The several score of captured guards and other palace staff, were held nearby, and he quickly strode over to the group. “Who here is Sir Valentin’s squire?”
The gathered group looked at each other, nobody admitting to holding the position, and he had no time to waste.
“Step forward now”—he partially drew his sword—“or I stop asking politely.”
Somebody yelped, one of the palace guards stepping through the others, a young man held by the scruff of his neck, his feet barely touching the ground, swinging his arms in an attempt to escape what must have been a crushing grip. “I believe this is the one you’re looking for.” The young man was deposited in a heap in front of Simon.
“Are you Sir Valentin’s squire?”
The man said nothing.
Simon reached down and hauled him to his feet. “I’m not here to hurt you, boy, but if you make me ask again, I’ll hand you over to him”—he pointed at the most menacing Templar within view—“and he’ll make you wish you were never born.”
The knight growled, baring his teeth, the young man immediately trembling.
“Y-yes, I’m his squire.”
“Your name?”
“Yannick.”
“Very well, Yannick. Where are your master’s horses?”
Yannick pointed with a shaky finger to the left of the palace.
“Show me.”
Yannick quickly headed in the direction he had pointed, Simon following. They rounded the corner, and a large set of impressive stables were revealed, dozens of horses visible, now tended by several Templar squires. Yannick came to a halt just before the horses, still skittish from the ruckus of only minutes ago.
“Which are your master’s?”
“He had four.”
“Show me.”
Yannick picked through the horses, finding the first. Simon motioned for one of the Templar squires to hold it, and soon all four were separated from the group.
“Show me the Templar uniforms.”
Yannick paled. “I-I don’t know—”
Simon placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, and Yannick’s eyes bulged. He rushed toward one of the horses, opened its saddlebags, and retrieved a white surcoat and tunic. He brought them to Simon. Simon handed the surcoat to one of the squires, then examined the tunic. He exchanged it for the surcoat, and almost immediately a smile spread across his face. He pointed at the horse. “And this is Sir Valentin’s?”
Yannick nodded.
“Prove it.”
Yannick pointed at the horse. “This is his family crest.”
“And will you swear to your king that this surcoat was in the saddlebags of your master?”
Yannick hesitated.
Simon stepped slightly closer. “You will be required to answer this question in front of the King. Would you lie to him?”
Yannick’s head shook furiously. “N-no.”
“Then I ask you again. Will you swear to your king that this surcoat was in the saddlebags of your master?”
Yannick’s shoulders sank, and his chin dropped to his chest as he stared at the ground. “Yes.”
“And you will swear that you have seen him wear this very disguise over the past several days?”
“Yes.”
“That is all I need to hear.” Simon turned to the squires. “Bring him and the horse, and be quick about it. There’s little time.”
“Here they come!” shouted someone from the front gate, causing Simon’s heart to beat a little more rapidly. He grabbed Yannick by the tunic and raced toward the palace entrance as he watched a large column of the King’s guard approach the gate, a bloody battle about to begin if he didn’t put an end to this soon.
Sir Valentin had taken over the questioning, much to Marcus’ relief. It was clear now that Valentin realized he had been deceived, and was now looking to shift all guilt to Bernard. He was indeed a victim here as well, but Marcus was convinced that this man, though perhaps a patsy with respect to the forgery, was the man behind the murders of at least four people, five if one counted the man murdered by Bernard himself.
“And how did you know Sir Bernard?”
“We were friends.”
There was some laughter from the crowd, and Valentin smiled. “You, a peasant, were friends with someone from one of the most powerful families in the kingdom?”
Thomas stared at his well-worn shoes, his cheeks burning. “When we were children. My father did some work for his father. That was how we met. We used to sneak out of our homes and meet. That was many years ago, however.”
“And now you claim that one of the most powerful families in the realm, had business with a peasant shopkeeper like your father?”
“Yes.”
“Your father, a known criminal.”
“Not known, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was not a known criminal, sir. You never caught him.”
Marcus suppressed a laugh, delighting in the hint of a smile curling at the corners of Thomas’ mouth as the audience gave in, their laughter mixed with a few cheers.
“And you claim Sir Bernard, a nobleman, had business with your father two nights ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To create this forgery.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have proof of what you say?”
“Only my father’s confession, the fact the signatures match too perfectly, and my own word.”
Valentin scoffed. “I’m to take the word of a peasant over the word of a nobleman?”
“You should take the word of an honest man over that of a liar any day, sir.”
Several clapped, and Valentin’s tone changed abruptly, a smile spreading.
“And you, good sir, would be correct. I should, and I will. It seems clear to me that we have all been deceived by Sir Bernard, and the proof is in this boy’s brave words, and his father’s own written confession.” He spun on Bernard. “Do you admit to your crimes?”
“I admit nothing!”
“So you would continue to shame your family? You would continue this pattern of cowardliness you have become a laughingstock over? You would continue to be the embarrassment to the aristocracy that you have proven yourself to be to this point?”
Bernard’s face was as red as a Templar’s cross, his fists clenching and unclenching, as he struggled to maintain control.
