The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker Page 3
“I thought I told you to get to work!”
Marcus rolled over to see Lady Joanne and Beatrice rushing toward them.
“And my God, you’re even filthier than before! What the devil have you been up to?”
Marcus opened his mouth to defend his men then decided against it. He was simply too tired.
“Well?”
“I’ll explain everything later.”
Lady Joanne wagged a finger. “You know, there was a fire at Mr. Pevra’s farm. The least you could have done was gone and helped the poor man.”
She stormed off to the farmhouse, leaving the four of them to their exhaustion.
Jeremy sighed. “I think the view from the thousandth rung isn’t so good.”
4 |
Courvat Residence Paris, Kingdom of France
René Courvat stared at the fruits of his labor, another forged Templar Letter of Credit. Though he was now expert in their code, it was his fear that made the work painstaking, for he would review it over and over, never certain he hadn’t made some critical error that would have him found out and arrested.
Then hung.
All for a pittance. This latest forgery would barely feed a nobleman for a day, yet it would mean everything to the person he had created it for, another fool like himself who had borrowed from Simone Thibault in desperation.
But unlike most, he had found a way out, his debt cleared only days ago, much to the annoyance of Simone, he was certain.
And that delighted him to no end.
It was a loan shark like Simone that had killed his father several years ago when he had paid a doctor to look at his youngest sister rather than make his weekly payment on his insurmountable debt. The murder had destroyed his mother, and hadn’t left the family off the hook. She died soon after of a broken heart and stress, he was certain.
Leaving him and his two sisters all alone in the world.
His debt had been bought out by Simone for some reason, and he had struggled to make every payment since, for the sake of his young sisters. Should he be killed, God only knew what would happen to them.
And now his family was finally free of the debt, and the only ones hurt were the fabulously rich Templars, with so much money he was certain they’d never notice, or if they did, care. The Templars were powerful. Rich. And they profited handsomely off the backs of those who would travel to and from the Holy Land. Personally, he found it immoral to charge these exorbitant fees simply so people could travel without fear of losing all their possessions to bandits.
The Templars had been founded to protect pilgrims from marauding Muslims who were constantly robbing and killing Christians on a spiritual journey, and they had done a fine job of it. And expanding their protection to lower the risk of valuables being stolen along the way by issuing Letters of Credit was ingenious, and he never would have begrudged them a small administrative fee.
But that wasn’t what was happening. If it were, then the Templars wouldn’t be so rich. They wouldn’t be one of the largest landowners in the world, they wouldn’t have the finest horses and equipment. They wouldn’t be monks, sworn to poverty, living far better lives than he and his neighbors. It enraged him every time he saw one of the knights, in their crisp white surcoats with bright red cross emblazoned across their chests, riding a fully equipped horse, their heads held high with pride as the crowds parted in awe to let them and their entourages through. Their good lives were built on the backs of those very souls who showed them such reverence, and it sickened him.
That was why, when he had noticed the pattern, when he had discovered a way to perhaps take back some of that which the Templars had taken, and do some good with it, he had jumped at the opportunity.
Even if it meant certain death in the end should he be caught.
The first time he had stolen from the holy order, it had been terrifying, and for a pittance of an amount. Should he have been found out, he had hoped the insignificant sum would have merited a slap on the wrist and a stern word rather than arrest. And when it had worked, he traveled around the small towns outside Paris, redeeming his forged Letters of Credit, made out to different names in small amounts so as to not attract attention, and within a matter of months, had paid back Simone, the final payment only just extracted from him by the beast that worked for her.
I much prefer Thomas.
The young man was clearly a reluctant pawn, and he had a feeling might be wise to the fact something was going on. And if he was, he might feel obligated to tell his mistress. That could prove dangerous, for should she find out what he was doing, he had no doubt she would force him to work for her, defrauding the Templars of a portion of their tremendous wealth something irresistible to a woman like her.
And then they would be found out, for soon even his little operation would be discovered. For the books wouldn’t balance. The distances slowed things down, as all his forgeries claimed he was returning from the Holy Land, or some distant outpost like Rome, so it could take months, perhaps a year before the first fraud might be caught. And even if it were, records would then be double-checked and messages exchanged, all over great distances, such that he figured he had a minimum of a year in which he could successfully get away with things, perhaps even two.
But only if he didn’t become greedy and attract attention.
There was a knock on his door. “Come in.”
His youngest sister, Grace, entered. “Mrs. Fromont is here to see you.”
He sighed, closing his eyes. Fromont had been the first he had helped, and not the last. He couldn’t help himself, and in time, it would lead to his downfall. He was a fool for a pretty lady, especially one that reminded him of his sisters and what they would soon face as they were forced out into the cruel world that was the Kingdom of France. “Show her in.”
How much would it be this time? And would this be the one that had them all brought up on charges before the King? He had to put an end to it, but he had no idea how, for Pandora’s Box had been opened, and it could never be closed again.
