Rue St. Denis
Paris, Kingdom of France
Simon stared into the dark, silently cursing himself for letting Marcus go off on his own. The woman was dead, and a swift blow to the side of the coachman’s head would have kept the man out of commission for some time, allowing him to aid his master in the pursuit.
Yet he had his orders.
And he shouldn’t worry. Marcus was the greatest warrior he had ever met, his abilities on the battlefield almost legend if admiration were a trait to be sought. But it wasn’t. Not for a Templar. Marcus served his Lord as he had sworn to do, and his duty was to protect the Holy Lands and the Christian pilgrims traveling to it, from those who would do them harm.
And he did it exceptionally well.
They all did. A knight with the skills of Marcus was a valuable commodity, and over the decades, he had fought beside those who would become their leaders. It meant small concessions, such as being allowed to keep Simon, Jeremy, and David close.
Simon had served long enough to become a knight himself if he so chose, David and Jeremy long enough to become sergeants.
But none were there for advancement—they were all there to serve their Lord in the best way they could, and all had concluded, on their own, that the way to do that was to ensure Marcus had the best possible men at his side, supporting him.
If something should happen to him…
Simon sighed. He wasn’t sure what he would do. He was closer to the man than his own brother, and in fact, wasn’t even certain if his own brother was still alive.
Should something happen to his friend, he would keep his word and take care of the children. He smiled slightly at the thought of taking Isabelle as a wife, though the woman would never have him—he was too old and weathered for a young thing like that.
Yet so was Marcus, though he had avoided the leather face that cursed Simon.
The carriage he was leaning against rocked, and he stepped away from it to see the coachman sneak off on the other side. He shook his head then rounded the carriage, approaching the man from the back, grabbing him by the collar.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
The man cringed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I-I want nothing to do with this! I’m just the coachman!”
Simon shoved him to the ground and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “What’s your name, then?”
“Richard.”
“Are you always her coachman?”
Richard nodded, his eyes now opened.
“For how long?”
“Going on two months now, maybe a little longer.”
That matches the length of the affair, if Sir Denys is to be believed.
“And who hired you?”
“I-I don’t know. I was given written orders and a large purse. I was given instructions on where to pick her up the first time, then ever since, before I drop her off, she tells me where and when to pick her up the next time.”
“Do you have this letter?”
Richard hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It said to destroy it.”
Simon drew his sword several inches from its scabbard. “I’ll ask you again. Do you have this letter?”
The man’s shoulders slumped, courage begging in this wretched soul. “Yes.” He sighed. “The entire situation seemed strange to me, so I thought it best to keep it.”
Simon suppressed a smile. “Where is it?”
“Hidden under the floorboards of my room.”
“You will take us there when my master returns.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped further. “Of course.”
“What can you tell me about this woman?”
Richard glanced under the carriage at the body on the other side. “Nothing, really. I show up at a certain location at the appointed hour. She climbs in the back, I deliver her to where she says to go, then I wait until she returns. I deliver her to where I picked her up, and she tells me where and when to pick her up the next time.”
“And is it always the same place?”
“Yes.”
“Every single time?”
Richard opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated. “Actually, once she had me drop her off at a different location. It was raining very heavily, so I don’t think she wanted to walk very far.”
Simon’s heart pounded a little harder. “Where was this?”
“Quai de Gesvres. Not a very good neighborhood, if you ask me, but not much worse than mine, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I found it quite odd at the time, though. She dressed as one might expect the aristocracy to, yet she lived in such a place? It made no sense to me.”
“Can you take us there?”
Richard frowned. “I get the distinct impression that I have no choice in the matter.”
Simon smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.” He spun at the sound of a rider approaching, and sighed with relief at the sight of his master. Marcus swung off his horse and joined them. “Did you catch him?”
Marcus gave him a look. “Do you see him tied to my horse?”
Simon made an exaggerated lean to his left, staring at the horse. “He must have fallen off.”
Marcus chuckled then motioned toward the coachman, still on the cold, damp ground. “What’s this?”
“Someone tried to make a break for it.”
“Sounds like someone with something to hide.”
“And you’d be right. He claims to have a letter written by the man who hired him, hidden away in his room. And, he claims to have dropped our late friend off at what might be her home.”
Marcus’ eyebrows rose. “And where might that be?”
Simon kicked the man in the foot. “Tell him.”
“Quai de Gesvres.”
“That sounds as good a place to start as any, but I think we should see this letter first.”