Order of the Knights Templar," she said. "To you is entrusted the following, uhm, responsibilities and duties. You will take to the lands to the east of Savoy, where the River of Rhone joins the lake the following men and funds..." She straightened up and brushed her hair from her face. "Now there is a list of numbers of men and material, mention of a sum of gold coins and..."

  The group froze as the door opened. The waitress, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups, stopped and stared back at the startled group.

  Mrs. Nagel smiled and said loudly, gesturing towards a sideboard, "Over there, dear, please put it over there."

  The waitress shuffled across the room as everyone turned back to the document. Tilly took a pad and pen from her bag and began to take notes.

  "Madam," said the waitress.

  "Not now dear, can I sign for it later?"

  "Madam, you are under arrest."

  Battle

  "It is a beautiful morning for war, no? God graces us."

  "Is it? Yes, I suppose it is," said Massimo, squinting at the sun. He hated being on horseback, despised wearing armor and endured every moment in the Duke's company like a tiresome penance.

  The Duke turned in his saddle to look at his column of men arrayed along the narrow valley road. Cavalry rode three abreast and foot soldiers marched in fours. There was little in the way of a baggage train except the personal campaign equipment of the twenty nobles who had chosen to accompany him. The countryside provided excellent food and forage.

  Several of the nobility of Savoy had chosen to join this expedition when they had been assured that it was blessed by a priest of the Inquisition. A week or so of slaughtering peasants would buy them absolution for all sins they had ever committed and a guarantee of forgiveness for those they would commit in the future. There was little else to do for the nobles until the season was fit for hunting, so the call to arms was warmly received.

  The Duke took great care in the organization of his small army and it travelled in fine formality, divided into three formations. To the fore was the vanguard, made up of many of the mounted nobles and a contingent of foot soldiers and crossbowmen. This made up perhaps a third of his force and was the armored spear point of his army. Next, commanded by the Duke himself, came the Main Battle with half of the army, mainly on foot except for his own entourage of knights and the highest ranking nobles. To the rear marched the Rearward Battle of foot soldiers and baggage train. A small army perhaps, but an army fully in keeping with the status of the Duke and his peers.

  The march had been without event so far, no resistance, and plentiful supplies to be found. But this was no surprise. Nothing in this country of rebellious goat farmers could hope to stand against him and survive.

  The last, small obstacle to be crossed was the bridge over the Rhone near Martigny. Once over that, the valley was his and then the reckoning would begin.

  His column reached the bridge and began to cross unopposed. Perhaps this was a time for some forgiveness, considered the Duke. If the peasants were willing to show due respect, there was no point in spoiling his own lands. He would let his men loose, of course, there would be no lack of sport, but once the lesson had been given, he would consider the nobility of magnanimity. Perhaps.

  As the tail of the vanguard reached the middle of the bridge, the Duke noticed a flicker of movement to the right. From the tree-line, perhaps a hundred yards away a narrow line of men appeared, then behind them, another and another. They formed into a solid phalanx and moved as a single unit, holding their lines. Along the line of the Duke's troops a shout went up, an enemy, too few to be a threat but enough to make a fight. His well-ordered column lost a little of its discipline as men increased their pace to reach the river crossing. It was with only a little disquiet that the Duke and his men noticed the glittering forest of steel that tipped the long pike-staffs the enemy carried. They were also advancing, not forming a defensive formation, but moving towards the Duke's men.

  Long before the peasant troops reached them, the Duke's crossbowmen were in action. Men began to fall in the front line of the phalanx, but the steady progress was maintained. Knights, from the front of the Duke’s column at the far side of the bridge, turned and began to form a line. There was plenty of time to make a charge, and it could only be a slaughter. In the center of the column, those left on the wrong side of the river now spurred their horses forward to join them, scattering their own foot soldiers in their haste to take part.

  The crossbowmen were accurate and deadly, but slow to reload. The Duke`s knights were already struggling to move their mounts in the heavy, wet earth and they were unable to form a line. Furiously, they thrashed their horses, but could get no faster than a slow walk as hooves sunk into mud. The peasant column was now barely twenty paces from the roadway.

  The growing chaos at the far side of the river was nothing compared to the crush on the bridge. Rushing knights from the main force had jammed the foot soldiers into a solid mass, unable to move forward as their own vanguard blocked the road ahead.

  The phalanx halted. The Duke watched incredulously as a line of fully armed knights appeared, from behind the front row, and formed a shield wall. Their black and white shields and dazzling white surcoats immediately marked them out as Templars. At the sight of them, the mounted men in the rear of the column redoubled their efforts to cross the bridge. Fighting peasants was sport, fighting knights was glory. The Duke's column began to disintegrate into a mob of thrashing horsemen and struggling foot soldiers. Some horsemen tried to force their mounts across the river but were thrown from their saddles and swallowed up by the fast-moving waters, unable to move in their heavy armor.

