The Templar Detective and the Lost Children Read online

  THE TEMPLAR DETECTIVE AND THE LOST CHILDREN

  A TEMPLAR DETECTIVE THRILLER

  J. ROBERT KENNEDY

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  Award winning and USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has sold over one million books, and is now giving some away for free! Join The Insider’s Club to be notified when new books are released, and as a thank you, get his 5 book Starter Library for free along with other bonus materials available nowhere else!

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  BOOKS BY J. ROBERT KENNEDY

  * Also available in audio

  The Templar Detective Thrillers

  The Templar Detective

  The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress

  The Templar Detective and the Sergeant's Secret

  The Templar Detective and the Unholy Exorcist

  The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker

  The Templar Detective and the Black Scourge

  The Templar Detective and the Lost Children

  The James Acton Thrillers

  The Protocol *

  Brass Monkey *

  Broken Dove

  The Templar’s Relic

  Flags of Sin

  The Arab Fall

  The Circle of Eight

  The Venice Code

  Pompeii’s Ghosts

  Amazon Burning

  The Riddle

  Blood Relics

  Sins of the Titanic

  Saint Peter’s Soldiers

  The Thirteenth Legion

  Raging Sun

  Wages of Sin

  Wrath of the Gods

  The Templar’s Revenge

  The Nazi’s Engineer

  Atlantis Lost

  The Cylon Curse

  The Viking Deception

  Keepers of the Lost Ark

  The Tomb of Genghis Khan

  The Manila Deception

  The Fourth Bible

  Embassy of the Empire

  Armageddon

  The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

  Rogue Operator

  Containment Failure

  Cold Warriors

  Death to America

  Black Widow

  The Agenda

  Retribution

  State Sanctioned

  Extraordinary Rendition

  Red Eagle

  The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

  Payback

  Infidels

  The Lazarus Moment

  Kill Chain

  Forgotten

  The Cuban Incident

  The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

  Depraved Difference

  Tick Tock

  The Redeemer

  The Kriminalinspektor Wolfgang Vogel Mysteries

  The Colonel’s Wife

  Sins of the Child

  Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

  The Turned

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Table of Contents

  The Novel

  Author's Note

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgments

  Don't Miss Out!

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  The man who inspired and entertained us for decades, and to whom this book is dedicated.

  Who is Alex Trebek?

  “Concerning terra Salica, no portion or inheritance is for a woman, but all the land belongs to members of the male sex who are brothers.”

  As translated from Salic Civil Law Code, circa AD 500

  “The best inheritance a father can leave his children is a good example.”

  John Walter Bratton

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is the seventh novel in this series, and for those who have read the others and embraced these characters as so many of you have, please feel free to skip this note, as you will have already read it.

  The word “detective” is believed to have originated in the mid-nineteenth century, however, that doesn’t mean the concept of someone who investigated crime originated less than two hundred years ago. Crime long predated this era, and those who investigated it as well.

  The following historical thriller is intended to be an entertaining read for all, with the concept of a “Templar Detective” a fun play on a modern term. The dialog is intentionally written in such a way that today’s audiences can relate, as opposed to how people might have spoken in Medieval France, where, of course, they conversed in French and not English, with therefore completely different manners of speaking, and of addressing one another. For consistency, English phrasing is always used, such as Mister instead of Monsieur. This does not mean they will be speaking to each other as rappers and gangsters, but will instead communicate in ways that imply comfort and familiarity, as we would today. If you are expecting, “Thou dost hath offended me, my good sir,” then prepareth thyself for disappointment. If, however, you are looking for a fast-paced adventure, with plenty of action, mystery, and humor, then you’ve come to the right place.

  Enjoy.

  PREFACE

  In thirteenth-century France, as was true in most of Europe if not the world, women’s rights of inheritance were limited. When her husband died, it was up to the heir of his title and fortune to take care of her, and if that weren’t possible, then her own birth family.

  This led to many difficult situations, especially for nobility, where titles and vast wealth were at stake. Where there are money and power, there are jealousies, more often than not petty. These petty jealousies could result in rivalries that continued past death. Should a nobleman die without a son, his fortune would transfer to the most senior male relative, usually a younger brother, uncle, or cousin.

