The Last Templar (31 page)

Tanner peered at the wound and frowned a little. “Yes, it should heal well. It looks clean enough and there’s little damage that a good sleep won’t cure.”

“How many did we catch?” said Simon.

“None got away,” said Black. “There were nine, like I thought. Four will swing for their crimes, the rest, well…”

“I want to see them,” said Simon, struggling to his feet.

“No, no, wait until your head’s better,” said Tanner, in some alarm at the pale face of the bailiff.

“No, I want to see them
now!
I have to find out what sort of men they are,” said Simon firmly as he lurched up and leaned against the wall.

Tanner and Black looked at each other, then the hunter shrugged imperceptibly and stood, giving the bailiff his good arm and helping him over to the entrance.

The prisoners stood in a huddle at the far end of the camp, their arms tied, with two men from the posse standing nearby to guard them, their swords out and ready. Simon allowed himself to be led up to them and stood for a moment, swaying a little with his headache, watching them intently, like a spectator looking at a bear and assessing its fighting ability before the dogs were let loose. In one corner was the figure of the knight, back against the wall as he glared at the posse.

“He won’t last long, bailiff,” said Black softly.

Walking towards him, Simon was shocked to see the bitter hatred on his face. It was obvious that he could not survive the journey to Oakhampton. A thin trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth, and as the three men approached they could hear the blood rattling in his throat with his laboured breathing.

“Come to gloat? Want to see your victim in his defeat?”

The sneering words were harsh, thick with disgust and loathing, and as if the taste of them were poison, he hawked and spat, then coughed, the spasms wracking his body like a vomiting fit. When he looked up at them again, his features seemed as pale and waxen as those of a corpse, making the dark hair seem false, as if it had been painted with tar. The scar was a furious pink flame, but even this seemed to be fading with his spirit, the eyes those of a man in a fever, bright and liquid as they glowered up at his captors.

Squatting nearby, eyes fixed on the knight’s face, Simon considered the wounded man and asked, “What is your name?”

Coughing again, the knight spat a thick gobbet of blood to the ground beside him, then stared at it reflectively for a moment. “Why? So you can dishonour my memory?”

“We want to know who was responsible for so many deaths, that is all.”

“So many deaths?” The voice was bitter as he looked into Simon’s eyes. “I’m a knight! I take what I need, and if any man tries to stop me, I fight.”

“You’ll even fight merchants? Couldn’t you find stronger foes?” asked Simon coldly and the knight looked away. “You’re not from here - where do you come from?”

“East, from Hungerford.” He coughed, a series of jerky, short motions that made him wince and pause, trying to calm himself and ease his breathing. When he spoke again a fine spray of red mist burst from his mouth, colouring his lips as his life ebbed. “My name is Rodney.”

“Why did you join this band? If you were a knight, why become an outlaw?” asked Simon, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness in the black eyes.

“I lost my position when my lord died. I was on my way to Cornwall when these men ambushed me, and they gave me a choice: join them or die. I chose life.” His lip twisted, as if he recognised the irony of the words given his present position. “I rode into their ambush and would have died -there were too many of them for me to defend myself. I tried, but it was pointless. I did not yield to them, but in the end I gave them my word that I would live with them and they swore to accept me. They allowed me to live, and I agreed to help them. In exchange for my life.”

The bailiff nodded. He had heard of penniless warriors joining wandering bands, searching for new identities and trying to survive by any means. “Why kill, though? Why murder so many?”

The coughing was worse, becoming more tortured as the man’s face grew paler and he began to sweat. His voice was laboured, as though his throat was parched. “We killed for food and money… Those we robbed the other day were wealthy… They were only merchants… What is there for a knight without a lord? Without land, without money? I had lost everything when the outlaws overtook me… Why not join them? What else was there for me to do? I could have continued to Cornwall, but there was no guarantee of a living there… At least with the outlaws I knew I was accepted…”

“But why did you kill the abbot?”

“What abbot?” The words brought on another fit of coughing, and while waiting for it to stop, Simon watched the man with disgust leavened with pity. Pity for the pain of his slow death, but disgust at the contempt he showed for any man born to a lower class, and the assumption that mere possession of a sword conferred the right to kill.

When the spasm passed, Simon said, “The abbot you burned - murdered - in the woods. Why did you kill him?”

“
Me?
Kill a man of God!” For a moment there was a look of surprise, quickly replaced by rage. The huge figure heaved upright and glared, so suddenly that the bailiff could not help flinching.

“Me? Kill a holy man!”

“You and your friend took him and burned him to death,” Simon continued doubtfully.

