The Last Templar aktm-1

by Michael Jecks

  “Possibly,” said Simon, grinning back. Hugh sighed and folded his arms, staring at the flames in boredom and letting the conversation flow around him heedlessly, disgruntled at the feeling that his master had taken his thought without any thanks. Then his expression relaxed and he gave himself up to enjoyment of the warmth of the room, ignoring the other two.

  “I had not met any of them before, nor did I know of them by name. The abbot came with letters of introduction, and I had no reason to doubt them. They were just travellers on their way to Buckland, I don’t think I discovered anything else about them.”

  “You know the abbot’s name? Oliver de Penne?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And the others, did you speak to brother Matthew?”

  “Matthew,” the older man said musingly, staring into the flames. “Matthew. Ah, of course! No, he was the one who had a friend here. It was because of him that the brothers stayed here for so long.”

  “What? How do you mean?”

  “Well, Matthew met a friend in Crediton on their first day here, and he managed to persuade the abbot to wait here for two more days so that he could go and visit his friend at his house. I must say it didn’t please the abbot, he was most peevish about it, very upset. It almost seems a little eery now, doesn’t it, as if he knew he was in danger?”

  Simon leaned forward, tensely gripping the mug in his hand. “Who did he want to meet, Peter?”

  Hugh sat up in astonishment as Clifford said, “The new man at Furnshill – what’s his name? Oh, of course. Baldwin, that was the man, Sir Baldwin Furnshill.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Early next morning, assailed by his doubts, Simon was dejected and confused about how to continue. The weather was miserable, with low squally clouds blowing quickly across a blustery sky and the rain falling constantly in a steady flow, driven by the wind from the moors. Hugh and he sat in Peter Clifford’s hall in front of the fire and waited for the rain to stop, or at least pause, so that they could finish their journey home.

  Simon was torn. He was sure now that somehow Baldwin was involved in the abbot’s murder. But what should he do? It was one thing for a bailiff to arrest a sheep-stealer, or to stop a poacher. But to arrest a knight? As the lord’s representative, he had the authority, but where was the proof that Baldwin had committed the crime? All Simon had was a series of vague clues, nothing more; not even a reason. He knew that Baldwin had known Matthew, that the brother had delayed the monks on their journey, but that was no reason to arrest him. The abbot had been taken captive by a man who looked like a knight, a man on a great horse; but there were any number of men living around Crediton who could be mistaken for a knight. Just the fact that Baldwin knew Matthew was no proof that he knew the abbot, let alone wanted him dead.

  But even as he thought about it, Simon was sure. He knew he was right. Baldwin had arrived from God only knew where, he had travelled widely – he had at least hinted at that, even if he would not say where he had been or why. There must be a reason for the killing in his past, while he was abroad. He must have met Oliver de Penne while he was away and murdered him when he heard that he was in this area – or had he followed the monks here?

  Clifford entered and walked over to his chair by the fire walking quietly in his robe and sitting without saying a word. When Simon glanced up at him, he could see that his friend was troubled. His thin and normally cheerful face was serious and his hands played with the edge of his robe as if trying to distract his mind as he sat.

  “Simon,” he said slowly, staring into the flames and not meeting Simon’s eyes, “I have been thinking about what you said last night about Furnshill. My friend, before you go home, I think you should think carefully about what actions you will take.”

  “The trouble is, I can’t see what the best course is, Peter,” Simon said.

  “What is the real position now, then? You know that the monk, brother Matthew, knows the knight, don’t you? Now, if the knight was going to kill the abbot, the monk would hardly have gone without letting us know that, would he?”

  “No, but Matthew may well not have known that Baldwin was going to kill de Penne.”

  “Hmm. True, I suppose. Really it comes down to what possible reason Baldwin could have had for killing the abbot,” said the priest thoughtfully and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand.

  Simon nodded. That was the main thing: to discover a cause for the killing. It seemed to be the result of madness; why else would someone kill in that way? It was as if the killer wanted to make a public statement, as if the murder itself was an execution, a punishment, like the killing of a witch or a heretic. After all, burning at the stake was the way to kill heretics, wasn’t it?

  “Peter,” he said, “could it have been a revenge killing, do you think?”

  “What, someone killing the abbot because he had offended them? I don’t know, it would have to have been a grave offence, surely?”

  “Yes, but think of this. The knight, Rodney, if he was telling the truth, found the horse and the money together, so the killing was not for money. The fact that the money was left shows that. So what other reason could there be? I have put my brain on the rack to think of another reason, but I cannot see one.”

  The priest pulled the corners of his mouth down in an expression of consideration. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But the abbot was a man of God, after all. What possible slight could he have given?”

  “He was not always a man of God,” said Simon, frowning as he tried to remember what Matthew had said on that day when they had walked in the lane at Clanton Barton. “The brother told me that he was being sent here because of his past, because he offended the pope himself.”

  Clifford gave a quick laugh, a sharp bark of humour. “If the pope was that offended, the object of his distaste would be more likely to lose either all his positions and rank or his head! I don’t think he would be sent to a profitable abbey like Buckland.”

