The Last Templar aktm-1

by Michael Jecks

  “But we had only been here a few days when Edgar met brother Matthew in Crediton. Matthew had been a Templar too. He never suffered the torture; he was in Spain, fighting the Moors, when the Temple was destroyed. When he learned the fate of the Order he renounced his calling and joined the monks. When Edgar saw him he invited him to visit us here.

  “Matthew asked his abbot to delay their departure until he had visited me – he explained that I had been a Templar and that he would like to stay with me for a night. Matthew knew that de Penne had been a Templar and thought he would understand his wish to visit us, so he was surprised at the abbot’s response. It made the abbot furious! He ranted at Matthew, angry and peevish, but Matthew thought he was just overreacting, he thought that his abbot simply wanted to forget and was annoyed to be reminded of his past. Matthew was ever a kindly man. He knew that his abbot had fallen from grace in the Church when Pope John took the throne and I think he thought it was because the new pope had found out about his past in the Order, I think that Pope John saw how de Penne had managed to become elevated and disliked it. He chose to send de Penne as far away as he could, and Buckland is almost as far as it would be possible to send a man from Avignon.

  “So my old friend Matthew came to visit, and while we spoke he mentioned who his abbot was.” The knight’s face became pensive as he recollected. “I was amazed. It could only be by divine interference that de Penne had been sent here, surely – sent here to me? I believe that, in any case. Why would God have put him in my way if I was not to be his agent of justice? Ah, I was taken with a madness of desire. I felt filled with the Holy Spirit; I was thrilled that God had selected me for his will!

  “Matthew stayed with us that night, and I must have seemed excited to him. I was careful not to tell him what de Penne was, for I knew that Matthew would not want to see blood spilled. He would want to let him escape and go to Buckland. But I think I had drunk too much that night in my delight for I cannot truly remember much of the evening, and I think he was worried, for, as you know, I do not drink to excess usually. On the morrow, I sent Edgar to town with the monk, to protect him on the road, but I also told Edgar to stay in the town and watch, and to come back to tell me when the monks were about to leave.

  “I could not rest. I could not sleep. My revenge was so near, so close, that it seemed to burn in my soul with a holy light.” He turned and gazed into the flames again, a small smile playing around his lips.

  “But then, when Edgar came to me and told me that they were on the move, I was struck with indecision. I could not convince myself that this really was the man. How could I be sure? I tried to recall all that I had heard, to make sure in my own mind that he was the one, that he deserved death, but how could I be certain? I dithered for a day, but then I decided to take him and question him. After all, surely it was too much of a coincidence that he should come here and his presence made known to me? It had to be God’s will!

  “I rode off in the late morning. I could remember the roads to Oakhampton, and Edgar was sure that this was the way they had taken, so I followed alone. Edgar saw that I had gone and decided to follow me to try to stop me. When he saw that he could not, he came with me. I could not stop him, he had lost as many friends as me to the stakes and the flames.

  “We came upon them, as you know, just outside Copplestone. We took him from the monks and led him into the trees. We had no desire to hurt the others, but we scared them enough, I think, to stop them from wanting to follow us. But Matthew recognised who we were, I think, even though I wore a tunic with no signs. I think he recognised my voice. Well, we took de Penne deep into the woods and tied him to a tree and I wondered what to do with him. It seemed wrong to just kill him. God in his wisdom chose to make me feel sorrow for him, as if taunting me with my own weakness. So many had died already, what would one more death achieve? I sat and looked at him and as I watched him I realised I could do nothing.

  “But I had to be sure that he was the man. I had to know whether he truly was the agent of the destruction of the Temple.”

  Baldwin wiped a hand over his brow as if trying to wipe away the memory. “I asked him about the Templars. I thought he would not admit if I asked him directly about his part, he seemed too fearful and nervous, altogether too callow to confess to any wrongdoing, so I accused him of being a Templar and therefore a heretic” He laughed. “He thought I would kill him for that! He confessed everything to show how he was without guilt: how he had conspired with de Nogaret to find evidence against the Order, how he had conspired to invent crimes that he knew were false, how he had gone to prisons and persuaded the Templars to admit their guilt. As proof, he told me that he had found favour with the pope! He had been given his archbishopric as a reward! And he expected me to free him for his crimes!

  “It all came forth, all of his guilt and all of his misdeeds, his perjury and his lies. I knew enough to know that what he said was true. I had spoken to the men he had betrayed, and what he told me showed his guilt. It made me mad. My sympathy and my compassion left me.

  “I walked to him, taking off my helm so that he could see my face, and I spoke to him. I told him who I really was. He stared at me. He did not seem able to believe it at first, he kept shaking his head with his mouth wide open as if he could not believe his own ears. And then, then, I told him that I was going to kill him in the same way that he had caused the others to die.”

