The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  Simon held up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Is there nothing more you can tell me? There must be something, something in his past that could give us a hint why this should have happened to him. I cannot believe that he was killed for no reason - even a madman would have had to have a reason to kill an abbot.” He had no answer. The monks sat still and quiet, staring in their shock and fear. “In that case I can do no more here. Good day!”

  He strode out angrily and paused outside in the long, dark-panelled corridor. He knew that they were confused and worried after the attack and the death of the abbot, but surely there must be a reason for his death? It was inconceivable, surely, that it was just a random attack? And one of them must know why he had been so scared of being attacked on the road.

  As he put his hand on the latch to let himself out, he heard his name called, and on turning he was surprised to find that David and Matthew had followed him out. He nodded curtly, and with a questioning eyebrow raised.

  “Bailiff, we will be continuing on our journey soon.

  Before we go, Matthew would like to have a word with you,“ said David, and went back into the room.

  Simon stood and waited. The monk seemed not to mind the silence, staring gravely at the bailiff.

  “Shall we go outside, bailiff? It seems sad to be indoors like rats when the sun is shining, especially after the rains of the last two years.”

  Matthew waited while Simon opened the door and held it open for him, then led the way out into the lane and slowly strolled up it meditatively, as if unaware of Simon’s presence alongside.

  “There are some things, bailiff, which are better left unsaid in front of my brothers,” he began quietly. “They are unused to the secular world. Even David, who has only been in the order for a matter of a few years, has not really had much dealing with the outside world. This whole affair has upset them all very deeply, as you can imagine. That is why I stopped them all running after the robbers. David wanted to give chase, but I stopped him. I thought the others could be put into danger - and I thought the robbers might kill de Penne if they knew they were being hunted. It seemed sensible to get help instead.” He sighed. “I was wrong, it seems. Perhaps if we had given chase we could have saved him.” He stopped suddenly and turned to the moors reflectively. “They are magnificent, aren’t they?” he said as he stared at them blankly.

  Glancing past him, Simon nodded, but then, wanting to keep the monk talking, he said, “So you think that his past would shock the others?” and was pleased to see the quick, suspicious frown that Matthew shot at him.

  “His past? Well…‘ he paused, seeming undecided as he considered. ”Yes, quite possibly, but not for the reason you think.“ They started to walk again. ”You see, the Church is a simple place for many. They think it is dedicated to the worship of God, and to the improvement of people who want to dedicate themselves to God. My brothers know that, and that is all they wish to know. I am different, because I was called late in my life. I have been many things, seen many places and peoples.“ He laughed briefly, a sudden gust of laughter. ”I have even been what they would call a pirate!“

  “So?”

  “So, my friend, I know what the world is like. They do not. I try to be humble and assume the best in people, but always I have to struggle with the cynicism that I developed in my youth. It is hard, sometimes. So, when I was called to become a monk, I felt that I could live the life of seclusion well and help others, but I can not totally believe the reasoning behind all of the orders from the church. They do not all come straight from God. Some come from men. The other monks all accept any order as if it comes from God without any human interference.”

  “I don’t think I quite—‘

  “No, my apologies for rambling. You are right. What I am trying to say is that my friends cannot comprehend what life at Avignon is like. I can, because I was born in the secular world and lived in it for many years. And then, when I was called, it was at first to become a senior monk, joining an ancient and noble order, where it was essential that honour and honesty should be upheld. It was only quite recently that I joined this order, my friend, and I spent my first years at Avignon. Bailiff, the pope is Christ’s vicar on earth. He should be the leading Christian - pious, faithful and honourable. But this is not always so. You see, Holy Mother Church is organised and run by men, and they are as fallible as any other men. Control of the Holy See carries with it a great deal of power and wealth, so within it are many who wish to usurp that power. Men come and are promoted for money; men are given indulgences for gold. And sometimes, when the pope wants to allow it, a ruler can purchase a position for a friend. And that friend becomes strong and even more wealthy by his new position. But if the pope then changes, if the old pope dies and a new one takes over, then those men in power can suddenly have their wealth and authority removed, and they are left to find a new position.”

  “Yes. So do you think that’s what happened to de Penne?”

  The monk laughed again. “I have no doubt. I think he was a favourite of King Philip of France and the last pope. He nearly told me as much one night when he had drunk too much. He was miserable, bemoaning his fate, and complaining about his misfortune. He said that he had been a member of a great order, and that he had performed a service for Pope Clement, and that this was the reason for his position of power, but that the new pope disliked him, and had him removed from the papal court. Hence his move to Buckland.”

  “Did he say what this service was?”

  “No, my friend. Nor did I care. When you have spent some time at Avignon you tend to ignore the moaning and wailing of people who feel hard done by. There are too many who feel just that. Too many forget their vows of poverty and chastity in these harsh times.”