  But what if that relationship were estranged? Estranged to the point where one was certain the heir to one’s title and fortune would leave one’s wife and daughter destitute, as revenge for perceived affronts?

  If faced with such an impossible situation, how far would you go to ensure your family’s future should you be not long for this earth? Would you lie? Cheat? Would you sin?

  And ultimately, would you murder if it meant your family had a secure future after you were gone?

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; 1 |

  Lord François de Montglat Estate Paris, Kingdom of France AD 1298

  Lord François de Montglat cringed at yet another wail from the opposite side of the door he now paced in front of. Helene, his eldest daughter, sat in a chair across from the door, tears rolling down her cheeks as she wrung her hands with worry. His other four girls all wanted to be here to support their mother, however they were too young to hear such things, and he had sent them away after the first blood-curdling scream.

  His wife Denise was too old for this. All of her births had been difficult, and the Court physician and every midwife involved over the years had told them they should give up. Yet they had no choice. They had five wonderful daughters that he adored, but none of that mattered. They were girls, and though he had no doubt they would grow up to be terrific women who would marry well and bear him countless grandchildren, this was France, and females had no right of inheritance.

  He desperately needed a son, otherwise, when he died, his wife and children would lose everything.

  By law, his brother would get the family fortune, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen. He was a vile creature whom he hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. Out of duty, he sent him a more than adequate monthly stipend that allowed him to enjoy a lifestyle far better than the vast majority ruled by the nobility he was fortunate enough to be born into. If he died tomorrow, and his brother chose to punish him in the afterlife, his wife and children could be destitute, and any future he had hoped his daughters might have, would be ended, for none of the senior ruling class would want to marry into an impoverished family.

  His wife was nobility, of course, and normally her family would step in should the nightmarish scenario come true. Unfortunately, her family, while respected, was never wealthy, and as she was an only child, the family’s assets were long gone to a distant cousin she hadn’t seen since her parents died many years ago.

  No one could help them.

  Only a male heir.

  Another wail had him pulling at his thinning hair. He had been on the other side of the door for every one of his daughters’ births, and none had sounded like this. This had to end. They couldn’t try for another child, otherwise he might lose his wife, and that was something he couldn’t live with.

  If she makes it through this, we need to try another way.

  There was another way, and he had prepared for this. God had decided, for some reason, He would only give him girls, so he fully expected that if a child were born today, it would be a sixth daughter, not a first son. As well, the physician and midwife had warned him that the prospects of a healthy child were slim, and his wife had said she hadn’t felt any movement for days.

  He feared the worst.

  Another scream, unlike any he had yet heard, one filled with anguish and pain, had him dropping to his knees, his hands clasped in front of his chin as he stared up at the heavens, tears filling his eyes as fear gripped his heart.

  He was losing his wife.

  “Oh, God, please get her through this! Please don’t punish her for my sins!”

  His daughter was immediately at his side, her arms wrapped around him tightly as she sobbed, and he regretted his decision to let her stay.

  No child, no matter how old, should hear their mother die.

  He held her tight as he finished his prayer, then whispered in her ear. “You should go.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I want to stay with you.”

  He hugged her harder, then everything fell silent on the other side of the door and his chest ached at the implications. There was no crying baby, there was no joyous relief, there was no chatter among the servants assisting in the birth.

  There was nothing but the echoing sobs of him and his daughter.

  The door swung open and the lady’s maid, Madeleine, stepped out. He quickly rose to his feet, wiping his eyes dry with the back of his hand, and stared at the woman he had known for years, and who had faithfully served his wife for almost as long as they had been married. She shook her head and his heart crawled up into his throat.

  “My wife?”

  “It’s too early to tell.”

  “May I see her?”

  She stepped aside. He pointed at the chair his daughter had been sitting in. “You stay here.”

  “But I want to see her.”

  “You will. But let me first.”

  His daughter acquiesced, returning to her chair, and François entered the room, more scared to step forward here than on any battlefield. The chambermaid, Charlotte, was in the corner with a bundle, a bundle silent and unmoving, and his wife lay on the bed, blood, sweat, and tears soaking her and the sheets. The midwife, Jaqueline, was cleaning her, but stepped aside as he entered, bowing. He dismissed her fealty with a wave, saying nothing as he took a knee beside his wife’s bed and gripped her hand. She turned toward him, pale and exhausted, her long hair drenched.

