The Templar Detective, Page 3

  7

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  “Sir, are you sure you want another?”

  Sir Marcus slapped his sergeant on the back, then grabbed the barmaid by the waist, drawing her closer. “I’ve only just begun!”

  She laughed as she gently extricated herself. “I’ll take that as a yes to another round.” As she made her way to the bar, Marcus couldn’t help but stare at her ample bottom, the stirring in his loins impossible to ignore.

  “She’s a fine looking woman, that one.”

  Simon nodded. “She is that. But she’s not for you, sir.”

  Marcus frowned at his sergeant, emptying the last of his wine. “But you forget, good man, that I am no longer a Templar, no longer bound by my oath to a pious life.” He stared appreciatively at the barmaid’s mighty bosom as she returned with four more glasses. “Tonight, I want to get drunk, and lie with a beautiful woman.” He tore his eyes away from her exposed flesh and stared up at her. “Interested?”

  She gave him a look. “With the amount you’ve had? I’d rather go home to my husband and be disappointed there!”

  The tavern roared with laughter, and Marcus had no idea why, feeling a flash of anger rush through him. But his entourage was laughing as well, and they would never do so if he were meant to take offense. Simon noticed his confusion and held up a finger, then bent it downward.

  Marcus suddenly understood, tossing his head back and joining in the laughter. He lifted his mug high. “A fine woman indeed!” He drained half of it, the others doing the same, when three men entered the tavern, their surcoats indicating they were members of King Philip’s Personal Guard. An uneasy silence swept across those gathered as the men strode to a table near the back, the occupants scampering away.

  “I don’t like the look of them,” muttered Simon.

  His squire David nodded. “Why would three of the King’s Personal Guard be here?”

  Simon shook his head. “Probably passing through.”

  “I’ll ask them!” Marcus leaped to his feet before his men could stop him, stumbling toward the new arrivals. “You there! State your business, in the name of his holiness, the Pope!”

  The three men stared at him, two in shock, the one in the middle barely registering any notice of their interrogator. Marcus heard his men approaching from behind, but he waved them off.

  “Are you deaf? I asked you a question.”

  The calm one stared him in the eyes. “My business is that of the King’s, and therefore is no business of yours. Go away, you drunken fool, before I have you arrested, or run through.”

  Marcus smiled slightly, half his lip curling. “You dare threaten me?” He drew his sword slightly, the firelight shimmering off the blade he was certain had tasted more blood than that beaten by the hearts of these three men combined. “I don’t think you know who it is you are addressing, good sir.”

  The other two men leaped to their feet, their chairs scattering across the floor as they reached for their swords. Simon and the others surged forward as Marcus continued his staring contest with the third man, still seated.

  He slowly rose, waving off his men, Marcus’ entourage lowering their weapons slightly. “We have business to attend to, and no time for this.” He rounded the table, stopping only inches from Marcus’ nose. “You are fortunate, old man, otherwise your numbered days would have ended tonight.”

  The man strode with purpose from the tavern, his companions rushing after him, as Marcus drained the rest of his drink.

  And passed out.

  “Could they be a problem?”

  Sir Valentin mounted his horse and urged it toward their camp outside of the village. He glanced at his new second-in-command, Sir Bernard, as he came up beside him. “One Templar knight, a sergeant, and two squires? Hardly.”

  Yet he wasn’t as certain as he made it sound. Why were they here? Asking the locals could raise suspicions, and he couldn’t risk that. Besides, there was no time. Their business here would be conducted in two days, and there was no delaying that. They had a schedule to keep, and it was tight.

  “Should we postpone? Perhaps leave this one until later, after they’ve left?”

  Valentin shook his head. “We have no way of knowing when they’re leaving. And should our target catch word of what is happening, he might go into hiding, and we may never find him.” He exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “No, we must stick to our schedule.”

  His sergeant came up the other side. “I thought Templars didn’t drink.”

  Valentin chewed his cheek for a moment. While it was true Templars weren’t supposed to overindulge, he had seen it on occasion, and like all good Christians that sinned, they went to confession and did their penance. He had no doubt this man would do the same. Something had caused him to drink, and he was clearly inexperienced at it. His loyal men had tried to stop him from making a fool of himself, though they had failed miserably. He was fortunate it hadn’t turned into a fight, as the attention it would have brought could have scuttled their mission.

  And failing the King wasn’t an option.

  Four Templars, here, of all places.

  Why?

  Why were they here?

  He desperately needed an answer to this question. Could their business here somehow interfere with his? And if so, did the Templars know of what was happening?

  Impossible!

  There was no way they could know. It was too soon. The raid on the convoy had taken place only this morning, and there had been no witnesses. They had already buried the bodies, and their surcoats, along with anything else that might have identified them as Templars, had been hidden miles from the graves.

  If either burial site were discovered, neither could point back to him or his men, and there was almost no chance of both being discovered.

  They were safe.

  For now.

  Yet none of that answered the question of why these four men were here, on this night, in this village. He had never been here before in his life, and after his mission was complete, never would be again. No Templars were supposed to be stationed here. They could be passing through, though Templars weren’t known for setting themselves up at the local tavern.