  “So you think he was sent here as a punishment? He was banished?” said Simon, frowning.

  “Well yes, but you’re right; it was not a very tough penalty, was it? After all I understand Buckland to be a thriving abbey, and in beautiful country. No, I think he was simply sent away to where the pope, or another of his enemies could forget him. He rose up - and then was caused to fall.”

  Simon frowned at his feet. “Could an enemy from Avignon have sent someone to kill him?”

  “No. I suppose you mean the pope, but no, I’m sure that he would not do such a thing. Perhaps one of his bishops, but I doubt it. No,” he said, pausing once more and staring at the moors as they lay lurking in the distance. “No, I think it is unlikely. I would dare to guess that it was simply a chance encounter, that the robbers killed him for some slight or insult. After all, he was a proud man, maybe he insulted them and they decided to punish him for it. Nothing more.”

  “But that can’t be it! I just can’t believe it, brother. They must have been either mad or… or they knew exactly what they were doing and intended to kill him that way, to make some kind of point, perhaps.”

  “Then they were mad,” said Matthew evenly, still gazing at the view, but with a certain tenseness, a stiffness, Simon felt.

  “But why? Why take a man and kill him like that? Even if they were mad, surely they would have found another man to kill? Why an abbot? It makes no sense!”

  “There are many reasons to kill, bailiff,” said the monk, turning sharply to face him, but without rancour; more with an expression of sadness on his face. “Too many reasons for you to understand, perhaps. I have known some - fear, hatred, jealousy. Oh, yes, I have known many, And sometimes I have been mad while I have killed.” His eyes seemed to mist over, as if he was moving back in time as he remembered and drawing away from Simon as he spoke. “When I was a soldier I killed many men. So the abbot’s end was a bad one… I have seen worse -I have done worse. That was why I joined the order, to try to forget, and at the same time for atonement. Now, as I look back, none of the killings I did made much sense.”

  “So you really think it was madmen?”

  “Yes, I do. Someone was mad when they did that to de Penne.”

/>   “Then we must catch them, to stop them doing it again.”

  “Must we?” the monk said, looking at him with a gentle sadness. “I do not think they will do this again, bailiff.”

  “Why not?” Simon asked, confused now.

  “Whoever did this was mad, but they are well now and will not do it again. I feel sure of it. Your people are safe from them.”

  Simon stared at him. “How can you say that?” he managed at last, controlling his anger with difficulty. “How can you say that? The man was killed horribly and you imply that his killer was mad but now is alright? How can I believe that?”

  The monk shrugged, and after a moment Simon calmed a little. “So you do think it was somebody who was after the abbot?”

  “I think his time had come and the Lord decided to end his life. I think the Lord selected an agent to perform his task - and maybe that agent was afflicted with a madness while he did the Lord’s will. But, now God’s will has been carried out, the killer is probably normal again. And now‘ -he glanced up at the sky, ”Now I think it is time you returned home before it gets too late.“ He turned and started back to the house.

  “Brother! Wait, please. Will you not explain more? Why do you think—‘

  “No, my son. I think I have said all I wanted to. Don’t forget what I have said.”

  Simon stood and watched him go back to the house. He turned at the door, as if wondering whether to say something more, but shook his head vaguely and went in. Simon was left with the distinct impression that the old monk knew more than he was letting him know. He shrugged and wandered over to the horses, where Hugh stood, whittling at a stick with a knife. As Simon drew near he looked up and hastily put his knife away.

  “Are we going back now?”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re going back.”

  They mounted their horses, and with a last, frustrated glance at the farmhouse, Simon wheeled his horse and they rode off.

  They were deep in the woods here, and Godwen caught the occasional glimpse of the cottage as they came towards it through the trees. “Thank God!” he thought, “this’s the last one. After this we can go home.”

  Godwen and Mark had been sent by Black to visit the assarts in the woods near where the abbot’s body had been found, to ask whether any strangers had been past that day - and to make sure the people were well and had not themselves been attacked. So far they had found nothing, and Mark was keen to finish their task.

  The faded and patchy walls of the limewashed cottage showed more clearly now as they came close, and the trees opened out into a wide, trodden yard to show the smallholding. There was a new house; with the chimney gently trickling thin streamers of smoke into the air and leaving the surroundings redolent of its sweet promise of warmth and rest. The windows were close set under the thatch, where the rain could not be blown in to dampen the tapestries behind, and the door was almost in the middle, giving the place a feeling of symmetrical stability. When they reined in at the front there was no sign of the owner, and Mark allowed his horse to skitter restlessly as he peered at the holding. Watching him, Godwen sighed. Mark radiated sulkiness, his black eyebrows fixed in a thick line above the glaring brown eyes, his thin mouth set hard and resolute below the narrow, broken nose. Even his hair, thick and luxuriant as a hedge in spring, seemed to be sprung and taut with his emotion.

