The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

“Over near Ashwater.” he said sullenly.

  Simon looked at the hunter again, but he showed no more interest in Ashwater than he had in Tolpuddle. “When did you leave there?”

  “I don’t know, maybe a week ago.”

  “So when did you get to Copplestone?”

  “Where?”

  “Copplestone. Where you killed the abbot.”

  “What abbot? I don’t know nothing about that!”

  “When did you leave Ashwater?”

  “Like I said, about a week ago.”

  “Where is Ashwater?”

  All of a sudden Simon became convinced of the man’s honesty - he was telling the truth because he knew he would die anyway. He had lost any interest in deception now, he was simply uninterested; all he wanted to do was get back to his friends and find some peace with his own kind before he had to face the rope.

  “Over west, north of Launceston,” he heard the man say, and heard the breath hiss in Black’s teeth as he made to move forward, but Simon squeezed his hand on his arm and the hunter stayed still, glaring at Weaver.

  “You’re lying, boy. You wouldn’t‘ve been able to get to Copplestone in time,” Black snarled.

  “I don’t know about Copplestone.“ he snapped, then looked at Simon. ”I’m going to swing, sir. Why should I lie? I don’t care what you think, but I had nothing to do with no abbot.“

  Simon’s mind was reeling. It wasn’t these men then? So who had killed de Penne? He gathered his thoughts: the monks had said that there had been two men, hadn’t they? What if…

  “When did you meet the… the knight?” he asked, his voice faltering.

  ‘Him? ’Weaver’s voice showed disgust. “Rodney of Hungerford? We only found him a few days ago. We tried to catch him. He rode straight into the middle of us, but he held us off when we attacked; he even killed our leader. He had money but there was little we could do about it. In the end we let him join us, because he could fight.”

  “Where’s his friend?” said Simon, guessing.

  “What friend?”

  “He was with a man.”

  “He was alone when we found him.”

  “Where? Where did you meet him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Down near Oakhampton. He said he was going to Cornwall.”

  Even Black seemed interested now, and was watching Weaver with keen intensity.

  “So did he say where he had come from?”

  “Hungerford, like I say. I think it’s… he said somewhere over east…‘

  “Was he on a war horse?”

  “War horse? No.” Weaver gave a short laugh. “No, he was on a mare, a small mare.”

  “A mare?”

  “Yes. A grey. He said he’d found it on the way, he said he’d found it saddled and bridled, like its rider had been knocked off.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Some days ago, maybe two before we found him. He said it had some money in its bags but he wouldn’t share it with us.”

  “Did he say where he found the horse?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Think!”

  “He might’ve. I think he said some way east of Oakhampton, but I—‘

  “And you’re sure he said the money was on the horse?”

  “Yes.” His voice was becoming bored, as if he found the questions tedious now.

  “So—‘ Simon began, but he was cut off by a shrug from the young man, a tiny gesture of indifference.

  T don’t care, and I don’t see why I need to help you. Whatever he may have done it’s nothing to do with me.“ Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Weaver took a step back, seeming to dare them to question him further. ”I don’t care. I’ve told you all I know.“

  Simon shrugged. Did it really matter? How much could he trust this man anyway? Weaver stared at them both for a moment, then turned and walked back towards his companions, making the hunter’s face redden with anger at his impertinence. He seemed about to shout, and would have gone after the outlaw for his rudeness, but Simon said, “No. Don’t bother. He’s told us enough.”

  Black stared at him, but then his face calmed and he gazed after the man as he rejoined his group and sat down, glaring defiantly at them. “Yes. Yes, he has, hasn’t he? So the knight came from east. He must have come through Exeter, out on the Crediton road, and met the monks on the way.”

  “But the monks said there were two of them.”

  “Maybe there were. Maybe they argued and split up. Who knows? Anyway, it’s easier now. At least we have the abbot’s killer, thanks to God! I suppose he must’ve killed Brewer on his way through.”

  “What?” Simon spun to face him.

  “Well, he said he was coming from the east, didn’t he? He must have killed Brewer, taken his money, then carried on. After he killed the abbot he met up with this rabble and joined them.” He tucked his hands in his belt with satisfaction. “Yes, I think today’s work has put an end to the killing.”

  He turned and ambled slowly out of the clearing, and Simon followed, but as they went, Simon heard a quiet whinny and his head snapped round at the sound. “Where are their horses, John?”

  “Horses? Oh, over there.”

  “Let’s have a quick look.”

  They walked over to where the robbers’ horses stood hobbled from the previous night. They were a mixture, from small, hardy ponies to some huge draught animals, and Simon stood for a minute looking at them. “Black?”

  “Hunh?”