  No, they were here for some other reason.

  “We’ll have to watch for them. Experienced soldiers could be a problem.”

  Bernard agreed. “Should we bring more men?”

  “No, that could draw too much attention. Three is already too many, though any fewer risks failure.” A thought suddenly occurred to him, and a smile slowly spread. Bernard noticed.

  “What has you so pleased?”

  Valentin turned toward his second-in-command. “I just had an idea.”

  Bernard grinned. “A devious one, by the looks of it.”

  Valentin’s smile widened. “You have no idea.”

  8

  De Rancourt Farm

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  “My place is at your side.”

  Sir Marcus shook his head at his good friend and sergeant. “Simon, your place is with the Order, in the Holy Land. You know that as well as I.”

  “If mine is, then so is yours.”

  “You know that isn’t possible.”

  “Why?”

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder, Jacques playing fetch with a mastiff that outweighed the boy two-to-one, while little Angeline hung laundry with Mrs. Leblanc. “You know why.”

  “Yes, and it is a noble undertaking. You have agreed to be a father to these children in need. To raise them as your sister would want you to, so that they never know the horrors of the orphanage. It is an honorable thing you are doing, but you will need help.”

  “I need a woman to be their mother.” Marcus eyed Simon up and down. “You don’t fit the part.”

  Simon laughed, the others snickering. He curtsied. “Are you so sure?”

  Marcus roared with laughter, the small farm coming to a halt for a moment before a
ctivities resumed. “I will miss your sense of humor.”

  “No, you won’t, because I’m staying. If you are to work this farm, you will need help. I’m almost as old as you, and my best days are behind me. It would be my honor to serve you one more time.”

  Marcus stared at his friend, his chest tightening at the loyalty displayed. Simon was a good friend. His best. They had served together for more years than either probably cared to count, and a bond had formed under battle, and in brotherhood among the Order, that until this moment, he hadn’t realized how unbreakable. He sighed. “If you want to shovel pig dung and plant crops, then who am I to say no?”

  “I will stay as well, sir.”

  “As will I.”

  Marcus turned toward his two young squires, though as he stared at them, he realized that they too weren’t young anymore. He looked at the youngest, Jeremy, who had to be thirty if he were a day, and David was at least another five years older. They had served him for years, and though their station meant there was an official distance between them, he considered them friends.

  He rose, holding his arms out, and his men drew closer. “The four of us, farmers.” He tossed his head back, laughing once more as he stared up at the heavens. “Lord, I would never have dreamt that this was the path you had laid out for us.” He lowered his gaze, smiling from man to man, staring into the eyes of each, searching for any hint that they were doing this out of some sense of perceived duty, seeking any hint of hesitation behind their words.

  And he found none.

  “Then it is settled. I will seek out the Order’s local commander, and inform him of our decision tomorrow.”

  Something poked his bum, pushing up. He spun around to find the mastiff standing there, an invasive nose sniffing at his crotch. Marcus pushed the beast’s head aside. “I’m not about to have the first thing to sniff around there in a lifetime be a dog!”

  Simon slapped him on the shoulder. “I think that barmaid was taking a liking to you. Maybe if you keep at it, she’ll be sniffing down there before you know it!”

  Marcus chuckled as he dropped to a knee, taking the mastiff’s head in his hands and scratching behind its ears. “So, what’s your name?”

  “Tanya.”

  Marcus leaned to the side slightly so he could see past the dog that probably outweighed his squires. “What was that?”

  Angeline took a step forward. “Tanya. Her name is Tanya.”

  “Ahh, from the Latin for princess.” He stared Tanya in the eyes. “Are you a princess?” The dog snorted. “Sounds like any princess I’ve ever met.” His men roared. He patted her on her side with a good thump. “A fine beast. She seems friendly.”

  Mrs. Leblanc rushed over. “Oh, be careful with that one! She’ll tear off your arm if you’re not careful.” She paused as Tanya rolled onto her side, presenting her stomach for a scratch.

  “Sir, I think you finally have a woman in your life,” muttered Simon, the others stifling their laughs unsuccessfully.

  Marcus scratched the dog’s belly. “Oh, she seems pretty friendly.”

  Mrs. Leblanc scratched the back of her neck. “Well, I’ll be…I’ve never seen her so friendly with anyone except the boy and his father, God rest his soul.”

  Marcus rose, and Tanya flipped back over, taking up a position beside him. Marcus scratched behind her ears once again. “Well, I think having her around will be helpful. A good dog is worth his weight in gold for warning of danger.”

  Mrs. Leblanc laughed. “Oh, you soldiers, always thinking of danger. Nothing ever happens in this godforsaken town. The only thing she’s good for is keeping the rats and predators away.” She smiled as Tanya pressed her snout into Marcus’ hand. “I think she’s found her new master.”

