The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  “Even so, sir, we cannot simply assume this. How could we be sure?” said Clifford softly.

  “There is one other thing that makes me suspicious,” said the knight. “When you go to your bed, what do you do to the fire?”

  Simon shrugged. “Well, bank it up. Make sure there’s enough wood to keep it going quietly over the night.”

  “Yes. You put fresh logs on it to keep it going overnight. Brewer’s fire seemed too low. It looked as if it had not been touched since the morning. That seems to show that he had not set it up for the night, but it also means that it would be unlikely that any sparks would have reached the ceiling. The fire was too low. I am certain that he was killed. The question is, who did it?”

  They all went to the inn and sat on the benches at the front while they waited for food to arrive. From here they could see in both directions along the road, south and west to the burned-out shell of Brewer’s house, and north and east to Black’s. In front of them the road formed a red and muddy boundary to the small strips of the fields beyond, where the families of the hamlet grew their crops on those days when they had no responsibility to the fields owned by the manor.

  The sun was past its zenith, sweeping slowly across a sky that was, for once, almost miraculously free from clouds. Its brightness lit up the scenery with a soft splendour. In front of them at the other side of the road was the sewer, but beyond it was the stream with the flat stone slabs of the clapper bridge crossing both, and over the ridge were the strips.

  They seemed almost to have been created to assist the inn by giving it a pleasant aspect. It was as if they were radiating out with the inn building at their centre, and their colours - soft red from the earth, white-yellow from the older crops, green from the grass - seemed to emphasise the rural nature of the scene. Beyond, the trees took over again. The great oaks and beeches, elms and sycamores dominated the whole area, lurking with indifferent ease at the edge of the habitation. How long, Simon wondered, how long before these trees are removed and the strips expand further into the forest? How long before new assarts are developed to push the trees back so that these poor people can have more lands for fields, so that they can have more food and not be so dependent on so little? But, looking at the ring of trunks, he wondered whether they could ever be pushed farther back. They seemed too substantial, too massive for puny humans to destroy.

  Against his will, Black had agreed to join them, and he sat now in between Simon and the priest, while Baldwin had a stool, sitting in front of them. Edgar stood a short distance away as usual, his eyes flitting over the men with his master.

  “It’s really very simple,” Baldwin was saying. “We simply speak to the people who were here yesterday and try to see who might have had a reason to kill this… this Brewer.”

  “But there are loads of people here, sir,” Simon protested. “You don’t mean to speak to them all, do you?”

  “Yes.” His voice was uncompromising. “We must. If I’m right, a man has been killed. The very least we owe him is to find out why he was killed. Black?” The hunter started at being addressed. “Black. Do you have any idea why someone should kill this man? Is there anyone in the village who hated him enough to kill him?”

  “Not that I know of. No, this has always been a quiet hamlet. It seems unbelievable that Brewer should have been murdered.”

  Baldwin took a long swallow of his beer and carefully set his pot down on the ground beside him before leaning forward, his hands clasped and dangling between his parted legs, his eyes fixed on Black. “Tell me about the other people in the village. How many families are there?”

  “Oh, seven. Seven families in seven houses. Of course, there are some adult sons in a couple of them. Thomas has two sons old enough to have their own places now, so has Ulric.”

  “I see. Well, tell me about this man Brewer. What was he like?”

  Black shot a glance at the priest, who murmured gently, “Don’t worry, my son. Just tell the truth.”

  “He was not liked.”

  “Why?” asked the knight.

  “Well, he had several acres. He had eight oxen. That made the other farmers jealous. And there was always the rumour that he had more money in his chest, hidden. It seemed unfair. Everyone here works hard for their living, working their strips, borrowing whatever they need from their neighbours and working on the manor’s lands when it’s time, but Brewer, he seemed to be able to survive on his own. He paid the bailiff so he never had to work on the lord’s land. And he kept buying more land. He kept taking more from the forest. The lord - that is your brother, Sir Baldwin - let him keep taking over new assarts. He could afford to take on the land in the woods and pay for men to go and clear it, so all the time his money was increasing. All the time he was getting more land and increasing his crops. It made people jealous.” As if he suddenly realised how long a speech he had made, he subsided, glaring at his boots.

  He was rescued by the innkeeper arriving with their food. On a heavy wooden tray were earthenware bowls, one for each of them. In the bottom of the bowls was a thick slab of bread, and a heavy stew bad been ladled over the top.

  After a few minutes, Baldwin frowned at Black again as a thought hit him. “What about the man’s son? You mentioned a boy in Exeter.”

  The hunter sniffed, scooping another spoonful of stew into his mouth with every sign of pleasure. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he belched. “My wife might know something about him. She’s lived here all her life.”

  After their meal, Peter announced that he would have to leave them. He had his church work to attend to, he said, although Simon did wonder whether this was mainly for show and the priest was thinking that the affair was simply a wild-goose chase.