  “When you tracked the abbot’s killer, you said that one of the horses was a big horse and was missing a nail on a shoe.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the abbot’s horse was a grey mare with a scar on the withers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have a look at these, will you? See if one of them is missing a nail. And see if there’s a grey mare with a scar on the withers as well.” He turned and wandered out again, to lie on the grass looking out over the hills; over the green, grassed and tree-dotted hills towards the sea, and soon he was asleep, dozing in the warm sunlight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They set off from the camp in the middle of the morning. The prisoners, cowed and scared, were allowed to ride their own horses, less out of kindness than from a desire to get back home quickly on the part of the men in the posse. The dead from the posse were tied to horses and led back by the riders.

  Simon and Hugh went a little way with the others, but they parted a couple of miles north of the scene of their battle. There seemed little point in continuing to Oakhampton with the others and their prisoners, so Simon decided to cut across the moors and go home by way of Moretonhampstead and Tedburn.

  The others were all eager to get to the town and were looking forward to being welcomed as the captors of the trail bastons, but Hugh had seen enough of travelling to last him for several months, and Simon wanted to get home to see his wife and daughter again. Now that the band was captured, there seemed little to fear on the way, so there seemed no need for the bailiff and his man to have any extra protection.

  They parted when they came up to the road that led back to Moretonhampstead, the huge track that led right across the moors and down to the coast. Hugh and his master sat and watched as the posse gaily rode off north, waving at their friends until they were out of sight over the next hill, and then they turned and made their way northeast, and back to home.

  Simon was deep in thought for the first hour, riding slowly with his chin down on his chest as he allowed his horse to amble, letting Hugh enjoy his riding for the first time since they had left home so many days ago.

  It was the first time Hugh had seen him so involved and intense, and as he rode along behind his expression was one of concerned confusion. Hugh had always tried to be a good servant to the Puttocks, who he adored as much as his own family, and although he maintained a melancholic exterior, this was more because of his days when still a youth, when he had lived the rough life
of a shepherd up on the hills. A certain dourness was natural among the men that looked after the sheep on the hills around the moors. The loneliness led to introspection, and the attacks from wild and feral animals produced a degree of cynicism, but these did not change the fact that he was thoroughly loyal to his master and his family, and now he was worried by Simon’s sombre attitude.

  Just when Hugh was about to try to break into his thoughts, Simon suddenly looked up, a frown on his face, then turned to his servant. “Hugh, do you remember the conversation we had with Black and Tanner by the fire a couple of nights ago?”

  Relieved to be included in his previously private thoughts, Hugh gave him a quick, shy sidelong smile. “What, when we were talking about the abbot and Brewer? When I said the trail bastons hadn’t killed the farmer?”

  Simon nodded, still frowning. “Yes. Do you still believe that?”

  “Well,” Hugh considered for a moment, then continued quickly. “Well, no, not now.”

  “Why?”

  “John Black told me that that man, the knight, had joined the rest late. He said he must’ve passed through Crediton on the way to Oakhampton at about the right time. He wasn’t part of the gang then, but he was in the area at the time. He must have done it.”

  “Hunh! That’s what John Black says, is it?”

  “Well it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “What happened to his war horse? And his companion?”

  “Maybe his companion had the other horse, I don’t know. Maybe his friend stole it. Fact is he had the mare. He must have killed the abbot and stolen it, mustn’t he, and it makes sense for him to have been Brewer’s murderer too.”

  “I wonder…‘

  Hugh looked at him. He had reverted back to his pensive silence, chin down on his chest as he swayed along, glaring at the road surface under him as if daring it to argue with his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Hugh coughed and, when this had no impact, said, “Master?”

  There was a grunt, but Simon did not look up until they had ridden on for a few yards, and then he peered at his servant with a frown of concentration, almost seeming not to recognise him, so intense were his thoughts. “What?”

  “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Eh? Oh. Well… I was thinking, well, wondering really… I still can’t believe that he could have killed Brewer, even if it does look as if he killed the abbot.” His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be contemplating his thoughts again, then, head on one side and without looking at his servant, he started to speak, slowly and concisely. “If the knight had captured the abbot and taken him hostage, if it was Rodney, it was either a chance meeting and robbery or it was planned and intended - perhaps a revenge attack. If it was revenge for some misdeed, then we’ll probably never know what the deed was. Right, but if it was not, then it was a chance attack. What would that mean?”

  He was mumbling as he considered, his brow deeply puckered. “The knight and another man found the monks on the road. They took the abbot and carried him off into the woods. They took him a long way, then tied him to a tree, set light to him and watched him die. Why kill him like that? If they had to kill him, why not a knife in the back or a rope round the neck, so that they could get away as quickly as possible. Just because he was killed that way it seems unlikely that it was a chance attack.” He shot a keen glance at Hugh. “Does that make sense?”

