Michael JECKS: The Last Templar

When he looked back at John, there was a slight concern in his eyes; his friend had aged since they last met. He was only ten years older than Simon himself, but his body was skinny and seemed ancient, prematurely hunched under his tunic from lack of exercise and from too often sitting in the cold and reading by candlelight. The thin face looked strangely pale and waxy from spending too much time indoors, and the lines on his forehead and either side of his mouth made deep grooves on his features, casting their own dark shadows in the firelight. When they had last met John had borne a head of thick greying hair, but now it was almost a pure white, as if he had been given a sudden shock. Simon had not expected to see him so greatly changed in only seven months, and as he looked at his friend he suddenly realised how much pressure he would be under with his own new position at Lydford.

“Apart from my new position, you mean? The only thing people were talking about in Taunton was the price of food.” They talked for a time about the effects of the rains on their crops, and the sudden increase in prices after the last failed harvest, until the door opened and both fell silent, watching a servant enter and stride quickly across the hall to speak to John. After a moment he rose with an apology.

“Pardon me, Simon. A traveller has arrived and asked to speak to me,” said John as he stood and walked to the door.

Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked over at Hugh. “A traveller? At this time of night? It must be more than three hours after dark!” Hugh shrugged with indifference and poured himself more wine.

After only a few minutes, John came back with a tall and strong-looking man, obviously a knight, wearing a heavy cloak over a mail hauberk that looked old and appeared to have seen several battles, from the scars and scratches that were visible. Behind him was a servant, a lean and wiry man of Simon’s own age, with eyes that seemed to flit over the whole room as he entered as if he was looking for any signs of danger. As he came in he moved to the side of the knight so that he could see directly into the room, then followed along behind.

“Simon,” John said with a smile, “This is Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the new master of Furnshill Manor.”

Rising, Simon took the stranger’s hand. He seemed calm, but Simon noticed a subtle wariness in his eyes, a slight hesitation as he shook hands, and as soon as Simon released his grip, the knight took a step back and shot an enquiring glance at John, who swiftly introduced them while Simon’s eyes flitted inquisitively over the two strangers.

The knight was tall, probably a little taller than Simon himself, and carried himself like a lord. Broad and thickset under his mail, he stood proud and haughty, like a man who had fought successfully in several battles. Simon had to peer to see his face in the dark room; it was scarred on one side – not too deeply, merely as if he had been scratched by a knife, a normal mark for a warrior. But that was not what Simon first noticed. No, it was the deep weals, the lines of pain that stood out, the furrows of anguish that travelled from underneath his eyes, past his mouth, to finish in the hair at his jawline. They pointed to great suffering, as if he had known a level of pain so deep as to be almost unbearable, although he did not seem very old.

Simon placed him at around thirty-five; his dark hair and the neat, almost black, beard an uncommon feature with modern knights that just followed the line of his jaw seemed to hint at no more than that. When the knight turned back and smiled, his dark brown eyes creasing in welcome after John’s eulogistic description of his younger friend, Simon could see the hurt there as well. It was a shock to see it, as if it was a blemish that should have been polished away long ago. But it was there, a melancholy that seemed as though it would never be able to leave, a depression that appeared to have taken such deep root that to exorcise it would remove the knight’s very soul, and Simon could feel the sympathy stirring in his breast at the sight.

“Please, come and sit. You were travelling very late, sir. Please sit and rest,” he said, shoving Hugh to make more space on the bench.

The knight bowed slightly and his mouth twitched in a half smile as Hugh sulkily moved farther up the bench away from the flames.

“Thank you. But there is space for me here,” he said, indicating John’s trestle and slowly easing himself down onto it, sighing as his muscles relaxed. He gratefully accepted a cup of wine from John and took a long, contented draught. “Ah, that’s good.” His servant stood behind him, as if waiting to be given an order – or was it that he was standing ready to defend his master? “Edgar, you can sit as well.”

Simon glanced up at the servant as he moved round to sit, and was vaguely disturbed by the expression of wary distrust he could see in the dark features, as if he was being weighed up, measured and assessed in comparison with other potential dangers. Then, to Simon’s vague annoyance, this arrogant servant seemed to decide that the bailiff was no risk, as if he was not of enough significance to merit being classified as a threat. Edgar glanced down and seated himself, staring around the room, his eyes occasionally lighting briefly on the other people present. He seemed a distrustful man, Simon felt – even when seated he seemed to be glowering, as if doubting his, and his master’s, safety.

The bailiff shrugged and looked over at the knight, who was happily accepting more wine from John. “Why are you travelling so late at night, sir?” he asked, watching as the knight stretched his legs slowly and started to rub at them, pulling his mail aside – Baldwin raised his eyebrows as he stared back, a hint of sardonic humour showing in his dark eyes. He seemed to be close to laughing at himself ironically.

“It’s been a long time since I travelled these roads. I am the new master of Furnshill Manor, as John said, and I’m on my way there, but I was held up today, in my pride and foolishness. I had a wish to see some of the old views, but it has been many years since I came along these roads and I forgot my way too often and… well, I got lost. It took me a lot longer than I expected to find the right roads.” His head rose and he gazed straight into Simon’s eyes as he gave a sudden smile. “Have I broken the law in being out so late, bailiff?”

Laughing, Simon happily took another cup of wine from John. “No. No, I’m just naturally inquisitive. So are you on your way to Furnshill now?”

“Yes. I understand my brother died some time ago, so the manor becomes mine. I came as soon as I heard he was dead. I was going to continue tonight, but if I can get lost so easily during daylight, what hope is there that I can find my way in the dark? No, if John could allow me…?” He finished with an interrogatively raised eyebrow as he peered over at the older man beside him.

“Of course, of course, Sir Baldwin. You must rest here the night.”

Simon studied the knight carefully. Now he could see the man’s features more clearly as the firelight and candles caught his face, and he could see the family resemblance. Sir Reynald had been known to be a kindly master, and Simon found himself hoping that his brother Baldwin would be too. A cruel man in an important manor could be disruptive to an area. “Your brother was a good man, always ready to help another in need and was known to be good to his people,” he said speculatively.

“Thank you. Yes, he was a kind man, although I’ve not seen him for many years. It’s sad I didn’t have a chance to give him my farewell. Oh, yes, thank you, John.” He held out his cup again for John to refill, and his eyes caught Simon’s for an instant and held his gaze. There was an arrogance there, Simon noticed, the arrogance that came from experience, from battle and testing his prowess, but there was also a humility, a kindness, and an almost tangible yearning for peace and rest, as if he had travelled far and seen almost too much and only wanted to find somewhere where he could at last settle.