The Templar Detective
Page 1
The Templar Detective
A Templar Detective Thriller
by
J. Robert Kennedy
From the Back Cover
IN AN AGE BEFORE DETECTIVES, ONE TEMPLAR KNIGHT IS CALLED UPON TO DELIVER JUSTICE
When wounded Templar knight Sir Marcus de Rancourt receives word that his sister is dying, he returns to a home he hasn’t seen in twenty years, only to find his sister dead, and her children orphaned. Sir Marcus decides to take on the greatest challenge of his life and remain behind to raise the children, his loyal sergeant and squires insisting on joining him to work the land at his side.
But before they can settle into their new lives as farmers rather than soldiers, they are thrust into the middle of a conspiracy that could rock the very foundations of the Templars and the Roman Catholic Church.
And it all starts with a simple murder, witnessed by a little boy, who swears Templars killed his parents.
Now it is up to Sir Marcus and his men to determine who committed the gruesome murders, and clear the good name of the Templars, before the very balance of power in the region shifts in favor of someone who should never possess it.
From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy, comes the first in a new series, The Templar Detective, packed with pulse-pounding action, intrigue, and humor, guaranteed to keep thriller fans awake into the late hours.
Get your copy today, and meet a new band of war-weary heroes, struggling to reintegrate into society, who are called upon once again to serve their Order, their Church, and their God.
About J. Robert Kennedy
With over 850,000 books sold and over 3000 five-star reviews, USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over thirty international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.
"A master storyteller." — Betty Richard
"A writer who tells what we are thinking but sometimes afraid to say." — Bruce Ford
"Kennedy kicks ass in this genre." — David Mavity
"One of the best writers today." — Johnny Olsen
"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy." — Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer
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Books by J. Robert Kennedy
The James Acton Thrillers
The Protocol
Brass Monkey
Broken Dove
The Templar's Relic
Flags of Sin
The Arab Fall
The Circle of Eight
The Venice Code
Pompeii's Ghosts
Amazon Burning
The Riddle
Blood Relics
Sins of the Titanic
Saint Peter's Soldiers
The Thirteenth Legion
Raging Sun
Wages of Sin
Wrath of the Gods
The Templar's Revenge
The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers
Rogue Operator
Containment Failure
Cold Warriors
Death to America
Black Widow
The Agenda
Retribution
The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers
Payback
Infidels
The Lazarus Moment
Kill Chain
Forgotten
The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries
Depraved Difference
Tick Tock
The Redeemer
The Templar Detective Thrillers
The Templar Detective
Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series
The Turned
Table of Contents
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Table of Contents
Beginning
Author's Note
Preface
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Acknowledgements
Don't Miss Out!
Thank You!
About the Author
Also by the Author
For Ken Arundel.
“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed Nomini tuo da gloriam.”
“Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy Name give glory.”
Motto of the Knights Templar
“As for the things that you will receive from the spoils, you can confidently put them to your own use, and we prohibit that you be coerced against your will to give anyone a portion of these.”
Papal Bull issued by Pope Innocent II, recognizing the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, and granting them Papal protection.
1139 AD
Author's Note
The word “detective” is believed to have originated in the mid-nineteenth century, however, that doesn’t mean the concept of someone who investigated crime originated less than two hundred years ago. Crime long pre-dated this era, and those who investigated it as well.
The following historical thriller is intended to be an entertaining read for all, with the concept of a “Templar Detective” a fun play on a modern term. The dialog is intentionally written in such a way that today’s audiences can relate, as opposed to how people may have spoken during the Middle Ages. This does not mean they will be speaking to each other as rappers and gangsters, but will instead communicate in ways that imply comfort and familiarity, as we would today. If you are expecting, “Thou dost hath offended me, my good sir,” then prepareth thyself for disappointment. If, however, you are looking for a fast-paced adventure, with plenty of action, mystery, and humor, then you’ve come to the right place.
Enjoy.
