Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“So you really think it was madmen?”

“Yes, I do. Someone was mad when they did that to de Penne.”

“Then we must catch them, to stop them doing it again.”

“Must we?” the monk said, looking at him with a gentle sadness. “I do not think they will do this again, bailiff.”

“Why not?” Simon asked, confused now.

“Whoever did this was mad, but they are well now and will not do it again. I feel sure of it. Your people are safe from them.”

Simon stared at him. “How can you say that?” he managed at last, controlling his anger with difficulty. “How can you say that? The man was killed horribly and you imply that his killer was mad but now is alright? How can I believe that?”

The monk shrugged, and after a moment Simon calmed a little. “So you do think it was somebody who was after the abbot?”

“I think his time had come and the Lord decided to end his life. I think the Lord selected an agent to perform his task – and maybe that agent was afflicted with a madness while he did the Lord’s will. But, now God’s will has been carried out, the killer is probably normal again. And now” – he glanced up at the sky, “Now I think it is time you returned home before it gets too late.” He turned and started back to the house.

“Brother! Wait, please. Will you not explain more? Why do you think…”

“No, my son. I think I have said all I wanted to. Don’t forget what I have said.”

Simon stood and watched him go back to the house. He turned at the door, as if wondering whether to say something more, but shook his head vaguely and went in. Simon was left with the distinct impression that the old monk knew more than he was letting him know. He shrugged and wandered over to the horses, where Hugh stood, whittling at a stick with a knife. As Simon drew near he looked up and hastily put his knife away.

“Are we going back now?”

“Yes. Yes, we’re going back.”

They mounted their horses, and with a last, frustrated glance at the farmhouse, Simon wheeled his horse and they rode off.

They were deep in the woods here, and Godwen caught the occasional glimpse of the cottage as they came towards it through the trees. “Thank God!” he thought, “this’s the last one. After this we can go home.”

Godwen and Mark had been sent by Black to visit the assarts in the woods near where the abbot’s body had been found, to ask whether any strangers had been past that day – and to make sure the people were well and had not themselves been attacked. So far they had found nothing, and Mark was keen to finish their task.

The faded and patchy walls of the limewashed cottage showed more clearly now as they came close, and the trees opened out into a wide, trodden yard to show the smallholding. There was a new house; with the chimney gently trickling thin streamers of smoke into the air and leaving the surroundings redolent of its sweet promise of warmth and rest. The windows were close set under the thatch, where the rain could not be blown in to dampen the tapestries behind, and the door was almost in the middle, giving the place a feeling of symmetrical stability. When they reined in at the front there was no sign of the owner, and Mark allowed his horse to skitter restlessly as he peered at the holding. Watching him, Godwen sighed. Mark radiated sulkiness, his black eyebrows fixed in a thick line above the glaring brown eyes, his thin mouth set hard and resolute below the narrow, broken nose. Even his hair, thick and luxuriant as a hedge in spring, seemed to be sprung and taut with his emotion.

“No one here, from the look of it,” said Mark, glancing over at him. Godwen grunted. “Knock at the door.”

“No need, my loves. I’m here.”

Spinning, Godwen saw a short but heavyset man standing behind Mark, who, taken unawares, jerked round in a spasm of fear. Smiling, Godwen kicked his horse forward.

“Afternoon.”

“Ah, afternoon to you. What can I do for you?”

He seemed amused by their arrival, watching them from under his bushy brows, the grey hair seeming to fit him like lichen on an old log it was so grizzled and rough-looking. His clothes were almost exclusively leather, from the tunic to the kilt and down to his light boots, and he carried a rusted pike in his hand. Mark seemed to be at a momentary loss for words as he gazed at the man, so it was Godwen who introduced them and explained their visit while the man listened, ducking his head now and again to show he understood.

Cutting the explanation short, Mark snapped, “If you heard nothing, then just say so and we’ll be gone. Did you hear anyone? Or see anything?”

Perhaps it was Mark’s curt sharpness, but Godwen could almost feel the little man withdraw from them at this. He seemed to almost shrink in front of them, as if he could hide in his coat.

“Oh, no, no, sir. I didn’t hear him, I’m sure,” he said softly, as if afraid, but Godwen was convinced he could see a little gleam in his narrow, dark eyes.

“Good. That’s that then. Come on, Godwen,” said Mark.

He whirled his horse around, trotting off as if expecting Godwen to follow like a dog now that he had been given the command.

The woodman watched him go, then turned his gaze to Godwen, where he sat musingly on his horse. “Aren’t you going with him?”

Godwen shrugged and gazed at Mark’s back as he rode into the trees again, a bland expression on his face. He had no desire to listen to Mark’s moaning all the way home. “He’ll not need me to help him find his way,” he said mildly and turned back to glance at the leathery little man.

His eyes fixed on Godwen’s face, the man seemed to consider for a moment before nodding seriously. “I think you’re right. He seems to know what he wants. Only trouble is, he’s in too much of a hurry.”

“Yes. I’m not, though. Can I ask you a couple of things?”

“Course!” said the man. “What do you want to know?”

Godwen looked over at the lane, to where it passed through the woods some fifty yards away. “You didn’t hear the man as he died, but did you hear or see anything else?”

“Not on that night, no. Nobody came past then.”

“Has someone come past since then? A man who could have been a knight on a great horse? He probably had a squire or someone with him on a smaller horse?”

“No, no pair of men, just the one.”

“One?”

“Yes, there was a knight came past two days ago, my love. Big man he was. But he was all alone.”

“Was he on a war horse?”

“Oh no, no. No, he was on a lovely little grey mare.”

Simon and Hugh finally arrived home again in the middle of the afternoon, both tired and waspish after their journey, and the bailiff marginally the worse-tempered of the two. He was angry with himself, annoyed, and felt no need to hide it. It came from a feeling of failure, as if he had forgotten or missed a vital hint that could have solved the mystery and led him to the murderer of the abbot. His conversation with the monk, which had left him more confused than ever, had done nothing to improve his temper, and his curtness with his servant was reciprocated in full by the time they returned home.

Both sour and tense, they rode up to the old house in a strained silence, each deep in his own thoughts. Hugh had tried to interrupt the bailiff’s contemplation a couple of times, but when his conversation had been rejected he went into a sulk and maintained an aloof taciturnity for the rest of their journey, wondering whether he had taken the right job when he had joined Simon’s household.

There was a horse outside the house when they reined in, and Simon felt a thrill of excitement when he recognised it as Black’s. He jumped down, threw the reins over to Hugh, and hurried indoors to see what he had to report.