The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  Just as he felt the drowsiness start to wash over him, as he felt his eyes grow heavy under the soporific effect of the flames, another thought came to him. Why had he been so disinterested in the murder of the abbot, an event that had started tongues wagging all over the area, when he was so interested in the death of Brewer? Reproaching himself for getting too suspicious, he rolled over and was soon asleep.

  In the morning, Simon awoke to find that the sun was already shafting in from the opened tapestries. Margaret and Hugh must already be up, he was alone in the hall. He rose stiffly and wandered out to the well, bringing up a bucket and emptying it over the back of his head, blowing and shivering under the shock of its coldness but grateful for the immediate sense of wakefulness it gave.

  For some reason, he was beginning to find that he felt slower and older when he woke on the morning after a good meal. He was aware that his father had complained of the same problem, but he had not expected the sensation to appear so soon, before he was even thirty years of age. Now, as he stared through narrowed eyes at the view from the house, he found that he felt worse than usual. His belly was turbulent, the acid boiling and readying to attack his throat; his head was heavy, as if full of lead, and he could feel a dull hammering behind his eyes, as if there was a small army of miners excavating his skull. And as for his mouth… he smacked his lips a couple of times experimentally and winced. No, better not to think about his mouth.

  Slowly, he wandered along the side of the house, to an oak log that sat waiting to be split and cut ready for the fire, and gently lowered himself onto it, so that he could peer down at the lane while he attempted to reorder his thoughts and, in the meantime, take control of his body and stop the mild shaking in his hands.

  He was still sitting there and glaring at the view, when Baldwin came out and, smiling, wandered over to sit next to him.

  “How are you this morning? It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Simon squinted at him. “Yes,” he ventured. “It is bright, isn’t it?”

  The knight laughed heartily. T used to feel like you look when I had drunk too much. I learned to drink in moderation, and that stopped the pain. You should try it!“

  “If it is as well with you, I think I’d prefer to try some wine instead. It might help my head to stay on my shoulders,” said Simon, and winced when this brought on another bellow of laughter.

  They walked back inside. The servants had already put food on the table, and Margaret was sitting and pecking at a full plate. She looked as if she had little appetite and was eating merely to show gratitude for the food provided, rather than from any desire or need to eat. Simon grinned through his hangover. He recognised the look on her face; it meant she would be irritable today - her head was hurting her more than his own hurt him. He winced - how would they feel when Edith gave them her cheerful welcome? She would be bound to be noisy after an evening with her nurse. Margaret sat tentatively absorbed, her face so pale that it seemed almost transparent, and he felt that if there was a candle behind her he would be able to see its flame through her head. Sitting beside her, he found that even with his feeling of fragility, the world began to look better after taking a good measure of wine with some cold cuts of lamb and bread.

  They were just finishing their meal when they heard a horse draw close. Baldwin listened expectantly to the murmuring of voices outside. Soon the visitor entered, and Simon almost dropped his bread in his surprise. It was the monk, Matthew.

  Even though he was still feeling hungover and in need of a good gallop in the fresh air to clear the fog from his mind, Simon could clearly see the changing emotions chasing each other across the man’s face as he came into the room. The monk walked swiftly at first, his eyes firmly on the knight. Simon was almost certain that he could discern accusation in his expression, and anger, but both seemed to be fighting against doubt and confusion. It was almost as if he knew that the knight had done something, but was not quite certain. For some reason he could not fathom, the sight of the monk’s expression struck a cold chill, a warning, that seemed to stab at his heart and put him on his guard immediately.

  But even as he saw the look, the monk noticed the guests and seemed to slow, almost as if he was regretting entering now he had seen the bailiff. But then, with an almost palpable resolution, he seemed to quicken his steps, and marched across the floor to them, with a look of wary pleasure on his face.

  “Sir Baldwin,” he said, as if to an equal - which caused Simon to frown in momentary surprise, “A good morning to you. My apologies if I have interrupted your breakfast.”

  Baldwin rose, with a cheerful smile of welcome on his face, and motioned the monk to a seat. “Please join us, brother. Some food?”

  “Thank you, but no,” said the monk, and sat opposite Simon. “Bailiff, I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “Why, what is it?”

  “Last night one of your men passed by the Clanton Barton and asked where you were. It seems that your men have had no success in their search for the man that took my abbot hostage, but they have found that there has been another attack, over near Oakhampton, yesterday. He said that some travellers have been killed, although some escaped. Your constable has gone on to the town, and he asks that you join him there. I fear more people have died on the roads, bailiff.”

  Stifling a curse, Simon let his head fall into his hands and tried to gather his thoughts, but when he spoke his voice was strong and determined. “Did he say where the attack was?”

  “Yes, I understand it was close to Ashbury, to the west of Oakhampton.”

