The Templar Detective

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Outside Coulommiers, Kingdom of France

  Sir Raimond stood at the edge of the clearing, supporting himself with one hand on a tree, as the disturbing scene continued to unfold. A contingent of men was now digging out the mass grave, almost a dozen bodies, and half as many horses, revealed so far. The horses appeared to have been initially wounded by arrows, then put down, some mercy at least shown to the poor creatures.

  Who would target horses?

  This wasn’t a battlefield where desperation might reign. This was the Kingdom of France, a relatively peaceful place where one could usually travel without risk of attack.

  And certainly where a delegation of Templar knights with their sergeants and squires, could travel without fear.

  “Notice anything?” he asked of his clerk, standing nearby, his head shaking since they arrived.

  “What?”

  “The arrows. These were expertly loosed. No brigands did this. Whoever it was, was experienced.”

  As the dig progressed, they continued to find no evidence of who these men were. He didn’t recognize any of them, though he knew who the men in the delegation were supposed to be, and he had never met any of them before. None of them had. There were no surcoats, no crests, no rings or adornments that might suggest who they were.

  And the lack of such, suggested they could indeed be Templars.

  But the proof, at least to him, was the fact that every single purse found, contained no more than four deniers. And no knight that hadn’t taken a vow of poverty, would carry so little on their person.

  Nobody buried here wore fancy clothing, or fine leather boots. None showed any evidence of the wealth usually associated with a knight not of the warrior monk orders.

  This was the delegation.

  He was sure of it.

  The number of knights matched what he was expecting, the location was near the route they should have taken, and from what he could tell, they had been killed near the time he would have expected them to arrive.

  This was them.

  He made the sign of the cross, then turned to his clerk. “Send word that we have found the missing delegation.”

  The young man bowed, then departed to have messengers dispatched. Raimond returned his attention to his fallen brothers, his chest aching with the senseless loss, wondering why anyone would do such a thing.

  It must have been a significant force.

  The wounds revealed so far suggested archers and foot soldiers, as well as, most likely, men on horseback. To overwhelm experienced Templar soldiers so completely, would suggest some sort of coordinated surprise attack, an ambush. With the deliberate targeting of the horses, whoever did this obviously wanted to eliminate the ability of their victims to flee the attack.

  They wanted them forced to fight in place, on their feet.

  Not necessarily a wise move, considering how formidable a Templar knight could be.

  Though if faced with overwhelming odds, there might have been no choice but to surrender.

  And the moment they lowered their arms, their fate had been sealed.

  And again, he had to ask why.

  It must have something to do with this document the men disguised…

  He paused, staring at the bodies, his jaw slowly dropping.

  Men disguised as Templars had been committing murders.

  And these poor souls were missing their surcoats.

  Now we know where they got their disguises.

  He sighed. He refused to believe these men were killed for their surcoats. These men were missing anything that could link them to the Order, those items either repurposed by those who had attacked them, or buried elsewhere—he had already ordered a search. No documents had been found on them, and they surely would have had many, as they would be carrying letters from the Holy Land for the Pope and the King.

  They were killed either for something they carried, or something the attackers thought they carried.

  Or to cover something up.

  He pursed his lips as he stared at the bodies now lined up neatly side-by-side. Could a document have been in their possession that these men wanted, not because it would incriminate the Templars, but because it would incriminate themselves?

  He shook his head in frustration. There was no way to know. These men were dead, unable to answer his questions, and the sole witness was a young boy, whose recollection couldn’t be entirely relied upon.

  They had to capture those responsible. Only they knew the motive for this horrendous crime.

  He just prayed Marcus and his men were successful.

  The horses, stripped of anything useful by his men, were set alight, and he backed off, having no desire for his nostrils to be filled with such an unpleasant notion. As he walked away, he did take comfort in one thing.

  Those committing the murders were not Templars.

  Thank God for that.

  30

  De Charney Residence

  Villeneuve-le-Comte, Kingdom of France

  “Are you Sir Everard de Charney?”

  The man before Sir Bernard bowed slightly. “I am. And you are?”

  “Sir Bernard de Claret.” Bernard plunged his dagger into the man’s stomach then thrust upward, executing the man in the fashion so successful earlier this morning with Thomas’ father. He twisted the blade then pulled it out before stepping back. Everard dropped to a knee, reaching for his own dagger before giving up, his hands instead clasping at his bleeding stomach.

  “Why?”

  “You are a traitor to the King. Didn’t you know?” Bernard produced the document, reading out the text concocted just the night before. “And you signed it!” Bernard took a knee, tapping the man’s signature. “See, right there.”

  Everard stared at the document, confusion dominating his face before he fell to his side, gasping out his final words. “I signed no such document.”

  Bernard rose as the man’s last breath left his body, then leaned over and cleaned his dagger on the man’s sleeve.