  Simon was not sure how to treat the knight’s allegation. It seemed too unlikely, somehow, that one of the peaceable villeins from Blackway could have committed murder. It was far more likely that, as they had first thought, the man had died in his sleep. But could Sir Baldwin be right? Could the man have been killed first and then dropped onto his palliasse, so that any others coming later would assume that he had been killed by the thick smoke of his homely pyre? It was possible, he had to agree, but was it likely? Somehow it did not seem so. But the knight was full of nervous energy at the mere thought.

  He had bolted down his food, eager once more to be off, and when his companions completed their meals at a more relaxed pace, possibly, although unintentionally, indicating their doubts about his theory, he seemed almost to panic, so intense was his desire to get on with what he termed ‘our investigation’. Simon was amazed by the difference in the man. When they had first met, so few days ago, at Bickleigh, he had seemed reserved and aloof, tolerant it was true, but aware of his station and noble birth. Now he seemed keen and eager to meet with all the villeins and cottars, the most humble of the serfs of the hamlet, purely to satisfy his curiosity about the death of a man he had never even met. And even the death itself seemed unremarkable to all save him. Was that it? Simon wondered. Was it simply that having proposed what seemed at first sight to be a preposterous concept he now wanted to try to justify it to the others? Or did he need to justify it to himself?

  Baldwin Furnshill knew that he did not. He had been ill for months, first with a physical ailment, and, more recently, with a brain fever of alarming proportions, but he knew that neither had any effect on his thinking about the death of the old man in his house. Of course he was aware of the scepticism of the others - he would have been surprised if they had not displayed any, for it did seem very strange that there should have been such a crime in so quiet a part of the land. He could think of many places where death and murder would have been less surprising -London, Bristol, Oxford, and hundreds of towns and villages in between - but here?

  And why an old, harmless man who was close to the end of his life anyway? What was the point?

  He was still mulling it over when they came to Black’s house at the northernmost edge of the village, ove
r at the west of the road. Although smaller than the other houses in Blackway, it was one of the newest. It was a more solid-looking place, all of cob, but with a strong timber frame that showed around the door and the windows. Baldwin raised a half-amused, half-suspicious eyebrow at the sight of the wood, wondering whether to make a comment, but decided against it. He looked at Black with renewed interest, though. If this hunter was prepared to break the forest laws and steal the king’s wood, he could be a useful man to know for the future. After all, taking the wood could result in a noose at one of the verderer’s courts. Then another thought struck him. If this man was unafraid of the king’s displeasure, would he care about killing a neighbour? Putting the idea to one side, he bowed to the hunter’s wife as she came to the door.

  Black stood between her and the others, in an obviously defensive posture, as if trying to keep the world from her -and Baldwin could see why. Jane Black was a strong and pleasant-looking fair woman in her early twenties. She wore a simple woollen shift that reached almost to the floor, with long sleeves and a carefully embroidered pattern on its front. From the noise indoors, she clearly had already given her husband a pair of young sons, but her face and her figure did not show it. She was a little under Black’s height, a healthy woman, unmarked as yet by hard work. It was obvious that the hunter kept the best of his meat for his family, for there was a pleasant roundness to her youthful body. Her face was a little too narrow for Baldwin, her mouth perhaps too thin, and her breasts could have been larger for his taste, but there was no denying that she was extremely attractive.

  But even as he took in her looks, noting her smile and the warmth of her gaze, he realised that this was too superficial an evaluation - this was a very intelligent woman. Her intellect was clear in her appraising eyes, in the speed of her glance as she subjected the men to a minute scrutiny, in the measuring, almost bold and defiant, stare when she caught the eyes of the others.

  Her husband seemed almost shy as he explained why they were there, as if he was more afraid of worrying her than he was of upsetting the knight and bailiff, and instinctively Baldwin knew his concern was unjustified.

  Jane Black was intrigued. She had never seen such important men in her village before - Blackway was too far from the normal routes for any officials to bother to stop off - and she was not sure why they were so interested in old man Brewer’s boy. The visitors did not seem to want to explain, but that did not matter to her; she knew that her husband would tell her all about it later. As she listened, though, it was the knight who caught her attention. He seemed so earnest, so intent, as he watched her, and as she responded to their questions she saw that his gaze fell upon her lips, as if trying to make sense of her words before their meaning could even be imparted to his brain by his ears, as if everything she said was so crucial, of such fascination, that he had to listen with his whole soul.

  “Do you remember his name?” Simon asked.

  Jane Black slowly wiped her hands on the cloth that served as an apron while she lost herself in her past, in the times when she was a young girl, long before she met John Black, and when the Brewer family had been together. Slowly the pictures started to come to life, as she recalled faded visions of years long passed, of a boy with a simple rough tunic who always seemed to be close to tears from the beatings his father gave, a boy who longed for a mother, but whose mother had died during his birth, a boy who wanted love and affection from a father who seemed to blame him for his widowhood. He had always seemed cowed, like a dog that was thrashed too often, waiting for the next whipping. She had always felt a sneaking sorrow for him, as if she could have taken him up and helped him, perhaps by becoming the sister he had never had. But kindness between children was difficult. She had given in and joined in the vicious jibes and sneers of her friends. When had he left the area?