  “And the attack was similar?” Simon looked up and stared at the monk intently. “Does that mean hostages were taken, or that there have been more killings? More burnings?”

  The monk gazed back for a moment, then, as if his eyes had been held by a cord that suddenly snapped, he looked away, and his voice was low and troubled. “The messenger said that the men had been killed - some of them burned in their wagons. Some women have been taken, too.”

  “Did he say how many people were responsible?”

  “No, I am sorry, bailiff. That is all I know, except that the constable asked that you raise a posse as quickly as possible.”

  Simon led Margaret and Hugh through to collect their horses while Baldwin bellowed orders behind them and fetched two of his own men to send with them, then followed them into the sunlight with the monk at his side.

  “Will two be enough?” the knight asked, “I can see if I can get more for you if you need, Simon.”

  “No, two will be fine. Could you send a man to Black’s farm for me? It would save me sending one of my own.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Tell Black about the trail bastons and ask him to raise a new posse and meet me at Copplestone in four hours. We will ride for Oakhampton as soon as possible.”

  Mounting his horse, Simon was struck by a sudden thought, and coaxed his horse to walk over to where Matthew stood by the door. The monk seemed to wear an expression of sadness, a look of weary misery, as if he had seen this kind of event too often in his long life and wondered how many more times he would have to witness the departure of the hue and cry in pursuit of outlaws. Speaking low and quietly, so that Margaret would not hear, Simon said, “Matthew, do you know why Tanner, the constable, wanted me to come so quickly? If the attack was over west of Oakhampton, surely the people of the town can cope?”

  “Yes, bailiff,” said the monk, and his face when he looked up at Simon was troubled, “but he fears that the outlaws are moving towards Crediton. He thinks whoever is responsible may be coming this way.”

  It was incredible what a difference a horse and money could make, Rodney thought as he left the inn. Over the space of only a few days he had gone from being without money and on a dying horse, to having to make his way on foot with no horse, to now being in a position where he could afford a bed, food, and stabling. His new mare seemed happy and fully
recovered from whatever had so terrified her, he had eaten well and slept better, and he only had a few days’ travel ahead of him before he could stay with his brother. Life really did seem a great deal better.

  Once more on his horse, he slowly rode out of the little village of Inwardleigh and turned his horse’s head to the west. The day was bright and clear, the wind had died to a gentle breeze, and even the mare seemed to feel the excitement and joy of their renewed life. It was almost as if there was an empathy between them, as if she could feel his happiness, or perhaps it was because she had suffered too, and she could now feel the same release that safety and comfort had given him.

  The road led them up a steep incline at first, taking them up to a plateau which was almost devoid of trees. The sun behind cast their shadow, a joint black streamer before them.

  Gradually, he felt his eyes beginning to get heavy as he rode. The lurching of his mount began to cast its narcotic effect, and he felt his eyelids became heavy as he looked ahead at the road dwindling into the distance. It was no good trying to concentrate, his only thoughts were of the comfort of a full belly, his only feelings of the pleasant warmth of the sun at his back and how the lumbering of his beast seemed so soporific.

  Every now and again the mare would jolt and cause his eyes to snap open and his head to rise erect with the sudden shock, but then the casual rolling movement would take over again and he would feel his head nodding and falling until his chin was on his chest and his eyes closed, the calming rhythm soothing him with its hypnotic balm.

  It had been like this, he recalled, on the ride up to Bannockburn. They had all been tired after their long journeys, all riding half asleep for days, with little to think of or worry about, just the continual rolling movement of the horse underneath as they all planned what to do after the battle that they were about to win. After all, what could the Scots do? They were hardly in any position to harm the massed forces of England, the soldiers that had won over Wales, that had warred against the French, that had beaten the Scots before so conclusively. What could they do?

  But win they had. The army of King Edward was exhausted when it arrived on the road from Falkirk to Stirling. Almost twenty thousand strong, it outnumbered the Scots by two to one, and when their enemy began advance towards them, Rodney could remember his lord’s master, the Earl of Gloucester, arriving and calling them forward: ‘On, men! On!“

  A smile rose to his lips at the memory. Ah, but how they had ridden! It was like the sea rushing on, like a landslide, a glorious, inexorable torrent of humanity and horseflesh, pounding the ground to a mire in the magnificent rush to meet the enemy.

  But the smile faded and died, even as his friends and the earl had died on the field.

  The Scots were ready for them. The charge with the huge war horses foundered on their spears. They hid behind a vast number of holes dug to trip the horses, safe inside the oblong enclosures they had made by surrounding themselves with their shields. There was nothing they could do to get to the jeering northerners, and at last they had to fall back before a charge by the Scottish cavalry.

