Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“But who could do a thing like that? Who would do that to a man of God?” said Tanner with a frown of consideration. Of course, outlaws were known for their brutality, exceeding even the viciousness of the pirates from Normandy, but neither French nor English bands were known here in the heart of Devon. Tanner was older than the bailiff and had served in the wars against the French, so he had witnessed the cruelty that men could show to each other, but even in war he had never heard of a monk being killed in this way, like a heretic. He was puzzled rather than horrified.

But he was worried too – if these two outlaws could do that to an abbot, nobody could be safe until they were caught. He looked up at the other men as they hobbled their horses and came forward to the fire, laughing and joking as they came. Their humour seemed almost sacrilegious after what he had just heard, and he had to bite back a shout at them.

Tanner was a calm and stable man. As a farmer he was used to the changing seasons and the steady march of the years as he watched his animals and plants grow, flourish and eventually die, but he was also used to the cruel and vicious ways of the wild, where the stronger creatures survived and the weaker died. Even so, to him this crime seemed strange in its barbarity. Animals could do that to each other, killing for food or pleasure, but for men to do this seemed curious in his quiet rural hundred. Constables in towns might be more used to cruelty of this type, he reflected. He had seen such acts at time of war when he had been a foot soldier for the king, but he did not expect them here, not during peace. Why should they do this to an abbot? He sighed and looked back at the bailiff, sitting silently absorbed beside him.

“You need to rest, sir. Lie down. I’ll organise a watch and get the men sorted out.”

“Yes,” said Simon heedlessly, nodding slowly. He was gradually losing his feeling of horror under the stolid gaze of the constable and it was slowly being replaced by a distracted confusion, as if he had seen the whole of his world toppled. He had lived here all his life and in that time he had never seen a murdered man – or any man who had died in such an obscene manner. It seemed as though all that he had ever believed and known about the people who lived in the shire had suddenly been destroyed, and that he must reconsider all of his deepest held convictions in the light of this single, shattering event. A tear slowly dribbled from his eye and ran down his cheek, making him start, and he wiped it away angrily.

As if the gesture itself had awoken him, he looked over at Tanner, who was staring in his turn at the flames. “Right. Tomorrow we start the hunt for these killers, whoever they may be. I want them brought to justice,” he said, almost snarling as he felt the disgust and hatred rising again. He was angry, not for the crime alone, not just for the hideous death of the man in the woods. It was for his own heightened sense of vulnerability, for the feeling that the men capable of this act could kill others, and would. They must be destroyed, like mad bears – hunted down and slaughtered with no compunction. “You get one of the men to ride on to Buckland and let them know what has happened here. The rest of us will follow the tracks and see if we can find them.”

“Yes,” said Tanner, startled by the venom in Simon’s voice. “What about the sheriff? Shouldn’t we send someone to Exeter?”

“No. This happened here and it’s our responsibility. We’ll get them. For now, though, I’m going to get some sleep.” He stood slowly in his exhaustion, gazing at the men in faint surprise as if he had only just noticed them, and wandered over to a tree. He sat, leaning against the trunk, pulled his cloak around him and was soon asleep.

Tanner watched him for a while, but then, as a man walked by him with a jug of cider, reached up and caught him by the arm. “There’s been a murder here. Tell the men that we’ll be up at dawn, so they’d better get some sleep.”

The man, an older, stout farmer called Cottey, with the red and rosy cheeks of the cider drinker, stared at him uncomprehendingly. “A murder? Who’s dead?”

“Abbot of Buckland,” said Tanner shortly as he rose. “I’m going to stay on watch. Tell the others to rest or I’ll let one of them do it instead.” A sudden shriek of laughter made him glare round, his voice hissing in his rage. “And tell the daft buggers we’re not on a trip to the fair. The killers could be watching us now.”

He walked over to a tree near Simon’s sleeping body and stared out at the trees, away from the fire, as the men all began to settle, squabbling and bickering mildly as they fought for positions nearest the fire. Soon, apart from the low murmur of conversations, the camp fell quiet and Tanner could hear the night sounds of the forest come back, as if they could bring normality with them.

But he could not lose the sensation of brooding evil. The murder had unsettled him, and he felt too disquieted to rest as he stood and maintained his vigil. All he could think of was that someone was out there, maybe even now watching him from deep in among the trees, someone who had killed the abbot. Whoever could do that was capable of anything.

As he rolled himself up in his cloak and made his first circuit around their camp, he was thinking of his home, where the fire would be roaring now, the flames leaping from the cured oak logs.

Rodney too was thinking of the heat that a fire could give him as he rode into the little town of North Tawton. Frozen and miserable, he knew that he needed to sit in front of flames and thaw himself out. At the same time, his horse needed a dry place and fresh hay, a place to rest the night. The small hamlet was little more than a street with fifteen houses, one of which was an inn, and it was here that the knight reined in. There was a stable block at the back, reached by a low gateway, so he dismounted and led the mare in before walking through to the inn’s main room.

The next morning was chill and damp. A thick mist lay all around, with no breeze to disperse it, and the men all rose stiff and cold from their sleep.

Tanner had periodically thrown more branches on the fire and kept it going through the night, so they all huddled round it and tried to absorb a little of the heat. The constable walked up and down as they sat and crouched, hunched against the cold, and only when they all seemed fully awake did he gently shake Simon by the shoulder.

“Come on, sir. Let’s find these bastards!”

Simon woke slowly, and when he did he still seemed dazed, as if he was still half asleep, the shock of the previous day lying heavily on him as if the sleep had not relaxed him at all. Tanner brought him some cured meat where he sat and stood over him while he ate, like a guard protecting his lord. He would not let Simon get up until he had finished the food, which he did with a wry grin, and then led him over to the men.

“Right. The bailiff here found the body of the abbot in the woods yesterday…”

“Let me, Stephen,” interrupted Simon quietly. He faced the men and continued softly, talking slowly and carefully. “The abbot was taken hostage by two men and taken into the woods. His companions thought he was being taken for money, and they raised the alarm. But the men tied him to a tree and killed him – they killed him by burning him at the stake. We have to find the men who did it. While they’re free, all of us are in danger, because if they can do this to an abbot they can do it to anyone. Who’s the best hunter here?”

“That’d be John Black,” said one of the men and, following his gaze, Simon saw him, his short, wiry figure sitting close to the fire as he held his hands out to the flames. He did not even look up as Tanner continued.