The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  With a snarl, he reached forward and grabbed the young man by the throat of his smock, twisting the cloth as he pulled it toward him, yanking the man off-balance as he dragged him forwards.

  His action caught even Baldwin by surprise. All of a sudden the knight found himself gazing at his friend with a new-found respect. Simon, he could see, had hauled the boy three feet against his will with one arm, and the knight found himself trying to control a smile as he lifted his finger to scratch at his ear. This bailiff could be a right bastard to have a fight with, he thought to himself.

  And now Simon was speaking to the Carter boy through gritted teeth, his voice low and venomous, eyes bulging. “We know you lied to us. I am in no mood for games! What did you do after you left the inn. Did you go straight to Brewer’s house? Kill him as soon as Ulton had gone? What happened?”

  “We did nothing!” The boy was averting his face; they were so close their noses almost touched. “We came home!”

  “Why did you lie to us?”

  His voice was almost a whine now, wheedling to persuade the bailiff. “We didn’t think it mattered. If we’d told you our father might have found out, and he’d have thrashed us for not looking after the sheep when we were supposed to.”

  “What time did you get home that night?”

  “We told you. We told you it was about eleven.”

  ‘You’re lying!“ Simon bawled the words into the now fearful face. ”You’re lying. You left the inn a little after Brewer. You left the inn just after the innkeeper threw him out, just after Ulton took him by the arm and helped him to his house, didn’t you? You followed them because you were so angry at his attitude at the inn, because you hated him, because he had money, because he hit out at you. You hated him, didn’t you?“

  “No, no I—‘

  “You watched while Ulton put him in, didn’t you? You went in after him, didn’t you? You killed him, and set fire to the place so no one’d think it’d been a murder, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” Bawling, he stared into the fixed, terrified face.

  “Simon, Simon,” murmured Baldwin, touching the stiff arm that held the petrified villein. “Calm yourself, Simon. Too much choler can be bad for the health. Now,” this to the shaking boy, now released as Simon turned away in disgust, who stood feebly stroking the side of his neck above the smock where the cloth had burned the skin red with a trembling hand. Shrugging, the knight grinned as he decided that a slight bluff could be risked. His voice reasonable, he said, “Alfred, we only want the truth. Nothing more. Did you know that Cenred saw you that night?”

  The boy’s eyes were huge in his sudden horror and he shouted, “No!” Mouth hanging open, he stared at the knight, his gaze fixed with an awful intensity. “No! He can’t have!”

  “Oh, I know you ducked back into the trees quickly, didn’t you, eh? But yes, he saw you. So I really think you’d better tell us the truth.”

  At last Edward seemed to shake himself. He glanced at his brother with an expression of withering - what, scorn? Pity? Baldwin could not be sure, but there was something there that implied almost disgust with his younger brother. He began talking quietly, as though he was repeating the tale for himself, reminding himself rather than telling it to his audience. As he started, Baldwin noticed Edgar and John Black walking up towards them, and quickly motioned to them to wait, so as not to interrupt.

  “Yes, we followed them back. It’s true.” His voice had an empty quality, and Baldwin thought it was as if he was absolutely exhausted. “Alfred was mad at him for hitting him. It wasn’t a bad thump, not as bad as our father would have given us for not seeing to the sheep, but then Alfred never really did get hit like that, did you? Not being the little one.” He looked up at Baldwin. “We didn’t do it, though. He was already dead when we got there. Roger must have killed him.”

  Staring at him, Baldwin was sure he was telling the truth. He seemed to have conviction in the way he stood there, his eyes fixed rigidly on Baldwin’s face, his body stolid in the way that his legs were set a little apart, almost as if planted and rooted in the earth. Baldwin could see that he was not pleading or asking for belief, it was as if he knew that he would be trusted if he told the truth, and now he was doing so for that reason.

  “Yes, we went up there and waited in the trees until Roger went away. We saw him scuttle out of the door and run down the hill. And that was when we went up. I didn’t want to go, but Alfred wanted to hit him back. He wasn’t happy that Brewer had hit him in the inn and got away with it. I went to the door and knocked, but as I did Alfred heard someone coming, so I ducked down and he ran away, over to the other side of the road. It was Cenred, but he walked past like he’d seen nothing. So I knocked again when he’d gone. Alfred came up, but there was no answer.”

  “What then?” said Baldwin, shooting a quick glance over at Simon. The bailiff stood, head bowed, listening intently but quietly, as if ashamed of his previous reaction.

  “Alfred walked in. The door wasn’t locked. I followed. Brewer was lying on the floor, near his mattress. The fire was low, and we couldn’t see much, but Alfred went over and kicked him, and Brewer did nothing. It scared us, we understood something must be wrong. I lit a candle from the fire, and then we could see. Brewer was stabbed - four, five times in the chest.”

  “Yes, so what then?”

