Michael JECKS - The Last Templar

And then there was the problem of the second man. Whoever this could have been, he was not with the knight. Could Rodney have had a companion on the way and left him after the murder at Copplestone? It was possible, certainly, but not very likely. Two men who had committed a crime like that would be bound together by their guilt.

The weather had abated somewhat. The rain was lighter, and the wind had died down, so that drops fell vertically now, instead of being thrown like small exploding stones at their faces by the driving gusts. As they rode out of the town, the sun at last struggled to become free of the clouds, and an uneasy light shone down, as if there had been a truce called between the elements.

Suddenly a thought occurred to Simon as he rode up the steep hill to the north of the town. If there were two men, then they must have had the same grudge against the abbot! He sat up in his saddle as he quickly thought it through. If one only had a grudge, surely the other would have taken the money even if the first did not? If only one had reason to kill de Penne, the other would have taken the money – especially if they were shortly to split up. “So what does that mean?” he wondered aloud. “That both had the same reason to kill the man?”

“Sorry?” Hugh was, as always, a little behind and he was concerned because his master was so deep in thought as he rode. He saw Simon wave an impatient, dismissive hand as if annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts and so, offended, he reset his features into their normal taciturn mould.

“So,” Simon mused, “there were two men. Both had the same desire for revenge against the abbot. One was a knight, or at least in armour. The other was dressed as a man of war – an esquire, perhaps? They had a reason to kill de Penne, a reason that made them want to kill him in a dishonourable way, like a heretic. But they did not steal from him. Why? Knights take spoil from their enemies when they are victors. Was it an affair of honour? A woman?” He shrugged.

He knew that in war women were often taken by knights as part of the spoil. If the knight had lost his woman, perhaps he and a friend had decided to avenge her by killing her rapist? It was possible. He shot a glance back at Hugh.

“Hugh?”

Hugh glared back.

“Hugh,” Simon asked hesitantly, “if someone was to rape Margaret, and I decided to kill the man, would you help me to get him?”

His servant stared in frank astonishment. “Of course I would!” he said hotly.

“Hmm.” Simon returned to his solitary glare at the road and said no more.

They ambled slowly down the other side of the hill and by the side of the Creedy stream as it meandered along the bottom of the valley that led to Sandford, Simon silent all the way as he continued his contemplation. Hugh was quiet too, not sure how to break his master out of his reverie, but worried at his obvious distraction.

Hugh rode less stiffly now. The previous evening had been an absolute delight to his tired and worn body. The warmth and hot food and drink had worked a magical cure on his misery from too many days in the saddle and too many nights sleeping rough by the road and on the moors, especially the last one when they had not even been able to light a fire – and he felt calm and relaxed at the thought of being at home again and being able to sleep on his own palliasse.

But he was not happy at the way that Simon kept worrying at this murder like a cat with a mouse. Certainly Hugh had been upset by the killing, but his master was taking it too deeply, he thought, and that could not be good for him. He tried to speak occasionally as they went, padding slowly on the road, talking about Margaret and Edith, and how glad they would be to see them again, but he only got angry grunts in response, so in the end he gave up and followed in disgruntled silence.

At last, as they started up the hill that led to Sandford, he felt his spirits rise and could not help the smile that slowly spread across his face at the thought of the fire in the hall, and he was about to try to speak to Simon again when he saw his master pause at the road into the village.

Simon sat stationary on his horse, staring north up the road that led to Furnshill. “I’ll know soon. I’ll figure it all out soon,” he murmured, then jerked the reins and trotted to the lane that led home.

Why should Baldwin have killed the abbot? That was the question that kept nagging at his tired mind – for, try as he might, he could see no other explanation for de Penne’s death. It had to be his friend. At last, as they cleared the village and wound along the track that took them out to the house, he set his shoulders with a new determination. He knew who was responsible for one death, but any confrontation could wait. There remained another to solve.

“First let’s see if we can find out what happened to Brewer.”

It made his heart lurch to see his wife again. She stood at the door as he and Hugh rode up the lane to the house, a slim and elegant figure, with her braided hair hanging over each shoulder, smiling at the sight of them.

He had stayed away longer at other times, when he had to travel to see the de Courtenay family in Bristol or Taunton, but for some reason this time it had seemed even longer than before, and he found himself almost holding his horse back for the last few yards, as if drawing out the enjoyment of their reunion.

Springing from his horse, he strode to her and stood gravely holding her hands, staring into her eyes. Margaret was amazed to see how the last few days had changed him. He had suddenly developed lines of shock and worry where before there had been none, a series of slashes on his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and her face showed her concern as she gazed back at him.

“My love, you…” he began, but before he could finish there was a sudden flurry at the door, and there stood Roger Ulton, standing as if exhausted, one hand on the jamb, the other up on the lintel as he peered out at the bailiff. Simon looked at his wife with resignation. “I suppose it’ll wait,” he sighed.

“So where did you go when you left Emma’s house?”

They were back in front of Simon’s fire. Hugh was still seeing to their horses, Margaret helping him, having handed her husband a fresh pot of mulled cider and two drinking cups. Now, sitting on the benches before the flames, Simon and Roger Ulton were drinking.

The bailiff thought that the young man seemed scared. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, the cup gripped in both hands as if fearful of dropping it. His eyes rarely met Simon’s. For the most part he stared down into his drink.

“I went for a walk. It was a nice evening, and if I’d gone home they would have known something was wrong. I didn’t want them asking me questions about me and Emma.”

“Yes, so where did you go?”

“All over. I walked past the village and up towards the hills, but then I got cold. I kept going, I suppose I was thinking about just keeping on walking, maybe going to Exeter or somewhere, but I couldn’t. I’m no freeman. If I’d gone, I’d just’ve been caught and brought back.”

“When did you come back?”

“I don’t know, but it must’ve been after ten. I came back from the north and walked down the street – that late there seemed no real point in avoiding the village, everyone would be asleep long before.”

“Ah. It was you, wasn’t it, who helped Brewer to his house?”

“Yes.” The pale face glanced up at Simon’s, but on seeing the stern features concentrating so hard on him, he looked away again. “Yes, I did. Brewer was just being thrown out when I came past, and the innkeeper, Stephen, asked me to take him with me. He’d been fighting again.”