The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  The thought pleased him. An ironical smile curled one corner of his thick, red mouth, making his face light up momentarily. It made his face lose some of its harshness and returned to him a little of his youth. He was thinking that there was no need for him to worry about Hell any more. After tonight, he knew exactly what it was like.

  Sighing, he slowly stood and shouldered his pack. There was no point waiting here for death to take him, he would fight his mortality as he had fought everything else in his life. The wind snatched at his hood and ripped it from his head, expanding and filling it, tugging at it as if trying to yank it from the cloak it was a part of, but he ignored it. Slowly in his exhaustion, moving like a rusty machine, he lifted a foot and dropped it a short step away. He lifted the other foot and dragged it forward to take another step and gradually continued on his way to the west.

  The hood trailing out behind him, his hair was whipped into madness by the gale, dancing and leaping, each separate black strand seeming to try to break free from his scalp. His eyes were slitted as he trudged on among the trees trying to keep the driven rain from them, but they still glittered with cold rage among the maze of wrinkles at his treatment and bad fortune. The face had a harsh charm and stolid elegance above the thickly muscled neck, except for the thick nose with its heavy scar that stretched from the bridge and over the right cheek: it seemed too brutal for the other features. It sat with its pink cicatrice like a solitary mountain looming over a rugged plain, out of place and strangely threatening above the large sensual mouth, giving warning of his true nature.

  The cloak was torn from his hands and he gave up trying to hold it and continued on his way, ignoring the wind’s cold pinpricks stabbing at his body through his tunic and mail. His body was immense and square, like a bear’s. But as he knew, even bears die. He signed again.

  Then, even as he began to entertain thoughts of relaxing, of sitting by a tree and letting the cold seep into his bones, of resting and possibly never rising again, he heard a sound, a wonderful, miraculous, heavenly sound - the whinny of a horse!

  Were his ears playing him false? He turned his head, one ear jutting towards the noise like a weapon as he tried to hear above the roar and hiss of the elements. Yes, there it was again! A horse.

  Somehow he found a little more energy - from where he could not tell - and strode off into the trees. Surrounded by the trunks of the wooden sentries, he could only hazard a guess at the correct path to the horse and, hopefully, security and warmth. He forced his way through branches that seemed desperate to stop him, he kicked at trailing tentacles of creepers that caught at his feet, he struggled over thick bushes, trying to get to the horse. And then he saw it. It was ahead of him, standing and shaking in its fear and horror of the elements. The knight looked around in amazement. Where was the owner? There was no sign of anyone, no fire, no shelter, just this horse. Automatically his hand grabbed at his sword hilt as he stood just inside the line of trees and stared. But there seemed nothing to be afraid of; no sudden movement from the trees at either side, no noise from men running to him, just the incessant wind.

  Frowning now in his perplexity, he slowly walked to the animal, which rolled its eyes in terror. Patting the neck, he could see that it was a mare and, to his surprise, she was still saddled and bridled. The harnesses looked rich even in the darkness and he could feel the quality of the leather under his fingers. Even in the rain he could see the flecks of lather that remained on her chest and flanks. Why? Had she been running because her owner was attacked? Why had she been left here?

  What had happened?

  He reached for the reins and pulled, but they appeared to be caught and, when he looked, he saw that they had snagged on a thick branch. Had she been running and got them stuck, making her stop? Shrugging, he collected them and led her away, patting her head and neck and talking to her while his eyes flitted around. There was no sign of her owner anywhere. Slowly, like a man who has forgotten how to and who is instructing each muscle in novel and unfamiliar functions, he permitted a smile to crack his face, and he offered up a quick prayer of thanks. Surely this was his salvation! This horse, evidently lost by another, would allow him to cover the remaining miles to his brother.

  But it was when he felt inside the saddlebags that he began to understand his real fortune.

  One was filled with coins.

  Chapter Ten

  Simon had spent the morning with Hugh, riding over to the east to check on the state of the lands over there that were now part of his responsibility. In reality, as far as he was concerned it was a good excuse to get away from the affairs at Blackway and to go for a good ride. Hugh, as usual, was not delighted with the thought, but when Simon mentioned the inn at Half Moon his interest suddenly developed and they were soon on their way.

  They had left early, only an hour or so after dawn, and they were there before the local estate seneschal had finished his breakfast, so they had gone on without him, with the result that they were finished before ten thirty. After two swift pints of beer they started off home again.

  But back at the house they found Edith standing and waiting. “It’s Tanner, father. He says there’s been a robbery on the road,” she said, her eyes huge in her horrified fascination.

  With a groan, Simon rolled his eyes heavenwards in a theatrical gesture. “What now? A cockerel has been taken from a yard? Someone has mislaid his best hauberk? What now?” He smiled down briefly at his daughter, dropped down from his saddle, and passed the reins to Hugh before striding towards his door, Edith following.

