The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker Page 5

  “Every little bit of information we can gather could lead us to whoever is behind this.”

  Matthew handed back the directive. “It seems like a long shot.”

  Damase agreed. “Unfortunately, right now, that might be all we have.” He held up the page. “And please make sure the directive goes out worded exactly as I have it. No one must know why they’re being asked to do what I’ve indicated. We can’t risk word spreading, even among our own. The stakes are far too high.”

  “Very well. I’ll have it sent immediately. We have to put a stop to this before word gets out. Use as many men and resources as you need.”

  Damase shook his head. “No, I’ll do this alone.”

  Matthew wagged a finger. “No, this is too important for only one person to be working on it. We need this resolved quickly.”

  Damase suppressed a frown, and knew arguing would be of little use. Matthew appeared firm on the matter. “Very well, though I can think of only one person I trust with this matter.”

  “And that is?”

  “Sir Marcus de Rancourt.”

  Matthew smiled. “I had a feeling you’d ask for him.” He snapped his fingers, and a young boy emerged from the shadows. “Get me a messenger.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  11 |

  The Swan Tavern Paris, Kingdom of France

  “She-she really s-said that?”

  Thomas Durant nodded vigorously. “She did indeed. She said she felt you weren’t being given the respect you deserved.”

  Alain smiled at the contents of his cup, as if he dared not look Thomas in the eye lest he realize it was all a lie. “She-she always seemed like a n-nice lady.”

  I guess we’re both lying now.

  Getting Alain to come with them after they intercepted him stumbling home hadn’t been difficult. Enzo’s long shadow in the moonlight was usually enough to convince even the bravest of souls to comply with any requests made of them.

  Though with Alain as inebriated as he was, Thomas had a feeling it was the offer of free drinks, rather than the fear of Enzo, that had him agreeing. Thomas had never directly dealt with Alain, their employers both in the same business though rarely mixing. He knew him from the neighborhood, of course, both having spent most of their lives within a couple of miles of this very spot.

  They weren’t friends, though knew each other by name, and might be considered casual acquaintances if their employers weren’t rivals. And with Alain’s awkward, insecure manner, not the least of which was caused by his unfortunate stutter, guilt racked Thomas with what he was doing, the shy Alain eating up everything fed him, the poor soul desperate for validation and friendship.

  Thomas smiled at him. “I’m glad you realize that fact. She is, especially to those that work for her.”

  “Like you.”

  “Exactly.” He jerked a thumb at Enzo, finishing yet another drink. “Even he’s nice once you get to know him.”

  Alain glanced at the half-man half-beast out of the corner of his eye. “I s-suppose.”

  Thomas leaned closer, lowering his voice so no one else in this house of ill repute could hear. “My mistress tells me that you are moving up in the organization. Is she mistaken?”

  Alain’s eyes darted to the floor, the statement evidently as false as Thomas knew it was. Alain was the butt of every joke in Hamon Pequin’s organization, and was never shown any respect. The very idea that he was moving up in the organization was inconceivable.

  Yet it was a calculated question, designed to elicit a specific response.

  “I take it you are hesitant to confirm this because it might betray your current master.” Thomas pushed a few coins across the table. “An advance on your salary, should you choose to come work with us, eventually an equal to Enzo if you prove your loyalty.”

  Alain’s eyes bulged at the generous sum. He quickly pocketed it then grabbed his drink, downing half. “Your-your mistress is cor-correct. I am moving up.”

  Thomas suppressed a smile. If Pequin was involved in something big, as Simone suspected, then a man like Alain would want to make his prospective employer think he was important enough to be involved. If he had even an inkling of what was going on, he’d reveal it now to impress his new “friends.” “She’s rarely wrong. Can you tell me what your latest responsibilities are?”

  “I’m one of just a few-few that have been entrusted to…” His voice drifted off. “I-I shouldn’t say.”

  “It’s fine. You’re among friends. No one will know. And besides, what could we possibly do with the information? Pequin is too big to hurt.”

  Alain’s head slowly bobbed, his eyes bloodshot, his lower lip drooping slightly as the barmaid returned with another round, taking Thomas’ almost full cup away with a slight smile, fully aware something underhanded was afoot. “Y-you’re right, of course. It doesn’t real-really matter.” He leaned closer, his elbows slamming onto the table causing everything to bounce. “S-sorry.” He beckoned them closer. “I’m involved in something b-big. You know René Courvat?”

  Thomas nodded. “I do.”

  “Well, he-he’s cracked it.”

  Thomas’ eyes narrowed as his heart thumped harder. With the mention of René’s name, whatever it was they were about to hear was what they were looking for. René had paid off his loan far too fast, which meant he had more money than he should.

  Just like Pequin.

  “Cracked what?”

  “The Temp-Templar code.”

  12 |

  Enclos du Temple, Templar Fortress Paris, Kingdom of France

  Sir Damase sipped the strong tisane, made just the way he liked it—hot and full of flavor. Tepidness was never welcome in his life, whether it was in his drinks or his desire to serve. Commitment was key in both pleasure and work. He had noticed the first discrepancy. He could have let it go, but he didn’t. He could no longer serve on the battlefield, the ultimate goal of any warrior monk, though he could still serve and serve honorably.

