Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“No, no, wait until your head’s better,” said Tanner, in some alarm at the pale face of the bailiff.

“No, I want to see them now! I have to find out what sort of men they are,” said Simon firmly as he lurched up and leaned against the wall.

Tanner and Black looked at each other, then the hunter shrugged imperceptibly and stood, giving the bailiff his good arm and helping him over to the entrance.

The prisoners stood in a huddle at the far end of the camp, their arms tied, with two men from the posse standing nearby to guard them, their swords out and ready. Simon allowed himself to be led up to them and stood for a moment, swaying a little with his headache, watching them intently, like a spectator looking at a bear and assessing its fighting ability before the dogs were let loose. In one corner was the figure of the knight, back against the wall as he glared at the posse.

“He won’t last long, bailiff,” said Black softly.

Walking towards him, Simon was shocked to see the bitter hatred on his face. It was obvious that he could not survive the journey to Oakhampton. A thin trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth, and as the three men approached they could hear the blood rattling in his throat with his laboured breathing.

“Come to gloat? Want to see your victim in his defeat?”

The sneering words were harsh, thick with disgust and loathing, and as if the taste of them were poison, he hawked and spat, then coughed, the spasms wracking his body like a vomiting fit. When he looked up at them again, his features seemed as pale and waxen as those of a corpse, making the dark hair seem false, as if it had been painted with tar. The scar was a furious pink flame, but even this seemed to be fading with his spirit, the eyes those of a man in a fever, bright and liquid as they glowered up at his captors.

Squatting nearby, eyes fixed on the knight’s face, Simon considered the wounded man and asked, “What is your name?”

Coughing again, the knight spat a thick gobbet of blood to the ground beside him, then stared at it reflectively for a moment. “Why? So you can dishonour my memory?”

“We want to know who was responsible for so many deaths, that is all.”

“So many deaths?” The voice was bitter as he looked into Simon’s eyes. “I’m a knight! I take what I need, and if any man tries to stop me, I fight.”

“You’ll even fight merchants? Couldn’t you find stronger foes?” asked Simon coldly and the knight looked away. “You’re not from here – where do you come from?”

“East, from Hungerford.” He coughed, a series of jerky, short motions that made him wince and pause, trying to calm himself and ease his breathing. When he spoke again a fine spray of red mist burst from his mouth, colouring his lips as his life ebbed. “My name is Rodney.”

“Why did you join this band? If you were a knight, why become an outlaw?” asked Simon, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness in the black eyes.

“I lost my position when my lord died. I was on my way to Cornwall when these men ambushed me, and they gave me a choice: join them or die. I chose life.” His lip twisted, as if he recognised the irony of the words given his present position. “I rode into their ambush and would have died – there were too many of them for me to defend myself. I tried, but it was pointless. I did not yield to them, but in the end I gave them my word that I would live with them and they swore to accept me. They allowed me to live, and I agreed to help them. In exchange for my life.”

The bailiff nodded. He had heard of penniless warriors joining wandering bands, searching for new identities and trying to survive by any means. “Why kill, though? Why murder so many?”

The coughing was worse, becoming more tortured as the man’s face grew paler and he began to sweat. His voice was laboured, as though his throat was parched. “We killed for food and money… Those we robbed the other day were wealthy… They were only merchants… What is there for a knight without a lord? Without land, without money? I had lost everything when the outlaws overtook me… Why not join them? What else was there for me to do? I could have continued to Cornwall, but there was no guarantee of a living there… At least with the outlaws I knew I was accepted…”

“But why did you kill the abbot?”

“What abbot?” The words brought on another fit of coughing, and while waiting for it to stop, Simon watched the man with disgust leavened with pity. Pity for the pain of his slow death, but disgust at the contempt he showed for any man born to a lower class, and the assumption that mere possession of a sword conferred the right to kill.

When the spasm passed, Simon said, “The abbot you burned – murdered – in the woods. Why did you kill him?”

“Me? Kill a man of God!” For a moment there was a look of surprise, quickly replaced by rage. The huge figure heaved upright and glared, so suddenly that the bailiff could not help flinching.

“Me? Kill a holy man!”

“You and your friend took him and burned him to death,” Simon continued doubtfully.

“Who dares say that I did? I…”

Even as he opened his mouth to give a furious denial, there came a fresh eruption of blood from his mouth and nose, and his words were drowned as he fell to his side, clutching at his throat in a vain attempt to breathe and thrashing in his desperate search for air and life, his eyes remaining fixed on Simon. There was no fear there, just a total anger, as if at the injustice of the accusation. The bailiff sat and watched, no longer with any feeling, merely with a faint interest in how long it would take the man to die. In his mind he could see the burned corpses still, the blackened arms hanging from the wagons, and the little bundle of rags in the moors, the girl killed so far from her home. He felt that all his sympathy was expended now, spent on the knight’s victims.

The end was not long in coming, and when the spirit had left, Simon stood and looked at the body with detached contempt, before glancing up at the other two, and saying, “Get the dead outlaws collected together and have them buried. We’ll take our own dead back with us, but these can lie here unshriven.”

While Black shouted to the men from the posse and gave his orders, the bailiff stared down at the body. Even after killing so many, the knight had denied harming the abbot. Why? God would know his crimes, and Rodney must have known he was dying – why deny the murder? Was it possible that he told the truth, that he had not killed de Penne?

When he turned and studied the remaining prisoners, his face was set in a frown of consideration. The youngest, a sallow man with pale hair and skinny appearance who looked to be only two or three and twenty years old, stood shuffling his feet uncomfortably under his gaze, and as Black finished issuing his instructions, Simon pointed to him and beckoned. The youth nervously glanced at his companions before cautiously walking over to stand some six feet from the bailiff.

“Hah!” Tanner gave a gasp of amusement. “How did you pick him?” When Simon threw him a quick look of incomprehension, the constable carried on, “He’s the man who hit you on the head – the one who was with the horses.”

Now that the youth came closer, Simon could see that his thinness was due to undernourishment. His high cheeks stood out prominently in his fleshless face, and his light blue eyes were sunken and looked watery, as if all the colour had faded away. His gaze was shifty, looking all round, at Simon’s shoes, at his shoulders, over behind him, and only occasionally meeting his gaze before flitting away again in his fear.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked, and was surprised at the harshness in his own voice.