  Inside, he found Stephen Tanner, the constable, talking to Margaret. She came forward quickly and kissed him, then left them alone, going through to the yard behind the house with their daughter, casting an anxious glance back at him as she left. Hugh stayed in the room with Simon and Stephen.

  “Stephen, how are you?” said the bailiff. “So what’s all this about a robbery?”

  Tanner was a large, slow block of a man, a figure of enormous bulk, tall and broad. He had a square face on top of a body that would have suited one of the moor’s dwarf oak trees, solid and compact with the promise of great strength. Under his black brows his face was cragged and scarred by the weather, but his eyes were kindly and gentle. His mouth was a thin line, and always seemed fixed, rigid and straight, as if always pursed, making him look as if he had seen something that he greatly disapproved of. When he was unsure of something, his eyes held a constant look of frowning confusion that hid a careful and sensible intelligence and a shrewdness that had been the downfall of many a thief. Built as strongly as Simon’s house, he was known to be a good and honest man, which was why he had so often been re-elected to his position. Now, though, his face was troubled.

  “Hello, bailiff. Sorry to come round like this, but I had a message to go over to Clanton Barton this morning, that farm on the other side of Copplestone on the Oakhampton road. Seems that John Greenfield there was working this morning when he saw some men coming up over his fields. They’d been set upon and robbed on die road to Oakhampton late last afternoon. He says they were in a terrible state, what with the rain and everything. They had tried to find somewhere to stay, but there’s not much down that way so they got stuck out all night. Well, he put them in front of his fire and sent his boy to get me. I’d heard you’d been made bailiff, so I thought I’d better come here and get you before I went over there. I know it’s my duty to catch thieves here, but now you’re a bailiff you have that job too. And if we need to get a posse together, I’d be grateful for your help. We don’t have too many robberies around here. If this is a band of outlaws, you may be able to get men from Oakhampton to help us catch them.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d better come with you. Wait here, I’ll just go and get my things,” Simon said. As bailiff, he was his lord’s representative in the court at Lydford, in charge of the local constables. Clearly, if by helping Tanner he could see thieves arrested, he was performing his duty. Even though Lydford did not cove
r Tanner’s area, it was every man’s responsibility to help catch felons. He walked out to the yard at the back of the house, shouting instructions to Hugh to saddle up a fresh horse, then swiftly kissed his wife and daughter before snatching up his sword and leading Tanner out to the front of the house.

  There they paused, waiting for Hugh. Simon fretted at the delay and when Hugh arrived with his horse he snatched the reins from him and was quickly in the saddle. Tanner mounted his great old beast more slowly, heaving his massive frame up with slow inevitability. The sight reminded Simon of watching a tree fall: there seemed the same slow beginning, the same initial faltering, followed by a sudden acceleration, until, at last, peace. The tree lying on the ground, the constable sitting in his saddle, with a small smile of achievement on his face, as if he too had doubted his ability to mount. Then they were on their way, gently cantering off to the Clanton farm.

  “So did he say anything else about these people?” Simon asked.

  “No. Seems they were travellers, but that’s all I know.

  The boy, he was tired out when he got to my house -couldn’t hardly talk. I left him with my wife.“

  “We may have to call up a posse,” said Simon reflectively. “When we get to the barton, we’ll find out where they were robbed and what happened. If we need the posse we can organise it from there.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. We may have to ride straight past the men’s houses anyway, if they came back this way.”

  They rode on in tense expectation, hardly talking for the rest of the journey, Tanner sitting stolid and imperturbable on his mount and Simon warily casting around as he went. He was staggered that this should have happened -especially so soon after his position had been granted. In all his years in the area he had only heard of three robberies, and the last was months ago. It seemed an appalling forewarning of his tenure of office that this should have happened so soon - especially after Brewer’s death. And for some reason he had a vague presentiment of evil, a suspicion that this affair would not be as easy or as straightforward as Tanner’s message seemed to imply.

  It only took them a matter of an hour to get to the Greenfield Barton, or farm, a solid building of granite blocks with the dark red mortar showing clearly between each. A fire was obviously lighted inside, the smoke was pouring out of the chimney, lending an apparently tranquil air to the surroundings.

  The two men dismounted quickly and tethered their horses, then Simon strode to the solid wooden door and rapped loudly. He could hear voices inside, and stepped back a little. There was a shuffling, and then the door was opened a little and a square, whiskered face peeped out, holding a suspicious frown in the old, faded blue eyes. Seeing only Simon, the door opened wider and he could see that it was Greenfield, a farmer whose fair hair, rumoured to have come from his Viking ancestors, had lost its colour and was now a pastel grey. The eyes peered out cautiously at the bailiff from around the edge of the part-opened door. Normally a calm man, easy-going and casual, the extent of his caution at the knocking of a stranger was concerning. His lined and worn face only cleared when he saw Tanner standing behind.

  “Ah, Stephen. Hello, so my boy got to you, then?”