  And the very idea that someone was stealing from the Order had enraged him.

  Then, when he realized how they were doing it, it terrified him.

  The Order was all he knew. He had grown up within it, his father a nobleman and knight who had given up everything to join the fight against the heathen Saracens. And when he was of age, he too had worked his way through the ranks, eventually becoming a knight and serving beside his father until his death in battle.

  It was how he had hoped to go, but unfortunately, the Saracen that had finally put him out of commission was less skilled than the one that had felled his father. He had survived his combat-ending wound, relegated to a desk job in Rome. Though at least he was still serving.

  He took another sip of his drink then resumed examining the map of Paris and surrounds, the first one he had seen of the area. He was eager to get underway, though his orders were to await Marcus’ arrival, and he wasn’t one to disobey orders unless he felt they were egregiously wrong—something that did happen from time to time, though never, to date, off the battlefield.

  He carefully noted the locations of each of the flagged transactions, the ring around Paris confirmed. But how did that help him? Knowing the locations of the forged redemptions meant nothing due to the very nature of the Letters of Credit. As long as one knew the name it was meant for, one could redeem them. Yes, he might get lucky and have someone remember one or perhaps even several of the questionable transactions, though he doubted it. There were simply too many.

  And even if they did, how could he possibly track them down? All used different names, so all were obviously fake. There was no one to look for.

  He stared at the pages. The more recent transactions much larger than those that started several months ago, and more frequent. Whoever it was, they were getting greedy. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed something he hadn’t before. He leaned closer.

  Could it be?

  He removed all the markers from the map and began anew, this time with an eye to what he had just noticed, his heart picking up speed as he realized his observation was correct. And it just might lead him somewhere.

  But only if he acted fast.

  And disobeyed orders.

  13 |

  Sevres, Kingdom of France

  René bundled himself against the morning chill, using his horse as a break against the wind, the beast borrowed from an extremely guilty Mr. Fromont, responsible for revealing his secret to Pequin. Yet he didn’t blame him for his current predicament.

  He had been stupid. He should have kept it to himself. He shouldn’t have helped anyone, at least not the way he had. By giving them the forged Letters of Credit, requiring them to go to the Templar outposts to redeem them, he had revealed the fact he had broken the code. Now, in retrospect, he knew he should have redeemed the forgeries himself, and given the money over without anyone the wiser.

  Hindsight always trumped foresight, and now here he was, in the service of a cretin who would get him killed.

  That was why he had hatched a plan, a plan so risky, it could mean his death, but should it work, it would mean freedom for him and his sisters. Today, he was beginning a round of redemptions, larger than any he had done before—at least personally.

  Pequin had forced him to create forgeries for much larger amounts, with the redemptions completed by people under his employ, and none had been caught yet. It enraged him every time he handed over another set of falsified Letters of Credit. Why should that bastard get all the profit from what was his scheme and his neck?

  This was all about to come tumbling down around them, for there was no way the Templars wouldn’t catch on eventually. And when they did, he’d be hanged, and he had to leave a legacy for his sisters, or find them husbands. Unfortunately, most of the men he knew were already happily married, and the few that weren’t were men he’d never wish upon his sisters—there was a reason they weren’t married. He needed to find young men for his sisters, but he knew few, the fact he was awkwardly intelligent leaving him with few friends, and even fewer peers.

  His worry for his sisters, especially Grace, had forced him into a corner there was only one way out of. One last, big score. He had twelve forged Letters of Credit in his saddlebag, and would make a circuit around the city over the next few days, redeeming the largest letters of credit he ever had, and once done, he would have enough money to take him and his sisters away from the only home they had known, and up north where they had family that might take them in until he could get back on his feet.

  Paris was filled with scum and villainy, and he was sick of it. Yes, his current situation was brought on by his own actions, though they were actions he was driven to because of his own desperation, and those of his neighbors. They were all victims here. Him, his sisters, the neighbors he had helped, even the Templars in a way, for it was them he was stealing from. The only one in the mix who was a true villain was Pequin, and one day the Good Lord would deliver him his due, whether in this life or the next.

  Though that provided him with small comfort at this very moment, for Pequin wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if the man knew what he was up to at this moment, putting the entire scheme at risk for his own purposes.

  He entered the first outpost on his loop, his heart hammering, his forehead dripping, his entire being growing faint. He paused, beginning to turn around as second thoughts overwhelmed him.

  “Can I help you?”

  He cursed.

  To himself.

  He held up his Letter of Credit. “I hope so.”

  14 |

  De Rancourt Residence Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  Lady Joanne made a point of sniffing the air. “I see you bathed.”

  Beatrice doled out a spoonful of porridge to Sir Marcus. “It smells like you did, anyway.”

  Jacques and Angeline giggled, as did young Pierre, the children sitting along one side of the table in the farmhouse, Lady Joanne and Beatrice the other, with Marcus at the head. It was a ritual Joanne insisted on whenever possible.