  Even then they might have been able to survive if the cry had not gone up. Someone saw men running towards the Scottish lines and thought they must be reinforcements. The retreat became a rout, the knights and squires trying to escape as quickly as they could, before the Scots could get to them, and that was why they had been caught in the marsh by the Bannock. As they struggled in the thick mud and waters of the river, the Scottish archers had soon realised their opportunity.

  Trapped by the ground, there was little the cavalry could do. They tried to escape, watching with horror as their friends fell, trying to see a way clear to avoid the certain death that followed behind, desperately attempting to make their horses clear the misery of the death that threatened, but few succeeded.

  Rodney was one of the few. Together with his lord, he had managed to make his way to the other bank of the river, where they had turned to stare at the other side. It was a scene from Hell, with the Scottish foot soldiers darting in and out among the cavalry, stabbing at the horses’ bellies to make them rear and lose their riders, hacking and thrusting at the bodies on the ground, grouping around any knight who tried to make a stand and pushing him over with their long weapons, then running up to give the coup de grace when he was on the ground and defenceless.

  Rodney had returned to the camp quiet and shocked. So few had survived, so few had managed to get away from that mob.

  It was still all so clear, even the red of the blood in the stream as the Scots threw in the decapitated body of Alfred, his young squire, and the way that it slowly wandered down between the banks letting the carmine stain spread. The cries and the laughter, the way that the bloody knives rose and fell, dripping with the blood, the lives, of the men killed.

  “Good morning, sir. And where are you going?”

  His head snapped up and to his horror he realised that he had ridden straight into the middle of these people without even seeing them. Had he been sleeping? At the least, his eyes must have been shut.

  And then he saw the drawn knives and swords, and saw the wide, staring grins as the men measured him, assessing his value as a prize.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They were back at Sandford before midday, and as soon as they arrived Simon and Hugh ran indoors to fetch provisions. Margaret stood outside and held their horses for a moment, but soon she accepted the offer of one of Baldwin’s men and gratefully threw the reins over to him before following the men inside.

  She was weary from the night before and their quick return ride, and her tiredness served to enhance her feelings of concern. It was not only worry for her husband -she knew that he would have the protection of the men in the posse and should be safe. No, it was the fear of what effect the trail bastons would have on the area. She had heard from others how the small bands of outlaws had devastated areas farther north, how they had robbed travellers, how they had killed and raped, attacking anybody who was unwary, whether on the road or at home. Often, when the trail bastons arrived, the rule of the law would fail. The constant attacks and the threat of more to follow forced decent, law-abiding men to stay at home. The murders stopped merchants and farmers from travelling, and others, too poor to be able to pay a ransom, were regularly killed while wealthier merchants were often captured and held hostage.

  She walked through the door to the hall and sat at her chair in front of the fire. She could hear the muffled shouts and thumping as her husband and Hugh grabbed food and water, and then, making her turn swiftly to the door, she heard a small sob. There at the door was Edith, her face wrinkled and ancient in her grief and stained with tears. Margaret quickly rose and went to her, gathered her up, and carried her to the chair, gentling her and murmuring softly. Sitting, she rocked her child, her own eyes watering in sympathy at her daughter’s distress.

  “Daddy’s going away again, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he’ll not be away for long, Edith. There’s no need to worry,” said Margaret, blinking against her tears.

  “But he might be hurt!” cried Edith. “I don’t want him to go!” She subsided into sobs, and Margaret, suddenly overcome with a renewed sharp fear, as if her daughter’s terror reminded her of the dangers, could think of nothing to say, feeling smothered by her own dread. What could she say? That he would be safe, that he would not be gone for long? Margaret was too aware of the risks to be able to lie effectively while trapped in her own fear. They sat together in silence, the girl shaking with her anxious tears while Margaret stared at the fire.

  Soon Simon arrived and stood in the doorway to bid his wife farewell. He was holding a bag in each hand and was once more wearing his sword. As he looked in, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he had interrupted his wife and daughter in a secret discussion, for he knew that he was the cause of Edith’s weeping, and there was nothing he could do to cheer her up. He quietly put the bags down and walked over, to stand over them as they sat, and w
hen his daughter looked up, her eyes huge in their despair, he felt the breath catch in his chest, and knelt and encircled them both with his arms.

  “What is it?” he asked gently, looking into Margaret’s eyes.

  Edith answered, her voice breaking occasionally as she took great gulps of air. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay!”

  “I won’t be gone for long, love,” he said. “I should be back in a couple of days, that’s all.”

  “But you may get hurt!”

  He gave a short laugh and reached one hand up to tousle her hair. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have lots of men with me to look after me.”

  She jerked to avoid his hand and hid her head in Margaret’s shoulder, weeping softly. He released them reluctantly, confused at his inability to stem the tide of tears, and rested back on his heels, but Margaret looked at him with a smile of understanding as she began rocking her daughter again.