  The solid mass of Templars and peasants now advanced again at a walk. Over the shoulders of the knights, the long pikes of the peasants created a glinting wall of steel that kept any horses away. The columns collided with a sickening crash. Above the screams of men and horses, the Duke could now hear a regular, monotonous rhythm of a new command, "Ped gich...ped gich...ped gich." With every command the peasants surged forward with an audible grunt, never wavering, never breaking, never stopping. The Duke watched the front of his vanguard being consumed. The mounted knights who had tried to form a line were already gone, hauled down and crushed into the mud by the advancing phalanx. Those who dismounted and tried to fight on foot were being pushed back, off the road and into the muddy mess of the wet fields on the far side. Some of the Duke's foot soldiers on the far bank, unable to withstand the pressure of the assault, began to break away and retreat from the steel tipped juggernaut. The trickle of men became a flood and, in a heartbeat, the Duke had no troops standing in formation on the far side of the bridge. A few of his men tried to hack at the advancing troops, but they stood no chance against the lowered steel pole-axes of the peasants and slashing swords of the Templars.

  The Duke looked on, unable to believe what he was seeing, as the peasants now turned and, in formation, advanced onto the bridge itself. Knight after knight was toppled from his horse as the long pike-staffs thrust them from their saddles, steel pole-axes hammering through armor plate and mail. His foot soldiers simply disappeared under the boots of the advancing enemy. His men on the far side were pushed back onto the spears of their comrades trapped on the narrow bridge. With the collapse of order in the Duke´s vanguard, a swarm of armed men now burst from the tree-line where the phalanx had been hiding. These were no disciplined troops, but a mob of villagers. They rolled over the scattered remnants of the vanguard, knocking down any mounted man and hacking at any foot soldier who did not immediately drop his weapons.

  "Take c
ontrol, command your troops," screamed Massimo, next to the Duke. “Do your duty, you coward." The Duke looked around him. More than half of his knights were still mounted on his side of the river. He could pull back, form them into a line and crush the upstarts with a single charge.

  "On me, to me," he screamed at the top of his voice. "Clear the road. Rally to me, to me. For Savoy."

  It was only then that he heard the first noise behind him. He turned to look at the road to his rear, empty only a few moments ago, and saw a solid line of charging, armored troops, lances lowered and banner flying.

  They crashed into his rear like wolves scattering sheep. His foot soldiers and baggage guards went down under the wave of horsemen and those of his knights still trying to force their way across the bridge were swept from their saddles. The first of the horsemen were almost upon the Duke`s personal guard when he heard their war cry, "Falco and glory, Falco and glory."

  As his men were hacked and hauled from their saddles he heard the first cries from his own men since the fight began, "Quarter, quarter, my surrender."

  The Duke spurred his horse around, pointing away from the rushing horror of the charge from behind and the chaos of the bridge ahead into the open field to his right, but was transfixed by the sight of Massimo, his face a vision of fury and hatred.

  "You coward, you coward. I'll have you burn in hell for this you coward."

  Rights

  The words of the waitress hung in the air as each person struggled to absorb their meaning. Before they could make sense of why a middle aged, hard-of-hearing waitress was telling Mrs. Nagel that she was under arrest, the patio doors were pulled open and several uniformed figures entered. More appeared at the door to the hotel reception.

  "We are very crowded in here," said a voice. "We should move this conversation to the police office, don't you think?"

  Laszlo and Mrs. Nagel were swept out of the room, across the lawn, and out through a small gate. None of them had time to speak at first, but by the time they reached the garden wall, Mrs. Nagel's voice was clearly audible, telling the Swiss police and customs officers in no uncertain terms that she was fully aware of her rights…

  As quickly as the room had filled with people it emptied, leaving Sparke with the strange feel of a being in room at the end of a party. Tilly and Sparke found themselves facing the waitress and Gillieron.

  "I thought you were waiting for me to call you?" said Sparke to the customs official.

  "Yes, that was a lie on my part," he said. "Allow me to introduce Major Gerval." He gestured towards the waitress who was removing her earpiece. She smiled and offered her hand.

  "We are very happy to have your cooperation," she said. "This is not an insignificant project for us. Our apologies for the small deception. We thought it best not to burden you with all of the details of our operation."

  Sparke looked Major Gerval, wondering at the change that had come over her. The person he had dismissed as an elderly waitress now looked like a composed and confident professional woman in her early fifties.

  "This must be an important document for you to go to all this trouble," he said.

  "In police terms, the main value of this document is as evidence. In fact our objective is not even the Nagel woman and her associates. We are interested in the suppliers, not the customers. As we speak, the people who sold her this document are being arrested in Budapest and London."

  "And what about the document?" said Tilly.

  It was Gillieron who answered, saying, "We heard your comments when you inspected it, Professor Pink. They accord perfectly with what we understand. As far as we are aware it is fully genuine. In fact we first learned of it through General Defarge. As Mr. Sparke knows, he is something of an expert in the subject and he heard the document was for sale. He was supposed to be the buyer, but then Mrs. Nagel appeared and interrupted our plans."

  "Now that you have it, what will you do with it?" asked Tilly.

