The Last Templar (17 page)

Simon was concentrating so hard on the road that he was startled by the sudden cry from behind.

Spinning round, he ran back to the monk, part-drawing his sword from its sheath in his fright. “What is it?” he hissed.

Pointing in among the trees that lined the road, his eyes glittering, the monk turned to face him. “It was here,” he said simply.

Sighing in his relief, the bailiff followed his finger. He could see that the ground was heavily disturbed at the verge on the north side of the road. Reseating his sword in its scabbard, he walked up to the fringe of the trees and peered into the darkness. Warily he subjected the woods to a minute study, his eyes going from tree to tree, until, at last content that no one was watching, he dropped to a crouch and looked at the ground. It was obvious that three horses had passed through. He could see the tracks clearly in the dirt between the trees - the rains from the night before had not washed the marks away. Simon frowned and peered into the darkness again, wondering what to do. It would be sensible to wait here for the posse to arrive, but that could be a long time. Tanner would have to visit twenty farmsteads and hamlets to call up all the men in the hundred, so by the time they arrived it would be dark. He made a decision and stood up.

“David, I want you to wait here. The posse will be along soon enough, and you’ll be safe here. When they get here, tell them to follow me if I’m not back. I’m going into the woods to see if I can find where these tracks lead to.”

The monk gripped his reins tightly in his fear and looked from the bailiff to the trees all round. When he spoke it was with a voice hushed by his concern and trepidation, as if the trees nearby were hiding the abbot’s abductors. “But… but, what if they come back? I can’t face them again… And what if they see you? They might…”

“I don’t think so. We’ll be alright, whoever took the abbot has probably gone by now anyway. Don’t worry, all you have to do is wait here for the others. I should be back soon,” said Simon with more confidence than he felt. He glanced into the trees and felt his brow pucker into a scowl. He felt as nervous about going in among them as the monk was about waiting here on the road, but he had a responsibility to see whether he could track the hostage and his abductors. He patted the neck of his horse absentmindedly, smiled up at the monk, and was gone.

It seemed to him, as he stepped in among the trees, that the woods themselves were listening and watching him. There was no sound apart from his feet as they occasionally crunched small twigs and leaves. Even his breathing sounded unnaturally loud. There was a hush, a deadness, that sapped his will, and it was only after he had paused to look back and seen that he had only managed to cover forty yards that he continued. In his nervousness it seemed as if he could feel a malign presence lurking near: if he had been out of sight of the road he felt that he would have run back, but knowing that he could still see it made him impatient with himself and with his fear, so with a quick and angry gesture he forced himself to carry on.

As he went deeper into the woods, he started to hear small noises. There was a scratching nearby, then a rasping, and all around him the tick and creak of the trees, which all together made him even more tense, the muscles of his scalp tingling with the strain as he stretched his ears to pick up any human sounds. At one point a bird high above clattered off from its roost, making him jump behind a large trunk in his alarm, only to grimace to himself in disgust. He heard a sudden yapping, then a sharp screech from far away that made him stand stockstill for a moment, hand on sword-hilt, but there was nothing more. Slowly he untensed his muscles and forced his feet forwards again, but now he kept his hand on the sword. He heard a quiet scraping and whirled, but it appeared to be one branch rubbing against another. He looked all around, considering whether to get back to the road, but then, glowering, he straightened his shoulders and went on. His fear was beginning to leave him now, he was moving less from a need to force himself to do his duty and more from a desire to help the abbot if he could. He could not forget the terror on the man’s face as he had asked for Simon’s help and company, as if— Simon suddenly stopped. As if he had known this was going to happen? He shook his head and continued. There would be time for speculation later.

Maybe if he had agreed to join the abbot this would not have happened, though? Perhaps the sight of the bailiff and his servant would have put the two robbers off? And, if that was so, he had let the man down, and let him down badly. That thought, having taken root, built a small flame of anger deep inside him. It was not just the fact that the abbot was a frightened man who obviously wanted his protection and aid, it was that he was a man of God. He should not have
been
attacked, his cloth alone should have been sufficient defence on the road. The thought that someone here, in his own shire, could rob an abbot and take him hostage made Simon’s anger smoulder.