  “No one here, from the look of it,” said Mark, glancing over at him. Godwen grunted. “Knock at the door.”

  “No need, my loves. I’m here.”

  Spinning, Godwen saw a short but heavyset man standing behind Mark, who, taken unawares, jerked round in a spasm of fear. Smiling, Godwen kicked his horse forward.

  “Afternoon.”

  “Ah, afternoon to you. What can I do for you?”

  He seemed amused by their arrival, watching them from under his bushy brows, the grey hair seeming to fit him like lichen on an old log it was so grizzled and rough-looking. His clothes were almost exclusively leather, from the tunic to the kilt and down to his light boots, and he carried a rusted pike in his hand. Mark seemed to be at a momentary loss for words as he gazed at the man, so it was Godwen who introduced them and explained their visit while the man listened, ducking his head now and again to show he understood.

  Cutting the explanation short, Mark snapped, “If you heard nothing, then just say so and we’ll be gone. Did you hear anyone? Or see anything?”

  Perhaps it was Mark’s curt sharpness, but Godwen could almost feel the little man withdraw from them at this. He seemed to almost shrink in front of them, as if he could hide in his coat.

  “Oh, no, no, sir. I didn’t hear him, I’m sure,” he said softly, as if afraid, but Godwen was convinced he could see a little gleam in his narrow, dark eyes.

  “Good. That’s that then. Come on, Godwen,” said Mark.

  He whirled his horse around, trotting off as if expecting Godwen to follow like a dog now that he had been given the command.

  The woodman watched him go, then turned his gaze to Godwen, where he sat musingly on his horse. “Aren’t you going with him?”

  Godwen shrugged and gazed at Mark’s back as he rode into the trees again, a bland expression on his face. He had no desire to listen to Mark’s moaning all the way home. “He’ll not need me to help him find his way,” he said mildly and turned back to glance at the leathery little man.

  His eyes fixed on Godwen’s face, the man seemed to consider for a moment before nodding seriously. “I think you’re right. He seems to know what he wants. Only trouble is, he’s in too much of a hurry.”

  “Yes. I’m not, though. Can I ask you a couple of things?”

  “Course!” said the man. “What do you want to know?”

  Godwen looked over at the lane, to where it passed through the woods some fifty yards away. “You didn’t hear the man as he died, but did you hear or see anything else?”

  “Not on that night, no. Nobody came past then.”

  “Has someone come past since then? A man who could have been a knight on a great horse? He probably had a squire or someone with him on a smaller horse?”

  “No, no pair of men, just the one.”

  “One?”

  “Yes, there was a knight came past two days ago, my love. Big man he was. But he was all alone.”

  “Was he on a war horse?”

  “Oh no, no. No, he was on a lovely little grey mare.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Simon and Hugh finally arrived home again in the middle of the afternoon, both tired and waspish after their journey, and the bailiff marginally the worse-tempered of the two. He was angry with himself, annoyed, and felt no need to hide it. It came from a feeling of failure, as if he had forgotten or missed a vital hint that could have solved the mystery and led him to the murderer of the abbot. His conversation with the monk, which had left him more confused than ever, had done nothing to improve his temper, and his curtness with his servant was reciprocated in full by the time they returned home.

  Both sour and tense, they rode up to the old house in a strained silence, each deep in his own thoughts. Hugh had tried to interrupt the bailiff’s contemplation a couple of times, but when his conversation had been rejected he went into a sulk and maintained an aloof taciturnity for the rest of their journey, wondering whether he had taken the right job when he had joined Simon’s household.

  There was a horse outside the house when they reined in, and Simon felt a thrill of excitement when he recognised it as Black’s. He jumped down, threw the reins over to Hugh, and hurried indoors to see what he had to report.

  Black was sitting in front of the fire and watching Margaret stirring at a pot as Simon entered. The bailiff walked quickly to his wife and kissed her perfunctorily before eagerly turning to Black and nodding to him as he walked over and sat down on a bench close by. “Any news?” he asked, trying to control his excitement and keep the hope out of his voice.

  “Not much, I’m feared,” Black said slowly, taking a long pu
ll at the jug of ale Margaret had given him. “We’ve been all over from Crediton to Half Moon and nobody on the road remembers anyone on a war horse, or anyone in armour. There were several farm horses went by, but none with a man like a knight riding. We did that this morning, and then I sent some of the men down south to ask at some of the bartons down that way while I took the rest up around here. Same thing, so far, though I’ve yet to hear from a couple of the lads I sent down near the moors. I’ve been keeping my eyes open for any sign of a man going into the woods by the side of the roads, but there’s no signs at all, not as far as I can see. Trouble is, the roads’re so messed up since the rains, and we’ve had so many travellers using them, it’s next to impossible to see any tracks at all in the general traffic. They seem to’ve just disappeared. Have you heard any news from Tanner yet?”