  This does seem to get easier the more you do it.

  As he left the home of the last man on his unit’s planned route of execution, he felt more satisfied with himself as a man, than he ever had. It was only now that he realized he wasn’t a coward compared to the others, he was merely less experienced. He had killed two men now, his face so close he could feel their gasped breath as his blade burrowed into their stomachs, and now, with two kills to his credit, he was a man, a man to be feared, and more importantly, a man to be respected.

  He was no longer the nervous, unconfident pathetic excuse of a knight in title only. He was a knight, ready to face anyone who would dare challenge him.

  Including that disrespectful cretin Valentin, should it be necessary.

  He mounted his horse and departed, a shout from inside adding an urgency to his egress, as a servant discovered the body of their master. He noticed some blood on his glove and wiped it on the surcoat, the stain matching the bright red cross emblazoned on the stark white material.

  Another murder, committed yet again by a Templar, with witnesses to confirm the deceit.

  And with his job done, he headed toward where his unit should be if they had stuck to the plan, now with the excuse of taking care of business, and on his return, eliminating the final name on their list, and in so doing, discovering the very document they had been seeking the entire time.

  Proof of the traitorous plans of the Knights Templar, and their supporters within the realm.

  31

  Durant Residence

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  Thomas Durant wasn’t certain how long he had sat on the floor, staring at the still form of his dead father, but it was long enough that the sun was now high in the sky, and the bustle on the street in front of their home and business was in full swing.

  He let go of his father’s cold, stiff hand, then rose, wiping the tears from his face. He stared down at himself, covered in blood, and wasn’t sure what to do. />
  You have to tell someone.

  That much was obvious. His father hadn’t just died, he had been murdered. And he knew by whom. Yet what could be done? Nobody would believe that nobility had murdered his father. Why would a knight, with royal blood, even visit such a lowly home?

  Surely there were witnesses, though. Someone had tended to Bernard’s horse for the night, and returned with it the next morning. Surely that person would confirm he had been here.

  But a few coins discretely delivered could change any story in this wretched place.

  Nobody would believe him.

  He stared at the document his father had prepared for Bernard, and the confession. This was for him. This was in case something went wrong. His father wouldn’t have written this for himself, he wrote it for a son he knew would be in trouble. Bernard would be coming for him, and nobody would believe him.

  But with this forgery, and the confession, someone just might.

  Those named in the document.

  They would know they never signed the forgery, and it would be in their best interest to get to the bottom of what was going on. He stared at the names, none of them familiar. He had no way of finding any of them.

  And didn’t Bernard say they were killing them?

  The night was foggy, though he was certain something had been said about these names. But that wasn’t of importance. What was, was who they were. And if this document was meant to take down the Templars, then these signatures must belong to Templar knights.

  A sense of relief slowly swept through him as he realized who he might trust.

  And he prayed he was right. For if he wasn’t, he had nowhere to hide, and Bernard would surely do unto him, as he had done unto his father.

  32

  Outside Saint-Augustin, Kingdom of France

  Sir Valentin led his men from the town, the third name on their list now eliminated, and for a third time, no incriminating document found. When he had interrogated his prisoner a week ago, he had been assured a second document existed, though it had taken a sustained beating for that admission to be made.

  Could he have lied?

  It was possible. Perhaps the man had told him what he wanted to hear. He frowned, a rage building within. This entire exercise might prove fruitless should it be based upon a lie, and his assurances to the King of the document’s existence could prove not only an embarrassment, but disastrous to his station.

  He could lose his post, his family’s name could be tarnished, and he could be remembered as the one who brought down his own house through his own arrogance and overconfidence.

  For he shared his king’s desire to rid the realm of these Templars who wielded far too much power. They were the bank. They were the money. And they were above the law. Their vast holdings in gold, jewels, debt, and property, made them immensely powerful. Kings and nobles borrowed from them, and hefty fees were charged, depending upon the perceived risk.

  And backed by the Pope, men like him couldn’t touch them.

  Another thorn in the side of France.

  Why should any of His Highness’ subjects be allowed to pledge their loyalty to the Papacy, and not their lawful King? It was intolerable.

  So thought the King, and he as well.

  Which was why when he found out about the meeting with the delegation from the Holy Land, he had intercepted one of the attendees, and beat him until he had what he wanted.

  And a grateful King had given him his blessing.

  “Find us this document, and we will forever be in your debt.”

  To be in a king’s debt could mean great things for him and his family. Perhaps marriage into the royal family, perhaps invitation into the court itself.

  Great things.

  Life changing things.

  But so far, no document had been found, and they were quickly running out of people to interrogate.

  “Is that Sir Bernard?”

  Valentin rose in his saddle and spotted a grinning Bernard standing among the men, men who seemed unusually pleased to see the bumbling fool.

