The Templar Detective

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Valentin growled, raising both hands over his head, surging forward as he dropped his sword hard and fast, intending to cleave Marcus in two.

  Though only if he remained still.

  Marcus dove to his right, rolling on his good shoulder and recovering his feet, swinging his blade as he did so, catching Valentin’s side, lifting his chainmail up with the tip of his blade, revealing his bare torso. Marcus shoved forward, burying his blade deep inside his opponent. Valentin cried out as Marcus twisted the blade, surging to his full height and tipping Valentin off his feet and onto the floor, Marcus continuing forward and putting his full weight on the hilt.

  The blade hit stone, signaling it had passed completely through his opponent. Valentin’s eyes bulged, his mouth spurting blood as his hand slowly lost its grip on his sword. He stared up at Marcus as he withdrew his weapon, holding the sword out for Simon, who rushed forward and took it. Marcus dropped to his knees beside Valentin and placed a hand on his head, all of the Templars within the room bowing their heads as he recited the last rites.

  A tear rolled down Valentin’s cheek as he stared into Marcus’ eyes, fear now ruling them, then he shuddered, his last gasps finally falling silent, as the prayer was completed.

  Tears and sobs surrounded him as the ladies of the court were overwhelmed. Marcus rose and stepped away from the body, the pool of blood on the crisp white marble almost artistic in its contrast, shocking in its brutality. He bowed to King Philip, now standing, staring at the body of the commander of his Personal Guard.

  And he finally spoke.

  “The only crimes committed here today were that of Sir Valentin, and Sir Bernard. Sir Valentin has paid the ultimate price, and it is our decision that Sir Bernard should suffer the same fate. The rest of you we declare innocent of any crimes you have been accused of here today, and we wish you well.”

  With that, he departed through curtains behind the throne, his attendants following, his guard left rattled but still on watch. Marcus turned to the accused, still on their knees, and motioned for them to rise. “Come, my good men, my good innocent men! Rise, you are free!”

  They looked at each other for a moment before smiles broke out and they rose, hugs and hearty handshakes exchanged, Marcus treated as the hero of the hour with promises of never-ending hospitality and more. He merely smiled, nodding, careful to accept none of the offers without disrespecting those making them.

  After all, he was still a Templar, still avowed to a life of poverty, with a farm to work, and two young children to raise. Simon and David approached him, and hugs were exchanged, but no words. There was nothing to say, and frankly, he was all talked out. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken so many words. In fact, he was certain that with the possible exception of reading memorized passages from the Bible aloud, he had probably never said so much at once, unrehearsed.

  He actually felt some pride, and made a mental note to confess that sin the next time he saw the priest. As the Templar knights filed out of the palace, Marcus and his men followed, young Thomas in tow, and they soon found themselves in the courtyard, the knights quickly mounting their horses, the newly arrived guard, still outside the gates, standing down after being informed of what had just happened by a senior surviving member of the King’s Personal Guard.

  Marcus spotted Bernard standing not twenty paces away, held against the wall, surrounded by four guards. He was red, sweaty, and pacing back and forth in a rage that threatened to consume him.

  At the moment, he was everything he had never been described as. If anyone were to see him for the first time now, none could describe him as cowardly, an embarrassment, or a laughingstock. If anything, they’d describe him as a caged animal, filled with hate and rage, ready to pounce on anything if given the chance.

  Marcus frowned. The King’s sentence was clear, and he had no doubt it would be carried out swiftly.

  Simon yelled out, spinning toward a now running Thomas, a dagger gripped in his hand, the blade glistening in the afternoon sun. He raced toward Bernard, a roar filling the air, a roar of sorrow, a roar of rage, a roar of determination. Bernard spun toward him, his eyes widening as the guards stepped aside, allowing Thomas to plunge his liberated dagger into the belly of a shocked Bernard.

  Marcus’ eyes widened as he watched the young man lift the blade high, ensuring it was a deathblow, before pulling it out then tossing it aside as Bernard gasped his last breaths. The guards suddenly turned on Thomas, and Marcus surged forward, Simon and a dozen Templars quickly following with swords drawn. Marcus grabbed Thomas by the tunic and hauled him into the center of the quickly formed circle, pointing at the dying Bernard.

  “Let this be the last death here today! The King ordered him dead, and the son of one of his victims delivered the punishment. Would any man here deny him that right?”

  Nobody said anything, though a few heads shook.

  “Good. Then we shall leave, in peace, and someone will administer the last rites to this murderer. Leave it to God to decide if he should burn.”

  Marcus, still gripping Thomas’ tunic, marched him toward a horse and put him on it, then mounted another brought for him by David. They rode through the gates in the midst of the two hundred knights, and Marcus turned to the young man.

  “Are you okay?”

  Thomas’ eyes were wide, his chest was heaving, probably in shock at what he had just done.

  “Son?”

  Thomas’ head jerked toward Marcus. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  He thought for a moment. “I think so.”

  “What will you do now?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Try to keep my father’s business going, I guess.”

  Marcus smiled. “I think he would be proud to hear you say that. Just the honest part though, right?”

