The Templar Detective, Page 2

Sir Marcus slowly awoke, his head pounding, his mouth dry as if he had gone without for days. He slowly opened his equally dry eyes, forcing himself to blink several times before he recognized where he was. And breathed a sigh of relief. He was in the hospital, a familiar place, though this was the first time he was a patient. He had visited many a wounded brother here over the years, and had been fortunate to have never been wounded beyond anything his squire could attend to personally.

  He reached for his shoulder and winced, the very motion agonizing.

  “Sir, you’re awake!”

  There was a little too much surprise in his sergeant’s voice to not be concerned. “You expected otherwise?”

  Simon appeared in his field of vision with a cup, pressing it against Marcus’ lips. “Drink.”

  Marcus felt the cool liquid and opened his mouth, drinking greedily as his thirst was quenched, if only slightly. The cup was soon emptied. “More.”

  Simon nodded, returning a moment later, the task repeated several times before Marcus felt satisfied.

  “The battle?”

  “We were victorious. They didn’t attack again once their volley was finished. I think it was designed to soften us up for next time.”

  Marcus smiled at his underling. “You think?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard? I’ve been promoted to Grand Master while you were sleeping.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t salute.”

  “I’ll let you get away with it this time, since you’re wounded.”

  Marcus chuckled, glancing at his shoulder. “So, what of it? What do they say?”

  “They say you’ll recover, but you may never have full use of your arm again.”

  Marcus frowned, clenching his fist. His shoulder ached with the motion, but he could see no reason for such pessimism. “Explain.”

  “I’m a soldier, not a surgeon. Apparently, you’ll be able to move it without any problem, but may not regain your full strength. And it may always hurt.”

  Footfalls with purpose approached, and Simon glanced toward the sound, bowing out of sight.

  “So, you survived!”

  Marcus smiled at Sir Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and a good friend. “As did you.”

  De Molay stood beside him with a concerned smile. “Aye, I did, though too many didn’t. If we continue to suffer losses like this, we just might have to invite our sergeants to become knights!”

  Marcus lifted his head up, finding Simon. “I was led to believe mine had already been promoted.”

  Simon snorted, scurrying out of sight, leaving Marcus and the Grand Master to roar with laughter.

  De Molay became serious, motioning toward the bandaged shoulder. “I understand you’ll live, but won’t be able to fight.”

  “It’ll take more than a Saracen’s arrow to keep me out of the fight, sir.”

  De Molay shook his head. “No, I think your time has come”—he raised a finger to cut off Marcus’ protest—“and perhaps none too soon.”

  Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  De Molay pulled out a piece of paper. “I have word from your sister Nicoline.”

  Marcus’ chest tightened at the mention of the only family he had in the world, his parents long dead. “What is it? Is she okay?”

  De Molay sighed, bowing his head slightly. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

  4

  De Claret Residence

  Outside Paris, Kingdom of France

  Four months later

  “This is the last time I will intervene on your behalf. Understood?”

  Sir Bernard de Claret bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”

  “It’s long past time you became a man and fought your own battles. I’m sick and tired of hearing the whispers of your latest folly at dinner parties, or worse, at the Palace. You are an embarrassment to this family, and always have been. If you do not distinguish yourself in this undertaking, I will send you to Rouen to tend our lands there. At least if you embarrass yourself, word of it will most likely not reach the ears of those whose opinions matter.”

  “Yes, Father.” Bernard’s cheeks burned, as did his ears. He should have been used to it by now, the constant berating, but how could he? This was his own father chastising him, and once again doing it in front of his brothers and sister. He knew he was the laughing stock of the family, and of the aristocracy.

  But it wasn’t his fault. He was just awkward. He always had been, especially in his youth. And that awkwardness had made him painfully shy, and by extension, made him appear cowardly.

  None of these valued traits in today’s France.

  He had no prospects for marriage, as no one would have him for a husband—something he couldn’t blame the women with whom arrangements had been made to meet. All had no doubt gone home at the end of the evening, begging their fathers to not force him upon them, and all had agreed so far, despite how powerful a man his father was.

  There were others as powerful, or nearly as powerful, with sons considered catches.

  He could never be mistaken for that.

  His father was right. This new assignment he had been granted was his last opportunity. He had been assigned to the King’s Personal Guard, a prestigious position for a young man, and not only that, had been placed on assignment with the leader of the unit, Sir Valentin de Vaux, to be his second-in-command on an important mission.

  If he could just not bungle this assignment, he might salvage some modicum of respect from his father, and perhaps others as well.

  He had been practicing. His sister Bridgett was a Godsend, helping him practice speaking with confidence, with dancing, with walking and even standing like a gentleman. He was getting better, though confidence in the presence of one’s sister rarely translated into the real world.

  And his father’s belittling did nothing to help.

  He glanced over at Bridgett, tears staining her cheeks as her older brother was yet again humiliated.

  His father handed him a piece of paper. “These are your orders. Rendezvous with Sir Valentin as quickly as possible, and present him with this.”

