The Templar Detective

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “We’re here!” shouted someone ahead, and everyone in their transport turned to look down the road, and any joviality that might have been present was wiped away with the view ahead of them.

  The Palais de la Cité.

  Home of King Philip IV, the King of France.

  And no friend of the Templars.

  45

  En route to Paris, Kingdom of France

  Simon leaned forward in his saddle, urging his horse on at breakneck speed as he followed their guide, Thomas taking up the rear. He checked over his shoulder, the young man immediately behind him, determination on his face, rather than the fear of the night before.

  He sensed the urgency as well. If they didn’t warn the Papal delegation about to arrive in the city, depending on the state of affairs when they reached their destination, they could be met with overwhelming force and arrested. It all depended on when they arrived.

  And how.

  They had to beat Sir Bernard and his co-conspirators, though he feared there was little chance of that. But if they could reach the palace in time, perhaps they could beat the issuance of any decrees that might order the arrest of all Templars across the kingdom.

  An order Simon had no doubt would spread across all of Christendom, for if the Templars were willing to work toward overthrowing one king, then why not another? Or them all?

  “I see them!” shouted Mario over his shoulder.

  Simon rose slightly in his saddle and spotted the rear of the convoy, Templar and Papal flags clearly visible.

  And a rearguard already turning to challenge them.

  “Ease up!” ordered Simon, slowing his steed, Mario doing the same a moment later. Simon took the lead, his sergeant’s surcoat enough to put at ease the knights now challenging them.

  “State your business!”

  “I need to speak to your commander. I have urgent news.”

  The knight assessed him for a moment, then nodded. “Follow me.” The knights surrounded Mario and Thomas, as Simon was led to the center of the still advancing procession, a distinguished knight, his long gray beard a vibrant white, examining the new arrival.

  “Sir, he says he has urgent news.”

  The knight motioned for Simon to ride beside him. “Your name, sergeant?”

  “Simon Chastain, under the command of Sir Marcus de Rancourt.”

  The knight’s eyes widened. “Sir Marcus? I know him well. I am Sir Jermaine de Gardannes. We served together for many years. How is he?”

  Simon shook his head. “He’s been arrested, sir. That’s what I’ve come to warn you about. You may be heading into a trap.”

  Sir Jermaine raised a fist. “Halt!” The order was repeated up and down the convoy, and he turned his horse to face Simon. “Explain.”

  “Sir, there have been several murders, committed we believe by members of the King’s Personal Guard. Sir Marcus was investigating these crimes at the behest of Sir Raimond de Comps, and the local Bailiff’s Delegate. These murderers disguised themselves as Templars”—this elicited raised eyebrows from Jermaine and muttered utterances from those now surrounding them—“and have been seeking a document that they believed implicated our Order in a conspiracy to overthrow the King.”

  “Preposterous!”

  “I agree, sir, and we now have the proof that it is indeed so.” He produced the copy of the forgery, and the signed confession, handing them to Jermaine, then turned in his saddle toward the rear of the convoy. “Please have the boy brought forward!” The order was passed along, and he returned his attention to Jermaine as he read the documents, his eyes widening, his cheeks reddening with anger. “I have the forger’s son with me. Sir Bernard told him everything over too much drink, and was with his father in his dying moments.”

  “He was killed?”

  “Yes, by Sir Bernard.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “Yes. The son saw Sir Bernard leave only moments before he discovered his father bleeding to death, and his father told him so. There can be no doubt.”

  Jermaine’s head slowly bobbed. He shook the papers. “This is most disturbing. You say this Sir Bernard is behind it. I’m not familiar with him. What can you tell me?”

  “All that I’ve been able to gather is that he is not very well respected, though his family is. Thomas here”—he gestured toward Thomas as his companions arrived—“would be able to tell you more, but there is no time. Sir Bernard has concocted this plan to try and gain respect in the court. We don’t even know if anyone else knows about the forgery. He could be passing it off as the genuine article. It was Sir Marcus’ hope that by revealing it to be a forgery, this entire affair could be forgotten. But in order to do that, we must intercept the King’s Personal Guard escorting the arrested men named on that document before they reach the King.”

  Jermaine pursed his lips. “You said Sir Marcus has been arrested?”

  “Yes, along with one of his squires, David. Many Templars were apparently arrested along with those named in the forgery, and are being taken to Paris.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “They left from a town less than an hour from here late last night.”

  Jermaine shook his head. “Then they are most likely already at their destination.”

  Simon frowned. “Agreed, though perhaps not long enough to have done much damage, as they were traveling with wagons.”

  “Yes, but enough has probably been said already to prevent us from seeking an audience with His Majesty.”

  “Well, I had a thought about that.”

  Jermaine’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And that thought was?”

  “We don’t seek an audience.”

  A smile slowly spread across Jermaine’s face. “You propose to not give the King a choice?”

  Simon shrugged. “If we are to be condemned as traitors, what more could he do to us?”

  Jermaine tossed his head back and laughed, the others gathered joining in. “I like the way you think, sergeant.” He rose in his saddle. “Leave ten to guard the dignitaries. The rest, to the palace with haste!”