  “But what if he had been useful to the last pope? What if he was of use to Pope Clement, and Pope John did not approve? Could he not be sent here to be out of the way?”

  “Well…” Clifford paused, thinking hard. Pope Clement had died two years before, in thirteen hundred and fourteen. The papacy had remained empty until this year when Pope John had been chosen. He frowned as he thought about it. What if the new pope did dislike de Penne for some act during Clement’s period of office? De Penne would have been left in place during the interregnum and then removed from his position when the new pontiff took office. Could that be why he was on his way to Buckland now, in thirteen sixteen, because his previous acts had so offended the new pope?

  “And Matthew said that there would not be another murder like it, he said that the murderer of the abbot was temporarily mad!” Simon recalled. “He must have guessed even then!”

  “Surely the monk would have gone to see Furnshill if he thought that, to ask him to confess. It would be his duty, to save his soul.”

  “He was at the manor on the day I left to follow the outlaws!” said Simon suddenly. “It was he who gave me the message from Tanner about the outlaws!” He paused, frowning as he considered. “And think, if the pope was offended by Oliver de Penne’s actions, might not Baldwin have been as well? What if the service de Penne provided to Clement, the service that was so offensive to John was equally offensive to Baldwin?”

  Clifford shook his head. “No. I agree that the timing matches, that it is plausible, but it seems a little too farfetched. Why should Baldwin’s brother die just then, making it necessary for the knight to return home? Surely it would have been easier for Baldwin to kill the abbot on his way through France, or somewhere else, long before he arrived here? No, I find it a little too…”

  “But that’s the point! What if Baldwin didn’t even know that de Penne was here? All he knew was that he was on his way here to take up his new position as the master of Furnshill Manor, and the meeting with the abbot was pure cha
nce? Just like me! I was given my new position, I came home, and found almost immediately that there was a murder! Chance. It could have happened at any time!”

  “My friend,” said Clifford, smiling indulgently, like a tutor at a child with a new and radical idea. “Don’t you think that that is too much of a coincidence? By chance, this man’s brother dies and he comes home. By chance the abbot is disliked by the new pope. By chance the abbot is sent to Buckland. By chance they meet and the knight kills him-. No! There is too much chance, too much coincidence.”

  Simon nodded, staring gloomily at the fire. “Yes, when you put it like that…” he muttered.

  “There is one other thing,” mused Peter.

  “What?” said Simon, not turning his head.

  “You are assuming that the killer was a knight. What if he was not?”

  “But only a knight wears armour!” Simon protested, looking up in despair. He felt as if all of his careful reasoning was being dismantled brick by brick as he listened to the priest. Now, even he himself found it difficult to believe in his own case against the knight.

  “Any man may wear armour. What is it if not a shell that can be put on and taken off? Perhaps a man stole the armour from a knight? I don’t know, but it is a point you should consider, Simon.” Clifford rose. “Now, let me go and fetch some wine for you. You look as though you could use some!”

  Simon shook his head and stood. “No. Thank you for the overnight rest, but we must be on our way.”

  “Very well, if you’re sure,” said Clifford, looking at him watchfully. “My friend, I hope that God will watch over you on your journey and send you an answer.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” said Simon. Then, with a quick smile, he added, “And I hope he will make things clearer at the same time!”

  Hugh and Simon rode slowly out of Crediton on the road to Sandford. Simon’s mind was whirling as he tried to concentrate on the murder. No matter how he looked at it, he believed that the knight with the trail bastons, Rodney of Hungerford, could not have been the man who had killed the abbot. Peter Clifford, being the priest, heard quickly about any traveller on the roads because any man journeying in these parts was still a novelty, even if the traffic was increasing now. A knight would surely have been mentioned, especially an impoverished one.

  And then there was the problem of the second man. Whoever this could have been, he was not with the knight. Could Rodney have had a companion on the way and left him after the murder at Copplestone? It was possible, certainly, but not very likely. Two men who had committed a crime like that would be bound together by their guilt.

  The weather had abated somewhat. The rain was lighter, and the wind had died down, so that drops fell vertically now, instead of being thrown like small exploding stones at their faces by the driving gusts. As they rode out of the town, the sun at last struggled to become free of the clouds, and an uneasy light shone down, as if there had been a truce called between the elements.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to Simon as he rode up the steep hill to the north of the town. If there were two men, then they must have had the same grudge against the abbot! He sat up in his saddle as he quickly thought it through. If one only had a grudge, surely the other would have taken the money even if the first did not? If only one had reason to kill de Penne, the other would have taken the money – especially if they were shortly to split up. “So what does that mean?” he wondered aloud. “That both had the same reason to kill the man?”

  “Sorry?” Hugh was, as always, a little behind and he was concerned because his master was so deep in thought as he rode. He saw Simon wave an impatient, dismissive hand as if annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts and so, offended, he reset his features into their normal taciturn mould.

