"How much?" asked Salvatore.
Falco crossed his arms and made a great show of thinking. "We'll sell on the small fry to the Milanese. But these nice gentlemen here we will keep for Genoa. They know how to get full value for quality merchandise. With a bit of squeezing we can get easily three hundred thousand."
"How much will they cost to ransom in total?"
"Who knows?" said Falco. "Milan and Genoa have deep prisons and sharp accountants. They know their business."
Salvatore nodded silently and turned to the Mason and Odo who stood beside him. "These men will buy their freedom, but it will bankrupt them, and their estates, for a decade. It will take a year's worth of their rents to cover the cost of the weapons and armor we have taken from them."
"So we have ten years before they come back?" said Odo.
"Ten years and a bloody victory to teach them some respect. When they come back we will be waiting," said Salvatore.
Odo nodded, then said to Falco, "We should go over the contracts."
"Contracts?" Falco said, smiling. "I love a well written contract."
The two men crossed the bridge together, already deep in negotiation.
"We have another issue," said the Mason. "Your own brother is among the prisoners."
Salvatore looked along the road to where a small group of clergy stood under guard. They would not be harmed and could not be ransomed, but they would leave the battlefield with only the clothes they wore and they would leave only when their captors saw fit. Like all the other captives, their weapons and possessions were being removed and marked on a slate tally board carried by one of the peasants.
Massimo stood in the center of the group wearing an iron skull cap and breastplate over his habit, his face frozen in contempt for everything he saw. The peasant with the tally board waved him forward and two of his colleagues began stripping Massimo of his arms and armor. The peasant nodded towards the Templars as they approached and held up the iron mace Massimo had been armed with.
"Thoughtful," said the man. "This holy father did not want to spill our blood so he only carries a mace to smash skulls. A very pious man."
Massimo looked at Salvatore, his voice hissing with anger. "Enjoy every moment of this, my brother," he said. "The Church will make you pay for every humiliation you heap on us a thousand times over."
Salvatore picked up the mace, examining the religious images engraved on its shaft.
"Go away, Massimo, and stay away," said Salvatore. "There is nothing for you here."
"You could not be more wrong, little brother. There is something here for me. There is a nest of heretics and you choose to count yourself amongst them." He glanced at the Mason. "You lead these men to their own damnation. We will track you down and send you to hell."
"Hell?" said the Mason. "Perhaps, but you will not be the one to send me there. I have the protection of the Order and the blessing of the Bishop of Sion."
"You think..." Massimo began to speak, but was startled as the leather satchel he carried around his neck was snatched from him by one of the peasant soldiers. "Give that back to me," he screamed. "It is the property of the Church and the Inquisition. If you value your soul hand it back."
"The hell you create will be a busy place," said the Mason.
Salvatore took the satchel and emptied it onto the roadway. Amongst the spilled contents were several folded scraps of parchment.
"Those are the property of the Church and cannot be touched," said Massimo. "Give them to me immediately. I command you."
Salvatore looked carefully at his brother, aware of a new edge to his voice, then picked up one of the documents. For a long moment he read it silently. Now all eyes were on him. He turned to the Mason, reading from the message, "The Templar Salvatore di Radda has been ordered by the man known as the Mason to take money and weapons to the high Rhone Valley as soon as the pass is open. There they will join the rebellion against the Duke of Savoy."
The group stood on the cold road in silence.
"We have a spy amongst us," said Salvatore.
Departures
"Is the whole idea just some medieval hoax, do you think?" said Sparke.
Tilly looked up from packing her bag. "Not a lot of evidence that the thirteenth century was much of a place for practical jokes," she said. "That wasn't some off-the-cuff document. Somebody knew the identity of individual Templars, both of whom we know existed. It doesn't provide any answers, but it creates some bloody interesting questions."
Since the discussion in Freiburg University, Sparke and Tilly had spoken little. There was so little to say and the normal atmosphere between them had been drained of energy. Now Sparke was doing the thing he had come to hate most in life, he was watching Tilly pack to go home. He had racked his brain for some reason to ask her to stay, but had come up with nothing that did not sound like a feeble excuse.
He made them a last coffee, which they drank quickly, and they headed down to get the car.
"Got your camera this time?" he said.
"Yup," she answered, patting the case.
"Right, better be off. Airport here we come."
There was no traffic on the motorway between Morges and Geneva airport and the journey was barely thirty minutes. He pulled his Range Rover into the short term car park.
"Time for a coffee?" he said.
"Just had one," said Tilly.
Sparke nodded, aware that he was speaking to avoid the silence. His mind was spinning as they walked into the terminal building. If he knew what it was he actually wanted to say then he could say it, but every sentence he could think of sounded more stupid than the last. He didn't want her to go away, or if she had to go he wanted to go with her. He didn't want to just be her friend. It was utterly ridiculous. He imagined sitting in front of her and saying, "I want to be your boyfriend," and cringed at the horror of her possible responses. Knowing Tilly she would be polite and there was nothing he could imagine that would be worse.