  46

  Palais de la Cité

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  Sir Marcus shuffled toward the rear of the transport, leaping to the ground when it was finally his turn. He stared in awe at the spectacle, the palace a sight to behold, the only thing comparable in his mind, Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome, something he had only seen once on his way to the Holy Land twenty years ago.

  There were sights more beautiful in the Holy Land, but they were usually ancient and well worn, scarred by battle and the elements, their beauty coming from the history within their walls, and the knowledge of the souls who had once walked the spaces contained within.

  And though the history here wasn’t something he felt any connection to, it was still an impressive sight, and by the reception they had received already, it was clear they were expected, and that whatever was to happen here would happen expediently. There had been no stop at a prison beforehand, no attempt to interrogate anyone. This wasn’t to be a trial, this was to be a presentation of the guilty, and the evidence to prove it—a forged document, that no one beyond him, David, and Sir Bernard, apparently knew was so.

  And without the proof of that forgery, he was at a loss as to what to do. All he could do was pray that somehow Simon reached them in time with the documents, but looking about at the scores of guards, he doubted his sergeant would be allowed past the gates to present the proof of their innocence.

  He feared their salvation would never be given the chance to be heard before the decrees were issued dictating their executions and the arrests of all Templars within the kingdom. And once issued, there would be no going back on them, even if the evidence were later presented.

  It would be too much of an embarrassment for the King to admit he had been deceived.

  As he shuffled toward the grand entrance with the others, their wrists and ankles chained, he stared up a
t the sky and said a prayer for those with him about to be condemned, for his Order and its faithful, pious members, and for the two small children about to once again lose the hope so recently restored.

  His eyes burned and he closed them, a determination growing within that he had to somehow save himself, if only for the sake of the two tiny souls so dependent upon him.

  47

  Approaching Paris, Kingdom of France

  Simon felt like he once again had a purpose, was once again the warrior monk he had always aspired to be. There was nothing like being surrounded by his brothers to make him feel a part of something larger than himself, to feel that his life had meaning.

  And charging on horseback, surrounded by two-hundred knights in full armor and regalia, the white surcoats of the knights, the black of the sergeants, and the brown of the laymen, made him feel like he was back on the battlefields of the Holy Land, racing into battle against an unholy enemy.

  How could he ever give this feeling up?

  He had meant it when he said he would stay with Marcus on the farm, yet right now, at this very moment, he had his doubts. The rush he felt in times like these was something that brought him closer to God, an almost rapturous feeling overwhelming his body that was the closest thing to eternal bliss he could imagine, and it was how he pictured Heaven would be like for eternity.

  Constant ecstasy, surrounded by one’s brothers.

  As the outskirts of Paris neared, he frowned as they charged past humble farms, tended by peasants forced into a life of eternal poverty, never having taken the vows as he had, voluntarily. Yet did that mean they were any less close to God than he was? Was he better than them because he had volunteered for a life of poverty? And were their lives any less rewarding? Everything he needed was provided to him by the Order. Clothing, food, drink, lodging. Even his horse and equipment were provided. He wanted for nothing. No, it wasn’t a life of luxury by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a good life compared to many he had seen.

  So how was he any closer to God than these people, who worked hard day in and day out, tending their fields and flocks? If he were indeed committed to a life of serving his Lord, wouldn’t the simple life of a farmer, devoted to helping a man he respected tremendously raise two young children, be a better life than one that some might consider selfish? Was it selfish to want to spend one’s days with one’s brothers, in relative comfort compared to many, with the occasional thrill of battle? He didn’t really think so, but as he passed these farms, he wondered just how pious a life he had chosen compared to these good people on either side of the road upon which they now charged.

  The farms gave way to the city, and as they pressed through the streets, the curious citizenry rushing out of their way, he saw what true poverty looked like.

  And it made him feel even more uncertain as to the life he had chosen. What sacrifices had he truly made? For these people, life was a constant struggle. All he had done was join a brotherhood that gave him everything he needed, in exchange for his loyalty.

  A pit formed in his stomach, a pit of shame, at having second thoughts about staying with his brother, with his friend. All doubt was now removed. He would remain, and it would bring him closer to God, which was all he had ever wanted.

  Now he just had to save his friend, and his brotherhood, so that the dream wasn’t lost for all.

  48

  Palais de la Cité

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  Sir Marcus watched as the prisoners were unshackled, the King apparently not a fan of the sound the chains made. There had been debate among some, but Sir Valentin had prevailed as the head of the King’s Personal Guard.

  The guard with the key stopped in front of Marcus and David. “What about these two? They’re Templars, and not old like these others.”

  Valentin approached Marcus, his eyes assessing him. If things were to go badly, if he had any hope of escape, he needed to be free of these shackles, otherwise he’d be led like a lamb to the slaughter.

  Marcus raised his chained hands. “If we are guilty of the crimes you say we are, then I am indeed a threat. But I am but one man, unarmed. If I were to try anything, then surely your men are capable of stopping me. And should I try something, then surely it would prove my guilt, and your case, against me. Remove my shackles, and let me prove either your case, or mine.”