  Thomas chuckled. “I’m no talent like my father.”

  Marcus slapped him on the back. “I’m happy to hear that.” He thought for a moment, then said something that surprised him. “If you ever find yourself desperate enough to think you may stray to the wrong side of what is right, seek me out. I’ll be working my humble farm in Crécy-la-Chapelle. You’re welcome to join us at any time.”

  Thomas nodded. “I-I just might do that.” He smiled. “Thank you.”

  And before Marcus could say anything else, Thomas urged his horse forward, and he cut through the knights beside them, disappearing into the city streets he had grown up in.

  Simon watched after him. “Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

  Marcus frowned. “I fear we will.” He sighed. “But if we do, there’s plenty of room on the farm.”

  52

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  “You’re back!”

  Sir Marcus turned to see Bailiff’s Delegate Archambault rush from his tiny office, his hat in hand. “Yes.”

  “And, umm, were you successful in your task?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then who did it? Who committed the murders? Was it Templars like they say?”

  Marcus halted his horse, staring down at the man as a crowd began to surround them. “Like who say?”

  “Umm, well, the men who came to arrest Mr. Fabron. They said Templars were plotting against the King, and that they had murdered Mr. Fabron and his wife to cover up their crimes.”

  Marcus’ blood boiled. “All lies. It turns out that some of the King’s Personal Guard faked the evidence, murdered a Templar delegation from the Holy Land, and used their clothing to disguise themselves as Templars and commit the murders.”

  “Is this true?” asked someone in the crowd. “What proof do you have?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? If the crimes we Templars had been accused of were true, then we would have been arrested. Instead, the King has heard the evidence, dismissed the charges, and those responsible have been brought to justice.”

  Archambault nearly crumpled his hat. “Justice?”

  “They
’re in God’s hands now.”

  Archambault made the sign of the cross. “And what will you do now? Will you return to the Holy Land?”

  Marcus shook his head. “You know my plans. I intend to remain here and work the farm and raise my niece and nephew.” His eyes narrowed. “Why, do you have a problem with that?”

  Archambault quickly backed away several steps, shaking his head. “No, umm, no, it’s just that, well.”

  Marcus tensed. “What? What is it?”

  “Umm, there’s been a fire.”

  Marcus’ chest tightened, and he urged his horse forward, the villagers gathered barely having enough time to get out of the way, as he charged through the small cluster of buildings and into the farmland lining either side of his path. As he came over a crest in the road, he gasped, slowing down as he saw the barn, completely razed by fire.

  “Jacques! Angeline!” He raced toward the apparently unscathed farmhouse, no signs of life evident. Then he heard barking. “Tanya!”

  The dog tore around the house, and he leaped from his horse, the dog jumping into his arms, licking his soiled face. Three little squeals of delight raced into sight, their arms outstretched, and he dropped to his knees, hugging them hard, thanking God that He had watched over them.

  “Well, it’s about time!”

  He glanced up to see Isabelle standing in the doorway of the house, wiping her hands on an apron. “You said two days, and it’s been more than that.” She walked toward them, a hand out, ushering the children back. “You said you’d send word.”

  “It was difficult, what with being arrested for treason.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were arrested?”

  “Yes. I was to be put to death. So was David.”

  Simon leaned forward, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “I saved the day.”

  Marcus grinned. “That he did. With a little help.”

  David nodded. “This is true. You’ve never heard anyone speak so eloquently to the King. Sir Marcus saved a lot of lives.”

  “The bravest man I know. He even felled a mighty knight in the King’s court.”

  “Sliced him open in front of everyone.”

  “Easily twice his size.”

  “You’ve never seen such a man.”

  Marcus shook his head, holding up a hand. “They exaggerate, I assure you.”

  But Isabelle wasn’t hearing him, her cheeks flushed, her breathing rapid, her eyes fixated on him as if he were the only thing in the world. She appeared as if she might faint.

  He glanced over at Simon and David, both with grins.

  Then he stopped.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” He pointed at the barn. “And what happened here?”

  Isabelle finally snapped out of whatever was happening to her and sighed, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You wouldn’t believe what has happened here.” She jabbed a finger at the village. “They burned it!”

  Marcus’ jaw dropped. “What?”

  “They burned it! They heard that you Templars were plotting against the King, that you had murdered Mr. Fabron, so they came here to burn everything. Luckily, Jeremy had just arrived, and he fought them off, but not before the barn was set afire. He managed to save the animals but was almost killed.” She gestured toward Tanya, sitting on her haunches, panting up at Marcus, her tail wagging furiously. “That creature saved him. She went into the flames and pulled him out.”

  Marcus smiled at the dog, and she began to rise, anticipating some attention. “Where is he?”

  “Inside. I put him in your bed.”

  Marcus and the others went inside to find Jeremy propped up on several pillows, a glass of water in his hand.

  David snorted. “You’ll never get rid of the smell now.”

  Simon agreed. “Better to burn the place.”

  “Haha. Good to see you too.”

  Marcus strode over to his squire and sat on the edge of the bed. “I understand I owe you my thanks.”

