Jeremy’s chest swelled and his shoulders squared. “Yes, sir. It would be an honor to protect your family.”
“Good, then it is settled. David, prepare his horse after you’ve bandaged him up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus turned to Olivier. “And you, sir. Is there some place you can go until we get to the bottom of this?”
“Yes. I’ll head north to my cousin’s. They’ll be able to protect me there, and receive news of any goings on at the court.” He extended a hand, and Marcus took it. “Thank you, sir, thank you all for saving my life. I am in your debt.”
Marcus bowed slightly. “No debt is ever owed for a Templar doing his duty. Now I suggest you hurry.”
“Of course, of course.” Olivier opened the door, and a frantically barking Tanya erupted from inside, nearly bowling the man over. She quickly circled the bodies, seeking more to battle, then rushed to Marcus’ side, jumping up with excited energy. He laughed, patting her as he tried to calm her down.
“It’s okay, girl, it’s all over. I know you wanted to help us, but you could have been hurt.” He dropped to a knee and delivered some well-received scratches, then turned to Jeremy. “I want you to take her with you. She’ll serve as good protection for you on your journey alone, and then for the children once you reach the farm.”
Jeremy nodded, then winced when David tied off the bandage. “Yes, sir. I think that’s a good idea.”
Marcus stood, Simon joining him, having finished searching the bodies and horses. “Anything?”
Simon shook his head. “Nothing of interest.”
“No Templar surcoats?”
Simon grunted. “No. Which means whoever has been impersonating us is still out there.”
“Yes, and now there is a witness out there who saw this skirmish, where four Templars apparently murdered four of the King’s guard trying to do their duty.”
Simon sighed. “I think we’re in it deep now, sir.”
“Indeed. I think it’s time we sought counsel.”
“But who could be more wise than you?”
Marcus chuckled. “None, I am sure, though I was thinking Sir Raimond might be able to provide some sage advice.”
35
Bailiff’s Delegate Office
Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France
Archambault held up a finger, halting the latest interruption as he battled a pounding headache. The past days had been as hectic as any he could recall since agreeing to be the Bailiff’s Delegate for the village, and he was now regretting the choice, the small stipend hardly worth the constant barrage of questions from concerned citizens.
Though he didn’t blame his neighbors. They were scared, and concerned. A husband and wife were dead, murdered in their very home, possibly by Templars.
And if one couldn’t trust Templars, then who could one trust?
He had checked on young Pierre this morning on his way in, and was pleased to see he was in good spirits. If Sir Marcus hadn’t agreed to take him in, he feared things would be much worse for the boy. The two young orphaned children were making things much easier on the lad, and the beautiful Mistress Isabelle was doing a smashing job in taking care of them.
It’s too bad Sir Marcus is a Templar. They would make a good match.
He feared Marcus was taking on more than he fathomed when he had decided to remain here and raise his late sister’s children, and word had arrived only minutes ago from Paris that there were no living relations for Pierre to be sent to stay with.
He was alone in this cruel world.
Perhaps Sir Marcus will take him in as well.
He sighed, the idea ridiculous, though he feared it was the only hope the little boy had for a happy future.
He finally opened his eyes and looked up at the new arrival, nearly soiling himself. Four of the King’s Personal Guard stood in his tiny office, a large crowd already gathered outside to see what was afoot. He rose, his entire body trembling. “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
“We have an arrest warrant for Mr. Guy Fabron. Where can I find him?”
Archambault’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening. “Surely you jest, good sir! Why would anyone want to arrest Mr. Fabron? He’s an auditor, here on behalf of His Majesty!”
“He is a traitor to the King, as are his accomplices. I have orders to arrest him at once, and any Templars that may be with him.”
“Templars! Why Templars?”
“They are traitors. Evidence has been found that shows they and others, including Mr. Fabron, have been conspiring to overthrow the King. Now, I will ask you one last time, where can we find Mr. Fabron?”
Archambault stared, not sure of what to do, still attempting to process everything that had just been said. Mr. Fabron a traitor? Templars trying to overthrow the King? It was all too fantastic, yet these four men looked like they considered the charges serious, and appeared to have no patience.
And one didn’t risk the ire of the King’s Personal Guard.
“He-he’s dead.”
The man stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“He’s dead. Along with his wife. They were both murdered.”
“By whom?”
“Possibly Templars, or men disguised as Templars.”
The man exchanged glances with the others, a slight smirk revealed on one’s face. “I would suggest the former. He was most likely murdered by Templars to cover up their own treachery.”
“Unbelievable!” hissed Archambault. “We, umm, have Templars in town. They just arrived this week.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What is their business here?”
“The knight, Sir Marcus de Rancourt, was from the area originally. His sister recently died, leaving her two children orphaned. He returned with three others, and has decided to remain and raise the children.”
“Where can I find these men?”
Archambault shook his head. “I don’t know. They left yesterday to try and find out who murdered Mr. Fabron.”