It was his stupid fault. He had taught himself to never speak without planning what he was going to say. He always thought things through. Maybe that was the flaw, maybe he should stop thinking, maybe...
"Tilly, there's something I want to say," he blurted out, hearing his own voice as though it came from a stranger.
"Have you noticed there are always dogs in this airport," said Tilly. "Sorry, did you say something?"
"Dogs?" said Sparke, now wildly disorientated.
"Yes, every time I come here there are people wandering around with their dogs, look." She pointed to a young family. A small girl with a mass of blond hair was talking earnestly to a short legged, wiry-haired dog that seemed to be trying hard to understand her. "You were saying something?" said Tilly.
"Me, no," said Sparke. "Never noticed the dogs before. Switzerland lets dogs go everywhere, restaurants, department stores..."
The dog turned to look at Sparke and Tilly, seemingly aware that it was being discussed. The young girl followed its gaze and both of them stood looking at Sparke and Tilly.
"Tilly," said Sparke, "I have something I want to say." His heart was racing and he found himself, for the first time in his life, unaware of what he was about to do next.
"This sounds exciting," said Tilly, turning away from the dog to look at Sparke.
"Tilly. Tilly, it's like this. I want to kiss you." He groaned inwardly at his own crassness, desperately hoping that she hadn't heard him.
"That's not what people say," said Tilly.
"What do you mean? What do people say?"
"They don't say anything, they just kiss each other."
"But how do you know it's all right to kiss someone without asking?"
"You read their body language, I suppose."
"Bloody hell, how do you do that? What's your body language saying?"
"It's saying that I want you to kiss me."
"Seriously? You want me..."
Sparke's question was cut short as Tilly leaned over, put he
r hand on the side of his face and kissed him. She leaned back, smiling at Sparke's stunned face.
"Tilly," he said, but was unable to speak as she leaned forward again and brought their faces together, this time their kiss lasted longer. When they parted, Sparke dredged through his mind for something to say, then realized that this was not the time to speak and not the time to think. He dropped Tilly's bag, put his arms around her and they kissed.
Spy
"It is not possible, but it is the only answer," said Salvatore as he stood in the empty forge.
The two men had ridden back to Martigny in silence, leaving the rest of their troop to escort Massimo and the other prisoner priests back to the lakeside where they were to be released.
"No one outside our order could have known my movements, and who amongst those who did would know to communicate with Massimo?"
The Mason took a long stick and poked at the faded embers in one of the furnaces.
"We will find little warmth here," he said, then turned to Salvatore. "You ask a question that no one can answer better than you."
"What are you saying? Do you think that I betrayed myself to Massimo?"
"That is not what I said," said the Mason. "You asked your question, but who better than you to answer it?"
Salvatore looked at the Mason, aware that he was being tested again by his leader. Eventually he spoke, "I report only to you and you report only to the Grand Master. You have never given me a written order, so no clerk could have knowledge of the tasks you set me. Do you send the Grand Master reports?"
"Do I seem so stupid that I write such things down?"
"No, sir, but these messages to Massimo show a clear understanding of what I will do and when. Since I arrived at Radda he has been in my shadow. He followed me through Moncalieri and was in Sion as soon as I was. He knew that we would fight the Duke of Savoy. Who except you or I could have told him all this?"
"You know the answer, I think," said the Mason.
Salvatore looked at the message he had found in Massimo's pack. He stared at the script.
"This is written in your hand," he said finally, his voice flat in the cold, still air.
"Go on," said the Mason.
"You have been communicating with Massimo and the Inquisition, telling them our plans. You sent me here and told the man you call one of our greatest enemies where to find me and what I was doing."
Salvatore forced himself to look up from the document and look at the man he had followed for a decade, a man he trusted more than any person alive.
The Mason looked back, wordlessly.
"You have betrayed our Order," said Salvatore.
Without thinking, his hand had moved to the hilt of his sword and his feet moved into a balanced fighting position.
"Before you draw your sword and kill me, Salvatore, ask yourself a question," said the Mason, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt. "If you want to kill an enemy, will you approach them with care and concealment?"
"With care," said Salvatore. "There is no value in showing them your strength."
"And if you want to frighten them and induce fear in them?"
"Then openly, showing all arms."
"So, tell me, what will Massimo tell his leaders now?"
Salvatore paused, trying to piece together all of the information that now flooded his mind.
"You have used me as bait, as a decoy to mislead Massimo."
"No, the opposite. You are one of our strongest weapons. This mission is no trick, the mountains are one of our best options for survival, but we have no interest in showing the Inquisition that we are standing around like sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Thanks to you, they now know that if they come against us, we will not be without weapons and plans of our own."
"You are playing Massimo for a fool."
"Not a fool, a dangerous enemy who hates us so much he allows himself to be blinded. Now that he believes that he has a spy inside our Order, a spy who has brought him valuable information, he will believe him all the more. He knows we are preparing for him to attack us and his masters will keep him on a leash because of it."