  He shuddered, once, as if in a sudden pain. “He stared at me. His mouth was open, his head still moving from side to side, and then he started to plead, to beg me to have mercy. Mercy! When had he shown mercy? He had killed for money, for his own prestige and wealth. He had forgotten all of his vows, disregarded his friends and ruined a noble and honourable Order. Mercy? From me? He could not bear the thought of the same death he had brought on so many others. I only hope that even now his soul is burning for what he did to the others.

  “There is little more to say. We could have left him there to starve, but he might have been saved. We could have simply stabbed him, but then there would have been no point to his death. The only way that seemed right somehow was the same death he had given to our companions – the heretic’s pyre. Then there would be a reason for his death. Edgar agreed when I suggested that it would be better to leave him as a symbol, to show that he was a man of dishonour, to show his guilt. How better? At least then there would be an indication, a sign. We collected the wood and twigs and lighted the fire while he shouted and screamed at us. I think he had lost his mind by the time we lit it; he seemed to be incapable of understanding when we spoke to him. I sat in front of him and watched as he died. As his body burned. There was no pleasure, my friend, believe me. It was like performing the last rites for a criminal – in a way I suppose it was. But the smell, the stench, was revolting, so when he was dead we left the body burning and returned here.”

  “You were very careful to obscure your tracks,” Simon observed quietly.

  Baldwin looked up in frank surprise. “No. No, we just rode north until we came to a road, then followed it back towards Crediton until we could turn off home. I was not thinking about my own protection, after all I may have killed him but I felt no guilt – he deserved it! And it was God’s will that he should come here, that he should be made known to me. It was God that took his life away, not I. We made no effort to cover ourselves.

  “I daresay you will find this tale unbelievable – I daresay I would if our positions were reversed – but I swear on my oath that this is all the truth. I decided to kill him for what he had done to the Templars and, when I could take my revenge, I took it. It was God himself who permitted it by putting him in my path. I am sure that he was guilty and that God used me to give him the justice he deserved.”

  Simon stared at him, trying to make sense of the knight’s astonishing story. Baldwin was sitting now, avoiding the bailiff’s eyes and gazing into the fire again. He did not seem embarrassed; rather he looked relaxed, almost elated, as if the confessi
on had taken a huge weight from his back so that he could face his future with peace at last. How long, Simon wondered, how long had he kept this story to himself? How long had he been searching for this man? How long had he been trying to find out all the details so that he could find out who was responsible and why? He said that de Molay died in thirteen fourteen, so for some two years he had searched, sifting the information, finding new people to corroborate or add to the tale, until he found de Penne at last. And what then? As soon as he found the man he had to give up, return to his home, and admit to himself that he had failed.

  How would I feel if I had gone through all that and then, just as I had given up all hope of revenge, found that my quarry had followed me, like a lamb walking into a wolf’s lair. Would I believe it was God’s will too?

  His stare hardened and he took another sip at his drink.

  “What about the monk? What about Matthew? How much did he know?”

  “Matthew?” Baldwin turned, faint surprise showing on his face. “He knew nothing. Not until we took his abbot and he heard my voice – I think he realised then who we were. When he found out what we had done to de Penne he came here as soon as he could. He couldn’t come immediately, but he arrived while you were here. As soon as you had gone he demanded to know why we had done that… that thing to his abbot.”

  “That was why he was so sure that the murder could not be repeated. That was why he said it was a temporary madness. He knew it must be you!,” said Simon reflectively. Looking up sharply, he said, “And you told him? You confessed?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I told him. He did not forgive me, how could he? But I think he understood.”

  “He has not told anyone?”

  “No, he is a good man, and I told him first that I would only tell him on his oath of silence.” He drained his cup with a determined gesture and stood. “So, my friend, I am ready. I yield to you. Do with me as you see fit.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  One week later, Simon rode over to see his friend Peter Clifford for one last visit before he went to take up his new position at Lydford.

  “Come in, come in and sit down, old friend,” said the priest when he entered, handing his cloak to the servant at the door. When he was seated and had a full tankard of wine in his hand, the priest sat back with a contemplative smile and surveyed him.

  The last time they had met, on Simon’s return from the hunt for the trail bastons, Simon had seemed older. There had been new lines of worry and anxiety on his face and brow, deep impressions like scars. But now the priest was pleased to see that peace had returned to his features, making him seem younger once more. It was as if he had tested himself in a severe trial and found himself satisfied with the result. The memories of the horrors he had seen would never leave him, Clifford felt, but he already seemed to have been able to put them into perspective.

  The priest nodded to himself. He was happy that his young friend was more than capable of the new job he had been given. He was not like so many officials, grasping for whatever extra money could be squeezed from others in unfair taxes, this man was fair and honest. Clifford was all too aware of the extortion and corruption prevalent in other shires, and was pleased to think that at Lydford at least the common people would be protected.

  “So when do you leave for Lydford, Simon?” he asked after a pause.

  “We go tomorrow. It will take a few days to go all that way with the things that Margaret wants to take with us. We have already had to organise two ox carts.”

  “So you should be there in a week?”

  “Yes, I would hope so. We shall stay in Oakhampton for a day or so and introduce ourselves to the bailiff there, then go straight on.”