He froze again as another bird crashed off from its perch, upset by his sudden presence, but then his eyes dropped to the tracks, which led forward still, and he cautiously followed them, thinking to himself that with all these noises there was not likely to be any other humans about. If men were present, the other creatures would have fled.

As he walked deeper in among the trees, the dark came crowding in, forcing him to concentrate harder as he followed the tracks farther into the woods. He soon found that they became a blur, a smudge on the ground in front of him, and he had to pause more often, not to listen for any sounds from ambushers, but simply to make sure that he had not lost the trail. The undergrowth was thick, with shrubs and young ferns struggling to grow in the permanent semi-darkness under the tall trees, and several times he found that he had missed the spoor completely and had to go back over his own footsteps to pick it up. After he had done this for the fourth time, he began to follow the gaps in the trees instead, where it looked as though a horse with its rider could pass, occasionally checking down by his feet to make sure that the horse tracks were going the same way. Every now and again he looked all round, making sure that he was not being watched, his nerves feeling as though they were ready to snap, and when at last he heard the noise it was almost a relief, as if now his fears of being surprised could depart. The tenseness left him, to be replaced by the watchful expectancy of the hunter, mixed with his growing caution.

It was the sharp yap of a dog fox. Simon stiffened, taut as he listened, then let out a long, low sigh and glanced up at the cover of the leaves far overhead. A few last rays from the setting sun were fighting their way through the dense foliage - he must have been walking for over an hour, slowly and carefully edging his way deeper. He ducked behind a tree and leaned against the trunk. Breathing deeply, he considered what to do. Go back or carry on? Had he come far enough? Should he try to go back and get the others? But what if Tanner wasn’t back yet, what if the posse hadn’t arrived? If the men and the abbot were ahead, surely he should continue? After all, he might be able to overpower the robbers, whoever they may be, surprise them in the dusk and rescue the abbot. At the least he should try to get closer and see whether he could attempt it; it wasn’t completely dark yet, and it should be easy to retrace his steps.

He gripped his sword-hilt tightly and slowly continued on his way, looking down every now and then to make sure that the tracks still led in the same direction, breathing shallowly as he listened out for any sign, any hint, that he might be close.

There it was again! A yapping. His brow wrinkled as he considered: it came from ahead, from the direction of the trail. If there were foxes there, there were not likely to be any men around - those shy creatures would avoid men wherever possible. Why, he found himself wondering, do foxes make that noise? He felt the tension return, the prickle of excitement, as he edged on farther, slowly checking each step before he put his feet down, looking at the ground and avoiding twigs and other undergrowth that could give him away. At each pace he paused and stared ahead grimly, half expecting a crossbow bolt or arrow to strike him, almost as if he was daring someone to try to hit him as he surveyed the tree trunks in front. He tried to follow the spoor while walking in the shadows of the trees, trying to maintain some cover as he went, trying to use them as protection from the men that had captured the abbot.

It took him another half hour before he could see the clearing - half an hour of slow and careful pacing, with each step measured and checked, with each step taking all his concentration, with all his senses screaming at every sound, with his ears straining as he tried to distinguish any noises that could have been made by a human; but there was nothing. This deep in the woods it seemed as though even the animals had run away. There was nothing, no sound, not even a squeak or a rustle to betray a nearby beast apart from the occasional excited yapping. It was as if the whole forest was dead and he and the fox alone breathed the dank and thick air.

With the gloom growing, the hairs on his head began to rise, and he felt the breath straining in his throat. It was not the fear of humans, that he could cope with. No, it was as if with each minute, as the dark crept on towards night-time, his superstitions grew in strength. Here he was nearer the bleak moors, nearer the centre of Crockern’s power, and as if there was an affinity between the ancient trees here and the primeval stones so close, he seemed to feel his own presence as an abomination, as if he was loathed by the very earth under his feet for his trespass. It was with a physical effort that he forced himself on.

