The Last Templar aktm-1

by Michael Jecks

  “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 glimpse 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 none 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!”

  Hugh’s face turned slowly in the direction of his finger, but his eyes stayed glued to his master’s face. He risked a quick glance. Simon was pointing at the ground. Hugh looked back. Simon seemed to be saddened by the mud, he was staring at it with an expression of resigned misery.

  Confused, Hugh looked back at the dirt, staring, wondering what this meant. All he could see was the mess of a stable yard, thick with dirt and straw, and here and there the prints of the hostlers and their charges. Simon seemed to be pointing at a patch lying in the protection of the stable wall, where the rain of the last two days had not dropped, but it was close to the entrance to the stables themselves. He stared at the prints of feet and hoofs. He frowned and peered, leaning as he looked, at one hoofprint, a deep print, the print of a big horse, a print that showed itself to be missing a nail.

  “I suppose we’re lucky that it was here. The rain didn’t get to it, so close to the wall, or it would be impossible to read. But I think it proves that I was right and…”

  “What is it? What are you doing?” They both whirled round to see Edgar standing a short distance away, glaring at them.

  “Come here, Edgar,” said Simon quietly – but for all the apparent calmness, Hugh could hear the bitterness in his voice. “We’ve found something interesting.”

  “What?” the servant said suspiciously as he walked closer. Simon pointed down with his left hand. Edgar seemed to find his eyes drawn irresistibly down, following the finger, but when he looked up, confused, he found himself staring at Simon’s sword point. He stared in astonishment at the blade held in Simon’s hand, then glared at the bailiff.

  “What is this?” he said, his voice registering angry incredulity.

  “That is the print of a large horse, a large horse missing a nail on one shoe. It’s the same as the prints we found by the dead body of the abbot of Buckland,” said Simon softly.

  “No. No, it can’t be!” Edgar said, looking from one to the other as if in complete bewilderment. Then he seemed to sway weakly, toppling to his left, and raising his hand to his face as if about to swoon.

  “Bugger! Quickly, Hugh!” said Simon, but as he spoke, the man seemed to explode into action. Shooting upright, Edgar leaned away from Simon’s sword, which had followed him as he staggered, knocked it aside, and sprang forward and caught Simon by the throat, forcing him to the ground, the bailiff’s eyes wide in his surprise and shock at the sudden attack as he fell with the servant on top of him.

  Hugh sighed, watching them roll in the mud and dirt of the yard. He reached for his purse and untied it, hefted it in his hand for a minute, then brought it down on the back of Edgar’s head with a solid and satisfying thud. Edgar slumped to lie comatose on top of the bailiff, and it was only with difficulty that Simon could roll him off, crawling out from underneath the suddenly collapsed body.

  “I… er, maybe you should tie his hands, Hugh,” he said, wincing as he staggered slowly upright with one hand to his throat. Hugh nodded dourly and went into the stables. There were some leather thongs hanging on a hook, one of which he brought out, and he soon had the unconscious Edgar trussed like a chicken. They picked him up and dragged him round to the front of the house, through the door, and into the hall, where they dropped him in front of the fire.

  It was over half an hour before he came to, wincing painfully as he shook his head slowly to clear it and glaring at the two men sitting nearby.

  “I think you should explain why you killed the abbot,” said Simon, leaning forward and contemplating the man with his chin on his hand.

  “I didn’t kill him, I…”

  “We know you did. The hoofprint proves that. We know that the monk Matthew knew Baldwin, and that he asked the others to wait while he came here to visit your master. We know that when the monks left Crediton you and your master followed them and caught up with them beyond Copplestone. You took the abbot into the woods and killed him. Then, when he was dead, you went north to the road and came home. All I want to know is why!”

  Edgar seemed to waver for a moment, then his jaw set into an expression of determination. He struggled, wriggling until he was sitting upright, then glared at the two on the bench.

  “We know you did it, but why?” Simon repeated. “Why kill him in that way? Had he offended your master? Was it a
woman?”

  The servant still stared, but at Simon’s question he seemed to start. When he began to talk it was in a slow, contemplative voice, almost as if he was reciting slowly from memory.

  “It… it was a woman. She was my wife. De Penne caught her and raped her, and I swore vengeance. I had tried to catch him in France, but when we got here I saw Matthew in the town and he said who he was travelling with. Matthew knew nothing about it. When they left, I followed with a friend and caught up with them outside Copplestone. I captured the abbot and… I killed him.”

  Simon leaned forward, a frown of disbelief on his face. “You tell me you killed him like that for a woman? Your wife? You were married while you were in service to a knight? While you were travelling all over the world?”

  “Yes. My master gave his permission.”

  “And your master was not present at the killing?”

  “No.”

  “But the print, that was from his horse.”

  “Yes, I took his horse.”

  “And his armour?”

  “I… I have armour.”

  Simon looked at him without a word for a moment, then said, “So you are saying that he had nothing to do with the matter? So who was with you? Who was your friend?”

  “I will not give him away.” It was said angrily, as if the question was an insult, as if the suggestion that he could betray a friend was inconceivable, was contemptible.

  The bailiff stared at him musingly, his chin still resting on his hand. His eyes never left the face and eyes of the man on the floor in front of him, gazing intently at him as he considered, until Edgar dropped his angry gaze and glared at his lap.

  “No,” he said at last. “I don’t believe you. I think Baldwin must have been involved and you’re protecting him.”

  “It was as I have said! I did it. Sir Baldwin was not there.”