  Bernard took the paper and bowed. “Yes, Father.”

  “And if you screw up, don’t bother coming home.”

  “Father!” cried Bridgett, rushing from her chair toward her brother. “How could you say such a thing?”

  Bernard’s chest burned and his throat became tight as he fought the tears that demanded release. His sister held him tight, glaring at his father to no effect.

  “You’re just a little girl. You have no possible understanding of what is going on here. Now go to your room!”

  “No! Not until you tell Bernard that you didn’t mean what you said!”

  His father raised his hand to smack her and Bernard turned Bridgett away, placing himself between her and his father. “You will not hit her.” He surprised himself at the firmness of his tone.

  And apparently his father as well. His father stared at him for a moment, a slight smile appearing. “Interesting. I do believe that’s the first time you’ve ever shown me any sign there might be a man lurking within that pitiful shell.” He jabbed a finger against Bernard’s chest. “Show that attitude to Sir Valentin and the others, and you just may impress them enough to salvage your sad existence.”

  His father turned on his heel and left the room, leaving his brothers snickering, his mother mute with her chin buried in her chest and her shoulders rolled forward, and Bridgett facing him, her eyes wide with pride.

  “I know you’ll do brilliantly, Brother.”

  Bernard smiled slightly. “I-I hope so, Sister.”

  For if he didn’t, there would be no point in living.

  5

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  “This is your uncle, Sir Marcus.”

  The two small children stared up at him, wide-eyed with fear. He didn’t blame them. He must be quite the sight. Two decades in the harsh climate of the Ho
ly Land took its toll, compounded by the countless scars from countless battles marring his face and hands.

  He put on his best smile. “So you must be my nephew, Jacques, that I have heard so much about.”

  Jacques bowed slightly. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “And you, little one, must be my niece, Angeline.”

  She curtsied before hiding behind her slightly larger brother.

  “Well children, don’t you have anything to say to your uncle?”

  The two children stared at Mrs. Leblanc, confused. It had taken Marcus and his entourage almost four months to reach home, travel from the Holy Land difficult at the best of times. As a Templar favored by the Grand Master, his trip was much shorter than most, but it hadn’t been fast enough.

  His sister was dead.

  Nicoline’s letter had begged him to return before she fell prey to the disease ravaging her body. According to Mrs. Leblanc, she had held on for months in the hopes he would return, but had succumbed before the letter had even arrived.

  He had wept privately when told, then visited the grave before seeing the children left behind, parentless, their father having died two years ago saving young Angeline from drowning. Marcus had prayed for hours at his sister’s grave, begging her for forgiveness, for not being there for her.

  You should have returned when Henri died.

  He had been selfish. He enjoyed his life as a Templar. It gave him purpose, and respect, things he remembered having little of before joining. He loved his brothers, he loved his Lord, and he loved his way of life. Though the worldly pleasures were few, he needed little beyond the camaraderie the Order gave him. He didn’t need women or drink, possessions or lands. He only needed the Order.

  Or so he had thought.

  It wasn’t until he faced the prospect of losing his sister that he realized how just knowing she was out there had been an anchor to his home, to his family. He hadn’t seen her in twenty years, and his only memories of her were as a girl of twelve. Though they didn’t see each other, she wrote him constantly, and he her when possible, though not as frequently as he knew she would like. He lived her life through those letters, rejoicing in her marriage and the birth of her two children, weeping as his mother died of influenza, and his father months later of a broken heart.

  He was all that remained of his family.

  “Are you our Uncle Marcus, the Templar knight?”

  He snapped out of his self-pity, staring at little Angeline, peeking out from behind her brother. “Yes. Did your mother speak of me?”

  She nodded.

  “What did she say?”

  Shrugged shoulders.

  He smiled. “I hope she said nice things.”

  Her eyes widened. “Very nice things. She said you were the best brother a girl could have!”

  Marcus laughed. “Well, I’m sure your brother is just as good.”

  “No he’s not! He pinches me all the time!”

  Marcus gave Jacques a look of mock disapproval. “Is this true?”

  The boy hung his head in shame. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Well, that stops now, understood?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” His shoulders shook, tears erupting. He was quickly joined by his sister. Marcus stared at them, mouth agape, unsure of what to do. He turned to Mrs. Leblanc, helpless. She leaped into action, corralling the two sobbing children into the next room, gently cooing at them. She returned a moment later, the sobs still heard, though settling.

  Marcus looked at her sheepishly. “Umm, I’m sorry about that.”

  She batted a hand at him. “They’re children, and they just lost their mother. They’ll be irrational like that for months. You’ll just have to get used to it.”

  His chest tightened at her last statement. He had come to see his dying sister, and had to admit that during his entire journey, it had never occurred to him that she might actually die. His only thoughts of the children were that he hoped they didn’t lose their mother.

  But they had.

  “The children seem to have taken a liking to you.”

  Mrs. Leblanc smiled, staring at the doorway she had led them through. “Yes, they are precious. Very well behaved.” She turned to him. “A credit to your sister.”