  Marcus looked down at the dog then over at young Jacques, whose sad, drooping eyes suggested he wasn’t at all pleased with this turn of events. Marcus snapped his fingers and Tanya stared up at him. “Go play with Jacques,” he said, pointing at the boy. The dog continued to stare at him for a moment, then leaped toward Jacques, the two of them running behind the house, giggles once again filling the air.

  “That boy has needed a father these past two years.” Mrs. Leblanc wiped a tear from her cheek. “And I dare say he’s found one.”

  Marcus sighed.

  I wouldn’t be so sure of that.

  9

  De Rancourt Farm

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  Sir Marcus tossed and turned in the too soft bed of his sister. For two decades, he had slept on a simple bedroll, often on the dirt. And though he had often dreamed of a soft bed to curl up in and sleep for a month, now that his dreams had come true, it was a genuinely horrible experience.

  His back was killing him.

  You’ll get used to it.

  He rolled over and stared out the window, a heavy rain drenching the humble farm. His family was nobility, though distant, which meant they were never wealthy. But it did mean he could become a knight, which was all he had dreamed about as a boy.

  His father had been a knight, though of little prestige—he wasn’t very good at it. He had been wounded in the Crusades, apparently in his first battle, forcing his return, much of the family wealth, such as it was, spent. Marcus had thought it humiliating as a naïve child, and had been determined to do better, selfishly leaving his family to fend for themselves as soon as he could.

  He had no idea how hard it would be for his sister after their father’s passing. Fortunately, she was still nobility, and eventually a widowed nobleman, relatively poor though not as much so as his sister, took a liking to her, and she him, and they had married—but not before a decade of struggle, a struggle he regretted every moment of every day.

  Yet she had survived, and this proud though humble home was a testament to her spirit, this farm a monument to a family’s ethic, and the children sleeping in the next room what remained of their love.

  Thunder rocked the small home, the view from the window flickering a moment later, the barn where his men slept silhouetted against the momentarily bright sky.

  I’d rather be with them.

  He wasn’t sure how this would work. He had to stay in the home for the children’s sake, and there wasn’t room for another three full-sized men to also bed down here. He was moved that they had insisted on staying with him. Loyalty like that was rare in his experience, especially outside the Order. The bond formed on the field of battle, and on your knees in prayer, were unlike anything most could imagine.

  And he’d give anything to be out in that chilly barn, on the hard ground, surrounded by the men he called brothers.

  Another clap of thunder rattled the windows, and Angeline shrieked. Little footsteps pounded the floor moments later, followed by a hammering on his door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Angeline stepped inside, the tears staining her cheeks reflected from the light flickering through his window. “Can I sleep with you?”

  His eyes widened. He wasn’t sure what to do. What would his sister have said?

  She would have said ‘yes,’ you heartless fool!

  He shuffled closer to the wall. “Get in. But don’t make a habit of it.”

  She bolted from the doorway, leaping in the bed and shoving her tiny legs under the covers. He was about to tell her to go close the door when Jacques appeared.

  “Let me guess, you want to sleep in here as well?”

  Jacques looked about, avoiding eye contact, then rushed to the bed at another clap of thunder.

  “Close the door.”

  Jacques’ eyes widened at the prospect of leaving the safety of the bed, but he complied, bolting for the door, closing it, then returning at an equally blistering pace. Marcus rolled over, putting his back to the children and his front toward the wall with the window, then closed his eyes. A set of tiny knees dug into his back as Angeline pressed her petite body against his, her forehead tight against his shoulders. Moments later the bed mo
ved as Jacques shifted closer as well, a hand slapping onto Marcus’ tender shoulder.

  He winced but stifled the desire to vocalize the pain.

  He lay in the darkness, the breathing of his sister’s children slowly calming down, soon settling into a steady, rhythmic pace as they fell asleep, the thunder and lightning outside apparently forgotten. He closed his eyes and smiled, picturing his sister lying here instead of him, and for the first time in his life, understood the joy children must bring parents everywhere.

  I promise you, Sister, that I will die before I let anything happen to them.

  10

  Fabron Residence

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  Pierre Fabron galloped the small woodcarving of a horse across his bedchamber floor, making the sounds of clopping hooves with the clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The mighty beast skidded to a halt, rearing on its hind legs as he confronted the enemy.

  “Halt, and identify yourself!”

  But there was no reply.

  Of course there was no reply.

  He was alone.

  As he always was.

  He hated this new home. He had yet to make any friends, and with his father rather wealthy compared to others, the poor kids, who outnumbered one hundred to one those who weren’t, shunned him.

  All except Jacques. He was nice to him. Apparently, his family had noble blood as his did, which was a surprise since he lived on a farm that didn’t have any servants working the fields.

  Could noblemen be poor?

  He had asked the question of his father, who had readily confirmed the possibility.

  “If you are referring to the young Jacques I think you are, his father died a couple of years ago, and his mother just this year. The family is of noble blood, but it is distant. It allows the sons to become knights, but little else. Being a knight is expensive, so for many, it simply isn’t an option.” He had looked at him over his dinner. “There is no shame in being a farmer.” He tapped his plate with his knife. “Without them, we wouldn’t have such wonderful food to eat.”