  Hugh thought for a minute, his bottom lip out as he considered the logic with frowning concentration. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I think so.“

  “Fine. Even so, let’s carry on. So, assuming that it was mere chance: if they had done all this… Let’s just think it through. If they did this, if they killed the abbot, then why did they divide? Why did one take all the money and the abbot’s mare, the other the war horse. Why? The war horse was worth more - and what happened to the other man’s horse? The monks said that both attackers were mounted, so where is the second horse?”

  “Maybe the other man took both horses?”

  “Why? Why should he? What would be the point? One man with two horses is suspicious, he might raise attention.”

  “Oh, I don’t know! Anyway, John Black must be right, it surely was the same man who killed Brewer.”

  “What? Him? The knight? Killed Brewer?” His incredulity made his voice rise. “Why, for the money? How would a travelling knight hear about the wealth of a farmer on his way past? Is it really credible? Anyway, let’s just sort out the abbot’s death first, shall we!

  “Right, so I think we have to assume that it was not chance, but that it was an intentional meeting. So the knight and his accomplice saw the monks on the road and attacked. What does that mean? There was no ambush, that seems odd. So maybe the knight happened to come upon them and recognised the abbot - from behind? No, of course not. You don’t recognise a man’s back on horseback, you only recognise a face. So that means he must have heard about the abbot, have known about him before they came upon the monks, and chased after him, trying to catch him. Perhaps the two of them had been chasing the monks for some time? But even so…‘

  “What, master?”

  “Well, why on earth would they split up after the killing? If there were two of them, and they had been chasing the monks for some way, why would they divide immediately afterwards? You would think they would stay together -that the immensity of their crime would hold them together.”

  Hugh was confused now. “So what are you saying? I…‘

  “I just don’t believe that he killed the abbot. I can’t believe it! I think that whether he came across the monks on the road by chance or whether he was looking for them, either way he would have kept his war horse. He was a knight, he would not have just left it or given it away! A war horse costs over a hundred pounds!”

  “Er… well, yes, but…‘

  “So, could his own story have been genuine? Could it be true that he found the horse? Could it be true that he came across it and took it because he had no other?”

  “Master, perhaps…‘

  “No,” said Simon decisively. “I’m certain the killer of the abbot was someone else. And that means that Master Black’s opinion must be wrong. Black thinks that because a murderer went through the area, he must have killed Brewer on the way. I think Rodney didn’t kill de Penne. I believed him when he seemed so shocked at the idea of killing a monk, and I think it’s equally unlikely he could have killed the fanner - after all, Brewer was very unpopular, surely it’s more likely he was killed by someone local, someone who hated him? No, someone else must have killed them!” He kicked at his horse and coaxed it into an easy canter, and, sighing, Hugh urged his own horse to keep up.

  Without having to follow a trail, and being able to keep to the roads and lanes, they made good time and were in Drewsteignton by midday. They paused to water the horses, then were on their way again, keeping to an easy pace so as not to strain their animals, and were in Creditor at dusk. Hugh expected his master to suggest that they went on immediately, and was surprised when he blandly mentioned his aches and pains and proposed that they should stay the night with the priest at Crediton church, Peter Clifford. Shrugging, Hugh agreed, but with a suspicion at the back of his mind that his master must have an ulterior motive - he seemed too off-hand about the suggestion.

  The priest was delighted to see them. He rushed out to welcome them, arms outstretched, his eyes gleaming with delight. He led them through to his room and, when they were seated by the fire, poured them mulled wine.

  “So, my friends, what are you doing so far from home? I heard about the gang killing the abbot, and that you went after them - did you have any joy in your hunt?”

  Simon stared at his pewter mug as he spoke. “Yes, Peter, we caught them all, down on the moors. They managed to kill again, though.”

  “Oh, no!” Clifford’s brow wrinkled in his sadness at the news.

  Simon leaned forward and fixed a firm stare on his friend. “Peter, do you remember a knight passing through Cred
iton at about the same time as the monks? Did you hear anything about a stranger? A tall man, very broad, and sitting on a great horse? He might have had a companion with him.”

  “No. No, I don’t think so. Why, who was he?”

  “His name was Rodney of Hungerford. We found him with the trail bastons - he seems to have been an impoverished knight. John Black and the others think he might have killed the abbot.”

  “No, I’m sure I would remember if I had heard anything of him.”

  “Yes. Ah well, it was worth a try.”

  “So. This attack, Simon. Did many get hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Simon, and went on to describe the murders, the posse’s chase over the moors and the fight with the outlaws. The priest sat attentively, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his mug in his hand, nodding his understanding at the tale as it unfolded.