  “We started to get out, but then Alfred wanted to see if it was true about the money. He wanted to see if Brewer really did have the money to buy us out, so he wanted to look.” Edward could not prevent the sneer from appearing on his face as he stared at the knight. “I let him. I’d had enough, I told him. I left him to look while I put Brewer back onto the bed - I don’t know, it seemed more respectful to leave him there. Well Alfred found Brewer’s purse and a wooden chest, and he took them. Then, when we were going to leave, he said, ”If it’s known he’s been murdered, we’ll be the obvious ones to think of.“ People would hear about the argument, the fight. They’d be bound to think it was us that killed him. So we thought we’d better hide the killing. It wasn’t as if it would hurt anyone else, after all. Brewer wasn’t going to care. And if it was never known there’d been a murder, there’d be no need for anyone to think we’d done something. So we set fire to some hay and left it burning.”

  Of course, Simon thought - all that ash on the ground, it was from a hay store in the house. “And then you went home? You left the place burning and went home?”

  “Yes. But then, when you seemed to realise that Brewer had been killed, we knew we had to do something. We thought if Roger heard we’d seen him helping Brewer home from the inn, he’d run away. You’d have to know it was him then. Whatever he said when you caught him, you’d know he’d done it.”

  Baldwin nodded contemplatively, then spun to face Alfred. “What was in the box?”

  “Nothing! Only a few pennies, and the same in his purse.”

  “Bring them!” Then, to Edgar, he said, “You wait here. Take the purse and chest when he comes back, and keep them here. You’d better keep the Carters here as well. Is that alright, Simon?”

  “Yes. For now, I think, we need to have another talk with Roger Ulton.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The dilapidated house stood as if forlorn as the four men walked up to it. Baldwin thought it looked like a ruin, like a destroyed castle after the besieging force has left, with the broken dark wood of the roof beams standing out like the burned and blackened remains of an attack from Greek fire. The picture was so clear in his mind, recalling so many past battles, that he involuntarily shuddered. Even the way that the corner of the far wall had fallen seemed to remind him of the way that a corner tower could fall after mining or catapult attack, and he half expected to see bodies on the ground as they came closer.

  Simon and he left Hugh and Black behind as they walked up to the door and knocked. When it opened Roger Ulton himself stood before them.

  “Bailiff, I—‘ He stopped as he saw the knight and then caught a glimp
se of the other men behind, pausing with his mouth open in despair.

  “We know all about it, Roger,” said Baldwin gently. “The only thing is, we don’t know why. What did he say to you to make you kill him?”

  Wordlessly Roger went back in and they followed him inside. The pale and skinny man seemed to fall back as they walked in, as if he could fade away in the darkness of the house, his waxy features disappearing in the gloom. The hall had a fire glowing gently in the hearth, with three benches nearby, and Ulton fell on one, staring up at them.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes wide in his fear, but also, Baldwin felt, in a genuine disbelief. “I had been with Emma, and she told me she didn’t want me any more. I walked around until it was time for me to go home, so that my parents wouldn’t guess -I was hoping to talk her round later. But when I walked past the inn, Stephen almost threw Brewer at me. I couldn’t refuse to help him.

  “But he kept going on and on about money and things. He kept telling me that I was useless, as bad as the Carters, not as good as his own son, who’s a merchant. He kept telling me I had hopeless parents - they couldn’t even keep their house up. He told me the best I could do with women was Emma, when anyone else would get someone better. He kept going on and on, even after I’d put him inside the door. I turned to leave when he said that he could buy Emma if he wanted: he could buy houses like my parents‘, he said he could buy anything. I just had to shut him up. I… I don’t really know what happened. One minute he was sneering at me, next he was on the floor…’

  “What did you do then?” asked Baldwin gently.

  “I shut the door and ran home. It was only when I got here I realised I had my knife in my hand.”

  They left the house and Roger walked with them to join Hugh and Black.

  “Baldwin, if you could take him and the Carters to the gaol, I’ll see you at your house later.”

  The knight’s surprise showed in the way that his eyes gazed fixedly at him. “Yes, yes… of course… if that’s what you—‘

  “Yes. I must go home first. I should be at your house in about three hours.”

  Baldwin stared after him with dismay as the bailiff walked to Hugh and led him away, back to the inn where they had left the horses. Then the knight turned, grinned at Black with an embarrassed shrug, and led the way back to the Carters’ house. Black followed, his hand on their prisoner’s arm, ready to take him on to the gaol in Crediton where he must wait for his trial.

  “I have no idea what to do. I am sure, but I don’t know whether it’s right to arrest him.”

  Margaret stared at her husband with exasperation puckering her forehead. Since he had arrived with Hugh he had been wandering around like a bear ready for baiting, restlessly pacing the room with a thunderous but anxious frown on his face. Now, as she sat watching him, he slapped one fist into the other palm and started circling the room again.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “Would you like to explain a little more?” She sat calmly upright with her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes following him. He had never been like this before. He seemed distraught, confused and unsure of what to do for the best. Something had happened, she knew that much, but he appeared too upset to be able to explain.

