A nobleman too poor to be a knight. It was a shocking concept to him, but then, he had never really known what poverty was. His family wasn’t rich, though they definitely weren’t poor. His father was well educated, and worked for the King as an auditor, moving from one town to the next after affairs had been put in order.
Though this town was poorer than most, with few other officials with children his age.
Which left him with his toys.
And his imagination, an imagination failing him today.
Three hard raps on the front door had him leaping to his feet and eagerly pressing an eye against a knot in the door that let him see through to the front entrance.
His mother opened the door and gasped, stepping back, two large men entering before she could say anything.
“Is Mr. Guy Fabron here?”
“I am he. Who are you? What do you want?”
Pierre could hear something in his father’s voice that he recognized, though had never heard from the only man he had ever really known. He had only heard it in his own voice, that of a child.
It was fear.
“Do you recognize this document?”
A piece of paper was held up by the man doing the talking, Pierre only able to see him from the side. His father stepped into view. “Of course. What of—” His father paused, his jaw dropping. “Wait a minute, how did you get this?” He stared at the man. “Who are you?”
“How we have come into possession of this document, is none of your concern, and who we are should be obvious to you. Now”—the man stepped closer to Pierre’s father—“were any other documents signed at your meeting?”
“I will not answer. I cannot answer. I swore an oath before God to not talk about anything discussed at the meeting. If you are who you purport to be, then you should understand that.”
“I do. Which is why I know questioning you further is of no use.”
Pierre gasped as he heard a sword drawing from a sheath. His mother screamed and he slapped his hands over his mouth as he saw the man step back, his sword swinging in a wide arc as his father retreated, pushing his mother out of the way. The blade sliced through the air, and for a moment, Pierre thought it had missed, a sigh of relief escaping, when his mouth filled with bile as a bright red stain spread quickly across his father’s shirt. His father fell to his knees, reaching forward, grabbing the man’s surcoat.
A boot unceremoniously shoved him to his back as the attacker flipped his sword, hilt toward the ceiling, changing his grip so that both hands now clasped around the handle.
Then the sword plunged through his father’s chest.
His mother screamed, and the forgotten woodcarving fell to the floor with a thud. The murderer pulled his sword from his father’s body, then turned toward the sound, giving Pierre a clear view of the bright white surcoat with red cross emblazoned on the front.
Templars!
The man pointed toward his bedchamber door. “Check it out.” The other man strode toward his room and Pierre retreated, his head on a swivel as he tried to find a place to hide. “Shut up!” His mother’s screams became muffled, then he heard a cry of pain, and something hit the hard floor.
Mama!
He turned and saw the gaping maw where the monsters lived, the monsters under his bed.
It was dark, and surely no one would dare look there.
He grabbed his pillow then scampered under the bed and into the corner as far as he could, pulling the pillow behind him as the door opened. He drew the pillow tight, hiding as much of his body as he could behind it, as the footfalls of heavy boots approached the bed.
“Someone’s coming!”
Pierre held his breath as the boots stopped in front of his bed. He heard a grunt, and the bed lifted from the far end, up off the floor, the shaft of light rapidly approaching as his eyes widened.
“Let’s go. Now!”
The man grumbled, dropping the bed to the floor with an unholy rattle, the footfalls rapidly receding, the front door slamming shut only moments later. Pierre remained in the corner, gripping his pillow tight, as horses outside whinnied then galloped away.
He wasn’t sure how long he remained there, trembling, but it was long enough to soil himself, though when he finally realized he had done so, he couldn’t be sure of when it had happened.
All he knew was his cheeks burned, and his clothes were uncomfortably, embarrassingly, damp.
He climbed out from under the bed and quickly changed his clothes, determined no one would witness his shame, then tentatively stepped out of his bedroom. His father lay near the door, his mother only paces away, both lying in pools of blood. A whimper escaped, and his shoulders shook as he was suddenly overcome with sobs. He dropped to his knees, between the bodies of his parents, unsure of who to go to first, who to grieve for first, as any choice was a betrayal to the other.
He grabbed his mother’s hand, then stretched out his other, through the blood, his body now prone on the floor as he reached for the outstretched hand of his father. He grunted, grasping at his father’s arm, finally clasping his fingers, squeezing his tiny hand around them as his cheek collapsed into the blood of his father, or his mother.
Whose it was, he didn’t know, nor care.
They were gone, and he was alone, in a town where nobody knew them.
He closed his eyes and prayed, wondering why Templars would kill his parents in cold blood.
11
Templar Commandry
Coulommiers, Kingdom of France
“And you swear to maintain your vows?”
Sir Marcus nodded at Sir Raimond de Comps, the Templar’s commander for the region. Marcus had been delighted to discover the man he was to meet was Raimond, the two having met in the Holy Land on several occasions, the reunion a joyful one. “I swear it.”