At last he could see an opening in the trees. He began to move even more slowly, inch by inch, with the infinite patience of a lizard hunting a fly, until he came into the lee of a massive oak and could stand silently watching from under its protection.

There was a sudden rustling as if two kittens were playing on the leafy floor. Simon concentrated. He could discern nothing in the gloom ahead, too much was obscured by the boles of the trees. Gradually he relaxed his grip on his sword-hilt and flexed his hand as he listened, feeling the sweat break out cold and chilling. But there was still nothing. He wiped the sweat from his palm and gripped his sword again, then crept forward, carefully moving from tree to tree as he made a wide circle around the clearing.

As he moved forward he could catch brief, frustrating glimpses: now a great oak, now a towering elm. It was as if there was a tapestry that had been roughly cut into pieces and he was trying to put it together in his mind, arranging the various parts and trying to associate them although the threads around each section were badly frayed, making it impossible to be sure which connected with which. All he could do was attempt to build the picture.

At last, when he had almost half-circled the empty area, he felt he could not continue, and began to edge his way in towards it. The blood was pounding in his ears with the tenseness of his fear and excitement as he moved forward at a crawling pace until he was at the very edge of the trees.

In the dim light he could see the ground clearly. His eyes flitted over the space, looking for any signs of humans or animals, but there seemed to be nothing. No sign of man, no blackened remains of a fire, no parcels or packs lying on the ground, no gleam of metal where a sword lay. Suddenly he felt his fear return, concentrated and almost overpowering in its intensity. There, just a few yards in front of him, lay a small pyramid of horse’s dung. For a horse to have created so perfect a shape, it must have been stationary. It must have been tethered there, surely. Had the robbers been here? And if they had been, where were they now? He paused and considered. There had been a horse in the clearing, at least one. Either it was the abbot’s or it was one of the robbers“. Could the abbot have escaped? If he had, could this be from his horse? But then, what if this horse belonged to a robber? He could be close by. His eyes quickly flitted all over the ground again, but even as he gazed all round, he started wondering. If it
was
the abbot’s, where was he? And what if it was a robber’s horse? Had they rested here last night and then ridden on? Or were they even now waiting, watching him, preparing to attack?

He studied the area again and tried to clear his mind, trying to decide what to do. It seemed impossible to make a clear choice, to know what was best. Go on or return to the road? Deferring the choice and frowning, he continued his slow progress.

It was only when he had almost managed to get all the way around it that he smelt the burned wood and cooked meat. Slowly he eased himself into a crouch, sniffing as quietly as he could. It was not the smell of a fresh fire, it seemed damp and dead. There was no acrid smoke, no sharp tang to the smell, just a dull, burned odour that was almost stale. It seemed to come from over to his right, just a little further on.

The bailiff offered up a quick prayer, his eyes closed, then peered all around again. He felt that he had been stalking for days - the fatigue was giving him cramps in his legs - and it seemed, now he was close to the end of the trail, that the tiredness was settling on him heavily, like a leaden cloak that smothered mind and muscles alike. He could not control a swift, hopeful glance over his shoulder, as if he half-expected to see the posse coming through the trees towards him, but there was no one there. He would have to go on alone. His teeth clenched, he dropped silently to crawl on his hands and knees towards the smell.

After only a short distance he came to another small clearing, a slight opening in the trees where the trunks were not so closely crowded together, and carefully looked in. From here he could smell the old fire: someone must have made camp here, far away from the nearest houses and any risk of discovery. There it was, just by a tree some twenty yards away that had been blackened by the heat. Even if the smoke had been seen, nobody would have come this deep into the woods to investigate. He could see little apart from the dark smudge of the blackened undergrowth between the trunks that stood between him and the clearing, so he began another slow and careful progress around the camp, crawling from tree to tree, stopping and watching, then moving on again. There was no sound, no movement. It was as if the camp had been abandoned years before and had been left, undisturbed and untouched by human or creature.