  “I’ll settle for not having to kiss your royal ass.”

  Marcus chuckled. “You’re a good man.” Tanya poked her nose into the proceedings, and Jeremy scratched her behind the ear.

  “Thanks to this girl, I’m alive to enjoy the accolades.”

  David grunted. “I think he’s faking it. I say we put him to work rebuilding the barn. After all, we all need some place to sleep.”

  Jeremy faked falling faint, his hands flopping out to his sides, his head rolling back. “Oh, I’m so weak…”

  Simon swatted his feet. “Kiss his royal ass.”

  “Oh no! They’re back!” cried Isabelle from the front of the house.

  Marcus rushed out of the room, followed by the others, Tanya racing ahead and out the door, barking. He rushed past Isabelle and into the sunlight to see several dozen villagers coming up the path. He reached for his sword when Archambault waved at him with a smile, and he noticed that the men were carrying tools, and the women food and drink.

  “Sir Marcus! Sir Marcus! So sorry to startle you!”

  Marcus snapped his fingers at Tanya, and she stopped her snarling and returned to his side, sitting.

  “We, umm, they, umm.” Archambault shrugged. “We felt bad about the misunderstanding, so we’ve come to make amends. We want to rebuild your barn.”

  Shame was written on many of the faces, clearly belonging to those who had taken part in the crime. And while part of him would like to lay a good beating down on them, if he was going to live in this village and make it his home, he would need friends.

  He stepped forward, smiling broadly. “Then we welcome you! All is forgiven and forgotten!”

  Smiles spread, and the crowd pressed forward, the men heading to the barn, the women laying out blankets for what he was sure would prove to be a feast fit for kings.

  “Umm, Sir Marcus, there is one matter we need to discuss.”

  Marcus turned to Archambault. “What?”

  “Well, umm, I’m not sure how to say this, but word came back from Paris. Young Pierre, here, has no surviving family. He will have to go to an orphanage.”

  Pierre burst into tears, and Marcus spun toward the boy, not aware the poor child was within earshot. He dropped to a knee and reached out for the boy who rushed into his arms. “Please, sir, don’t make me go!”

  Marcus gave him a hug then pushed him back so he could look him in the eyes. “How would you feel about staying with us?”

  Pierre beamed, his eyes widening. “C-can I?”

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Archambault. “Well?”

  Archambault shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  Marcus turned back to Pierre. “Then it’s settled. You’ll stay with us, if you wish it.”

  Pierre bounced in place, barely containing his glee. “I do! I do!”

  Marcus laughed, then swatted him on the bottom. “Now go play with the others, and stay out of the way. There’s work to be done.” He rose and stared at the villagers at work, Simon, Jeremy, and David at his side, Isabelle in the doorway.

  Simon looked at him. “Do you think we can do this?”

  Marcus surveyed the sight before his eyes, and goosebumps rushed over his body, an almost spiritual rapture erupting from within. And he smiled.

  “With the good Lord on our side, how can we fail?”

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  The idea for this novel came from a discussion with my father. I had known for some time that I wanted to write a novel about the Templars, that dealt exclusively with them. For those of you who read my James Acton Thrillers, you will probably have already enjoyed The Templar’s Relic (four weeks on the USA Today list) and The Templar’s Revenge. While those books have historical elements, they were still mostly focused on the modern day action.

  I wanted something different.

  The concept of the wounded warrior, forced to return home, was already there, and I had the idea that he would be forced to solve some crime. During the spit-
balling session, I blurted out that he was some sort of Templar detective. I made note of the idea by sending myself an email with “TEMPLAR DETECTIVE” in the subject line, and continued the conversation.

  But those two words continued to gnaw at me, and the next day I realized that they were the key, and The Templar Detective was born. I Googled it, in quotes, and found only three hits on the entire Internet, none of which had to do with anything related to what I was thinking about.

  Three hits.

  Almost unheard of these days.

  This novel is dedicated to a man named Ken Arundel. He was my first real boss when I was a teenager, and challenged me to learn new things, despite my resistance. I was a computer geek, rare back then, and actually taught programming to gifted children, and basic computer skills at the local college. At sixteen, I was hired as a research assistant, and when he realized I actually could code, he wanted me to work on something in a language called CLIPPER (that sound you just heard were fellow veteran geeks the world over oohing in recognition). I wanted to work in WordPerfect macros, but he insisted.

  So I reluctantly agreed.

  And it led to a career in the IT world that would surprisingly prepare me for my eventual life as a full-time writer.

  In the strange world of coincidences, about fifteen years later, the organization I worked for under Ken ordered a software product from the company I founded about five years after working for him. I immediately recognized the organization’s name, and in an even greater coincidence, I recognized the last name of the woman who had placed the order.

  I sent her an email, and it turned out she was indeed the sister of one of my best friends who had died tragically in a car accident when he was barely 18. Some might remember I once dedicated a book to my two friends, Garry and Daryl, who died so horribly.

  It was a tearful exchange, so many memories dragged back to the surface for both of us, and that was when I had learned Ken Arundel had recently died.