“There’s a rumor going about that a Templar knight was seen drunk at a tavern in Crécy-la-Chapelle, and that he challenged three of the King’s Personal Guard to a fight.”
Marcus’ cheeks flushed. “You heard about that?”
“Everyone has heard about that. It is fortunate that whoever this man was, he passed out before he could remove his sword from its scabbard.”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Simon, who quickly stared at the floor. “I had been told there was a glorious battle in which this drunkard bested three of the King’s finest.”
“Your sources appear questionable.”
“Indeed.”
“Umm, I’m going to wait outside,” murmured Simon.
Raimond smiled as Simon quickly departed. “Your men’s loyalty is a testament to your character.”
Marcus bowed slightly. “Our Lord has blessed me with the finest of companions.”
“And they wish to remain at your side?”
“To a man.”
“Well, their oaths are not as binding nor restrictive as yours, of course, and I see no reason to deny them their wish. But as long as they wear the symbols of our Order, they are to conduct themselves as they would were they not farmers tending their fields.”
“I am confident they will agree to these expectations.”
Raimond drew a deep breath then sighed loudly. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
Marcus frowned. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t have doubts, but I know it is what my sister would want, and I have seen too many orphans to know that I cannot allow such a thing to happen to my niece and nephew.”
“You are a good man, Sir Marcus, a good Christian.”
Marcus bowed deeply. “You humble me, sir.”
Raimond drew closer, lowering his voice. “I must confess, I am pleased you and your men are here. More loyal men in the region, I believe, is a good thing at this time.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”
Raimond shook his head. “I don’t know. More of the King’s men have been sighted in the area, and several of our Order have reported being harassed when alone, by p
eople posing as townsfolk, yet who bore scars that suggested they were anything but.”
“It’s been long known the King and his Holiness have been at odds. Do you think he’s making a play against the Church, and those who would defend it?”
Raimond grunted. “Nothing would surprise me with that man, however, to move against Rome?” He sighed. “If anyone could, if anyone would, it would be King Philip.”
“And should such a thing happen?”
“Then the Order must defend the interests of the Church, as we have sworn to do.”
“That could mean war.”
“It could. In fact, the Grand Master is so concerned, he’s sent representatives from the Holy Land. Also, a contingent of our Order is escorting a delegation from Rome to meet with the King in an attempt to calm things.”
“When will they arrive?”
“The delegation should be arriving in Paris any day now. Our representatives from the Holy Land were to have arrived yesterday, according to a messenger that arrived earlier in the week, but they are late.”
Marcus frowned, staring at Raimond. “You seem concerned.”
“I am. Frankly, I shouldn’t be, as being late by a day means little, but something tells me my concerns are justified. The messenger told me they called a meeting not even a week ago, with others from the Order, most of the senior representatives in the area, as well as influential nobility known to be sympathetic to our Order rather than the King. There should be little reason for our men to be late, but a meeting such as this, could be considered treasonous by a suspicious king.”
Marcus’ head bobbed slowly as he considered Raimond’s words. “I must admit, I’m surprised our men would hold such a meeting given these tensions.”
“I can understand their reasoning. They have been journeying for months. I would assume this meeting was an attempt to get a sense of the current state of affairs, and those invited would be best able to inform them, with little risk to the King finding out. And since this was a diplomatic mission, frankly, it is a meeting even I would conduct, and shouldn’t be considered unusual.”
“Though if one were looking for conspiracies and conspirators…”
Raimond sighed. “Hence my fears.”
“If this meeting were attended by those truly loyal to the Templars, I wouldn’t fear, but too often it has been my experience that those who purport to be one thing publicly, then in private another, too often turn out to be spies, or double-agents. Our men could have been betrayed by one of those who attended.”
Raimond paled slightly. “Now you have me worried. I must admit, there is very little intrigue in these parts compared to the Holy Land where you have spent most of your life, so I will bow to your experience. What do you think we should do?”
Marcus chewed his cheek for a moment, staring at his well-worn boots. “We need to find out what happened to our delegation from the Holy Land. They should be easy to find if we trace their expected route. And I would find out who was at that meeting. If our men were betrayed, we need to know by whom.”
Raimond closed his eyes briefly, placing a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Thank the good Lord you are here. Without your counsel, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Do you have men who can help?”
Raimond shook his head. “There are few knights in the area. Most of our Order in these parts defend our holdings, or have left for the Crusade.”
“Then I offer my services.”
Raimond smiled broadly. “I had hoped you would. And I have an idea on where you can start.”
12
Fabron Residence
Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France
Pierre heard horses and men laughing. They were nearing, the horses’ hooves suggesting a slow gait. Surely those who had murdered his parents wouldn’t return, and wouldn’t be moving so slowly, yet he couldn’t be sure. But if they were coming back, he couldn’t let them find him here on the floor.
There’d be no escaping them.
