Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“Why did you think Brewer was inside?” Simon asked.

“I didn’t at first. I thought he could be somewhere else. But when we started to try to put the fire out, when we could see inside, we saw the body. It’s still on his bed.”

Involuntarily, Simon glanced over at the building, as if almost expecting to see a figure rise from it. He frowned at his superstitious fancy and concentrated again on the evidence of the hunter.

“As soon as I saw that, I told the others to carry on with putting out the flames, and I went straight over to get the rector.”

Simon nodded absently and looked at the priest. “Yes, John arrived just after dawn, and when I had heard his tale I sent Hubert to fetch you. I came straight here to see if I could help. By the time we arrived the flames were out. We were waiting for the building to cool before going inside to get the poor man’s body out.”

“How long before we can go in, do you think?” said Simon, peering back at the wreckage.

Black turned to follow his gaze. “I reckon it’ll be a little longer. One man’s dead – there’s no need to risk any more lives to get his corpse. We might as well leave it until we’re sure it’s safe.”

Nodding again, Simon started walking towards the house to have a closer look. The soot and ashes under his feet seemed soft and yielding, not hard and crisp like the ashes in his fire at home. What could have produced such snowy-soft residue? There were several people standing and gawping nearer the walls, and Simon had to push some out of his way, glaring at them when they murmured angrily. Ignoring their complaints, he walked up to the front door and peered inside.

The door was a charred and broken mess, hanging haphazardly from its bottom hinge. Inside, the rubble was still very hot; he could feel the glowing embers warming his face, as hot as summer sunshine. At first it was difficult to make out anything much, the inside seemed to be a mass of grey or black, with different shades all around, but with nothing to differentiate one pile from another. The timbers of the roof must have collapsed brutally, he thought. If someone was underneath, there was no chance of surviving that huge weight when it fell in. He could see the massive beam lying where it had fallen across the centre of the floor, one end still supported by the wall, the other on the ground. Suddenly, before he could avoid it, a sudden gust of wind blew air from the room into his face. Caught unawares, unprepared, so that it hardly even occurred to him to try to evade it, he inhaled the stench.

The wind was filthy, carrying the noisome odour of death almost as a solid, physical mass but that was not all. It was not just the nasal reminder of the body inside that caught at the throat and made the eyes water, it was the burned faeces, the remains of the excreta of the livestock that had lived in the house with Brewer, the ordure of decades, that, now subjected to the fire, seemed to grasp at the lungs with invisible, poisoned tentacles of bitter virulence. Gagging, he turned and coughed, soon wretching miserably.

He could take no more and, turning away, he stumbled, choking, back to where the others waited.

“Foul, isn’t it?” said Black conversationally, grinning, as if passing comment on the weather.

Still coughing, Simon gave him a baleful glare before hawking and spitting, trying to clear his throat of the viscous tang. It was while he was spitting with venom that Baldwin Furnshill arrived.

He appeared on a huge grey horse, Edgar as usual just behind, and dressed in a white tunic with a small emblem on his breast, which even at this distance Simon could recognise as the de Courtenay badge. The knight had soft leather boots on his feet and seemed to have left his armour and weapons off for the day, although he still wore his misericord, his long, narrow-bladed knife named for its task in battle; the “mercy‘ was the blade used to finish off the wounded on the battlefield.

Seeing the small knot of men, Baldwin kicked his horse and ambled over to them, his eyebrows raised a little as he saw a new coughing fit taking over the bailiff. The other men, he could see, were grim-faced and dour. Smiling at the priest and hunter, he nodded curtly, “Hallo, friends,” then turned a perplexed grin to the bailiff.

“Have you come to gawp as well, Baldwin?” said Simon, squinting up at the knight bitterly. Was everyone from all around going to come and stare? It seemed depressing that even his new friend was exhibiting ghoulish tendencies.

“No, Simon. We were out riding and wanted to make sure that the people here did not need help. This is my manor’s land.” His eyes glittered darkly, as though he was ready to take offence at Simon’s attitude, but then, as he peered at the scene and saw the people standing, pointing and chattering, he appeared to understand Simon’s feelings and gave a small dry smile. “I told you I wanted to take an interest in my villeins, didn’t I? How are the people that lived there?”

“Only the one man, thank God! But as far as we know he’s still inside. It’s too hot to fetch him out yet,” said Peter. “A sad business, eh? Surely there’s enough misery for the poor without being burned to death in their beds?”

“He wasn’t that poor,” said Black, a faintly ironic smile on his face, as Baldwin sprang lightly from his horse and threw his reins to Edgar.

“No?” Peter seemed surprised, a slight frown on his face as he peered at the hunter. “He always seemed to be, or at least he always said he was.”

“Ah, well, yes. He was always hard up when someone wanted money or alms, or at least he always said so. People here have wondered how he always seemed to be able to buy ale, how he could afford a full team of oxen, how he managed to buy his way out of his duties as a villein when he wanted.”

“What do you mean?” said Simon. “Are you saying he was a thief or something?”

The hunter gave a short laugh. “Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. No, I think that the old tale’s true. I think he made a lot of money when he fought in the wars five and twenty years ago and he’s been able to live off it since then. Story goes that he had a metal box full of gold under the floor in there,” he said, jerking a finger at the wrecked house. “You’ll find it hard to keep people away until the whole of the floor’s been dug up. And even then, if nothing’s found, people’ll start to dig up all his land.”

Baldwin frowned at him. “We’ll have none of that here if I can help it. Simon, would you like me to have a man or two placed here to guard it until we can find out whether there is any money here? We have to try to ensure that it’s saved for this man’s relatives. Do we know whether he had any relatives? I understand he was alone in the house as far as we can tell?” He looked at Peter, but the priest merely smiled and shrugged, gazing at the hunter. It seemed clear to the knight that he knew nothing about the dead man’s private life.

“He was alone when I got here,” Black said, then drew the corners of his mouth down and stuck out his lower lip with the effort of memory. Frowning at his shoes, he said, “I do seem to remember someone saying as he had a son in Exeter. I can see if anyone else’s heard anything about a boy.”

“Yes, do that, Black,” said Simon.

The knight seemed to be staring at the hunter speculatively. “Were you the first man to see the fire?”

“Yes, sir.” The hunter seemed ready to show the knight the proper level of respect, treating him as a superior where he had obviously looked upon the bailiff and the priest as equals – perhaps, Simon could not help thinking, because as a hunter he had his own rules and arcane skills. But a knight was different. A knight was no holder of secrets, no minister of hidden knowledge. A knight was the most secular creature known: what he wanted he would take. And, if asked by what authority he presumed to remove whatever he wanted, any knight, any member of the older Norman families, would draw his sword and say, “This is my right! With this sword my sires took this land. With this sword I shall take what I want. With this sword I shall keep what I desire.” Simon sighed and concentrated on the conversation.