by Mike Ashley
The short office concluded, I left with the other members of the community. As they dispersed, yawning, to their cells I lingered for a while in the cloister and enjoyed the cool of approaching night. I sat on the low wall in one corner of the court and silently recited the 139th psalm, Domine probasti. I had just reached the end when a figure strode briskly along the ambulatory opposite me, his form clearly visible in the moonlight – de Vaux, returning from the church. A few minutes later I followed. The route to the guest quarters took me across the inner courtyard. Leyburn was there, checking the guard – and none too pleased with what he discovered.
“Lout!” he bellowed, striking the man full across the face with his gauntleted fist. “Do you think you can doze on duty just because you’re in a house of holy men? Never heard of light-fingered friars? For that you’ll get no relief. You stay here – awake – till dawn. And I shall be around from time to time to make sure your eyes and ears are wide open.”
The captain fell into step beside me and we walked together the last few yards. “See what dregs they’ve given me, Brother. Soldiers? More like children in play armour. That one’s no more than fourteen. If he survives as far as Acre I’ll pay for a dozen masses. Still, better he should be here than serving our lord the King. Henry is in enough trouble without relying on babes in arms to get him out of the barons’ clutches.”
“What news of the King?” I asked.
“Still with de Montfort in Wales but Prince Edward besieges Gloucester and if he can only raise enough men he’ll control all the Severn crossings. The traitor will be trapped and forced to sue for peace. Would to God I were there to crush a few disloyal skulls. Well, goodnight to you, Brother.”
We parted and I went to my bed thankful that another day, another milestone had been passed on the journey to heaven. The dim lamplight played on a crucifix at the bed’s foot so that the last thoughts in my mind could be of death and the release of soul from body into the pure realm of spirit. I was ready for that transition, readier than I had ever been.
I emerged, as was my custom, into full consciousness. Still in the flesh. Automatically my mind turned to preparation for the first daylight office. But there was to be no Lauds that day. Scarce was I out of bed when the door of my cell was flung open by a young friar in great distress.
“Come quickly, Brother! Father Prior wants you in the chapel. Something terrible . . .” He turned and was away across the courtyard before completing the sentence.
I scurried after him. Others were crossing the open space between the living quarters and the towering bulk of the church. As I turned through the archway leading to the cloister I was aware that I had seen something amiss but, whatever it was, the gathering commotion and confusion ahead drove it from mind. Brothers, servants and visitors were converging on the narrow door into the chapel and struggling in their eagerness to reach whatever was within.
I pushed my way into the dim interior. The atmosphere was immediately different, as though we had all passed through a curtain shielding some holy secret from profane eyes. And, indeed, we had. Stumble-footed we blundered into the presence of death. I moved to the front of a circle gathered round the chancel step. The Prior, cowl thrown back from his corona of white hair, knelt beside a sprawled face-down figure, the upper part of which was heavily stained with blood. I took a step forward and looked down at the body of Simon de Benville.
The Prior looked up at me, dazed, shocked, affronted. “Stabbed! Here of all places!” He pointed to the narrow dagger embedded in the Templar’s neck as though begging me to provide him with some explanation.
I moved forward to crouch beside him and reached out to touch one of the dead man’s hands stretched forward on the grey stone towards the distant high altar. It was tomb cold.
While I was struggling to find some words, heavy boots crunched on the floor beside me. “By Mary and all the saints what mischief is this?” Geoffrey de Vaux had appeared and immediately took charge. “When was he found?” he demanded.
“The sacristan discovered him when he came to prepare for the service not twenty minutes since,” the Prior explained, rising stiffly to his feet.
“God rest him,” de Vaux exclaimed. “A soldier of Christ to die thus! He shook his head and fell silent. But only for a moment. “Clean him and lay him out properly. He will be buried here in the chapel,” he ordered. Turning to me, he said, “The Master must be informed without delay. Find Leyburn. Tell him to send men to London with the news.”
I hurried off to do his bidding but the captain was nowhere to be found. I stood in the middle of the courtyard, gazing helplessly round for some sign of Leyburn or his men. Several huddled groups of brown-robed figures, their routine disrupted, stood discussing the tragedy in hushed tones. Then I realized what was wrong, what I had sensed but not identified a few minutes before. There was the wagon, where we had left it the previous evening, but there was no guard keeping watch over the Templar treasure. Quickly I strode across the dusty yard. My fingers trembled as I unfastened the strings holding the canvas coverings. I pulled the flaps back as far as they would go and peered inside. There were piles of luggage and harness neatly stacked on the boards. Of the sealed chest containing the gold there was no sign.
I rushed back to the chapel and whispered the news to de Vaux. The old knight swore loud and long. Colour poured into his already ruddy cheeks and his bulging eyes glared round at the little crowd of friars. “Father Prior,” he thundered, “I want every door out of this place locked and every window watched. No one is to leave until I’ve searched the last inch! Brother Thomas, come with me!”