Preface
In 1119 AD, nine knights, Godfrey de Saint-Omer, Payen de Montdidier, Archambaud de St. Agnan, Andre de Montbard, Geoffrey Bison, Rossal, and Gondamerled, led by Hugues de Payens, approached King Baldwin II of Jerusalem, seeking permission to establish an order dedicated to serving God and protecting the Holy Land and the pilgrims visiting it. Baldwin agreed, granting The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, the Temple Mount as their headquarters. Perhaps this is the beginning of the curiosity surrounding these great men, who quickly grew to be one of the most substantial forces in Christianity, with properties and holdings across Christendom, extending from the Holy Land to most of the kingdoms of Europe, lit
tle of the continent escaping their influence.
For a time, they owned the entire island of Cyprus, and through their clever use of what some consider the world’s first checks—letters of credit—and at the time, an unbreakable cypher, they became the first major bankers of the realm, controlling the safe transfer of vast amounts of wealth across great distances, the fees allowing them to purchase ever-increasing amounts of lands and businesses.
But with great power comes great jealousy, and when kings unanswerable to the law become one’s customers, things will never end well for anyone but the king.
The Templars would eventually fall, betrayed and arrested on Friday, October 13th, 1307, yet their legend and their deeds continue to fire the imagination to this day, and this story is about but one of these brave men, devoted to God, and asked to make an impossible choice.
To give up everything he knows, everything he has devoted his entire life to, or betray the only family he has left.
1
Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France
1297 AD
“What use is a knight that gets too old to fight?”
It was said more to himself than the others, but Sir Marcus de Rancourt shouldn’t have been surprised when his sergeant, Simon Chastain, leaped to his master’s defense.
“Sir, you are not too old to fight! Why, it was only last night that you bested three men.”
Marcus grunted. “That was a dispute in a tavern, and they were probably drunk.”
“True, sir, but so were you!”
Marcus chuckled. “Which might be why I don’t remember it.”
Simon grinned. “I assure you, you were quite the sight.”
Marcus glanced at Simon. “Then I wonder who Sir Raimond was speaking of when he said a Templar knight was seen accosting three of the King’s men, then passing out before he could draw his sword?”
Simon’s eyes narrowed as if puzzled. “I’ve no idea. I’m new to these parts.”
Marcus laughed, slapping Simon on the shoulder. “You lie like a Saracen!”
Simon grinned, joining in. No longer so young himself, he had served with Marcus for the better part of two decades. His loyalty was unquestioned, but his friendship was what Marcus valued most. Simon knew him better than any man could, and since Marcus had no wife or children, the sergeant probably knew him better than anyone ever had or ever would.
Though he was no longer alone.
The new additions to his life had driven him to drink, something frowned upon in the Order. Wine to quench the thirst was permitted, but in excess, never. Yet he could be forgiven. He should be forgiven. It was a one-time occurrence, not to be repeated—not after what had happened.
Marcus became serious. “Whomever he spoke of, it shouldn’t have happened. I sinned.”
Simon lowered his voice, bowing his head slightly as he checked the horses’ saddles. “No one could blame you, sir. You have been through so much.”
Marcus grunted. “No more so than many others.”
“That may be, but just because others have suffered as a collective, doesn’t make it any less easy for an individual.”
Marcus mounted his horse and regarded his sergeant. “When did you become so wise?”
“It must be the company I keep.”
Marcus laughed, tossing his head back, immediately regretting it, his left shoulder roaring in agony. He gasped then cursed. “Will this pain ever cease haunting me?”
“Never, if you keep straining it. The wound needs time to heal.”
Marcus frowned then glanced about the sleepy village outside Paris. “I think there will be plenty of time for it to heal in this godforsaken place.”
Simon mounted his own steed and regarded the area. “It is rather bleak, isn’t it?”
“It’s definitely not Jerusalem.”
“No, but what is? Can there be any place more holy, more spiritual, than where our Lord himself walked?”
Marcus stared at the steeple of the humble church, then closed his eyes, picturing the land that had been his home for most of his adult life. He was a Templar, dedicated to protecting the Holy Land from the infidel Muslims, and sworn to provide safe passage to pilgrims on their way to visit the birthplace of their religion.
It was an honorable life, one he had no regrets in having committed himself to, none except one.
One he had never been able to reconcile.