He lost.
“I am no coward! I am no laughingstock! Would a man such as this be able to devise a plan so cunning, that even a king could be fooled? Would a coward leave his unit, travel to Paris, commission a forgery so perfect that the great Sir Valentin de Vaux was tricked into bringing it to his king? Would a coward then kill the forger, then kill one of those named on the list to provide a plausible explanation as to how he obtained the document? These aren’t the actions of a coward! These aren’t the actions of an embarrassment! These are the actions of a knight, worthy of his family name, and worthy of his own respect!
“Yes, I admit to everything you accuse me of, because I was doing what needed to be done! The King wanted proof that the Templars were betraying him, and you couldn’t find it! Well, I did! I had it created, then found it, then presented it. Me! Me the coward! Me the embarrassment! Me the laughingstock!” He jabbed a finger at Valentin. “Well, who’s the embarrassment now? Who’s the laughingstock now? You! You, that’s who! You fell for my scheme, and if you had the balls you claim to have, you never would have let these vermin”—he spat at Marcus and Thomas—“speak. If you had put them in their place, the King would have had what he wanted, instead of being embarrassed by your incompetence!”
Valentin stood silently, allowing the verbal barrage to continue, each spat phrase another shovelful of dirt dug for the future grave of young Bernard. Marcus bit his tongue, almost drawing blood, as he hid his glee. Bernard had just confessed to everything, including the commission of the forgery, the murder of Thomas’ father, and deceiving the King.
&n
bsp; Marcus glanced at King Philip, who sat unmoving on his throne, listening to the tirade, no emotion revealed, but his red ears suggesting he was furious.
Bernard finally fell silent, his chest heaving, his forehead beaded with sweat, perhaps having said all that he wanted to, or perhaps realizing he had said too much.
Either way, it was Valentin’s turn.
“Arrest this man for treason against the King. Hold him outside.”
Bernard was grabbed on either side by two of the guards, his sword and dagger removed. He shook off their grip and straightened his tunic. He glared at Valentin, then turned to King Philip and bowed deeply, not saying a word.
The King ignored him.
He strode past the gathered crowds toward the entrance, the men glaring at him, the women hiding behind their fans, their eyes wide and their cheeks flushed, this probably the most thrilling spectacle most had seen outside the playhouses.
Nothing beat the truth for excitement.
Valentin turned toward King Philip and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, I must take full responsibility for this fiasco. Sir Bernard was under my command, and I should have known what was happening. I apologize for any embarrassment I may have caused you, and I stand ready to receive any punishment you feel is necessary. All I ask is that you spare my men. They had no more idea of what Sir Bernard was up to than I did, but he was not under their command, so they bear no responsibility.”
He bowed even deeper.
“Sir.”
Marcus turned to see Simon standing behind him with a Templar squire holding the reins of a horse belonging to the King’s guard, one of the palace squires standing beside it. Simon handed him a Templar surcoat, holding up one of the corners.
Marcus smiled.
He turned toward the King as he considered Valentin’s plea. There was little doubt the King would pardon him, laying all the blame on Bernard. After all, they had his confession, and everything here today with respect to the arrests and the charges, were all linked to the forged document.
And if that were the only crime, Marcus would have been content to remain silent.
But it wasn’t.
And he wasn’t.
“Your Majesty, if I may, there is one other thing to consider before you make your decision on whether or not to assign blame to Sir Valentin.”
King Philip redirected his gaze, still saying nothing. Marcus bowed slightly. “There is the matter of the murder of the entire delegation of Templars from the Holy Land, the murders of Mr. Fabron and his wife, and at least three other murders that we know of. One from the delegation, and all of the other victims, with the exception of Mrs. Fabron, were named in the forgery. Surely those responsible for these murders must be brought to justice.”
King Philip nodded slightly, his eyes flaring, suggesting he wasn’t pleased with this turn of events, and doubt now threatened to rule Marcus. Perhaps he should have simply let things lie as they were a moment ago. The murders had been stopped, they knew who the murderers were, and one of them would likely be put to death, so what was there to be gained? God would deliver justice upon the others, so who was he to pursue this?
He glanced at Thomas, his eyes filled with tears, and thought of young Pierre back at his farm.
That’s why you’re doing this. He deserves justice. All the families deserve justice.
He drew a deep breath, forging onward. “Your Majesty, when the bodies of the delegation from the Holy Land were discovered, they had been stripped of anything that might identify them as Templars, though a mistake was made. Besides the numbers matching the delegation exactly, they also all carried purses with no more than four deniers in them, a princely sum for none.”
Murmurs of explanation swept the court as those in the know explained to those who didn’t, that only Templars would carry so little money on them due to their vows of poverty.
“And as we’ve discussed earlier, it was men disguised as Templar knights that committed the murders.” He held up over his head the surcoat handed to him by Simon. “Using the very clothes taken from the murdered delegation!”
Gasps broke out.
He stepped closer to Valentin. “Do you recognize this?”
“Should I?”