  “His name was Morgan; he was named after the father of his mother,” she said, her eyes seeing only the past.

  “Why did he leave, Mrs. Black?” said Baldwin, a scowl of incomprehension darkening his features.

  “Why? Oh to get away, I think. He managed to save some money and went to Exeter. He got his lord’s agreement -that was your brother, Sir Baldwin. It’s not surprising. Brewer was a hard man. I can remember seeing Morgan bruised and hurt on mornings when his father had been in his cups the night before.”

  “Did he often get drunk, then?”

  She gave a chuckle. “Oh yes, sir. Very often indeed! It was rare for him to get home sober. Many was the night he had to be helped home from the inn or from a friend’s house after too much ale or cider.”

  Baldwin nodded slowly. “And he became violent when he had too much to drink?”

  Her eyes seemed to film over as she looked at him. “Yes,” she said at last. “He would often abuse others. If he had drunk too much he tried to fight - and he was strong, sir, very strong. My father used to try to avoid him, but others would be hit by him. He even used to hit the very men that were helping him home. Oh, yes, he could be very violent.”

  “This son, Morgan. You think he’s still in Exeter?”

  “No, I doubt it. If he had any choice, I think Morgan would have gone as far away as he could. He had no need of his father’s money, I think. He earned enough himself in the city and could easily afford to travel farther.”

  “Do you know where he can be found?”

  “Oh no. No, I’ve no idea. And I doubt whether anyone else in Blackway will, either.”

  Preparing to leave, Simon and Baldwin stood and waited on the doorstep while Black took his wife back indoors to give her his farewell.

  “Are you really sure that this man Brewer was murdered?” said Simon at last.

  Baldwin shot a glance at him, then smiled sardonically as if mocking himself. “Oh, I don’t know. Not really know. But I am sure he was dead before the fire started. And I’m equally sure that the blaze was not caused by his cooking fire.”

  “Why? How can you be so sure of that?”

  “Because of what I said. The fire was too low. It couldn’t have thrown up enough sparks to light the roof.”

  Simon scratched his neck and squinted at the tall, dark figure beside him with a sceptical grimace. “Baldwin, you may be right, but just what the bugger do you think we can do even if you are? We can’t show that the body was injured - it was too badly burned for that. We can’t prove that anyone went there to kill him - what do you want?”

  “Of course we can prove it,” said his friend, looking at him with an expression of patience mixed with frustration. “All we need to do is find the man who did it and get him to confess.”

  “Ah,” said Simon sarcastically. “So that’s all, is it? I may as well go home now then, if you have it all tied up so neatly already!”

  Chapter Five

  When Black came back out again, he was amused to see that the two had obviously quarrelled. It was plain from their silence, from the fixity of their stares - which were aimed anywhere but at each other - and from the grin on Edgar’s face as he stood a little behind the two of them, out of their sight.

  When Black looked at the servant enquiringly, Edgar merely shrugged, the indication of disinterest being totally refuted by his simultaneously expanding smile. The hunter was not aware, but Edgar was, only too painfully, of how close Baldwin had been to death in the previous year. Since then, since his suffering from the brain fever, he had been regularly morose and taciturn, rarely allowing a smile to crack his features, almost never showing petulance or selfishness of any sort, but continuing quietly and with a gentle calm, eternally grateful for the kindly ministrations of his servant. It was a delight as well as a relief for Edgar to see his master in an argumentative mood once more.

  The four men slowly made their way back up the street, Black pointing out the houses and indicating the people who lived in each. They were all very much the same, built of the same materials and to the same size. Some had the small front door for the human occupants, each had a larger door, or pair
of doors, at the side for the larger inhabitants - the oxen, pigs and goats that represented that family’s wealth. The small, unglazed windows peered at them with apparently bovine calm, as though intrigued by these curious creatures, but not in any way scared or threatened, From the thatch, the smoke drifted aimlessly in the still air, small wisps and tendrils breaking free to climb up the pitch of the roofs before dispersing at the top, like morning mist under the sunshine.

  They had almost passed the inn when Baldwin halted, spun round and rushed in through the door. Simon and the others stood and waited, and soon he came out again, the landlord drifting along behind him.

  He was a huge man, the innkeeper. He was only a couple of years older than Simon, or so the bailiff thought, but he gave the impression of vast knowledge. The appearance of accumulated learning was helped by his head, which was bald. But that was due to his shaving his pate every morning. His eyes were cheerful and twinkling, deep-set under a heavy, sloping brow, and, looking oddly out of place, his jaw and upper lip were covered in a thick and bushy growth of dark hair, making him appear inside out somehow, as if there had been an accident at his birth leaving his whole body inverted. His tunic was filthy, but then that hardly mattered in the darkness of his hall, and its pale, stained front seemed to have served as a cleaning implement, apron, carrying sack for wood and meat, and towel as well as clothing. In fairness, its size made it an ideal means of transport. The man’s girth was vast, and any cloth that could encompass his belly, Simon thought, would be able to carry a significant load of goods.