Then he heard the yap again and, even as he tensed at the unexpected noise, he saw two foxes gambolling around, near the old fire, springing and jumping as gleefully as kittens.
With a brief flare of impatience, now that it seemed that his careful tracking was all in vain and there was no reason to be afraid, he stood up carefully and scrutinised the clearing. It seemed absolutely deserted apart from the two creatures. Nothing else moved. The only noises were from the trees as, high above, a breeze caught the branches. Taken with a sudden fit of anger at the thought that his exertions had been unnecessary, he bellowed out, “Is anybody there?”
His only response was the sudden explosion of noise as the two foxes bolted in their terror, both leaping for the safety of the dark trees at the edge of the clearing. Then the silence returned. There was nothing to betray a human’s presence, not even the scuffle of a man woken by his shout trying to grab at a club or sword: nothing. Simon drew his sword and, steeling himself, slowly crept forward until he was at the edge of the trees. As soon as he reached the fringe, he rushed on, running to crouch in the middle of the open space, whirling and glaring around, his sword grasped in both hands and the hot blood hammering in his ears.
But there was nothing. No one sprang to attack him, no one ran away into the surrounding trees, there was not even the sound of a disturbed animal to break the all-embracing silence. Gradually, shrugging shamefacedly, he relaxed, and lowered the point of his sword, taking stock. The clearing was only some twenty yards across and there was nowhere for anyone to hide apart from in among the trees.
There was no sign that anybody had ever been here apart from the fire. He turned and looked for the blackened embers to see how long the clearing had been empty. It lay over at the other side of the clearing from him, a darker stain among the shadows.
He wandered over towards it, but as he drew near, his feet-started to falter, and he stumbled as he frowned at the tree. He had only covered half the distance when he stopped. Eyes wide in horror, he gagged and dropped to his knees, staring at the patch of burned grass and the tree in front of him.
With a high scream, he turned and ran, rushing away from the sight in a mad, panicked flight back to the road.
The smell of cooked meat came from the man who had been roasted, like a convicted witch, over the flames.
Chapter Twelve
When Tanner and the others arrived, the constable was surprised to find the monk and the bailiff sitting by the side of the road in front of a small fire. The monk rose immediately and ran to greet them, his nervous features cracking with an expression of desperate relief, and when Tanner caught a glimpse of the bailiff he began to understand why he was grateful for the new arrivals. Simon did not move. He sat still and quiet with his cloak wrapped tightly around him as he stared into the fire. Tanner dismounted and walked over to him.
“Thank God you’ve arrived! We were wondering whether you’d all wait for morning before coming and we didn’t want to stay here alone all night,” said the monk, breathlessly, as Tanner walked to the bailiff. The constable nodded absently and continued on, leaving the monk to welcome the others.
“Bailiff? What’s wrong, bailiff?”
Simon could only slowly bring his eyes up from the fire. After the horror in the woods he felt more tired than he had ever been in his life before. The nervous energy and the anger that had kept him going through the woods had drained him, and the horror of the sight in the clearing and his mad rush back to the road had finished the job. Now as he looked up he seemed to the constable to have aged by twenty years since the afternoon; his face was gaunt and pale and his eyes glittered as if he was in a fever, and Tanner crouched quickly beside him, his face full of concern. Simon hardly seemed to notice him. Almost as if he wanted not to see the constable, he turned his gaze back to the fire and stared vacantly into the flames.
“Bailiff? What’s happened?” said the constable in shocked amazement.
“We got here just before dark,” Simon said quietly. “We found it easily enough. David - that’s the monk - he found it quite quickly. The tracks were clear, going off into the woods over there.” He pointed briefly with his chin to the opposite side of the road and returned to his solitary stare, talking softly and calmly while the constable frowned at him in anxious concern. “I told David to wait here for you and I went in alone. I must have been going for over an hour when I found a small clearing. One horse at least had been kept there, there was a fresh pile of shit where it had been tied.”
Simon looked up suddenly and the constable felt the pain in the bailiff’s eyes as they searched his face for a moment before returning to their introspective study of the flames. “The abbot was not far away. I carried on and found him. He had been tied up- tied to a tree. Someone had gathered up a load of twigs and branches and piled them underneath him.” Tanner saw him shudder once, involuntarily, but then his voice continued calmly. “Then set light to them and burned the abbot to death.”
Tanner stared at him steadily. “What? He was burned at the stake?”
“Yes,” said Simon softly, almost wonderingly. “He was burned alive.” Then he winced, his voice strained and harsh with the horror of it. “He must have been screaming when he died. Oh God! Stephen, you should have seen his face! It was dreadful! The flames were not hot enough to burn the top of his body, it was like he was staring at me! It felt like the devil himself was looking at me through his eyes, I could see his face clearly. God! It was awful!”