  He bowed slightly. “Thank you. I’m afraid, though, I barely knew my sister. I left when she was only twelve.”

  Her head bobbed slowly. “Yes, I know. It was her one regret in life that she didn’t get to see you again, to see what kind of man you had become.” She stared him up and down. “A fine man, I think.” She pointed toward his white surcoat, the red cross of the Templars prominently displayed. “And a fine calling you have committed yourself to.”

  He bowed slightly deeper. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “But now you have a greater responsibility.”

  He sucked in a slow, deep breath. “The children.”

  “Yes, the children. They need a home, and they need a father.”

  “They have, or rather, had, a father.”

  “A father they barely remember. They need someone in their life to guide them.”

  He stared at the wall separating them from the children, two little shadows stretching across the floor from the sun pouring in a window beyond, revealing two young eavesdroppers at the door. “You seemed to be a fine guide.”

  The woman waved her hands in front of herself vigorously, shaking her head. “Absolutely not! I’m too old for young ones, and I’m not family. I took them in as a favor to your sister, because she was a good friend and good neighbor, and it was the Christian thing to do, but my responsibility ended the moment you arrived. This is your home now, and these are your children to deal with. I will help you, of course, but their responsibility must be yours.”

  Marcus’ heart hammered, the blood pulsing through his ears almost overwhelming. He couldn’t imagine raising children. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t even much of a brother. He was a soldier, and a good one at that.

  There had to be an alternative.

  “The Church? Perhaps they could take them?”

  Mrs. Leblanc stared at him aghast, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. “Your sister would roll over in her grave if she heard you suggest such a thing!”

  Jacques erupted from his perch behind the door, tears flowing, his cheeks flushed. “Please don’t send us away!” He slammed into Mrs. Leblanc, hugging her legs, Angeline following a moment later, mimicking the display.

  His chainmail suddenly felt tight, heavier than usual. His cheeks burned, his chest heaved, and the world closed in on him as the wails of the children continued. He stared at Mrs. Leblanc, barely able to focus. “I-I’ll be back.”

  He beat a hasty retreat, the first time he had ever done so, twenty years of victorious soldiering wiped away by two distraught children. He burst through the door and nearly ran into his sergeant and squires, relaxing near the horses.

  “Sir, are you okay?” asked his sergeant, Simon.

  “Get this off me!” he gasped, grasping at his chainmail. His squires leaped forward, removing the constrictive armor, useless against the onslaught of the enemy he now faced. He collapsed to his knees, clasping his hands behind his neck as he tried to open his lungs as wide as he could, still having difficulty breathing.

  Simon knelt in front of him. “Sir, what’s wrong?”

  Marcus closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe in a steady, slow rhythm, his pounding heart finally settling. He looked at Simon, his sergeant, his friend. “What would you do if you found out your life was over, and you could no longer be a Templar?”

  “I’d get drunk.”

  Marcus extended a hand. “Help me up, then find me a tavern.”

  Simon rose, pulling his master to his feet. “Sir? Your oath!”

  “Is no longer of any matter.” He stared at the house, then the farm surrounding it. “Today, I am no longer a soldier, no longer a knight. I am but a lowly farmer.”

  6

  Outside Coulommiers, Kingdom of Fra
nce

  “Here they come,” hissed Sir Valentin de Vaux’s second-in-command, Sir Bernard de Claret. Valentin nodded, shifting slightly to his right to get a better view of the small group of travelers now emerging from the forest. They were all on horseback, even the squires, suggesting to those not in the know, that these men approaching were of some importance.

  But he was in the know.

  And they were.

  Yet it didn’t matter.

  They were going to die.

  He raised his arm, the signal picked up to his left and right by the others already in position for the ambush, then rapidly lowered it. A flurry of arrows sliced through the air, only the best archers selected for this most important of missions. The squires fell first, then the horses of the knights and their sergeants, their whinnies of agony ignored, the death of the noble beasts of no concern to him.

  He only cared about their invaluable cargo.

  He swept his hand forward, and dozens of men streamed from the surrounding trees, quickly encircling the survivors as he strode calmly from his position, flanked by Bernard and his sergeant. His men surrounding their prey parted for him, and he smiled as he found the three knights and their respective sergeants in the middle, backs to each other, swords drawn.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the eldest and most senior. “Do you not see our surcoats? Do you not know who we are?”

  Valentin approached him, keeping enough distance that any move toward him wouldn’t beat the arrow of one of the archers mixed among his men. “Who you are, is of no importance to us. What you carry on your person, is.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as they came to rest on Valentin. “Of what do you speak?”

  “You have a document in your possession. I want it.”

  The man glanced toward his dying horse, returning his glare to Valentin. “I have many documents, none of which are yours to have. Now be off with you, or the King shall hear of your crimes!”

  A smile spread across Valentin’s face as he removed his cloak, revealing the crest on his surcoat. “You fool. Who do you think sent me?” He turned on his heel and nodded, a dozen arrows loosed.