The obvious truth of what the Mason was saying now dawned on Salvatore. He looked at the folded, dirty letter he had taken from Massimo and wordlessly dropped it into the forge. For a moment it lay there, then slowly the last of the heat began to catch on the parchment and it crumpled into a blacked ball.
"I am glad I am on the same side as you," he said. "You make a fearsome enemy."
"And I am glad to have to you by my side," answered the Mason. "And now, if you are happy that you are not taking orders from a traitor, we can discuss what must happen next."
Bella Rosa
The dog took exception to the kiss.
"Bella, Bella Rosa, come." It was the voice of the young girl, trying to use her most commanding voice to bring her dog to heel. Bella Rosa had other priorities; Sparke and Tilly were ignoring her and now needed attention. She sped across the polished floor of the airport barking at them.
The father turned, walked over to them and scooped up the dog. "Sorry about that," he said. "She´s still not that trained, just a puppy."
Tilly took one of her arms from around Sparke, and ran her hands over the dog´s head.
"Nice dog," she said.
Sparke nodded, smiling at the man. "Dachshund?" he said.
"Wire-haired," said the man.
"You know," said Sparke, looking at Tilly, "we should get a dog."
St Prex
"What happens now?" asked Salvatore. "Am I finished here?"
"Finished? No, a good start, but that is all it is. Savoy will be no threat for some time, but he, or his kind, will come again. This land needs to be held and we cannot count on being so fortunate next time. We need to move forward, out of the valley and onto the lake. Control of the lake is control of access. Lausanne and Geneva will make their own decisions, but they will follow the path that keeps other people out of their business. Stay away from the cities. They are beyond even your great skills as a politician."
"If I can avoid politics for the rest of my life I will be a happy man," said Salvatore.
"Follow the north bank of the lake until you are three leagues west of Lausanne. There is a village there, St Prex, fortified, with an old church on a hill outside the walls. Give the church help in rebuilding. It needs work and will be happy of the patronage of our Order."
"Apart from helping a church, what do I do?"
"Take this as a chance to practice your patience," said the Mason. "The Order owns a large farm nearby called the Estate of Aubonne. Make it strong, watch the lake, send out patrols so that you learn every inch of the land."
"Understood, but what will I do?"
"Do? If I were you I would practice my stone carving. You are still too fast with the hammer and lazy on the lines. Wait for me in St Prex, brother Salvatore. The Order will find work for you soon enough."
Geneva
The old scribe looked longingly at the open window shutter. The wind that blew into the room cut through his woolen habit as though his clothes were made of paper. Unable to bear the cold any more, he put down his pen and crossed to the window.
“Leave it,” snapped Massimo. “Cold air is good for the mind. Think more of your work and less of your comfort.”
The monk stopped and bowed towards Massimo. The cathedral in Geneva had many visitors, but none so trying as Massimo.
“Is there some task I can perform for you, father?” the monk asked.
Massimo looked up from the document he was reading. He did not relish being interrupted and had no desire to be pandered to.
“Do you imaging that if I need assistance in the work of the church that I will hesitate to call for it. Would I sit here, mute, hoping for an offer of help?”
“No, father, of course not.”
Massimo looked past the monk and out through the window. The mountains formed a ring of snow-capped peaks around the far end of the lake. T
hey created a perfect fortress.
Two weeks had passed since the battle that had wiped out the cream of the Duke of Savoy’s fighting force. Half the nobility of the region, including the duke himself, now languished in the captivity of that vile English mercenary and even the foot soldiers were held until their families could buy their freedom.
It would take years for the nobility to raise their ransoms by mortgaging their estates and decades of crippling debt to repay them. Time, thought Massimo, favored the Templars. They had crushed the power of the Duke of Savoy in a single blow and now thought they were secure. But, if the job of dealing with the Templars here was too great for a duke, perhaps a king might suffice. The Hapsburg monarchy sat idle to the east, ignoring this canker growing in their side. So far they had made no response to the letters that Massimo had sent their court demanding action against the Templars and their rebel peasant allies. They allowed themselves to believe that there was no risk, no threat to the power of legitimate monarchy and the power of the church. They needed evidence of the seditious ambition of the Templars, a clear statement of their vile intentions.
Massimo turned to the monk. “I suppose there is, somewhere in this building, parchment of better quality than this goatskin you have offered me?” he said.
“Parchment?” said the monk. “Yes, the cardinal will have some for his private use.”
“Private use? There is no such thing as private use. Fetch me some immediately.”
The monk bowed and fled the room, returning shortly with several sheets of impeccable vellum, beautifully scraped and cut.
“Leave me,” said Massimo. He bowed over the calf-skin and picked up his pen.
“From the hand of the Knight Commander Caementarius to the hand of Salvatore di Radda, Knight of our Order. You are commanded to take the following men and money to the lands of Savoy and there to form a perpetual alliance with the peasants of that place to destroy the power of the kings and nobles of that place…”
The Templar Tower: Peter Sparke Book Five Page 22