“But who could do a thing like that? Who would do that to a man of God?” said Tanner with a frown of consideration . Of course, outlaws were known for their brutality, exceeding even the viciousness of the pirates from Normandy, but neither French nor English bands were known here in the heart of Devon. Tanner was older than the bailiff and had served in the wars against the French, so he had witnessed the cruelty that men could show to each other, but even in war he had never heard of a monk being killed in this way, like a heretic. He was puzzled rather than horrified.
But he was worried too - if these two outlaws could do that to an abbot, nobody could be safe until they were caught. He looked up at the other men as they hobbled their horses and came forward to the fire, laughing and joking as they came. Their humour seemed almost sacrilegious after what he had just heard, and he had to bite back a shout at them.
Tanner was a calm and stable man. As a farmer he was used to the changing seasons and the steady march of the years as he watched his animals and plants grow, flourish and eventually die, but he was also used to the cruel and vicious ways of the wild, where the stronger creatures survived and the weaker died. Even so, to him this crime seemed strange in its barbarity. Animals could do that to each other, killing for food or pleasure, but for men to do this seemed curious in his quiet rural hundred. Constables in towns might be more used to cruelty of this type, he reflected. He had seen such acts at time of war when he had been a foot soldier for the king, but he did not expect them here, not during peace. Why should they do this to an abbot? He sighed and looked back at the bailiff, sitting silently absorbed beside him.
“You need to rest, sir. Lie down. I’ll organise a watch and get the men sorted out.”
“Yes,” said Simon heedlessly, nodding slowly. He was gradually losing his feeling of horror under the stolid gaze of the constable and it was slowly being replaced by a distracted confusion, as if he had seen the whole of his world toppled. He had lived here all his life and in that time he had never seen a murdered man - or any man who had died in such an obscene manner. It seemed as though all that he had ever believed and known about the people who lived in the shire had suddenly been destroyed, and that he must reconsider all of his deepest held convictions in the light of this single, shattering event. A tear slowly dribbled from his eye and ran down his cheek, making him start, and he wiped it away angrily.
As if the gesture itself had awoken him, he looked over at Tanner, who was staring in his turn at the flames. “Right. To
morrow we start the hunt for these killers, whoever they may be. I want them brought to justice,” he said, almost snarling as he felt the disgust and hatred rising again. He was angry, not for the crime alone, not just for the hideous death of the man in the woods. It was for his own heightened sense of vulnerability, for the feeling that the men capable of this act could kill others, and would. They must be destroyed, like mad bears - hunted down and slaughtered with no compunction. “You get one of the men to ride on to Buckland and let them know what has happened here. The rest of us will follow the tracks and see if we can And them.”
“Yes,” said Tanner, startled by the venom in Simon’s voice. “What about the sheriff? Shouldn’t we send someone to Exeter?”
“No. This happened here and it’s our responsibility. We’ll get them. For now, though, I’m going to get some sleep.” He stood slowly in his exhaustion, gazing at the men in faint surprise as if he had only just noticed them, and wandered over to a tree. He sat, leaning against the trunk, pulled his cloak around him and was soon asleep.
Tanner watched him for a while, but then, as a man walked by him with a jug of cider, reached up and caught him by the arm. “There’s been a murder here. Tell the men that we’ll be up at dawn, so they’d better get some sleep.”
The man, an older, stout farmer called Cottey, with the red and rosy cheeks of the cider drinker, stared at him uncomprehendingly. “A murder? Who’s dead?”
“Abbot of Buckland,” said Tanner shortly as he rose. “I’m going to stay on watch. Tell the others to rest or I’ll let one of them do it instead.” A sudden shriek of laughter made him glare round, his voice hissing in his rage. “And tell the daft buggers we’re not on a trip to the fair. The killers could be watching us now.”
He walked over to a tree near Simon’s sleeping body and stared out at the trees, away from the fire, as the men all began to settle, squabbling and bickering mildly as they fought for positions nearest the fire. Soon, apart from the low murmur of conversations, the camp fell quiet and Tanner could hear the night sounds of the forest come back, as if they could bring normality with them.
But he could not lose the sensation of brooding evil. The murder had unsettled him, and he felt too disquieted to rest as he stood and maintained his vigil. All he could think of was that someone was out there, maybe even now watching him from deep in among the trees, someone who had killed the abbot. Whoever could do that was capable of anything.
As he rolled himself up in his cloak and made his first circuit around their camp, he was thinking of his home, where the fire would be roaring now, the flames leaping from the cured oak logs.
Rodney too was thinking of the heat that a fire could give him as he rode into the little town of North Tawton. Frozen and miserable, he knew that he needed to sit in front of flames and thaw himself out. At the same time, his horse needed a dry place and fresh hay, a place to rest the night. The small hamlet was little more than a street with fifteen houses, one of which was an inn, and it was here that the knight reined in. There was a stable block at the back, reached by a low gateway, so he dismounted and led the mare in before walking through to the inn’s main room.