As I hurried after him, he muttered, “I never did trust Leyburn. His father’s been ruined in the King’s service. Did you know that?”
“He’s never concealed the loyalty of his father and brothers, nor what it cost them. But you surely cannot believe that he would murder de Benville and steal . . .”
We crossed the cloister, almost running as de Vaux answered. “De Benville is brutally cut down. Our gold disappears. Leyburn disappears. How would you explain those ‘coincidences’?” He went ahead of me through the doorway into the great courtyard. “We’ll make a thorough search of the priory, though I doubt we shall find anything: the rogue’s had several hours to escape with the treasure. At the same time we must send down to the harbour. That’s Leyburn’s most likely escape route. If we have no success there . . .”
He stopped. A small mounted cavalcade was entering the courtyard through the main gateway opposite. It was the military escort and William Leyburn was riding at its head.
Seeing us, the captain jumped from the saddle and ran across the yard. “Where is de Benville? I have grave news for him.”
De Vaux’s hand went to his sword hilt. He unsheathed the weapon and pointed it at Leyburn. “You know well enough where he is! Thief! Murderer!”
The captain fell back, drawing his own sword. “What are you saying, man?” He lifted the blade to parry the Templar’s blow.
“I’m saying that you killed our leader and made off with our treasure!” Metal clanged as the heavy swords met.
Leyburn circled, watching for his assailant’s next thrust. “Made off? Made off? Do you not see me, man?”
“Where have you been at this hour?” De Vaux faltered and I took the opportunity to step between the antagonists.
“Brothers,” I protested, “this solves nothing. Monstrous sins have been committed in this holy place and we must pool our energies if we are discover the truth and uphold justice.” I explained in a few words that de Benville had been murdered, several hours before, judging by the temperature of the body. Leyburn seemed to be honestly shaken by the news. “And you, Captain, where have you been this morning?”
The soldier resheathed his weapon. “I came out to check the guard about half way through the hours of darkness. I found the man on duty trussed up in the wagon – and the treasure gone. Immediately I roused the rest of my men here in the priory. Thre
e of them were missing. It was obvious why. I rode out with the rest and we spent a couple of hours scouring the countryside. A mile away we came across the Templars’ chest by the roadside – forced open and empty. The rogues must have divided up the booty and gone their separate ways.”
De Vaux looked dubious. “Why did you not check the harbour? The thieves are sure to try getting away by ship.”
“Two of my men are making inquiries there now. I left them in Dover when I collected the rest of my company at first light.”
De Vaux continued to gesture with his sword. “Well, I am in charge here now and I hold you personally responsible for the recovery of the gold. I shall want two of your men to ride as fast as they can for London to report to the Master and bring back his instructions. The rest of our forces we’ll divide into small parties to make a thorough search for the criminals.”
At that moment there was movement in the gateway. Another rider entered the courtyard, swaying heavily in the saddle as his horse ambled forward. Philip de Benville reined in his mount and gazed, bleary-eyed at the assembly. “What’s all this,” he sneered, “shouldn’t you all be in chapel?”
De Vaux scowled at the newcomer. “And where have you been – as if I needed to ask? You’d better sober up quickly. You’ve family responsibilities to attend to. Your brother’s dead.”
The mounted man stared back with a puzzled frown. De Vaux turned from him in disgust and walked away with Leyburn to talk over details of the search. It was left to me to explain to the younger de Benville what had happened and to take him to see the body. It was only the sight of Simon’s blood-stained corpse, lying now in a side chapel with the Prior saying over it the prayers for the dead that finally banished from his brain the fog of a night’s carousing.
He fell to his knees weeping, then tugged at my robe for me to pray beside him. “You’ve always liked me, haven’t you, Brother Thomas? You understand that I’m not made for all this praying business. You can say what you like about me but I’m not a hypocrite. It was Simon who wanted me to join the Templars. He was the holy one and what good did it do him? Look at him. He always said that I would end up killed in a tavern brawl. But he’s the one . . .” Sobs overwhelmed him as he slumped forward.
“He died at his prayers,” I explained gently. “His soul must have been borne away by angelic spirits.”
“You think so?” He turned to me, pathetically appealing for comfort. “Well, Brother, here and now I make this solemn vow. I dedicate myself to the Order, just as he was dedicated – after I have done one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I will make sure Simon’s killer suffers for his crime.”
The next day we buried Simon de Benville before the high altar of the Franciscan Priory of Dover. It was not the interment he would have wished – after an heroic battle fought beneath the Cross or laid to rest in the company of other poor knights in the vault of the London Temple – but it was done decently. For us it made an interval in the search for the killers and thieves.
