Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

“Weaver, sir.”

“Where are you from?”

“From Tolpuddle, sir.”

Simon looked at Black, who shrugged with an expression of disinterest. He looked back at Weaver.

“How long have you been here, lad?”

He seemed to want to avoid Simon’s eyes and stared at his feet. “A month.”

“How many have you killed in that time?”

He looked up with a flare of defiance glinting in the blue of his eyes. “Only one, and that because he would’ve killed me otherwise!”

“What about the merchants? Do you say you weren’t involved in their deaths?”

Weaver stared down at his feet again, as if the brief flame of anger had used all of his energy. “No. I was looking after the horses.”

“Do you think that makes it better? You were in the gang that killed them all, weren’t you?” he held up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “How many were killed?”

Weaver’s glance dropped. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “I don’t know. Ten, maybe twelve.”

“Where…” Simon wiped a tired hand over his eyes. How could this man have helped kill so many? His voice was low and sad when he continued. “Where were you and the band before that?”

“Over near Ashwater.” he said sullenly.

Simon looked at the hunter again, but he showed no more interest in Ashwater than he had in Tolpuddle. “When did you leave there?”

“I don’t know, maybe a week ago.”

“So when did you get to Copplestone?”

“Where?”

“Copplestone. Where you killed the abbot.”

“What abbot? I don’t know nothing about that!”

“When did you leave Ashwater?”

“Like I said, about a week ago.”

“Where is Ashwater?”

All of a sudden Simon became convinced of the man’s honesty – he was telling the truth because he knew he would die anyway. He had lost any interest in deception now, he was simply uninterested; all he wanted to do was get back to his friends and find some peace with his own kind before he had to face the rope.

“Over west, north of Launceston,” he heard the man say, and heard the breath hiss in Black’s teeth as he made to move forward, but Simon squeezed his hand on his arm and the hunter stayed still, glaring at Weaver.

“You’re lying, boy. You wouldn’t’ve been able to get to Copplestone in time,” Black snarled.

“I don’t know about Copplestone.” he snapped, then looked at Simon. “I’m going to swing, sir. Why should I lie? I don’t care what you think, but I had nothing to do with no abbot.”

Simon’s mind was reeling. It wasn’t these men then? So who had killed de Penne? He gathered his thoughts: the monks had said that there had been two men, hadn’t they? What if…

“When did you meet the… the knight?” he asked, his voice faltering.

“Him?” Weaver’s voice showed disgust. “Rodney of Hungerford? We only found him a few days ago. We tried to catch him. He rode straight into the middle of us, but he held us off when we attacked; he even killed our leader. He had money but there was little we could do about it. In the end we let him join us, because he could fight.”

“Where’s his friend?” said Simon, guessing.

“What friend?”

“He was with a man.”

“He was alone when we found him.”

“Where? Where did you meet him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Down near Oakhampton. He said he was going to Cornwall.”

Even Black seemed interested now, and was watching Weaver with keen intensity.

“So did he say where he had come from?”

“Hungerford, like I say. I think it’s… he said somewhere over east…”

“Was he on a war horse?”

“War horse? No.” Weaver gave a short laugh. “No, he was on a mare, a small mare.”

“A mare?”

“Yes. A grey. He said he’d found it on the way, he said he’d found it saddled and bridled, like its rider had been knocked off.”

“Did he say when?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some days ago, maybe two before we found him. He said it had some money in its bags but he wouldn’t share it with us.”

“Did he say where he found the horse?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Think!”

“He might’ve. I think he said some way east of Oakhampton, but I…”

“And you’re sure he said the money was on the horse?”

“Yes.” His voice was becoming bored, as if he found the questions tedious now.

“So…” Simon began, but he was cut off by a shrug from the young man, a tiny gesture of indifference.

“I don’t care, and I don’t see why I need to help you. Whatever he may have done it’s nothing to do with me.” Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Weaver took a step back, seeming to dare them to question him further. “I don’t care. I’ve told you all I know.”

Simon shrugged. Did it really matter? How much could he trust this man anyway? Weaver stared at them both for a moment, then turned and walked back towards his companions, making the hunter’s face redden with anger at his impertinence. He seemed about to shout, and would have gone after the outlaw for his rudeness, but Simon said, “No. Don’t bother. He’s told us enough.”

Black stared at him, but then his face calmed and he gazed after the man as he rejoined his group and sat down, glaring defiantly at them. “Yes. Yes, he has, hasn’t he? So the knight came from east. He must have come through Exeter, out on the Crediton road, and met the monks on the way.”

“But the monks said there were two of them.”

“Maybe there were. Maybe they argued and split up. Who knows? Anyway, it’s easier now. At least we have the abbot’s killer, thanks to God! I suppose he must’ve killed Brewer on his way through.”

“What?” Simon spun to face him.

“Well, he said he was coming from the east, didn’t he? He must have killed Brewer, taken his money, then carried on. After he killed the abbot he met up with this rabble and joined them.” He tucked his hands in his belt with satisfaction. “Yes, I think today’s work has put an end to the killing.”

He turned and ambled slowly out of the clearing, and Simon followed, but as they went, Simon heard a quiet whinny and his head snapped round at the sound. “Where are their horses, John?”

“Horses? Oh, over there.”

“Let’s have a quick look.”

They walked over to where the robbers’ horses stood hobbled from the previous night. They were a mixture, from small, hardy ponies to some huge draught animals, and Simon stood for a minute looking at them. “Black?”

“Hunh?”

“When you tracked the abbot’s killer, you said that one of the horses was a big horse and was missing a nail on a shoe.”

“That’s right.”

“And the abbot’s horse was a grey mare with a scar on the withers.”

“Yes.”

“Have a look at these, will you? See if one of them is missing a nail. And see if there’s a grey mare with a scar on the withers as well.” He turned and wandered out again, to lie on the grass looking out over the hills; over the green, grassed and tree-dotted hills towards the sea, and soon he was asleep, dozing in the warm sunlight.

They set off from the camp in the middle of the morning. The prisoners, cowed and scared, were allowed to ride their own horses, less out of kindness than from a desire to get back home quickly on the part of the men in the posse. The dead from the posse were tied to horses and led back by the riders.

Simon and Hugh went a little way with the others, but they parted a couple of miles north of the scene of their battle. There seemed little point in continuing to Oakhampton with the others and their prisoners, so Simon decided to cut across the moors and go home by way of Moretonhampstead and Tedburn.