  At last, unwillingly drawn to her like a dog called to heel from the scent, he walked over and plumped down on the trestle near her.

  “Good, now try to explain what the problem is.”

  His eyes flitted over the room as he tried to find the words he needed before they finally settled on her, and it seemed to her that when they met her firm and steady gaze a little of the restless worry left him, as if her calm posture passed to him a little of her peace.

  “We had to arrest Roger Ulton this morning. When we checked it seemed clear that he had killed Brewer. Others saw him take the man from the inn, take him to the door of the house. Then he ran away. The next people at the house found Brewer dead.”

  “Good, so that’s all settled, then.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, that’s settled. The trouble is, I’ve been thinking about the abbot, wondering what could have happened to him. Everybody thought that Brewer and the abbot’s deaths could be linked because they both died in flames, or, at least, both had fire involved in their deaths. But if Ulton killed Brewer, there was no reason - and probably no way he could have got there - to kill the abbot.

  “Black and Tanner thought that Rodney, the knight with the trail bastons, had killed the abbot on his way through. But if he had, where had his accomplice gone? And why did he do it? I can see no reason why he should have. But what he did say was that he had found the horse and the money on the road. If he had, it means that the killing was done by someone who did not want the money - that it was no robbery.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But why kill him, then?”

  “Because it was revenge. I don’t know why, but it was in return for some insult or dishonour - or it was a punishment. If you think about it, that would make sense. Rodney finds a horse; he has no companion - his story is true. So who could have killed the abbot? It would have to be someone who had been abroad, because the abbot had never been in England before, according to the monks. It had to be someone who had travelled widely. It had to be someone who had a squire, someone who was close to him, someone who had been with him abroad.”

  “Why? Why does it have to be a close squire, someone who had been with him abroad? Couldn’t it have been someone that he had hired since getting back?”

  “Yes, it’s possible, but how could a man rely on a recent hireling to keep his mouth shut? It’s possible, but is it credible? On the other hand, if it was a man he had been with for many years, if it was a man he had known and trusted - possibly someone who had suffered from the same insult - wouldn’t that make more sense?”

  “And you think you know who, don’t you?” she said, her hands clasped tightly now, her eyes fearful.

  “Who else can it be?” he confirmed, his eyes desperate.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When they finally clattered up the drive to the manor it seemed as though the house was deserted. There was nobody at the front, and although they went through to the stable yard they could see no one. Even the hostlers were away, so they made their way round to the front and, while Hugh waited with the animals, with a face still black from what he considered to be a wild-goose chase, Simon pounded on the door.

  After a few minutes there was the sound of heavy feet stomping down the passageway inside and the door was opened. It was Edgar, Baldwin’s servant.

  “Yes? Oh, it’s you, bailiff.”

  “Yes, where is your master?”

  Edgar’s face had an arrogant and supercilious air, as if he was not concerned by Simon’s interest in his master, but was vaguely amused by his presence. “Sir Baldwin is out riding. He should be back in an hour or so.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait for him inside, then,” said Simon, pushing the door a little wider, but then he stopped as a thought struck him. “Er, we’ll just see to our horses first.”

  He turned and took the reins of his mount from Hugh, leading it round the house to the stables at the side. The yard was still empty, so he led the horse to the open door and tied it up, before taking the saddle off and rubbing it down. Hugh followed and, still silent in mute reproach, began to see to his own horse.

  When he had finished, Simon walked to the stable door and looked out. There was still one in the yard. He crouched down and examined the floor of the stable. It was packed earth, strewn with straw. Then he stood up and started to kick the straw aside, bending every now and again to look carefully underneath it. He covered the whole floor in this way, finally standing with an expression of frowning disgust, his hands on his hips, surveying the stable, before going out into the yard.

  To Hugh he seemed to have gone mad. He finished rubbing down his horse and saw that it had hay and water before running out after his master, his face full of concern at this new evidence of his eccentricity.

/>   He found Simon standing and leaning against the wall of the house, a sad smile on his face as he stood staring at the view. Hugh walked over to him cautiously and hesitantly.

  “Master?” he enquired softly. “Master? Are you well? Would you like to come inside and rest in front of the fire?” He had heard of similar maladies before, now he thought about it, from his mother. She had said that often shepherds who spent too much time alone up on the hills in the cold and wet could get confused in their thoughts. Usually the next stage would be one of shivering, before a fever took over and ran its course. Maybe this was the aftereffect of their days on the moors? He nervously held out a hand to touch his master’s arm.

  “What?” Simon snapped and turned at the interruption to his thoughts, fixing Hugh with an acerbic eye. “What are you talking about? What is it?”

  “I thought… Are you alright?”

  “Yes.” The word came out as a sigh. “Yes, I’m alright. Look!”