  “So,” Simon mused, “there were two men. Both had the same desire for revenge against the abbot. One was a knight, or at least in armour. The other was dressed as a man of war – an esquire, perhaps? They had a reason to kill de Penne, a reason that made them want to kill him in a dishonourable way, like a heretic. But they did not steal from him. Why? Knights take spoil from their enemies when they are victors. Was it an affair of honour? A woman?” He shrugged.

  He knew that in war women were often taken by knights as part of the spoil. If the knight had lost his woman, perhaps he and a friend had decided to avenge her by killing her rapist? It was possible. He shot a glance back at Hugh.

  “Hugh?”

  Hugh glared back.

  “Hugh,” Simon asked hesitantly, “if someone was to rape Margaret, and I decided to kill the man, would you help me to get him?”

  His servant stared in frank astonishment. “Of course I would!” he said hotly.

  “Hmm.” Simon returned to his solitary glare at the road and said no more.

  They ambled slowly down the other side of the hill and by the side of the Creedy stream as it meandered along the bottom of the valley that led to Sandford, Simon silent all the way as he continued his contemplation. Hugh was quiet too, not sure how to break his master out of his reverie, but worried at his obvious distraction.

  Hugh rode less stiffly now. The previous evening had been an absolute delight to his tired and worn body. The warmth and hot food and drink had worked a magical cure on his misery from too many days in the saddle and too many nights sleeping rough by the road and on the moors, especially the last one when they had not even been able to light a fire – and he felt calm and relaxed at the thought of being at home again and being able to sleep on his own palliasse.

  But he was not happy at the way that Simon kept worrying at this murder like a cat with a mouse. Certainly Hugh had been upset by the killing, but his master was taking it too deeply, he thought, and that could not be good for him. He tried to speak occasionally as they went, padding slowly on the road, talking about Margaret and Edith, and how glad they would be to see them again, but he only got angry grunts in response, so in the end he gave up and followed in disgruntled silence.

  At last, as they started up the hill that led to Sandford, he felt his spirits rise and could not help the smile that slowly spread across his face at the thought of the fire in the hall, and he was about to try to speak to Simon again when he saw his master pause at the road into the village.

  Simon sat stationary on his horse, staring north up the road that led to Furnshill. “I’ll know soon. I’ll figure it all out soon,” he murmured, then jerked the reins and trotted to the lane that led home.

  Why should Baldwin have killed the abbot? That was the question that kept nagging at his tired mind – for, try as he might, he could see no other explanation for de Penne’s death. It had to be his friend. At last, as they cleared the village and wound along the track that took them out to the house, he set his shoulders with a new determination. He knew who was responsible for one death, but any confrontation could wait. There remained another to solve.

  “First let’s see if we can find out what happened to Brewer.”

  It made his heart lurch to see his wife again. She stood at the door as he and Hugh rode up the lane to the house, a slim and elegant figure, with her braided hair hanging over each shoulder, smiling at the sight of them.

  He had stayed away longer at other times, when he had to travel to see the de Courtenay family in Bristol or Taunton, but for some reason this time it had seemed even longer than before, and he found himself almost holding his horse back for the last few yards, as if drawing out the enjoyment of their reunion.

  Springing from his horse, he strode to her and stood gravely holding her hands, staring into her eyes. Margaret was amazed to see how the last few days had changed him. He had suddenly developed lines of shock and worry where before there had been none, a series of slashes on his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and her face showed her concern as she gazed back at him.

  “My love, you…” he began, but before he could finish there was a sudden flurry at the door, and there stood Roger Ulton, standing as if exhau
sted, one hand on the jamb, the other up on the lintel as he peered out at the bailiff. Simon looked at his wife with resignation. “I suppose it’ll wait,” he sighed.

  “So where did you go when you left Emma’s house?”

  They were back in front of Simon’s fire. Hugh was still seeing to their horses, Margaret helping him, having handed her husband a fresh pot of mulled cider and two drinking cups. Now, sitting on the benches before the flames, Simon and Roger Ulton were drinking.

  The bailiff thought that the young man seemed scared. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, the cup gripped in both hands as if fearful of dropping it. His eyes rarely met Simon’s. For the most part he stared down into his drink.

  “I went for a walk. It was a nice evening, and if I’d gone home they would have known something was wrong. I didn’t want them asking me questions about me and Emma.”

  “Yes, so where did you go?”

  “All over. I walked past the village and up towards the hills, but then I got cold. I kept going, I suppose I was thinking about just keeping on walking, maybe going to Exeter or somewhere, but I couldn’t. I’m no freeman. If I’d gone, I’d just’ve been caught and brought back.”

  “When did you come back?”

  “I don’t know, but it must’ve been after ten. I came back from the north and walked down the street – that late there seemed no real point in avoiding the village, everyone would be asleep long before.”

  “Ah. It was you, wasn’t it, who helped Brewer to his house?”

  “Yes.” The pale face glanced up at Simon’s, but on seeing the stern features concentrating so hard on him, he looked away again. “Yes, I did. Brewer was just being thrown out when I came past, and the innkeeper, Stephen, asked me to take him with me. He’d been fighting again.”

  “Who?”