  “I see.” Clifford poured himself a little more wine and raised an enquiring eyebrow at his friend, who shook his head. He put the jug back on the hearth. “It was sad to hear about the Carters – and Roger Ulton. I suppose no man can see into another’s heart, but I would never have thought him a murderer.”

  “No. He did not seem evil. The Carters will be all right, they’re mostly guilty of acting foolishly, and their offences seem unimportant compared with Ulton’s.”

  “Yes, or compared with those of the outlaws. It’s good that the trail bastons are in gaol, thanks to God! That’s one horror less for the people hereabouts to fear, especially after killing the abbot like that!”

  “Yes,” said Simon, avoiding his eye.

  “They should be found guilty when they are tried, so that will be an end to the matter. Roger and they will soon have to pay for their crimes with a rope.”

  “Yes.”

  Frowning slightly, the priest nodded in amused perplexity as if he was confused by a disparity between the bailiff’s words and his appearance. Leaning forward, Clifford carefully placed his tankard down beside him while he looked at his friend. “Simon, you seem to be trying to keep something from me!”

  The bailiff looked up, his expression one of indifferent innocence. “Me? What would I keep from you?”

  “Simon!” the priest tried a mixture of sternness and humour together.

  “Oh, very well, Peter, but I charge you to keep this silent as the confessional.”

  The priest frowned slightly, but nodded. “You have my word.”

  The bailiff smiled at him, but now Clifford could see that he was troubled as he spoke, as if something had been giving him difficulty for a while and it was with relief that he could at last speak to another of his problem.

  “Let us suppose,” Simon began, “that there has been a murder, or some other crime. Let us suppose that men have been caught for this crime, but that they were not guilty of it. Somebody else was. There is evidence that shows who was guilty, but the man responsible is a fair and honourable man who could be of use to the area. The men who are assumed to be guilty are truly guilty of many other crimes and if they are punished they will not be missed. If the evidence is presented, a good man will be destroyed. Would I be right in withholding the evidence, do you think?”

  The priest let out his breath in a low whistle. “You would have to be very sure that you were right!” he said at last. “You could be mistaken, after all, and be letting the guilty man go free purely because he has confused you and pulled the wool over your eyes. Why should you believe him?”

  The bailiff shifted guiltily, as though he was himself the object of the conversation. He seemed to think carefully before answering, then spoke with conviction. “No, I am certain that I am right. I know who did it and I am sure of his motives. No, the only thing that worries me is whether I am right to keep back the evidence.”

  “Well, if you are as sure as you seem to be that this man is good and useful, I would say that you would be right. There are so many crimes. What good would it do to have yet another man punished if he could be of use to the people around here? And if, as you say, the others who will be punished are already guilty of other crimes, I assume you mean by that they will die anyway, so what difference will it make to them? I suppose that if you must keep something back in order that one should remain free, I see no problem with that.”

  “Good. That was as I thought. Thank you, old friend.”

  “So, you have had a great success with the matter, anyway.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you have caught the murderers of the abbot and of Brewer and the killers of the merchants. It is a good way to begin your tenure at Lydford, isn’t it?”

  It was late afternoon when Simon returned home. He threw the reins of his horse to Hugh, who took them with his usual taciturn grimace, and wandered through to the hall of his house.

  It seemed odd to see the place like this, he thought, with so many of their belongings packed away in boxes and ready to be collected on the morrow for the journey to Lydford. As he clumped over the floor to his wife it seemed as if the whole building echoed in its emptiness, and as he listened to his own footsteps, he realised that he must get used to the sound of emptiness,
for the castle would be just as quiet in the absence of its master, Lord de Courtenay.

  “How is Peter?” said Margaret as he kissed her.

  “Oh, he’s fine. He wishes us all the best in Lydford, bless him. I shall miss him when we have gone.”

  “I am sure he will visit us often, my love. Now, do you want some wine?”

  He sat and gratefully took the mug she passed, then sat in silent contemplation. So much seemed to have happened since his return from Taunton that he was still not fully relaxed. Nor would he really be able to recover, he knew, until he was in his new home and had taken up his new duties. But now he had spoken to Peter Clifford at least he was sure he had done the right thing.

  As he was thinking this, Hugh entered to announce a guest.

  “Sir Baldwin Furnshill.”

  The knight entered, Edgar a little behind him as usual, both loudly stomping over the floor and bowing slightly to Margaret and Simon.

  “Welcome, friends. Please take a seat. Some wine?”

  After a few minutes of general talk Baldwin asked Simon to join him outside to look at a new horse. Smiling quietly to himself, Simon followed the knight out into the open air and round to the stables at the side of his house.

  “She is lovely, isn’t she?” said the knight, patting the neck of his mare, a pure white arab.

  “Yes, she is,” Simon agreed, sipping at his wine as he looked at the animal. She seemed one of those creatures built for speed and agility, prancing nervously under the two men’s gaze, all fire and spirit as she rolled her eyes at them.