5 |
The Shrieking Owl Tavern Paris, Kingdom of France
Hamon Pequin watched as Girard Fromont counted out the coins, placing each atop the previous, creating a small stack in front of him. It was a pittance of a sum to Pequin, but an impossible amount for someone such as Fromont to possess.
Something was wrong.
He charged exorbitant interest on his loans for a reason. He never wanted them paid off. It kept him living far better than those around him, and financed his operation, an operation that didn’t come cheap. With a dozen men working for him, collecting on his debts, he had officially made it. He could sit here, in a tavern he owned, all day and all night, enjoying the company of those loyal to him, and women he essentially owned who would fulfill any desire he might have.
It was the life he had always dreamed of, and it was a life he’d do anything to protect.
There was no way he would go back to the way things had been. He had grown up poor, dirt poor, like everyone else in this godforsaken neighborhood. But he had an advantage over the others. He had a father who had no scruples, no morals, no boundaries. He would lie, steal, cheat—whatever it took to keep his family fed.
Then, shortly before his untimely death, he had discovered the genius of loan sharking. He began pouring his ill-gotten gains into high-interest loans to desperate neighbors, and it had changed everything, if only for a couple of years before one of those desperate souls killed him rather than pay.
It had been a valuable lesson.
Pequin took over the business, but surrounded himself with local goons, sending them to do the dirty work, protecting him from the crazed determined to escape their debts. His men were rarely hurt, for killing the collector mean
t nothing, and his debtors knew it.
And his business, built on the backs of the starving and struggling, grew substantially over the years to the empire it was today.
With him sitting atop the pile of wealth he had accumulated, most of it loaned out to the neighborhood, their weekly payments providing him a lifestyle as close to nobility as one could expect in the rat-infested shacks of these slums.
It was a good life.
A life that depended on people like Fromont not paying off their debts.
“Tell me, where did you get the money?”
Fromont placed the last coin on the table, then stood straight. “My brother. He died and left me a small legacy.”
Pequin gestured toward the impressive stack of coins. “Not so small, to pay off a loan so soon.”
Fromont shifted from one foot to the other. “He had a, umm, better life than me. He was a, umm, blacksmith.”
Pequin regarded him for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”
Fromont’s eyes bulged as he paled. “I-I’m telling the truth! I swear!”
Pequin folded his arms. “No, you’re not.” He narrowed his eyes, boring into those of his former debtor. “Where’d you get the money? Did you steal it? I don’t want someone coming to me tomorrow saying I have what’s his because you’re a thief.”
Fromont shook his head vehemently. “No, I swear, I didn’t steal it!”
“If your brother left you a legacy, then there must be some proof. A letter, something.” He reached forward and knocked over the stack of coins with a flick of a finger. “These are fine silver.” He pursed his lips, folding his arms once again. “I think you robbed a man of his purse. Perhaps a nobleman.” He glared at Fromont, his voice lowering to a growl. “I want the truth now, or I’ll have my men beat it out of you.”
Fromont went ghost-white. “No, I can’t, I promised. Please don’t make me! It will ruin everything!”
One side of Pequin’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Now I’m very intrigued.” He signaled his men to move in. “Let’s find out what it is you’re so willing to die to protect.”
6 |
Courvat Residence Paris, Kingdom of France
René yawned, his eyelids heavy, the candlelight no longer sufficient to allow him to continue his work. He stretched, all four limbs extended as far as they could go, then sighed as his entire body relaxed.
Grace giggled.
He turned in his chair, giving her a judging eye. “Do I make you laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Is it because I look funny?”
“Yes.”
“Is it because I look silly?”
“Yes!”
“Well, which is it, then? It can’t be both!”
“Yes, it can!”
He pursed his lips, giving her a quizzical look. “So, you’re saying I look funny and silly.”
“I am!”
“Huh. Well, you’re my sister, and I know my sister would never lie, so then it must be true.” He faked a pout. “I don’t want to look funny and silly.” His chin sagged. “One is fine, but not both.”
Grace rushed from her perch at the window and leaped into his lap. “Pick one!”
He scrunched up his nose. “I think I’d rather look silly than funny.”
She grabbed both his cheeks then leaned back, assessing his face. “I take it back. You just look silly.”
He smiled. “Good! Silly I can live with!” He gave her a big hug then put her back on the floor. “Now, how about we go see what our sister has cooked us for dinner.”
“It smells delicious!” His sister rushed for the door. “We always eat like kings when you return from your trips.”
He smiled, staring at the latest forgery on his desk. Being forced to pay off Simone early had dealt their finances a serious blow, though in the end it would be worth it. But it also meant leaving sooner than planned to collect some more of his ill-gotten gains.
Someone hammered on the door downstairs and his eldest sister, Vivienne, screamed. He pointed to the bed in the corner. “Get under there, now! Don’t make a sound!”