  “Forgive me, husband.”

  He forced a smile. “There is nothing to forgive. What happened here today was God’s will and had nothing to do with you. For whatever reason, he has decided we shall never be blessed with a son.” He kissed her hand. “I swear, I will never put you through that again.”

  She closed her eyes, tears flowing once again. “Then what shall we do?”

  He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “We’ll do what we discussed.”

  She didn’t open her eyes, but she nodded. “We have no choice, though what we are about to do sickens my heart.”

  “As it does mine, but we have no choice.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead then rose, turning to the others. He pointed at the bundle of his stillborn child. “What was it?”

  Charlotte turned to him. “Another daughter, milord.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Then it was for nothing.” He opened his eyes and squared his shoulders as he drew in a slow, deep breath, steeling for what was about to happen. He indicated the bundle that would have been his sixth daughter, then addressed their trusted lady’s maid, Madeleine. “Treat her with the respect she deserves. Bury her in the family graveyard, however, do so discreetly. No marker.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  He held up a finger. “I have one final instruction for you all.”

  His wife wept and his staff gasped as he delivered the message that had his own stomach churning.

  2 |

  Thibault Residence Paris, Kingdom of France

  Thomas Durant sat in the cubbyhole that was his office. The only true one was Mrs. Simone Thibault’s, not ten paces from where he hovered over his desk. To those who didn’t know his employer, she was a wretched woman, but in the months under her employ, he had come to know her as much more than the façade she presented to the public. She wasn’t a good woman, though she wasn’t heartless. She and her late husband had started a loansharking business years ago, and after he had passed, she had turned it into something much grander than he was capable of. Now she dabbled in far more than just loaning money at exorbitant rates of interest to the desperate souls of the slums of Paris. She had her fingers into everything. If somebody wanted something, she knew how to get it, and the poor and the rich alike would climb those stairs to her office and make their requests.

  He both hated and loved what he did. He kept track of all her finances, the outstanding loans, the balances, the interest, who was overdue. It was all managed by him, and that was the part he loved—working with the numbers. His late father had been a forger, capable of incredible feats, hand-drawing documents that would fool even the King. Thomas had tried his hand at it, his father hoping to give him a vocation that would carry him through his adult years, but Thomas had failed miserably. He simply couldn’t draw, couldn’t forge the seals or the flourishes of a signature.

  But he could read, he could write, and he could do all the math necessary to perform this task for Thibault, and if he ignored what the numbers represented, he sometimes didn’t hate the work he did. Yet each line
represented another person, another family that was desperate, but as she had explained to him, each line also represented an opportunity for that same person, for that same family. No one was lending money to people like this, except people like her. If it weren’t for her, these people wouldn’t be able to repair a home damaged by fire, take their child to a physician, repair the damaged oven in their bakery. If it weren’t for people like her, the family that lived in that burned-down home would be homeless, the child who needed that physician would die, the baker whose oven needed to be repaired would go out of business.

  And these people always agreed to the terms.

  But they did so because they were desperate. Only the desperate came up those stairs, and far too many had no hope of ever repaying the debt. The best most could hope for was to keep paying the interest due, which made Thibault a very wealthy woman, but one who would never be welcomed into high society, though he had never heard her express any interest in doing so. She seemed content to live in the slums at a level far higher than those around her, though it made for a lonely life, he was sure. She attempted to hide it, but on occasion, when she didn’t know he was looking, he had caught her staring out the window, an expression on her face that couldn’t be described in any other way than desperately sad, desperately lonely. She had created a life that could have been quite pleasurable if she had someone to share it with, but he feared she would be alone until the day she died.

  Perhaps that’s why she had taken him in. He had lost his mother years ago, then his father had been murdered last year. When circumstance had brought them together, and she had discovered his skills, she had offered him a job, and out of desperation, he had taken it. He had no other prospects, for there was little to be had beyond manual labor in the slums, and he was shamefully weak.