A little boy burst from a doorway not fifty paces away, his face stained with tears, his cheeks pale beyond compare, almost as white as his wide eyes.
And covered in blood.
He sprinted toward them then stopped, his jaw dropping at the imposing figure of Marcus on horseback, in full regalia, his white surcoat with red cross impressive, despite the humble cloth from which it was made.
“What is it, boy? Are you okay?”
The child’s eyes fixated on the cross emblazoned on Marcus’ surcoat, then they rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed to the ground.
2
Outside La Roche-Guillaume, Antioch
The Holy Land
Four months earlier
Sir Marcus tumbled off his horse as the beast cried out in pain, a Saracen spear having pierced its front quarter armor. He rolled then leaped to his feet, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he cleaved the arm off the man who had thrown the spear, ensuring he’d never do so again.
He heard the grunt of someone behind him and ducked, spinning clockwise, his arm and sword extended, slicing open the belly of another of the godless infidels determined to destroy the Christian way of life he held so dear.
“Sir!”
He glanced over his shoulder to see his sergeant galloping toward him. Simon leaped from the mount and Marcus swung on, a Templar knight most effective when atop a horse. He charged forward, into the thick of the melee, swinging and thrusting his way through the pressing flesh, his well-trained horse calmly following his commands, delivered mostly through the movement of muscles in his legs and feet, leaving his hands free for battle.
They were a unit, a centaur of legend, half man, half beast, operating as one.
And there was no more powerful force.
As he continued to press forward with his brothers in arms, the foot soldiers behind them cleaned up the mess they left behind, killing the stragglers, and finishing off the wounded, no Saracen left alive for long, after the wall of Templars passed them.
Today was a good day, a day that would end in victory, a day that would result in story and song, and they would praise their Lord for His granting of triumph over these heathens, then pray for the souls of those lost.
And despite the Saracens being his sworn enemies, he would even say a prayer for their misguided souls, for he was not one to relish in the death of any man, enemy or not. If the Saracens simply lived with their Christian neighbors in peace, then none of this would be necessary, yet they wouldn’t. How much was their leaders’ fault, he wasn’t certain, but it didn’t matter.
They were on the field of battle.
Which made their lives forfeit.
He swung again, his sword slicing upward, splitting his foe’s face in two, starting at the chin, the body collapsing to the ground and forgotten as his next victim became his focus.
“They’re retreating!”
Marcus swung again, and again reduced the enemy by one, before taking a moment to scan the battlefield, the enemy turning. He thrust at someone not privy to what his brethren were doing, burying his blade several inches into the man’s chest before extending a boot and kicking the corpse off his sword.
And then it was over.
Cheers erupted from the victorious Templars and the other Christian soldiers surrounding them, the thunderous joy deafening. He turned back to spot his sergeant grinning, face and armor covered in blood, his own sword stained and raised.
“Shields!”
He spun in his saddle then gasped as thousands of arrows arced toward them. It hadn’t been a
victory after all.
It had been a trap.
He raised his shield, drawing inward as he leaned over his horse’s neck, lowering the shield over his head. The distinctive sound of the arrows as they sped toward them was overwhelming, the battlefield now otherwise silent as the premature celebration was forgotten.
And then they hit.
Thousands of arrows slammed into the ground and shields, with some making their way through. Horses whinnied in agony, and soldiers cried out in pain as too many found their mark. Several impacted his own shield, at least two piercing the protective covering, though nothing more.
He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.
The thuds of the arrows finally eased, then stopped, and he shifted his shield to the side to peer around.
Something slammed into his shoulder and he gasped, falling backward in his saddle, his horse whinnying in fright. He grabbed for the source of the stabbing pain, his eyes wincing and filled with tears, unable to see what had hit him.
But his hands found the source.
An arrow.
Probably the last one to be shot.
His beast shifted, then rose up on its hind legs, kicking out in fear and tossing him from the saddle and onto the unforgiving landscape, his head slamming into something, what, he did not know.
All he could hear were the sounds of the knights on either side of him trying to calm his horse, and the shouts of his sergeant as he neared.
Then a rush of silence as he lost consciousness.
3
Templar Fortress
La Roche-Guillaume, Antioch