Grace’s trembling body shook out a nod, the terror in her eyes heartbreaking, her legs doing nothing to fulfill his demands. He pushed her toward the bed and she scrambled under it, receding into the darkest corner of the room. He reached for his door, heavy footfalls on the stairs, and gasped as it flew open, a man far more terrifying than Simone entering.
“René! I don’t believe we’ve formally met. Do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “Mr. Pequin.”
“Good! I always like it when my reputation precedes me.” Hamon Pequin leaned slightly closer as two of his henchmen entered, Alain and Lyon, both men René’s age he recognized from the neighborhood, having grown up with both. “It means I have to explain myself much less.”
He resisted the urge to look at the bed as Alain sat on it then stretched out, Lyon taking a perch on Grace’s favorite windowsill. “How-how can I help you?”
Pequin motioned toward René’s chair. “May I?” He sat before René could reply, sighing as he leaned back and stared up at him. “You’ve been holding out on me, my boy.”
His heart hammered as he knew immediately what this was about, his worst fears about to come true. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Mr. Fromont told me everything. About how you’ve cracked the Templar code and have been creating fake Letters of Credit.”
He decided saying nothing was best.
“Do you deny it?”
“I-I—”
Pequin tapped his finger on the latest forgery, still sitting on the desk.
His shoulders slumped. “No.”
“Excellent.” Pequin rose. “You’re working for me now.”
His eyes bulged. “I-I can’t! We’ll get caught! I have my sisters to think of!”
Pequin came within a few inches of René’s face. “Exactly.” He jabbed a finger into René’s chest. “Cross me, and they’re dead. Understood?”
Tears filled his eyes as he realized it was all over. The wrong person had found out, and now things were out of his control. His chin sagged to his chest. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Pequin headed for the door, beckoning Alain and Lyon to follow. “Oh, and René?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“You can tell your sister to come out from under the bed now. I have no intention of hurting either one of them.” He glared at him. “So long as you do everything I say.”
He stood trembling as he watched them leave, their footfalls fading away with the slamming of the front door. Vivienne bolted up the stairs as Grace rolled out from under the bed, both rushing into his arms, wailing, and it was everything he could do to maintain control over his own fears.
Instead, he held them tight, whispering assurances to them that even he didn’t believe.
For all was now lost.
Pequin pulled his collar higher against the cold, staring back at René’s humble home, one that reminded him of what he had grown up in. He knew the man from the neighborhood, though calling him a man was an insult to them all. René was awkward, weak, and would never know the pleasures of a woman unless he paid for it.
Perhaps if he does well, I’ll send over one of the girls.
He chuckled at the notion.
“What’s so-so funny, boss?” asked Alain, a true idiot if there ever was one. The only reason he kept the stuttering fool around was that he was unquestionably loyal, incredibly strong, and extremely fast. He was the perfect tool.
“Just thinking if things work out, René might finally get a woman.”
Lyon grinned. “I don’t think he’d know what to do with one. He’d probably spend his time counting all her parts!”
Alain roared with laughter, Pequin joining in as he imagined the awkward man doing just that. He raised a finger, ending the laughter. He pointed back at the house. “That man is the key to the big leagues, gentlemen. Nobody must know what’s going on
, and nothing can ever happen to him.” He stopped, turning toward them. “It’s your job to protect him.”
Lyon nodded. “Umm, what if the Templars find out?”
Pequin resumed walking. “I don’t care. Everything will point to him. But if a Templar gets too close, kill him.”
Alain’s jaw dropped. “K-kill a Templar?”
Pequin glanced at him, the fear on his face the most intelligent expression the boy had ever made. “If you don’t think you can handle it, then leave now.”
Alain shook his head, his eyes bulging at the very notion. “I-I can handle it.”
“Good. Because nobody ever leaves once they start working for me.” He paused, giving Alain the eye. “At least not breathing.”
7 |
De Rancourt Residence Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France Three months later
“While I live and breathe, I never thought the stories I heard could ever be true!”
Sir Marcus de Rancourt turned toward the voice, a voice he recognized all too well. And a smile broke out. “Damase! I can’t believe it!” He tossed his spade aside and rushed down the hill toward one of his oldest friends, Sir Damase de Sissey. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking to see with my own eyes that which my ears didn’t believe. That the greatest warrior the Order has ever known is now working a farm.”
Marcus embraced the man, giving him a thumping hug before stepping back and apologizing. “Forgive me for my condition. Working a farm is dirty work.”
“Smelly as well.” Sir Damase smiled as Marcus’ crusty old sergeant approached. “So, you old fool, you decided to stay with him?”
“I did.” Simon shook the man’s hand as David and Jeremy rushed over, excitement on their faces at the sight of an old friend from their days in the Order. “What brings you here?”
“Today? Curiosity. Tomorrow, after I depart, business.”
“Where do they have you stationed now?”