  “That I am being played for the fool.”

  Marcus bowed slightly. “And we both know you are no fool, though no man is above being played for one. It is the fool who eventually doesn’t figure it out, but I am confident you will.”

  Valentin stared at him for a moment, then flicked his wrist. “Remove his shackles. We wouldn’t want to annoy the King with their unholy sound.” He walked away as Marcus’ chains were removed. He rubbed his wrists and watched as David was freed as well.

  “You continue to challenge him,” whispered David. “Is that wise?”

  “I’m continuing to force him to question what is going on.”

  “And by not telling him? What do you continue to hope to accomplish?”

  “I want his imagination to come up with something. If I told him the document was a forgery, he’d simply dismiss it. But by not telling him, by making him question everything, he may yet figure it out himself.”

  “Now who’s the fool?”

  Marcus grinned at David. “Let us pray that it is not I, or no amount of royal ass kissing will get either of us out of this.”

  49

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  Thomas’ heart slammed, the rush of excitement and terror at this moment overwhelming. He had never ridden this hard before, and never while surrounded by knights in full armor, their colors boldly displayed for all to see.

  As they raced through the streets he had grown up in, he spotted the odd familiar face, and was sure some had even pointed at him, though he truly had no time to take notice. This was a desperate charge, these men forcing their way through the crowded streets, almost oblivious to those occupying the cobblestone, knowing that if they failed, they could all be condemned to death.

  These were men with nothing left to lose.

  He had never been comfortable with his father’s line of work—at least his unofficial line. He was proud of him for knowing how to read and write in a world where those skills were rare among their class, and it was a skill he was thankful his father had passed on to him, no matter how much he had complained at first. None of his friends possessed these skills, and it had been a difficult sell on his father’s part to convince him it would be a benefit someday.

  He had been right. He enjoyed being able to read and write, and when he returned home, he would attempt to keep his father’s business alive, though he feared, without the skills of a forger, something he had tried his hand at and failed miserably, there wouldn’t be enough money to keep going.

  Though he was now supporting only one.

  His heart ached at the thought of how his father had died. He had always imagined it being something peaceful, in his sleep. Never could he have dreamed it would be something so horrific, so terrifying. He was stabbed in the stomach, which meant he would have been facing Bernard, possibly looking into his eyes. He would have seen the face of his killer, peering into a soul consumed by evil, and that image would have haunted him in his final moments.

  Thomas thanked the good Lord his work had been canceled. If it hadn’t been for that stroke of misfortune, he would have never had those last few moments with his father. He smiled slightly, glancing up at the heavens above.

  The Lord works in mysterious ways.

  He had been given a gift by his savior, a gift that gave him not only a few more precious moments with his father, but the answers to the mystery that would have gone unsolved. Who had killed him, and why. And now, with the answers to those questions, he had been given an opportunity to not only seek justice, but prevent the destruction of perhaps the most important order of knights to have ever blessed this
earth.

  All because by some tiny miracle, he had been cheated out of an honest day’s labor.

  He glanced at the knights on either side of him, their bright white tunics and crisp red crosses inspiring, and he wondered what life as a Templar might be like. He could never imagine himself as a warrior. He didn’t have the temperament for it. Though with his skills in reading and writing, and even basic arithmetic, he might be of service to them in some way.

  “On guard!”

  He glanced ahead but could see nothing, only hear what was happening. Swords clashed, women screamed, and men cried out. The phalanx of man and beast slowed, if only for a moment, then surged forward once again. Thomas glanced to his left and right to see half a dozen of the King’s guard either dead or tending their wounds, no match for the two hundred strong that had challenged them.

  He felt a surge of pride to be associated with such great men, then fear gripped him as he realized that should these knights be condemned, he too would be along with them.

  He stared at the black surcoat of Simon ahead of him, wondering if he had made the right choice in coming with him.

  50

  Palais de la Cité

  Paris, Kingdom of France

  They had been forced to their knees in front of their king, they had each been named along with their crimes, and now the evidence was being presented, a single piece of evidence, that named but seven of the men here today, the rest all accused of being accomplices.

  “I have never seen this document before!” declared the seventh and final signatory, repeating the oath of the previous six. “I will admit that this does appear to be my signature, but I swear to you and to God, that I never signed this document.”

  Sir Valentin motioned toward the man as he turned to King Philip. “Again, Your Majesty, the words of a found out man. They deny the contents of the document, yet all admit that their signatures appear genuine. Are we to believe these lies? I say their guilt is clear. These men are traitors, plotting against your God-given mastery over these lands and your subjects. These Templars, and their treasonous partners of the aristocracy, have been plotting to overthrow you, and take power for themselves. I, along with my second-in-command, Sir Bernard de Claret”—he bowed toward a man who returned the gesture, slightly deeper, giving Marcus his first confirmation of who the man behind this criminal enterprise was—“uncovered this plot, a plot you so wisely suspected, and it is with great humility that I submit to you that these men are guilty, and deserve immediate execution. I also suggest, humbly, that an immediate decree be issued, ordering the arrest of all Templars within the realm, and the seizure of all their assets within our borders.”