  “Yes, John, I left him at home warming himself in front of the fire. He was worn out by the time he got to my house.”

  “Ah, well. At least he made it. So, it’s Mr. Puttock, isn’t it?” he said turning to him. Simon nodded.

  “He’s the bailiff now, John. That’s why I waited before coming over. I wanted to bring him.”

  “Ah. Best come in, I reckon.”

  They followed the old farmer through the doorway and into the screens: a wide corridor, lit by a series of sconces set into the wooden walls, built at the end of the hall to partition off the parlour and animal quarters. A heavy tapestry gave into the large, dark hall beyond, where four men sat ranged around the roaring fire, watching the farmer’s wife as she stirred a pot and prepared food over the flames.

  “Here’s the bailiff and the constable,” Greenfield said as he led the other two through the door, and as he entered, Simon recognised the men with a sudden shock. They were the four monks he had seen walking with their abbot while he was on his way to Furnshill.

  “Where’s the abbot?” he asked as he walked over to the men. They all gazed up at him, their faces lit by the fire, and as he looked at them, waiting for an answer, he saw that they were all frightened, as if fearful of his question. He looked enquiringly at the farmer. “Well?”

  Greenfield shrugged, as if he had no knowledge of an abbot, that these were the only men that had appeared.

  With a frown of concern on his face, Simon turned back to the monks. “Where is he?”

  At last one of them dropped his eyes and looked at his lap. “We don’t know,” he said sadly, and then his breath caught in his throat as if he was close to sobbing. “He was taken from us. He was taken hostage.”

  Simon walked over to lean against the wall not far from the fire, his eyes flitting from one to another as he crossed his arms. “Tell me what happened,” he said gently.

  At first it was difficult to get any sense from them. It took long enough merely to persuade them to talk. It was not only the shock of their experience, it was also the miserable night they had spent in the open, with no shelter from the bitter wind and rain. The oldest of them had completely lost his smile and genial appearance. He seemed to have suffered more than the others, he looked close to collapsing from fear and shock, and could hardly keep his hands from shaking as if he had the ague, his eyes downcast as though he wanted to avoid the bailiff’s gaze. Seeing this, and sensing his pain, Simon directed his questions to the youngest-looking, a man almost as old as himself, who seemed the least affected of them all.

  He began fitfully, with many pauses and sidelong glances at his companions to check that he was not leaving out any points of importance. “We… we were going on to Oakhampton…‘

  “Why did it take so long? I left you days ago, you should have been there by now.”

  “We… the abbot wanted to rest and the… we stayed at the church at Crediton. We only started out again yesterday and… We got to Copplestone—‘

  “Where were you when it happened?” Simon asked quietly, his hand toying with his sword hilt as he tried to control his impatience and the urge to make the man speak faster and get to the point.

  “Out beyond the village. We had left the village… must have been two hours before—‘

  “Were you still on the road?”

  “Yes. Yes, we were—‘

  “And you were all together?”

  “Yes, we were all walking, except for the abbot on his horse. Two men came up from behind us… they had swords. They rode through us - we had to get out of the way. They got to the abbot and… and Simon stepped forward softly and crouched in front of the man, looking at him gravely. At first the monk dropped his eyes as if embarrassed, but then, gradually, his eyes came up again with a kind of defiance, and he spoke directly to the bailiff, his eyes staring straight into Simon’s and his voice losing its nervousness and slowly gaining strength from the sight of the grim officer in front of him, who listened as though with his whole body and soul in silent intensity.

  “We… we were scared. The abbot had been worried for days. He was sure that we’d be attacked. He never said why, but he was sure of it. He seemed to feel that we were always close to being attacked.” Simon nodded - that certainly matched his own observations. “Then these two men came up from behind and scattered us all. They wore helms, we couldn’t see their faces. Their swords were out and they went straight to the abbot… they knew what they wanted… One took the abbot’s bridle, and he… The abbot had all of the money on his horse… We thought they’d go then, take the packs and go, let the abbot down and leave us alone, but, but they didn’t… they took the abbot’s reins and took him with them… They went off into the woods by the side of the road with him. We couldn’t do anything about it… We… we st
arted to follow, we ran after them, but then we realised that if they saw us they might kill the abbot to get away… They shouted at us… they said they’d kill the abbot if we followed… We… they said they had others in the woods… They said they’d kill us as well if we didn’t leave… We had to leave them and come back… We tried to find somewhere to rest, but there wasn’t anywhere… we had to sleep on the road. We tried to get back to Copplestone, but it was too far…‘

  Gently Simon touched his shoulder until the young monk subsided. “Did they have any marks on their helms?”

  “No… no, I don’t think so.”

  “How about their tunics? Any signs on them?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “So there was nothing to identify them?”

  “No.”

  “What about their horses - what colour were they?”

  “They were both brown. But one was a great big horse, like a knight’s. The other was smaller.”

  “Were there any marks on their clothes? Anything to show they were knights?”