  "Obviously it is evidence in a criminal case," said Major Gerval. "But that does not mean that it cannot be examined by experts while it is in our care. Perhaps you would care to provide some support in that?"

  Tilly smiled broadly, "Perhaps I would."

  ***

  The archive rooms of the University of Freiburg were specifically designed to house medieval documents, but were not built with the expectation that half a dozen people would want to view a document at the same time. It was standing room only and Tilly had center stage. Next to her stood one of the professors of medieval history from the university and next to him the lead archivist. Gillieron and Major Gerval from the customs service were there as observers and General Defarge was there because he was a general and could do pretty much as he pleased. Sparke peered over Tilly´s shoulder as she and the archivist, both wearing lint-free gloves, examined the single page. As ever, he felt a strange tingle of excitement at being so close to an object that had once been in the hands of people over eight hundred years ago.

  "As a physical artifact it shows every sign of authenticity," said the archivist. "Both ink and vellum are identical to other examples of late thirteenth century documents."

  "Beautifully cut and edged," said Tilly.

  "Flawless corners," agreed the archivist, nodding. "Linguistically it uses formal Latin, written by a man very used to putting his thoughts on paper. Same ink was used from beginning to end, no additions made."

  Tilly straightened up from the document, saying, "You can have it carbon-dated, but any expert will tell you that there is every reason to believe it is authentic and none to doubt it."

  "Professor Pink, your thoughts on the content?" said General Defarge.

  Tilly paused for a moment, glancing at the two Swiss academics before speaking. "As far as I am aware it is unique. It is addressed to a specific Knight, not the commander of a Templar House or unit, and as was normal the signature also bears no rank or position. A Templar who called himself 'Caementarius´, that means builder or mason, wrote to a knight called Salvatore of Radda. He instructed him to take money and men to the upper Rhone valley and support the local people in their fight against the Duke of Savoy, then to form what he calls a ´perpetual alliance' with them."

  "A definitive link between the Templars and the formation history of Switzerland?" said the General.

  "That would be a logical statement," said Tilly.

  In the intricate world of medieval history, such an idea was the equivalent to an intellectual earthquake. It paid for even the bravest academic to tread carefully. "Of course the document needs further research. Other opinions need to be sought," said Tilly.

  "Opinions indeed," said the General. "Tell me, Mr. Sparke, you must have an opinion."

  "Only instinct," said Sparke.

  "Your instincts have proven to be very valuable in the past, I think," said the General. "Please share your thoughts."

  Sparke took a moment to collect his thoughts, then said, "There are things we know and some things I think. We know that there was Templar activity in the region at this time, and we seem to know that this document bears all the signs of authenticity. From what the General has told me in the past, the people of that valley did fight and defeat the Duke of Savoy around then. We know that the Templars were seeking to find a place of permanent refuge. There is also strong evidence linking the Templar activity around the town of Radda to this part of Switzerland."

  The eyes of every person in the room were now fixed on Sparke.

  "If those are all things I can take as fact, then what do I think? I think it´s probably a forgery."

  For a moment no one spoke, then the General asked quietly, "But our experts tell us it is authentic, how can it be a forgery?"

  "It´s old, but that doesn't mean it is what it claims to be," said Sparke. "Is it really likely that such a delicate operational matter would be written down like this, with both people´s names clearly stated? How many orders were given using such expensive vellum? Tilly says that the document is
in perfect condition, with no signs of even being folded. How can that make sense if it is an order for a man to take a small group of men into the Alps?"

  Sparke paused, aware that he had been thinking aloud and that the questions he had raised sounded like challenges. In a room full of experts, Sparke felt exposed and flat-footed. Silence hung in the room and Sparke kept his eyes on the document, avoiding looking at Tilly.

  "You are right, perhaps, I think, Mr. Sparke," said Major Gerval. "There is a phenomenon in criminology which is called, in English, 'overabundance of evidence'. Perhaps this is what we see here; too much evidence, provided too neatly in one document. This sounds to me a little too much like a prosecutor's dream piece of evidence. But I am unqualified in this field, so my opinion counts for nothing."

  Tilly pulled off the gloves she had been wearing to examine the document.

  "If there is one thing more interesting than a big discovery, it's a big question," she said, looking down at the document on the table. "I think Peter is right, but that begs the question; who on earth would take the time and trouble to create such a thing?"

  Accounting

  "This one is Lord Antoine de Convey, Baron of Valcourt. This cheerful chap here is Sir Jean de Fearne. Keep clear of him, he bit one of my men. And may I introduce Ricard d'Arnaud, Duke of Plain Palais, and something of a rogue. This last one is Michel de Maquai, a very organized chap and not to be trifled with. And, of course, we have our honored guest, the Duke of Savoy."

  Falco, the English mercenary, made no attempt to hide his glee at the collection of noble prisoners who stood in the mud amidst the carnage of their defeated army. Over his armor, Falco was now dressed in exquisite yellow silk and carried a small baton that he use to tap the prisoners on the shoulder as he spoke.