Late on the following afternoon our messengers returned on lathered horses from London. De Vaux ordered the company to assemble in the frater to hear the Master’s instructions. He handed me the sealed letter which had evidently been dictated in great haste to a scribe and I, with some difficulty, translated the scrawled Latin. After conventional tribute paid to the dead man the leader of the English Templars ordered that no effort was to be spared in tracking down those responsible for de Benville’s death and the theft of money designated for the relief of his hard-pressed brethren in the Holy Land. Geoffrey de Vaux was to bring the party back to London as soon as he was satisfied that no purpose could be served by remaining in Dover. But the investigation was to be entrusted to another member of the expedition, and everyone was enjoined on pain of eternal damnation to answer truthfully whatever questions he might wish to put to them. Here, to my surprise and consternation, I read my own name.
There was a deal of murmuring among the party but de Vaux strongly supported the Master’s decision and ordered all present to be available to me as and when I might wish to speak with them. They all looked at me expectantly and in my confusion I had no idea what to say. After a long pause I expressed my unworthiness of the solemn trust reposed in me by the de Tremblay but pledged myself to do my utmost, with the help of God, to find the truth and clear away the foul miasma of suspicion hanging over the brotherhood. Perhaps, I suggested, it would encourage the other brothers to be frank with me if de Vaux were the first to be interviewed. The surprise that flitted over the old knight’s face told me that he had regarded himself as exempt from the Master’s fiat but he obviously could not refuse and, as the company dispersed, he and I walked across to a window embrasure to converse quietly.
“There’s nothing I can tell you,” de Vaux said as soon as we were alone. “However, the Master has great confidence in your intellect, so if you think I can shed any light . . .”
“Thank you, Brother. As you say, there’s little that I need to ask you. However, it does occur to me that you might have been the last to see Simon de Benville alive. At the end of Compline you and he were together in the chapel, were you not?”
“We were both praying, yes.”
“Who finished first?”
“I did.”
“And you left the chapel immediately?”
“Yes, shortly after the end of Compline . . . ten minutes perhaps.”
“And de Benville was still at his devotions?”
The other man nodded. “He seemed much burdened. The heavy responsibility of the mission . . .”
“Of course. He was well past the prime of his life. His energies not what they had once been. As an old comrade-in-arms you must have been aware of that.”
“He was certainly approaching that time of life when a man should be preoccupied with preparing his own soul for death. Tragically, that consolation was denied him.”
I stared down into the courtyard, musing. “I suppose you are now the obvious choice for next Master.”
He spluttered with indignation but I hurried on, as though not realizing the implication of what I had said. “Was there anyone else in the chapel when you left?”
He reflected briefly. “I don’t think so.”
“I fancied I saw someone in the nave during the office. It might have been John Barnet.”
The possibility appealed to him. “It was dark, of course, but I suppose . . . Barnet’s a scurvy fellow who’s come within the shadow of the gallows more than once. Simon took him into his service out of pity. I think he would have been quite capable of forming a compact with some of the soldiers. The whole scheme might have been his idea.”
“But why kill his master? And are we really sure that the two crimes are necessarily connected?”
“Well, surely . . .”
“I’m puzzled. If you were going to steal the gold why would you need to kill de Benville?”
“That’s obvious. Simon must have surprised the thieves while they were emptying the wagon, so they struck him down.”
“And carried his body to the church?”
“Knowing that it would not be discovered until everyone assembled for Lauds.”
I gave the impression of considering this possibility carefully. “In that case there will be blood in the courtyard.” We both peered down from the window. Around the wagon the dust had been stirred up by scores of feet over the last couple of days. “I’ll look carefully later,” I said. “Thank you for the suggestion, Brother. It may be very helpful.”
I left the frater and sought out the Prior in his lodging. I could not help noticing how comfortable his quarters were. He had several chambers at his disposal, furnished with tables and chairs and even a woven wall hanging. So much for the poverty St Francis had enjoined on all members of the Order. I did not trouble him long. All I needed from him was the weapon that had been used to kill de Benville. With that concealed in my sleeve I went in search of John B
arnet. I had a shrewd suspicion where I would find him and I was not mistaken. He was in the kitchen, chatting with the brothers who were preparing the evening meal and scrounging scraps.
He looked sideways at me as I stood in the doorway, silently beckoning. “No good talking to me, Brother. I know nothing.”
“If you know nothing you have nothing to fear by answering a few questions. Come with me. We’ll take a turn around the cloister.”
Since all the brothers were at their work the enclosed area with its rectangle of sun-scorched grass was deserted. We walked slowly around the arcade and I decided on a very direct approach. “What were you doing in the chapel during Compline on the night your master was murdered?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Me? At Compline? No, Brother, I leave the praying to them as understands such things. Not that I’ve anything against you lot . . . or the Templars,” he added hurriedly. “My master was very good to me. I wish I knew who did for him.”
“And if you did know, my Son, what would you do about it?”
Again the sideways glance. “Why I’d tell what I know and make sure he swung for it.”
“You’d not be tempted to take the law into your own hands? It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Wasn’t there a nasty affray in Cheapside a couple of years ago? Two foreign merchants killed as I remember, and you’d have gone to the gallows with three other villains if your master hadn’t put in a word for you.”