  A family meal.

  “The children need a father figure,” she had said when she laid down her new “rules.”

  “I’m not their father, I’m their uncle.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re the head of the household, the man of the house, and they need that authority figure in their lives. It shows them that you want to be part of this family, that you love them, and that you will be there when they need you.”

  He thought the notion a little ridiculous, though he had complied. He’d much rather be eating with his men in the barracks they had built, but part of him understood what she was saying, especially when he’d walk in at mealtime and see the excited looks on the faces of the children.

  He supposed he loved them. He certainly cared for them, and would die to protect them, even Pierre, who was no relation to him—he was a Templar Knight and would do that for any innocent. Yet he did miss them when he was gone, finding himself looking forward to seeing them after a long journey.

  Is that love?

  He honestly couldn’t say. He had never loved a woman, and these past months were his first exposure to children. He had loved his parents and sister, though that was the way things were supposed to be, and having not seen them in decades, perhaps he truly had no concept of the notion.

  In time, hopefully.

  He waited for Beatrice to finish serving everyone, then they all joined hands, thanking the Lord for His bounty, before tucking in.

  “How much longer will you be working on Pevra’s barn?” asked Joanne.

  “Not much. The neighbors are really pitching in, so the work is going quickly.”

  “I hear they weren’t so eager until you laid down the law,” said Beatrice.

  Marcus smiled slightly. “I merely gave them the structure they so desperately needed. One hour per day from each farm’s eldest son. It was enough to get the debris cleared in a couple of days, and now the lumber has been milled at cost, with most of the trees donated. We’ll have it up in no time.”

  Joanne put down her spoon. “Good. They’re decent people and didn’t deserve this.”

  “Nobody does.”

  She frowned. “I can think of a few I might turn a blind eye to should something befall them.”

  Marcus regarded her. “That’s not very Christian of you.”

  Angeline’s jaw dropped, Joanne noticing. “Eat your food.”

  “Yes, M’Lady.” She hunkered down over her porridge, her cheeks flushed, her eyes still on the adults.

  “If you act Christian, then I’ll be Christian back at you. But if all you do is leech off your neighbors, never helping when needed, then no, don’t expect me to come running when you’re in need.”

  Marcus finished his porridge, leaning back, enjoying the full stomach. “Anyone in particular?”

  She eyed him. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

  He chuckled, nodding, for he did.

  A horse galloping toward the house had everyone rising. Marcus held out a hand. “Finish eating, I’ll see who it is.” He rose, as did his eyebrows when he spotted through the window a Templar messenger dismounting. He opened the door, the young man rushing forward and bowing.

  “Are you Sir Marcus de Rancourt?”

  “I am.”

  A folded paper was produced. “An urgent message from the Fortress, sir.”

  Marcus broke the seal while the messenger waited to see if there would be a reply. He quickly scanned the page, thankful it wasn’t bad news, and equally thankful the coming days would be occupied with work other than farm labor. He folded the paper back up. “Tell Sir Matthew and Sir Damase that my sergeant and I will be there before the end of the day.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the man, quickly writing out the message and putting it in his saddlebag. He bowed once again. “Good day to you, Sir Marcus.”

  “And to you.”

  The young man turned his horse then sped away, the rest of Marcus’ entourage jogging down the hill.

  “Was that a messenger?” asked Jeremy.

  “Yes. Sir Damase needs me in Paris. Sergeant, you’ll accompany me.”

  David appeared crestfallen. “We’re not to come?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No, you’re needed here. Hopefully, we won’t be too long, though I can’t be certain. Sir Damase’s purpose here seems complex, so it may take some time. I’ll send word if we’re to be more than a few days.”

  “But you might need our help should something go wrong.”

  It was obvious David was desperate to escape the farm, likely the shit-shoveling specifically. “We’ll take Tanya. She’s good in a fight.”

  Their mastiff barked at her name, her tail wagging, as if she could sense an adventure was in her future.

  Jeremy looked at her. “If I could figure out how, I’d have you shoveling the barn.”

  David grunted. “She’d probably do a better job of it.”

  “Like you—”

  Marcus cut them off. “Now, children, that’s enough. Prep two horses with provisions for two days, just in case.”

  David nodded. “Yes, sir.” He grabbed Jeremy and they both headed back up the hill.

  Simon glanced at the farmhouse. “The Lady isn’t going to be happy.”

  Marcus frowned. “No, but we’re Templars first, farmers second. Our agreement with Command is that Templar business supersedes our new situation.”

  Simon grinned. “Thank God!”

  Marcus chuckled. “You may find what we’re about to embark upon quite boring, my friend. I have a feeling we’ll be reading more documents than we’ve seen in a lifetime, rather than engaging in battle.”

  Simon chewed his cheek for a moment. “I think I’d rather shovel shit.”

  Marcus laughed. “Don’t let the squires hear that. One of them might just insist on taking your place.”

  Simon looked at Tanya. “What do you think I should do?”