Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“But maybe they never saw the outlaws or the body burning,” said Black, frowning.

Hugh paused to stare at him sullenly, but when he spoke again his voice was high and strained. “And I suppose the abbot was quiet? He was being burned at the stake, and he was quiet? Even if they never saw him they must’ve heard him.”

Black rose with a faintly patronising smile on his face. “Well, I don’t know why they left him either, but I do know one thing. The men we’re chasing now are the same ones who killed the abbot and probably Brewer as well. Nothing else makes sense. And we’re going to catch them tomorrow, so I’m going to get some sleep now.”

As Black walked over to his packs, Tanner glanced at the bailiff, who sat, still staring at his servant. It mattered little to Tanner who was responsible for the death of the farmer, his main worry was for the people who could be hurt in the future. Marauding trail bastons could wreak havoc in an area like this, where there were many forests for them to hide in and hundreds of small hamlets for them to attack with relative impunity. During his warfaring days he had seen enough of the companies that devastated the land, robbing, burning and thieving, murdering the peasants and stopping all traffic. His sole desire was to see them caught or killed. The bailiff seemed more concerned about the others, about the abbot and Brewer. Tanner was not; they were past help, in his view. He could understand the bailiff’s feelings, though. He was too young to have seen the harm outlaws could bring. Sighing, the constable rose, gave them a good night and left them. There was nothing more for him to do here tonight.

“So, Hugh, you think someone else was responsible for the farmer’s death as well, do you?” asked Simon when he had gone.

Hugh nodded, his face bleak. “Yes, I reckon the abbot was killed by this lot, but Brewer wasn’t. And you know the bugger about it all? I’ve got no more idea than you why they did it.”

“It doesn’t matter, Hugh” said Simon softly but deliberately. “Whoever it was, I will find out. I will find who was responsible and why. Too many have died – it’s time to avenge them – all of them.”

They awoke stiff and aching in a clear and bright morning. Simon felt awful. He had hardly slept at all; every time he found himself slipping into sleep, his brain started to tease once more at the question of who was responsible for the murder of the abbot.

He wanted to accept the simple faith of his companions, that the same men had killed Brewer, then de Penne, then had robbed and killed the travellers; but he could not believe it. It seemed too obvious, somehow – too easy, – and, like Hugh, he could not believe that the men who had taken so much from the travellers would have killed the abbot – he was too valuable. And he was confused that only the abbot had been taken. Surely the men who had killed the merchants would have taken all of the monks, not just the abbot?

The bailiff stood and rubbed his buttocks and thighs, grimacing at the bustle of the others all around as they quickly packed and started to get their horses ready. He felt cold and damp, tired and miserable. His back and his legs hurt, he had a bruise on one side where a stone had dug into his ribs, and he felt no closer to a definite answer about who was responsible for the killing of the abbot.

He crouched by the fire, trying to absorb some warmth from the ashes, but they were cold and gave him no comfort, so it was with a wry grin that he thought about his warm house, his bed and Margaret’s body, thinking, God! What am I doing out here!

“Bailiff!”

Turning, he saw Black striding towards him. The hunter grinned when he came close, seeing Simon’s evident ill-humour. “All the men are ready.” He paused. “We can leave when you’re feeling well enough,” he added drily, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, Master Black,” said Simon insincerely, but he rose and walked with him to the horses. Hugh had saddled both and packed, and now stood at their bridles, scowling his usual welcome as they approached. Taking the reins, Simon mounted slowly, wincing at the aches from the previous day’s ride, then they wheeled and followed Black down the slight rise, heading back to their trail.

They rode in single file now, the hunter leading, his eyes constantly flitting from side to side as he checked the trail and made sure that no one had left the group they hunted. Occasionally he would stop, one hand held high to stop the others, as he gazed frowning at the muddy marks on the trail, and every so often he would lean down to read some new sign. But then the hand would wave again and they would all follow.

Simon, Hugh and Tanner were behind him in a small group. The bailiff found the first few miles to be even more miserable than the previous day, the rest during the night had simply tied knots in all his muscles, or so it felt. At first he had thought he was going to have to stop and try to ease the pains, but then, after they had been riding for almost an hour, he found that the exercise loosened him and he could sit more comfortably in his saddle. When they had been riding for two hours he felt almost himself again – apart from a number of new aches in parts of his body he had not known could ache.

In the early morning the tracking had been easy, with the sun throwing shadows where the horses had walked, but as the sun crawled up in the sky the job became more slow and difficult as Black tried to read the signs accurately. When they had been travelling for over three hours, Simon grunted to himself and rode up alongside his tracker.

“Black, can’t we go any faster?” he growled.

“No, not if we’re going to get all of them at the same time.”

“Eh? But, we can see where they’re going, surely we can just keep going and make sure now and then that we haven’t lost their trail?”

“We can, but some of them might leave and go off to the side. We need to know we have them all.”

Simon stared up ahead with a feeling of exasperation. At this speed they would never catch the men. “Well, if we get the main group, we can…”

“No,” said the hunter absentmindedly as he continued his frowning stare at the tracks. “What if a few leave the main group?”

“Well? What if they do? So long as we get the main body of men and…”

“No,” said Black, suddenly looking up at him. “We can’t take the risk. We might get half or more, but what about the others? If we miss two they could rob a farm and kill the family. I’m not having it. We must get them all.”

Simon sighed, nodded, and let him get on with it. He wanted to be able to give chase, not follow slowly like this. He wanted to know that they were catching up with the men who had killed the merchants, to catch them, or, if they would not surrender, kill them. But he curbed his enthusiasm and slowed, allowing Hugh and Tanner to catch up with him, watching Black continue.

It was more than four hours after they had left their camp that they came across a small stream, and Black stopped. Simon quickly rode alongside, Tanner just behind him.

“What is it?”

“Look!” said the taciturn hunter, pointing.

Just in front of them the ground levelled out. There were stones lying around in a rough circle, some on top of each other like a low wall, and in the middle were a number of blackened patches. The three rode forward cautiously and paused at the first. Black leaned down and sniffed, then dropped lightly from his horse – as if he had not been riding for days, thought Simon in disgust – and knelt, sniffing and feeling the ashes while he muttered to himself.

“Well?” said Tanner, obviously as keen as Simon to get on with their hunt.