Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

Edward kept his eyes downcast. He had more the appearance of the servile country labourer that Simon expected. The bailiff was by no means a harsh or cruel man, but he did understand the differences between men, and he knew how they were expected to react. The son of a castle seneschal, Simon knew that it was impossible to constantly keep servants quiet and humble. The nature of his fellows was such that they could only take so much, but then they would snap. After all, any man needs self-respect, and that can only be achieved if respect is given by others. Simon knew this, and he gave his men an according amount of regard. But, even so, most of his own men would be humble in front of a new lord when presented for the first time – no matter what they might say afterwards!

This older man was dressed simply, with thick stockings, tightly bound with the thongs from his sandals under a light tunic and short cloak. He looked warm in his clothes, and Simon was surprised to see that all his garments seemed fairly new – there were no stains or patches as yet, unlike those of his brother.

Baldwin appeared to have noticed the same disparity, shooting little glances from one to the other as he sat. Then, “I understand that you were out late last night, both of you. Where were you?”

He waited to see which would answer, his eyes small glinting sparks under his lowered brows. At last Alfred, quickly snooting a confirmatory look at his brother from the corner of his eye, said, “I’m a shepherd for my father’s flocks. We were up with the sheep.”

“Aren’t you a little old for that type of work?”

His face was blank. “No, I’m only twenty, and I’m the youngest in the family, so I normally go out to see to them and make sure they’re alright. Edward often comes with me.”

“Ah yes, Edward. What do you do for a living?”

“Me? I sell goods at markets. I collect them from the town and take them with me on my cart. Why?”

“Why do you help your brother with the sheep?”

“Just so that we can get out of the village and talk alone. And it means he’s finished sooner. Why?”

The knight ignored the question for the second time. “What time did you return last night?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alfred, seeming keen to speak again, as if nervous that his brother would say too much. “I suppose we left the hill at about half past ten o’clock. I doubt whether it would have been much later.”

“How long did it take you to get back?”

“What, to get home? Oh, I suppose about a half hour, I don’t know.”

“Did you see anyone else on your way home?”

The young man glanced at his brother as he answered for him. “No, no one.” Simon was sure that he saw something – anger, or fear maybe in his dark eyes. Why was that?

“When was that, when you got into the village?” asked Baldwin, frowning in the manner that Simon was beginning to recognise as demonstrating intense concentration.

“Yes, just as we came into the village.”

“And you saw no fire as you passed Brewer’s house?”

“No, there was nothing – I could stake my life on that!”

Baldwin believed him. Alfred seemed absolutely convinced that there was no sign whatever of the fire then, but that still left the question: when did it start? He glanced at the younger man again, who was staring at him with vague interest – or was it hostility? Then, looking at the older man once more, “Did you part at any time on the way back?”

To his surprise it was Alfred who answered before his brother could open his mouth. “No. We were together the whole time.”

As the two were led away and Black fetched Roger Ulton, Baldwin raised the corners of his mouth in a poor mockery of a grin and faced Simon. “Well?”

“I didn’t like the look of the younger one, and I didn’t trust him. But whether they were capable of killing Brewer and trying to hide the fact afterwards – well I just don’t know.”

“No, neither do I,” said Baldwin reflectively. “But it did seem as if the younger one – Alfred – was trying to hide something. I don’t know. Edward seemed honest enough, or at least he didn’t say anything that I could put my finger on.”

“No. Well, let’s see what this Roger has to say for himself,” said Simon, and they both turned to the man walking towards them with Black.

Close to, he looked less anaemic than he had from a distance. He was a thin young man, surely not an uncommon sight after the last two years of famine, and his emaciated appearance was heightened by a curious pallor in his complexion. His clothes, light brown woollen shift and leggings, seemed too large for him, and Simon immediately wondered whether they were originally made for a brother – or a father? His boots were worn and flopped as he walked, adding to the general effect of decay that he seemed to project, and they looked too large for his feet. His tunic had a hood, but it was thrown back as he walked to the knight and bailiff, to show an effeminately long, thin neck. Like his features, this was very pale, and Simon found it attracted instant attention. Almost as a disability draws the eyes against the wish of the onlooker, this neck, swanlike in its elegance, seemed to exert some power over the vision, as if wanting to emphasise its own vulnerability by dragging the gaze to it, so that the observer could wonder how the red blood could pump beneath such pure alabaster flesh.

It was with an almost physical effort that the bailiff had to wrench his eyes away and lift them to the face of the witness. By the sudden twitching jerk at his right, he knew that Baldwin had been similarly affected. They both studied the face in front of them with interest.

Like Edward before him, Roger kept his eyes cast downward in humility, the perfect example of a poor serf. But his eyes flickered occasionally as he tried to glimpse the faces of the two questioners before him. His face was as thin as his neck, and as pale, creating a disturbing contrast with his hair, which was raven black, as dark as Black’s own. But where the hunter gave off an aura of strong and vibrant health, this man seemed weak and sickly. His mouth was a thin streak slashed under his nose, the nose looked as though it should have a permanent dewdrop dangling, and his eyes, when he looked up, seemed watery and almost colourless, as if, like a coloured book in the rain, their paint had been washed off. The whole impact of this man was unappealing – there was not even the interest, Baldwin thought, of young Alfred. At least he had a spark of individuality; he would make a good trader. This one seemed to have nothing.

The knight looked down at his own feet, wondering where to begin, and then, as he looked up, caught a fleeting glimpse of a different Roger. For a split second he caught and held the man’s eyes, and, in that moment, he realised that the man was not as weak as he had thought.

“You are called Roger?” he started sternly.

“Yes, sir.” He had a strangely deep voice, an unexpected bass from such a thin body, and he spoke with almost reverential respect.

“Last night you went to visit your woman, this Emma…”

“Emma Boundstone, sir. She lives with her parents at Hollowbrook.”

“Yes. What time did you leave her?”

Perhaps it was the curtness of the question, or the frowning glare from the knight, but whatever the reason, the young man’s face coloured instantly.

“Why, sir?”

“What?” Baldwin slammed his glove down onto the trunk beside him, and bellowed, making Simon jump and nervously stare at him. “I asked you when you left her! Do not presume to ask me why I ask. Answer the question.”

“Sir, I mean no offence, I… it was about ten o’clock, sir. Ten o’clock. No later, I think.” and he subsided, his face down once more in apparent misery.