The Last Templar (15 page)

His wife had been pleased to have him return so much earlier than usual, and after their meal they played quoits with Edith, currently her favourite game. Now, at last, she had gone to her bed in the solar, and they had two brief hours of peace before they too went to their beds.

“So, this warrener, what was his name?”

“Cenred,” said Simon sleepily.

“Yes, Cenred. What did he have to say?”

She was lying with her head in his lap again, while he stroked her hair with one hand, his other resting on her belly. Outside the rain was sheeting against the walls, and occasional gusts made the door rattle and the tapestries billow.

“Not much, really. He says he saw someone, someone who tried to hide when he came close. Apparently just opposite the Brewer house. The fool was too frightened to look, he thought it might be Old Crockern or something, and just walked on to his own place. Anyway, it’s the other one, Roger Ulton, that interests me now.”

“Wasn’t he one of the men you saw yesterday?”

“Yes.” Simon’s eyes dropped to her face and he smiled, though she could see that he was exhausted. His face was quite grey, even in the light from the flames and the two thick candles that stood on their metal tripods nearby. In the smoky room, the big circles of tiredness under his eyes made them look deeply bruised, and she wondered whether the search was getting too much for him. Touched by a sudden whim she reached a finger up to his cheek, a sympathetic and loving gesture, and was pleased to see his smile broaden as he felt her.

Outside they could hear the rain. It had held off all day, but now, in the darkness of the night, the heavens had opened and the water was steadily dripping from two holes in the thatch. Margaret was glad that at least her husband was indoors with her. She would have been worried if he had been outside in this weather. She stroked her hand over his cheek, wondering at its roughness where the short bristles forced their way through his skin, so unlike his chest and the rest of his body, which was so smooth and soft. She stared at her fingers as they brushed his face, enjoying the tactile sensations, giving herself over to the pleasure of the feel and smell of her man, and she almost missed Simon’s next comment.

“Sorry?”

“I said it’s very odd.” he said again, grinning down at her. “This man Roger seems to have been trying to woo a local girl, but that night he argued with her. He says he was with her all evening, but she swears he left early. Then he says he walked home straight from her house, but Black’s wife saw him go past her place, at the other side of the village. All in all I’m fairly sure it was him who took Brewer home. But if it was, why didn’t he tell us?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out tomorrow. What else did you find out?”

They chatted for another hour or so, but Margaret soon decided that her husband needed to sleep, and led him out to the solar and their mattress. But even then, when they were in bed, she could feel his wakefulness.

He was miserable, a huddled dark figure sitting wrapped in the thick travelling cloak, the hood pulled over his head, in front of the attempted fire that still gave off a thin wisp of smoke as if trying to buoy his spirits by its promise of heat and warmth. But it was still-born. Before the heat could approach his still figure it was dissipated by the gusting wind that hurled the thick raindrops against his back.

“Only a year ago. Only a year,” he muttered, his voice thrown aside by the wind that eddied around, searching out a gap in his clothing trying to stab him with its chill. Shuddering with the cold, he grabbed a loose fold of his cloak and pulled it to him again, suspiciously glaring around the clearing.

Of course, he could have gone to one of the farms and begged for some food and the chance to sit in front of a fire, but at dusk it had seemed warm enough and hardly worth the embarrassment. After all, he was still a knight, and that kind of behaviour was demeaning for a man born to a high family.

“One year!” he spat out viciously through his gritted teeth.

It was only one year ago that his lord, Hugh de Lacy, Lord Berwick, had died. Just one year. And since then he had lost everything. All he possessed was with him now -his father’s sword and a small bag of belongings. Everything else had gone. His position as marshal of the castle overlooking the town had been given to that bastard, the son of his lord’s brother. The rooms in the castle were kept only by right of his position, so they had gone too, and when his successor had suggested that he might prefer to find another home, as if he was to be distrusted, in his rage he had agreed.

