Terrence OBrien - The Templar Concordat

THE TEMPLAR CONCORDAT

By

Terrence P. OBrien

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental

Copyright 2010 by Terrence P. OBrien

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author. EF.

Ardgroom Circle 0618

To Kathy, for her support, patience, and love.

Id like to thank the loyal group of readers and editors who assisted with this work. Peggy Miller provided proofreading and editorial assistance, Jim Bosley and Waldo Gibson uncovered inconsistencies invisible to the author, Louise Bosley had insights into the characters I hadnt seen, Rich Hartzells tactical knowledge was invaluable, and my wife, Kathy, always supported and encouraged the endeavor from beginning to end and of course Max, who sat by the computer watching each and every keystroke.

Marseilles - Tuesday, October 10, 1307

The captain of the kings guard leaned on the pommel of his saddle, wiped the perspiration from his face, and dropped the reins so his destrier could munch on the sweet grass. October wasnt supposed to be this hot, but the two days since he and his company had left Avignon had been nothing but sweltering, dusty, humid, and buggy. He turned in his saddle and waited for the strung out line of horsemen to tighten up their formation. He couldnt even see the rear of the column when he looked back along the road through the narrow valley, and for a unit of only two-hundred men, that was inexcusable.

He would speak to the sergeants. When they arrived in Marseilles the next day, he wanted the company to look sharp. The kings guard had to look like the kings guard, not a bunch of louts. And they had to fight like the kings guard. Besides himself, not a man in the column wore a helmet or had a weapon buckled around his waist. In the heat, they had piled weapons, mail, and helmets on the backs of supply horses, and most rode in just breeches and an open jerkin. True, it was peacetime, they were in France, and the heat was ungodly, but they were still the kings guard.

Tomorrow he would make his name wiping out the forty Templars in Marseilles. They never surrendered, so what choice would he have? Besides, the Popes man in Avignon said, No survivors. But would his two hundred men be enough?

He was still turned back toward the column when he felt the slight vibration of hoof beats. Puzzled, he glanced again at his troops and saw all the horses moving at a slow walk to tighten up the line.

Sergeant, do you hear that? the Captain asked the man behind him.

Hear what, Sir? Oh, God save us! The sergeant pointed east.

Fifty knights in full charge crested the top of the low hills to the east and made straight for them at top speed. Red crosses blazed on the white tunics of fifty charging Templars. Fifty lances pointed at them and thundered closer every second. The captains horse spun around and he saw his startled men dragging shields off pack horses, struggling to pull swords from the bundles tied to the backs of their own horses, and looking for lances on the pack mules. The captain drew his own sword, ordered the sergeants to set up a defensive formation, and rode back along the line.

He looked west for a place they might defend and froze at the sight of another fifty red Templar Crosses charging from that direction. There was no time. Both lines of charging knights smashed into the disorganized column at the same time. The unit from the east hit the front of the column and the unit from the west hit the back half of the column.

The two groups of attacking knights passed each other as they crashed through their prey, neither stopping when they hit the enemy, but riding straight through and over their victims, then wheeling around and coming back for another attack. But this time they stayed in the midst of the carnage, hacking, slashing, and stabbing with swords, axes, and maces until they finished their bloody work.

That was vile work, said the Marshall of the Knights Templars. Ive seen many battles, but I dont count this as a battle. Its hardly a victory I want to remember.

He looked with disgust at the Templar priest moving among the wounded administering last rites. The priest was followed by a knight who efficiently and mercifully dispatched the wounded.

The Marshall rode with the commander through the flies, the stink, and the gore where the Templars were piling weapons and supplies on the backs of the uninjured horses from the kings guard. Dead mens horses would serve new masters.

Vile times, replied the commander. A vile king and his vile Pope. They cant expect us to play any different. You know why these vermin were riding to Marseilles. Its to roast our arses at the stake and steal our fleet. At least the fleets safe now.

Yes, fleet and arses are both safe for a while. You finish this mess. Im heading back to Marseilles. The Marshall turned his horse and left the valley at a trot, with his squire trailing behind him.

* * *

The previous night, the Templar Admiral and Marshall both hunkered over a chart on a wooden table while the Admiral traced his route with his finger. Conditions cant be any better. Clear skies, tide going out, and an offshore wind are gifts from God. A sailor cant ask for any more. The admiral drained his pewter mug and called to the landlord for more ale.

I wish you fair winds, my friend. And just ask God for luck. Dont ask for anything else. Its too confusing. See, if he grants you good luck, that covers everything else. The Marshall looked down into his ale and swirled it around. You know what this means. He drained the mug.

The admiral nodded, but said nothing.

I dont like it. A retreat is still a retreat, no matter what you call it, even if you call it a strategic redeployment of forces. The Marshall spat on the sawdust floor of the tavern.

Bernard, let it go. The ships are loaded, the men are ready, and were going to do this. He pointed toward the harbor. And Im going to take that fleet, that one right out there, through the Pillars of Hercules, out of the sunny Mediterranean, and up to that godforsaken place they call Britain. He grinned and laughed. Been there once, swore Id never go back, but I do remember the way. Well be ready on Friday morning. We leave with the tide.

Well, load all the cargo and supplies you want, but youre not going anywhere until that shipment arrives. A rider said it will be here tomorrow night, but not before the kings guard arrives. So, they have to go. The Marshall slowly drew his finger across his throat. Neither man would mention out loud the cargo they waited for was the Templar treasure.

You can bet it wont be early, and probably late, so we still have to deal with the kings men tomorrow. The Marshall tugged at his white tunic, emblazoned with a red cross. And when we meet them tomorrow, that may be the last time this cross sees battle. Two-hundred years of honor and now we go sniveling into the night.

Cheer up, my friend. The admiral laughed and jabbed the air with his mug as he talked. All the other Templars will vanish before king and Pope strike on Friday. Gone. Disappeared. Shazzam! At least you get to kick some ass on the way out. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. If the special cargo had been on time, the fleet would already be gone, youd be on the way to Zurich, the kings guard would get here and find no Templars to roast and no fleet to steal, and, he slapped the table, youd have no ass to kick. Now, Id say thats lucky for you.