The next morning was chill and damp. A thick mist lay all around, with no breeze to disperse it, and the men all rose stiff and cold from their sleep.
Tanner had periodically thrown more branches on the fire and kept it going through the night, so they all huddled round it and tried to absorb a little of the heat. The constable walked up and down as they sat and crouched, hunched against the cold, and only when they all seemed fully awake did he gently shake Simon by the shoulder.
“Come on, sir. Let’s find these bastards!”
Simon woke slowly, and when he did he still seemed dazed, as if he was still half asleep, the shock of the previous day lying heavily on him as if the sleep had not relaxed him at all. Tanner brought him some cured meat where he sat and stood over him while he ate, like a guard protecting his lord. He would not let Simon get up until he had finished the food, which he did with a wry grin, and then led him over to the men.
“Right. The bailiff here found the body of the abbot in the woods yesterday—‘
“Let me, Stephen,” interrupted Simon quietly. He faced the men and continued softly, talking slowly and carefully. “The abbot was taken hostage by two men and taken into the woods. His companions thought he was being taken for money, and they raised the alarm. But the men tied him to a tree and killed him - they killed him by burning him at the stake. We have to find the men who did it. While they’re free, all of us are in danger, because if they can do this to an abbot they can do it to anyone. Who’s the best hunter here?”
“That’d be John Black,” said one of the men and, following his gaze, Simon saw him, his short, wiry figure sitting close to the fire as he held his hands out to the flames. He did not even look up as Tanner continued.
“John? Do you think you can track a horse through the woods?”
“Yes,” said Black calmly.
Simon looked him over. The man exuded a quiet confidence and seemed certain of his ability.
“Alright. We’ll need someone to go over to Buckland as well to let the monks know what’s happened. Paul, could you do that?” said Tanner. Paul, old Cottey’s son, a slim youth of some sixteen years, nodded with evident relief, clearly glad not to have to follow the tracks. He had a fast horse and should be able to get to Buckland more quickly than any of the others.
They split up and caught their horses. Swiftly, now that dawn had broken, they all packed up and loaded their baggage on to their animals, then, when they were all ready, Simon motioned to Black and he led the way into the forest, pulling his horse gently by the reins. Simon went next and the others followed on behind.
Simon was surprised to find that the trees seemed to have lost their feeling of lowering malevolence in the fresh green light that filtered through the leaves. Perhaps it was the other men behind him, maybe it was the fact that he already knew what lay in the clearing, but, whatever the reason, he felt none of the trepidation of the previous evening, just the slow burning glow of his anger. The other men all seemed to be nervous, walking quietly and without speaking as they led their horses into the trees. They seemed aware that this was no ordinary murder, that until the killers were caught they would all be forced to live in fear. Perhaps they were aware that even when they were caught and had been punished, their lives could not be the same, because even when the murderers had been destroyed, their lives would still be marked permanently by the killers’ actions in these woods, as if the killing of the abbot had scarred each of them by its viciousness.
There was another factor as well, which Simon was only too well aware of. The abbot was a wealthy and important man, of noble blood - for no one else would be given the position of abbot. That meant that he, as bailiff, must catch his murderers, no matter what. Brewer’s death must wait, he was merely a villein and it was not even certain that he had been murdered, whereas this abbot… He twitched, as if he felt the responsibility as a physical burden, then sighed as he stumbled on. If he could catch the men responsible, it would enhance his position - but if he failed?
It took them over an hour to reach the first clearing. They all stood among the trees while Black scrutinised the ground all round, then studied the droppings. Shrugging, he rose from his crouch and followed Simon’s pointing finger to the clearing where the body stood. As he followed Black, Simon could feel his legs become heavier. It was almost as if he was unconsciously trying to keep himself away from the sight of the body, but he forced himself on, walking steadily behind the tracker.
As he came through the line of trees, Black stopped suddenly and Simon could hear his quick intake of breath as he took in the surroundings. Then, as if he had given himself a swift rebuke for allowing himself to be distracted, he concentrated on the ground again .
He looked over his shoulder at Simon, his brow furrowed with the effort of his hunt and his dark eyes troub
led, and tossed the reins of his horse over to him before slowly walking over the ground and studying it intently. He paced around the small clearing, walking all round the perimeter until he came to the opposite edge, and stood there staring at the trees for a few minutes. Then he continued pacing the circumference until he arrived back with Simon.
“Not much to tell, sir,” he said, his brow still wrinkled with the effort of his search. “Three men came in the first clearing, all on horseback. One left his horse there. Other horses were tethered nearby. The dead man was dragged here and tied to the tree, you can see where his feet dragged on the ground. Then the others piled up brushwood round him and made a fire. Looks like they waited until the prisoner was dead, you can see where they sat down over there to watch.” He pointed. “When he was dead, they led their horses away through the trees at the other end of the clearing, over there. The last horse ran off at some point, obviously before the others left the place. They didn’t bother to chase it.”
The Last Templar Page 15