The man grunted. “Probably fleeing the scene of the crime. I will require proof of Mr. Fabron’s death, then we will be on our way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Archambault led them outside where the bits and pieces of the overheard conversation were already being repeated and distorted, but he would deal with that later. He quickly led them to where the two bodies had been cleaned and sewn up in canvas in preparation for their return to Paris later today. He pointed at Mr. Fabron. “Did you want it opened?”
The man shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t recognize him regardless. Do you swear this is the body of Mr. Fabron?”
“I do.”
A paper was presented. “Then sign here.”
He signed the paper, and the men left, leaving him to deal with what was quickly turning into an outraged mob. He walked into the midst of them, holding his hands up in a failing effort to calm them. “People, please, listen to me, and I will explain what has just happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened. Those Templars murdered a government official, and now Hell’s fury will come down upon us!”
Archambault’s chest tightened as those surrounding roared in agreement. “Now, now, please, calm down. That is not what is happening here. The men who just left had a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Fabron, not the Templars.”
“That’s not true!” shouted someone in the back. “I heard him say that he was here to arrest any Templars that might be with Mr. Fabron. If they’re so innocent, then why would they be arresting Templars?”
“And I heard him say that Templars were plotting to overthrow the King!”
It was clear that there was nothing he could say to calm these people. They were quoting things he couldn’t deny. The man had said Mr. Fabron was conspiring with Templars to overthrow the King, and it was well known among his fellow citizens, that young Pierre had seen Templars commit the dastardly deed.
He couldn’t deny any of it.
“We need to remain
calm, and let justice prevail!” he finally said, shouting overtop the others. “Mr. Fabron is dead, and his body will be gone before nightfall. If what has been said is true about the Templars, then let Paris deal with it. They will arrest them, and justice will be delivered. And should they not, then we will know that this has all been a horrible misunderstanding, and everyone will move on with their lives. But for now, it is essential we not give in to irrational fear. None of us has done anything wrong, therefore none of us has anything to worry about. Let Paris figure this out, and continue on with our day.”
“I, for one, will never trust Paris to have our best interests at heart!” shouted someone. “And should they find the Templars guilty, could the King not take his wrath out on us for giving safe harbor to four of these traitors?”
“That’s right! This new knight isn’t one of us. His men aren’t even from around here. Why should we put our lives at risk for outsiders? I say we get rid of them now, so that when the King’s men return, they will see we are loyal to His Majesty, and show no quarter to those who would betray him!”
A roar of approval erupted from the crowd, and Archambault knew all was lost.
“Burn the farm!” was shouted by someone, the chant taken up by the crowd as they turned, abandoning Archambault, instead heading for the family farm outside of the village, where three young children and their caregiver lived, defenseless.
And he knew, if he tried to stop them, he too might feel their wrath.
Instead, he returned to his small office and closed the door, saying a silent prayer for the little ones, and the fetching young lady whom he had hoped might make a good wife to Sir Marcus, a knight whom until now, he had the utmost respect for.
Yet with what he had heard earlier, he now had doubts about his motives.
Was he here for his sister and her children?
Was he even the brother of Nicoline?
His jaw dropped at the thought. They had no proof beyond the letter. Could he have intercepted it and taken on Sir Marcus’ identity? Could he have been sent to murder Mr. Fabron?
He sighed, closing his eyes and gripping his pounding skull.
Please, Lord, let this all be the horrible imaginings of a troubled soul.
But he feared the truth lay somewhere between his musings, and the charges levied earlier.
Though regardless of the truth, there was one thing about to happen that shouldn’t, and that he could do nothing about.
Four innocent souls were about to have their lives torn apart at a minimum, and forfeited, at worst.
36
Templar Commandry
Coulommiers, Kingdom of France
“A messenger arrived less than an hour ago from the headquarters in Paris. The news is disturbing and difficult to believe, but would seem to be borne out by what you have just told me.”
Sir Marcus sat across from Sir Raimond, Simon beside him, David attending the horses. They had ridden hard to get here, and he had to admit, he was tired, months of little training or action leaving him less of a man, less of a knight.
It disturbed him.
Am I to become soft in this new life I’ve chosen?
The answer seemed rather obvious, though farming was not an easy life. But neither was that of a warrior monk. Constant training, constant prayer, with little reward beyond the love of one’s brothers and one’s Lord Jesus Christ. It had always been enough, and he prayed that life on the farm, with the children, would be as well.
Though now he feared if that would even be an option left open to him after today’s events.
“What did this messenger have to say?”
Raimond tapped the copy of the document proving the Templars’ treasonous wishes. “This is a fake.”
Marcus’ eyebrows rose slightly. “Obviously, but what proof did this messenger provide?”
“The forger is dead, murdered by the man who commissioned the document. His son survived, and brought a copy of the forgery, along with a confession from the forger, to our headquarters in Paris.”