But leaving so quickly had cost him dear. He could not wait to take advantage of any remaining credibility he possessed, he wanted simply to leave and forget the pain and despair of seeing his office being debased by that fool. He had ordered his horse to be prepared and had ridden out that very night, feeling the same pride and excitement he had felt more than fifteen years before when he had first become a knight. But that was then, and Rodney of Hungerford had travelled far since then.

He had been surprised at first how quickly his money had all been used. It seemed as though, wherever he went, prices rose before he arrived. Initially he had not worried: after all a knight does not concern himself with money, that is only of concern to a lord. But it disappeared so fast, his little store of coins, that he began to realise that he would soon have to earn some more to replace it.

How long was it since he had last stayed in a bed, a real bed in a building? he wondered. He huddled his shoulders against the bitter wind that swept across from the moors. Two weeks? Three? No, it was two. Two weeks since he had been allowed to stay in the priory overnight. The prior was a kindly man and had offered him a bed for longer, but Rodney could not accept. It would be too much like taking alms, and that was beneath the honour of a knight born to an old family. So he had refused and mounted his horse.

The fire was dead now, and he gazed at the remains with an expression of sadness, a soft smile that seemed to show pity for the flames that were no more, as if it was a living creature that had finally given up the struggle for life and collapsed in front of him, giving itself up to the peace of fighting no longer. It could not compete against the cruel wind that tried to cut through his defences with slow inexorability, like a rusty sword battering at him, seeming to know that he could not continue much longer.

There was not much point, he knew that. Now that his horse had died he could hardly carry on to Cornwall to his brother. It must be well over sixty miles still. Sixty miles over the moors and through the forests.

At the thought he looked up and sneered at the trees around him. Here, although deep in the woods and far from a road, the trees were too close to the moors and were thinly spread. Their stunted, shrivelled shapes stood like the tortured victims of the wind that howled past like a banshee on the way to seek out the night’s prey. In the absolute dark of the cloudy and moonless night, their thick boles stood around him like an army of damned souls, their Hell being this place of misery and despair.

The thought pleased him. An ironical smile curled one corner of his thick, red mouth, making his face light up momentarily. It made his face lose some of its harshness and returned to him a little of his youth. He was thinking that there was no need for him to worry about Hell any more. After tonight, he knew exactly what it was like.

Sighing, he slowly stood and shouldered his pack. There was no point waiting here for death to take him, he would fight his mortality as he had fought everything else in his life. The wind snatched at his hood and ripped it from his head, expanding and filling it, tugging at it as if trying to yank it from the cloak it was a part of, but he ignored it. Slowly in his exhaustion, moving like a rusty machine, he lifted a foot and dropped it a short step away. He lifted the other foot and dragged it forward to take another step and gradually continued on his way to the west.

The hood trailing out behind him, his hair was whipped into madness by the gale, dancing and leaping, each separate black strand seeming to try to break free from his scalp. His eyes were slitted as he trudged on among the trees trying to keep the driven rain from them, but they still glittered with cold rage among the maze of wrinkles at his treatment and bad fortune. The face had a harsh charm and stolid elegance above the thickly muscled neck, except for the thick nose with its heavy scar that stretched from the bridge and over the right cheek: it seemed too brutal for the other features. It sat with its pink cicatrice like a solitary mountain looming over a rugged plain, out of place and strangely threatening above the large sensual mouth, giving warning of his true nature.

The cloak was torn from his hands and he gave up trying to hold it and continued on his way, ignoring the wind’s cold pinpricks stabbing at his body through his tunic and mail. His body was immense and square, like a bear’s. But as he knew, even bears die. He signed again.

Then, even as he began to entertain thoughts of relaxing, of sitting by a tree and letting the cold seep into his bones, of resting and possibly never rising again, he heard a sound, a wonderful, miraculous, heavenly sound - the whinny of a horse!

Were his ears playing him false? He turned his head, one ear jutting towards the noise like a weapon as he tried to hear above the roar and hiss of the elements. Yes, there it was again! A horse.