  Valentin charged into the crowd, parting it with his horse, then jumped down, his finger jabbing the air between him and the deserter. “Where have you been? You leave here without informing me of where you are going? And you dare return? Tell me now why I shouldn’t have you executed for desertion?”

  Bernard smiled, holding up a piece of paper. “I have it.”

  “You have what?”

  “What we’ve been looking for.”

  Valentin paused, his rage temporarily put on hold as he stared at the paper in Bernard’s hand. “Explain.”

  “I had a family matter to attend to, of a personal nature. I conducted my business yesterday, and on my way back, I decided to deal with Sir Everard de Charney, the last name on our list, as I was passing nearby. I interrogated him, and he produced this document.” He handed it to Valentin. “Exactly what we’ve been looking for, wouldn’t you say?”

  Valentin quickly read the document, his heart hammering with excitement as he realized the idiot was right. This was what they had been looking for. In fact, it was more than they could have hoped for. It was exactly what they were looking for. It laid out the Templars’ opposition to the King, how they and the Papacy would call the King’s loans, and refuse to issue any more credit until additional collateral could be obtained. And without the funds, the King would be forced to capitulate to his enemies, enemies a secret treaty had been signed with between the Papacy and its army, the Knights Templar.

  With a dozen signatories, matching those on the previous document they had already obtained.

  Thus sealing the fate of the Templars.

  He stared at Bernard, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Bernard smiled slightly. “You need say nothing, but know this. The next man that disrespects me, will answer to my blade.”

  Valentin bowed slightly. “You have earned my respect, and I am sure, the thanks of the King.”

  “Then I suggest we present him with this document at once, and arrest those who would dare challenge our King!”

  Valentin smiled, the change in Bernard obvious. What had happened in the past day, he wasn’t sure, but whatever had, it was enough to return to them a changed man, a man he might actually respect.

  Yet no matter what had happened, or how he might feel about the man, one thing was certain. This document would please the King, allow the destruction of the Templars, and put his liege in debt to him.

  Changing his life forever.

  He turned to his men, seeking out his scribe. “I want copies of this made immediately. And I want warrants written for every man on this document. No longer shall we work in the shadows. Send teams to the local Bailiff’s Delegates to make the arrests and bring them to Montry, including any Templars that may be with them, for they are traitors to the King. Tomorrow we shall present these parasites to the King himself!”

  A roar went up from the men, everyone to a man clearly thrilled their mission had been a success, thanks to the fool thrust upon them by the King doing a favor for someone he obviously owed a great debt to.

  And after tomorrow, that favor owed would be to him.

  “What of those that are already dead? Surely we don’t need to issue warrants for them?”

  Valentin smiled at his squire. “You’re forgetting one thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re not supposed to know they’re dead!”

  33

  Enclos du Temple, Templar Fortress

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  Thomas stumbled toward the large fortress at the end of the street. It was an imposing structure, a sign of wealth, power, and stature, the red and white flags fluttering in the stiff breeze identifying who merited such things.

  Templars.

  This was their European headquarters, and the only place he could be certain to find someone he could trust with the knowledge he alone possessed.

  And the
murderer, Bernard.

  As his memory of the night before continued to return, he couldn’t believe this so-called friend had the gall to promise to take care of him should something happen to his father. Had he planned on murdering him last night, or was it decided after the false promise was made?

  To think he had been in a good mood this morning, entertaining nothing but kind thoughts about his boyhood friend, when all the while his father bled to death on the floor of their humble shop. He had seen Bernard ride away. If he had been home only a few minutes later, he might have saved his father, yet instead, he had taken his time returning after the cancellation of his work.

  Because he was in a good mood. He now had a lifeline should things go terribly wrong.

  He had Bernard.

  Had.

  Thomas had never been a vengeful man. He hadn’t experienced enough in life to really feel the urge. He had lost his mother to poor health, not murder. He had always had little, so knew no better, and there was nothing to be envious of in his neighborhood—everyone was destitute.

  He hated the gangs that controlled too much, and did feel some resentment when he saw a member of the aristocracy passing through for some reason, though none had ever treated him with disrespect—they simply ignored him as one would an insect.

  Nothing had truly enraged him in his life.

  Until today.

  Today, as the minutes since his father’s death grew, he became determined to seek justice for his murder. And he knew he was probably incapable of delivering it. Justice was out of the question. Nothing would ever happen to a nobleman for killing a peasant. He would merely claim he was attacked, and that would be the end of it.

  No one would doubt the word of a nobleman.

  Which was why he needed the help of the men inside this fortress he now stood in front of.

  For it was in their interest to help, for their very futures might rely upon it.

  He patted the pouch carrying the two documents, then approached one of the guards standing at the gates.