Marcus glanced at Simon. “He must have known he was going to die. Did this boy say who had his father create the document?”
“He did indeed. Sir Bernard de Claret.”
“Never heard of him. Is he important?”
Raimond grunted. “Only through his family name. Word is that he is considered a bit of a joke in official circles. Not very well respected, merely tolerated because of the family’s status.”
Marcus sighed. “It would appear that someone has decided they want to prove their worth to those who would mock him.”
Simon shifted in his seat. “And our Order is to pay the price.”
Marcus agreed. “He must be stopped.”
Raimond nodded. “Obviously, but how? There’s something else I haven’t told you, that I have to assume is connected. We found the missing delegation from the Holy Land this morning. Or rather, I think we did.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “You think? Wouldn’t they know who they are?”
Raimond frowned. “We found their bodies. They were found buried with several of their horses outside of town, in a clearing in the forest.”
Marcus gasped, making the sign of the cross. “This is unbelievable! But you said you think it’s them. What do you mean?”
“They were stripped of any markings that might have identified them. Tunics, surcoats. Anything.”
“Then why do you think it’s them?”
“There were three knights plus the proper number accompanying them, and they were found near a route that would have led them here. Judging by the state of their bodies, it would suggest they were ambushed by a substantial force that included archers, a few days ago.”
“That would suggest they are indeed the delegation.”
“All that would, but I think the most convincing piece of evidence is what they did have on their person, rather than what they did not.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “And that was?”
Raimond reached into a drawer and produced half a dozen purses, tossing them on the desk. “None had more than four deniers on their person, and we all know who can carry no more than this pittance of an amount.”
Marcus sighed, any doubt he might have had, wiped away. “Templar knights sworn to poverty.”
Simon growled, shifting again in his seat as if he were struggling to contain himself. “Who would do such a thing?”
Raimond shook his head. “It would appear this Sir Bernard is definitely involved. Who, beyond that, I do not know.”
Marcus scratched his chin. “You said they had been stripped of their surcoats and tunics.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think we can safely assume that this is where those posing as Templars found their stolen clothes.”
“Such disrespect,” muttered Simon. “They deserve to burn in Hell.”
Raimond nodded. “God will judge them when given His chance. I feel confident your desire will be fulfilled.”
Marcus leaned forward. “So, we know that Sir Bernard had the forgery created. What we don’t know is who he is working for, and who he is working with. We know at least three men are involved, as we know three were involved in the murder of Mr. Fabron.”
“More than that,” said Simon. “There is no way three men were able to wipe out our delegation so easily. They must have had a substantial force. Even surprise wouldn’t level the odds of three against a dozen.”
Marcus nodded. “Agreed. If they had archers, and enough men to overwhelm our delegation, then they must be well funded.”
Raimond held up the letter from Paris. “With Sir Bernard involved, we know at least some segment of nobility is involved. We need to find out who he is working for, or with.”
A thought occurred to Marcus, and he leaned forward, grabbing the warrant issued for Sir Olivier de Saint-Michel’s arrest. He scanned it and smiled, holding up the warrant for the others to see. “We’ve had the answer sitting in front of us this ent
ire time.”
Raimond’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
Marcus pointed at the signature at the bottom of the warrant. “The man who issued the warrant. Sir Valentin de Vaux.”
Raimond’s eyes bulged. “Do you have any idea who that is?”
Marcus tensed. “No, but I get the distinct impression that you do.”
“He’s the head of the King’s Personal Guard.”
Marcus suppressed the urge to curse. “If that’s the case, then there can be only one person behind this.”
Simon didn’t suppress the urge, though quickly followed it with a sign of the cross. “The King himself.”
Raimond’s shoulders sank. “What can we possibly do to stop this?”
Marcus rose, the others following. “We must find out where they are taking those they are arresting, for that is where we will find our conspirators.”
Simon stared at him. “And then what?”
“We do whatever it takes to make them confess to their crimes.”
“What good would that do?”
Marcus lifted the copy of the forgery. “You’re forgetting one thing.”
Simon threw up his hands. “Obviously, otherwise I’d sound as confident as you now do!”
Marcus smiled, Raimond failing to suppress a snort. “If they had intended to create a forgery, then they wouldn’t have been looking for the genuine article all this time. They would have just created it, then issued their warrants. But that’s not at all what happened.”
Raimond’s eyes widened. “Someone doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Exactly!”
Simon stared at them both. “I’m still in the dark. Somebody, please shine a light!”
“Don’t you see? Sir Bernard had the forgery created yesterday. The arrest warrants were issued only today. That means that he, either alone or in concert with others, decided a forgery was necessary to achieve their goals, goals issued to them most likely by the King. If we can show that their proof is indeed a forgery, then we can perhaps convince the King that this entire conspiracy is fake, that we are no threat to his rule, and save the Order from arrest and possible dissolution.”
The Templar Detective Page 13