He pushed to his knees, his hand slipping in the blood, causing him to fall back to the floor with a squish. More carefully this time, he rose to his feet then stepped toward the door, wiping his bloodstained hands on his shirt. He took one last look at the bodies of his parents, then opened the door slowly, peering out into the bright sun. He held up a hand to block the light, squinting as he searched for someone who might help.
But he saw no one.
And he didn’t know who to go to for help. He didn’t know any of his neighbors, he didn’t know where any representatives of the King might live.
The voices were almost atop him now, the men sounding cheerful and friendly. A dog barked, a happy bark, coming from the same direction, as if it were one of the merry men.
He had to take a chance.
He stepped through the door, then, as if they had a mind of their own, his little legs propelled him into the street and toward the men on horseback. As he neared, he questioned his decision, but it was too late.
They were already directly in front of him, the dog, easily his size, snorted at him, though didn’t attack.
He stopped, looking up at the man who appeared to be the leader of these four riders, his bearded face worn and scarred. The man leaned forward in his saddle.
“What is it, boy? Are you okay?”
Pierre stared at him, then noticed something, finally tearing his eyes away from the man’s face and focusing on his surcoat.
A bright white surcoat, with a large red cross emblazoned upon it.
The symbol of the Knights Templar.
And the same symbol worn by those who had murdered his family.
The world suddenly became dark as his heart slammed and his pulse pounded in his ears. His knees gave out, and he never felt himself hit the muddy road.
Sir Marcus leaped from his horse and rushed to the boy’s side, Tanya already sniffing at the prone child. The others gathered around, covering their master in case danger was near.
“Is that blood?” asked Simon, but the question was redundant. They had all seen enough in battle to know exactly what was covering the boy from almost head to toe.
Marcus quickly examined the boy for wounds, finding none. “It isn’t his.” He held out a hand. “Water.”
A canteen was thrust into his hand moments later, and he poured some of the cool liquid onto the boy’s lips, eliciting a moan.
“Sir, we have company.”
He continued administering to the boy, his sergeant’s tone not indicating any danger. “Locals?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus looked up to see about a dozen villagers emerging from their homes and businesses, gathering around the excitement, though keeping a wary distance, his men a menacing sight to those not familiar with war. “Does anyone know who this boy is?”
An elderly man stepped forward, a bony finger extended toward the house they had seen him emerge from. “I believe he’s the auditor’s boy. Pierre, I think. They just arrived a couple of weeks ago, so I’m not certain.”
“Is he dead?” asked a woman from behind them.
Marcus shook his head. “No.” The boy coughed and opened his eyes. He stared into Marcus’ face, then his gaze drifted back to the surcoat. He pushed away, but Marcus held his arm. “What is it boy, why are you so afraid of me?”
Pierre pointed at Marcus’ chest. Marcus glanced down at the almost forgotten surcoat, and placed a hand on the cross. “Is it this?”
The boy nodded.
“Do you know what this represents?” The boy said nothing, but his head bobbed slightly. “Then you know it means I’m a Templar knight. It means I’m sworn to protect people like you. What makes you so afraid of it?”
The boy closed his eyes then finally opened them, staring at Marcus. “The men who killed my mama and papa were Templars like you.”
Marcus’ jaw dropped and he stared up at the others, all in as much shock as he was at the boy’s statement. He stood the boy up and took a
knee, staring into his eyes. “What makes you think they were Templars like me?”
The boy pressed a bloody finger against the Templar cross. “They wore these.”
Marcus frowned. He could detect no deceit in the boy’s voice, and it was his opinion Pierre was telling him the truth.
Or at least his version of the truth.
He had learned long ago there were three sides to every story, the important one, the truth, usually lying somewhere between the others. And there was no way Templars murdering this young boy’s parents was the truth.
He tapped the red cross on his surcoat. “Are you sure it was red and not black?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have nothing to fear from me and my men, understood?”
He nodded.
“Good. Now, how about I go find out what happened, okay?”
Again, the boy nodded.
Marcus stood, staring at the crowd. “Can someone watch the boy while we check on his parents?”
A woman stepped forward, holding out her hand toward Pierre. “I’ll watch him. I know—knew—his mother.”
Marcus motioned toward the woman. “Go with her.”
The boy shook his head. “No, I want to go with you.”
Marcus sighed, unfamiliar with how to deal with children. He decided to treat him as a new recruit. “Fine, but you do what I say, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Marcus grabbed the reins of his horse and headed for the boy’s home, Tanya beside Pierre as if his assigned protector. They reached the front, and Marcus handed the reins to Pierre. “You watch the horses, okay?”
He nodded.
Marcus pointed at Tanya. “Stay with the boy.”
The dog barked and dropped to her haunches beside young Pierre, a crowd of at least two dozen now gathered. Marcus turned to them. “Everybody, please stand back, for the boy’s sake.”
The Templar Detective Page 4