Michael JECKS: The Last Templar

They raced down the lane, the heavy horse pounding through the muddy water that lay all around, and splashing it liberally over both of them, both revelling in the sudden burst of energy and enjoying the sensation of rushing furiously, as quickly as possible over the rough track, feeling the cold wind tugging at their hair and snatching at Simon’s cloak as they went. They charged down, hammering over the lane like a knight and his mount rushing into battle, with no thought for anything but the pleasure of the race.

At the far end of the road they slowed, Simon reining in gently to slow the great horse and stop the animal from over-tiring himself, and gradually eased into a comfortable walk. By the time they got to Coppiestone, a small village that lay hugging the edge of the moor and forest land of Dartmoor, the only evidence of their gallop was the broad grin of sheer pleasure on the bailiff’s face. They sedately clattered into the hamlet. It was an ancient vill lying some four miles out to the west of Crediton, at the fork in the road to Oakhampton where one arm led to the north and up to Barnstaple. But there were also several small lanes leading south, and he turned into one and wandered aimlessly for a few miles, his eyes fixed on the moors ahead.

The local superstitions had always implied that the moors were unfriendly to people, and from here, looking up at them, he could understand why men should feel that – they seemed to be watching him as he rode. Certainly they were impressive, looming like great beasts on the horizon ahead, but they were without the aura of focused viciousness that he could sense in wolves and other wild animals. There was a malevolence there, he could sense that, but it was the uncaring, unfeeling cruelty of a vast being that feared nothing for smaller creatures. It seemed to him as he rode that the moors noted him as a man might an ant, and, like a man, they seemed to know they could crush him without noticing.

Shuddering at the thought, he quickly turned off, away from the moors and to the east. He would go as far as Tedburn St Mary, then north and back home.

Now, feeling more relaxed after burning off some of his frustration, and comfortable as he sat on his horse, he let his mind wander. At first his thoughts were only of the coming move and the change in his circumstances that it would bring, but then, as he swayed along from side to side on the back of his horse, he started to think about the people he had met on the road.

He was interested in Sir Baldwin. The knight seemed so worldly, so experienced, that he was fascinating to a man like Simon who had never been more than a few days’ travel from Crediton. Simon longed to get him to talk about his travels, to discover where he had been, what he had seen, what battles he had fought in – because he obviously had fought in several. He had the arrogance and pride of a warrior; even though it seemed to be kept on a close rein and almost hidden, Simon had felt it. But there was a kindliness and humility about the knight as well that seemed oddly out of place in the bailiff’s experience. Knights were rarely humble or pious – and if they were it was usually a calculating godliness. It had more to do with ensuring salvation in the face of previous offences committed against God than with any desire to follow Christ’s teachings.

At Tedburn St Mary he turned off to take the road back to Crediton, and a sudden similarity between this road and the one near Furnshill made his thoughts move to the party of monks. He was still thinking about the frightened abbot when he arrived back at his house.

He was surprised to see a horse tethered at his door when he arrived. His eyebrows rose in vague interest as he took his horse into the stable before going to see who it could be – no doubt it was only another visitor passing on his good wishes – and he had just removed the saddle and taken off the blanket underneath when Hugh came in and took over.

“Man here to see you.”

“Oh,” Simon glanced over his shoulder towards the house and shrugged disinterestedly. “Someone else asking how I am and when I go to Lydford?”

“No, it’s a man from Blackway. Someone’s died over there last night.”

Simon stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then balled the blanket and threw it at him as he ran for the house.

Inside, a man leapt up as soon as he entered the hall. He had been sitting on a bench with his back to the door, obviously warming himself by the fire, and he knocked over a pot of ale when the bailiff strode in, letting out an audible groan in mortification – though whether at seeming clumsy or at the loss of the beer, Simon could not be sure.

His visitor was a slender, almost effeminate youth with pale and thin features under a shock of thick, mousey-coloured hair. The face was almost hatchet-sharp, but without any hint of deviousness or weasel cunning – it was simply the kind of face created for a slim man who would never be a soldier; this was one who would not go away to fight, this man would spend his life in the rural safety of the priest’s house, probably never going more than fifteen miles from the town in his whole life. His face seemed to redden under the fixed gaze of the bailiff, not from fear but from his embarrassment at knocking the pot over, almost as if he expected to be shouted at, and Simon grinned at him to calm his obviously frayed nerves. When he smiled back, Simon was sure he recognised him – there was something about his thin, colourless mouth as it stretched tight across his face. Where had he seen that face before? Of course! He worked for Peter Clifford, the priest at Crediton. This was one of his stablemen, wasn’t it? Simon walked to the bench and indicated that the young man should be seated before sitting himself and considering the man again.

“It is Hubert, isn’t it?”

“Yes, bailiff, I’m Hubert. I work for Peter Clifford and he sent me to fetch you as soon as he heard about it…”

“What is it, then? Tell me your message.”

“Oh, sir, it’s horrible! A man came to us in the early morning – Black, the hunter – he lives over that way himself, and it seems there was a fire there last night, well into the early hours, over at Harold Brewer’s house. His place is out on the edge of Blackway, down south of Crediton. Black said that the men tried to put out the fire, but they couldn’t even get close for some time because it was too hot.”

“Well? Why should I be told?”

“Because Brewer – the man that lives there – his body was seen inside.”

It was well past noon when he arrived at the small village of Blackway, some seven miles to the south and West of Crediton. There had seemed little need to hurry on the way, there were bound to be many people all around – not just the priest but all the villagers and, no doubt, quite a few others. Whenever there was a disaster, Simon was amazed by the speed demonstrated by the people who came to gawp and stare at another man’s personal misfortune, whether it was caused by an accident or by the maliciousness of a neighbour.

The signs were obvious from a long way distant. As he came up to the old Weatherby Cross, where the road from Crediton was cut by the Moretonhampstead track that led down to Exeter, it became clear he was not the first person to pass there that day. At the best of times the track was rutted and worn, being a popular route for travellers heading down to the ports on the coast. Now, in the early afternoon, it was even worse than normal.

Usually the trodden dirt, with the deep ruts caused by the wheels of the carts, was solid enough, but now, after so many months of rain, it was a morass. The mud clutched at his horse’s hoofs, sucking and belching as the animal pulled his legs free of the red-brown earth, trying to carry on. Only the passage of a large number of people could have so quickly destroyed the fragile surface. Cursing under his breath, Simon steered his horse over to the verge, where the grass promised solidity and an opportunity to continue less encumbered. In this way, stepping carefully, they made their slow and painful progress to the hamlet.