Marcus smiled at the response. It sounded outwardly calm, innocent, but it was the eyes that were giving away the truth. “It was taken from your own horse.” He motioned toward the horse held by the Templar squire. “This is your horse, is it not?” He quickly strode over to the horse and pointed at the crest. “Is this not your crest? It matches that proudly sewn on your tunic.”
Valentin turned slightly red. “It is.”
Marcus marched back toward Valentin, holding out the surcoat. “Then I ask again, do you recognize this?”
Valentin nodded. “Yes, I do now. We found a stash of Templar equipment several days ago. My men and I collected it, with the intent of returning it to your Order when our mission was complete.”
Marcus bowed, turning to the King then those gathered with a smile, the surcoat held up in one hand, his arms outstretched. “A very reasonable explanation. Completely plausible, and one I think we all should believe, as after all, Sir Valentin is a man of honor, has admitted to being duped along with the rest of us by the real criminal, Sir Bernard, and has thrown himself on the mercy of our good King.”
Nods of agreement encircled the room.
“And I would agree with everything I just said, if it weren’t for one thing.”
Hushed silence washed over everyone.
He held up the corner of the surcoat. The torn corner of the surcoat. “Except for this one, tiny detail.” He stepped toward Valentin, holding up the corner. “Do you see this?”
“Of course.”
“And what do you see, for those with poor eyesight.”
“A surcoat with a torn corner.”
“Exactly! A torn corner. Do you know what happened to that corner?” He held up a finger, cutting off Valentin. “When did you say you found this? Four days ago was it?”
“I believe so.”
“Come, my good sir, you must know. You’re a knight! An honored nobleman! Surely you can remember when you discovered something as significant as a stash of Templar clothing.”
“It was four days ago.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Excellent. So you had this robe in your possession four days ago.” Marcus spun toward the crowd. “And Mr. Fabron and his wife were murdered three days ago, by men wearing Templar robes, as witnessed by their son, and by townsfolk who saw them race out of town on horseback.”
“I fail to see what this has to do with me.”
Marcus smiled, reaching into his pocket and producing the piece of cloth found gripped in Mr. Fabron’s hand. He held it up for the crowd to see. “In Mr. Fabron’s hand, I found this piece of cloth, covered in his own blood, obviously torn from whoever had attacked him and his wife.” He tossed the surcoat to a startled Valentin, who caught it, his eyes wide. “Hold out the torn corner for me, would you?”
Valentin stared at him for a moment, but complied, and Marcus strode toward him, the piece of cloth held out in front of him in both hands, the two torn sides pointed toward Valentin, then abruptly stopped, bringing the piece into position, revealing a perfect match for the missing corner.
“It matches!”
Gasps and cries exploded around him, shouts of indignation erupting from some as the truth of what had just been revealed was realized.
He held up the piece of cloth. “Direct from the dead man’s hand, is the proof of who committed his murder, the murder of his poor, innocent wife, and most likely the murders of several others.” He swung an arm out to his side, pointing directly at Valentin, playing his role as if an actor on the stage. “I give you, Your Majesty, your murderer!”
Outrage enveloped the room and Valentin went red, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Marcus like a cornered animal. What happene
d next would seal the man’s fate.
He drew his sword, a roar escaping as he did so.
Admission of guilt?
“Sir!”
Marcus spun to see a sword tossed by Simon soaring through the air. He leaped up and grabbed it, swinging to parry the first blow from Valentin. Screams from the ladies gathered wasn’t enough to cause the crowds to flee, all too terrified and enthralled with what was happening. Marcus slowly circled with his enemy, the King’s guard at the ready, not to help their disgraced commander, but to protect the King, a king who now leaned forward on his thrown, apparently as eager as his subjects to see blood drawn this day.
And Marcus was happy to oblige, for today he was an instrument of God, sent here, at this moment, to deliver this murderer of innocents to the depths of Hell.
He had been in many sword fights over the decades, and had usually been victorious. But he was old now, probably ten years the senior to Valentin. Yet youth wasn’t everything, just as strength wasn’t. As a Templar, he had dueled almost every day for twenty years, often against men he would characterize as twice his size, and far too many nearly half his age.
Which meant fear didn’t rule his heart, nor did anger. His thoughts were pure. He was an instrument of good, and he recognized in his foe not only fear, but anger.
Two emotions that had no place in a battle one hoped to win.
Valentin swung again, Marcus easily deflecting the blow.
“So I take it this is an admission to your crimes?”
“I admit nothing. I am merely going to silence a peddler of lies.”
He swung again, Marcus ducking, striking a counterblow across Valentin’s chest that knocked the wind out of him, causing him to stumble backward. He quickly recovered, and took a defensive position.
Marcus smiled, attempting to control his breathing so he wouldn’t appear as exhausted as he was, having gone without food or drink for almost a day, and sleep even longer. He would have to end this quickly, for he was certain Valentin was well fed and rested. “So now I am a liar, despite the proof I presented?” He thrust toward Valentin’s chest, his sword deflected. “I say you are the liar, sir. And I hesitate to call you ‘sir,’ now that we know you are a murderer. You are no longer worthy of such an honorable title.”
The Templar Detective Page 19