Somehow he found a little more energy - from where he could not tell - and strode off into the trees. Surrounded by the trunks of the wooden sentries, he could only hazard a guess at the correct path to the horse and, hopefully, security and warmth. He forced his way through branches that seemed desperate to stop him, he kicked at trailing tentacles of creepers that caught at his feet, he struggled over thick bushes, trying to get to the horse. And then he saw it. It was ahead of him, standing and shaking in its fear and horror of the elements. The knight looked around in amazement. Where was the owner? There was no sign of anyone, no fire, no shelter, just this horse. Automatically his hand grabbed at his sword hilt as he stood just inside the line of trees and stared. But there seemed nothing to be afraid of; no sudden movement from the trees at either side, no noise from men running to him, just the incessant wind.

Frowning now in his perplexity, he slowly walked to the animal, which rolled its eyes in terror. Patting the neck, he could see that it was a mare and, to his surprise, she was still saddled and bridled. The harnesses looked rich even in the darkness and he could feel the quality of the leather under his fingers. Even in the rain he could see the flecks of lather that remained on her chest and flanks. Why? Had she been running because her owner was attacked? Why had she been left here?

What had happened?

He reached for the reins and pulled, but they appeared to be caught and, when he looked, he saw that they had snagged on a thick branch. Had she been running and got them stuck, making her stop? Shrugging, he collected them and led her away, patting her head and neck and talking to her while his eyes flitted around. There was no sign of her owner anywhere. Slowly, like a man who has forgotten how to and who is instructing each muscle in novel and unfamiliar functions, he permitted a smile to crack his face, and he offered up a quick prayer of thanks. Surely this was his salvation! This horse, evidently lost by another, would allow him to cover the remaining miles to his brother.

But it was when he felt inside the saddlebags that he began to understand his real fortune.

One was filled with coins.

Chapter Ten

Simon had spent the morning with Hugh, riding over to the east to check on the state of the lands over there that were now part of his responsibility. In reality, as far as he was concerned it was a good excuse to get away from the affairs at Blackway and to go for a good ride. Hugh, as usual, was not delighted with the thought, but when Simon mentioned the inn at Half Moon his interest suddenly developed and they were soon on their way.

They had left early, only an hour or so after dawn, and they were there before the local estate seneschal had finished his breakfast, so they had gone on without him, with the result that they were finished before ten thirty. After two swift pints of beer they started off home again.

But back at the house they found Edith standing and waiting. “It’s Tanner, father. He says there’s been a robbery on the road,” she said, her eyes huge in her horrified fascination.

With a groan, Simon rolled his eyes heavenwards in a theatrical gesture. “What now? A cockerel has been taken from a yard? Someone has mislaid his best hauberk? What now?” He smiled down briefly at his daughter, dropped down from his saddle, and passed the reins to Hugh before striding towards his door, Edith following.

Inside, he found Stephen Tanner, the constable, talking to Margaret. She came forward quickly and kissed him,
then left them alone,
going through to the yard behind the house with their daughter, casting an anxious glance back at him as she left. Hugh stayed in the room with Simon and Stephen.

“Stephen, how are you?” said the bailiff. “So what’s all this about a robbery?”

Tanner was a large, slow block of a man, a figure of enormous bulk, tall and broad. He had a square face on top of a body that would have suited one of the moor’s dwarf oak trees, solid and compact with the promise of great strength. Under his black brows his face was cragged and scarred by the weather, but his eyes were kindly and gentle. His mouth was a thin line, and always seemed fixed, rigid and straight, as if always pursed, making him look as if he had seen something that he greatly disapproved of. When he was unsure of something, his eyes held a constant look of frowning confusion that hid a careful and sensible intelligence and a shrewdness that had been the downfall of many a thief. Built as strongly as Simon’s house, he was known to be a good and honest man, which was why he had so often been re-elected to his position. Now, though, his face was troubled.