“Who dares say that I did? I—”

Even as he opened his mouth to give a furious denial, there came a fresh eruption of blood from his mouth and nose, and his words were drowned as he fell to his side, clutching at his throat in a vain attempt to breathe and thrashing in his desperate search for air and life, his eyes remaining fixed on Simon. There was no fear there, just a total anger, as if at the injustice of the accusation. The bailiff sat and watched, no longer with any feeling, merely with a faint interest in how long it would take the man to die. In his “mind he could see the burned corpses still, the blackened arms hanging from the wagons, and the little bundle of rags in the moors, the girl killed so far from her home. He felt that all his sympathy was expended now, spent on the knight’s victims.

The end was not long in coming, and when the spirit had left, Simon stood and looked at the body with detached contempt, before glancing up at the other two, and saying, “Get the dead outlaws collected together and have them buried. We’ll take our own dead back with us, but these can lie here unshriven.”

While Black shouted to the men from the posse and gave his orders, the bailiff stared down at the body. Even after killing so many, the knight had denied harming the abbot. Why? God would know his crimes, and Rodney must have known he was dying - why deny the murder? Was it possible that he told the truth, that he had not killed de Penne?

When he turned and studied the remaining prisoners, his face was set in a frown of consideration. The youngest, a sallow man with pale hair and skinny appearance who looked to be only two or three and twenty years old, stood shuffling his feet uncomfortably under his gaze, and as Black finished issuing his instructions, Simon pointed to him and beckoned. The youth nervously glanced at his companions before cautiously walking over to stand some six feet from the bailiff.

“Hah!” Tanner gave a gasp of amusement. “How did you pick him?” When Simon threw him a quick look of incomprehension, the constable carried on, “He’s the man who hit you on the head - the one who was with the horses.”

Now that the youth came closer, Simon could see that his thinness was due to undernourishment. His high cheeks stood out prominently in his fleshless face, and his light blue eyes were sunken and looked watery, as if all the colour had faded away. His gaze was shifty, looking all round, at Simon’s shoes, at his shoulders, over behind him, and only occasionally meeting his gaze before flitting away again in his fear.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked, and was surprised at the harshness in his own voice.

“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.

T 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.

Chapter Nineteen

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.

The others were all eager to get to the town and were looking forward to being welcomed as the captors of the trail bastons, but Hugh had seen enough of travelling to last him for several months, and Simon wanted to get home to see his wife and daughter again. Now that the band was captured, there seemed little to fear on the way, so there seemed no need for the bailiff and his man to have any extra protection.

They parted when they came up to the road that led back to Moretonhampstead, the huge track that led right across the moors and down to the coast. Hugh and his master sat and watched as the posse gaily rode off north, waving at their friends until they were out of sight over the next hill, and then they turned and made their way northeast, and back to home.

Simon was deep in thought for the first hour, riding slowly with his chin down on his chest as he allowed his horse to amble, letting Hugh enjoy his riding for the first time since they had left home so many days ago.

It was the first time Hugh had seen him so involved and intense, and as he rode along behind his expression was one of concerned confusion. Hugh had always tried to be a good servant to the Puttocks, who he adored as much as his own family, and although he maintained a melancholic exterior, this was more because of his days when still a youth, when he had lived the rough life of a shepherd up on the hills. A certain dourness was natural among the men that looked after the sheep on the hills around the moors. The loneliness led to introspection, and the attacks from wild and feral animals produced a degree of cynicism, but these did not change the fact that he was thoroughly loyal to his master and his family, and now he was worried by Simon’s sombre attitude.

Just when Hugh was about to try to break into his thoughts, Simon suddenly looked up, a frown on his face, then turned to his servant. “Hugh, do you remember the conversation we had with Black and Tanner by the fire a couple of nights ago?”

Relieved to be included in his previously private thoughts, Hugh gave him a quick, shy sidelong smile. “What, when we were talking about the abbot and Brewer? When I said the trail bastons hadn’t killed the farmer?”

Simon nodded, still frowning. “Yes. Do you still believe that?”

“Well,” Hugh considered for a moment, then continued quickly. “Well, no, not now.”

“Why?”

“John Black told me that that man, the knight, had joined the rest late. He said he must’ve passed through Crediton on the way to Oakhampton at about the right time. He wasn’t part of the gang then, but he was in the area at the time. He must have done it.”

“Hunh! That’s what John Black says, is it?”

“Well it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“What happened to his war horse? And his companion?”

“Maybe his companion had the other horse, I don’t know. Maybe his friend stole it. Fact is he had the mare. He must have killed the abbot and stolen it, mustn’t he, and it makes sense for him to have been Brewer’s murderer too.”

“I wonder…”

Hugh looked at him. He had reverted back to his pensive silence, chin down on his chest as he swayed along, glaring at the road surface under him as if daring it to argue with his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, Hugh coughed and, when this had no impact, said, “Master?”

There was a grunt, but Simon did not look up until they had ridden on for a few yards, and then he peered at his servant with a frown of concentration, almost seeming not to recognise him, so intense were his thoughts. “What?”

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Eh? Oh. Well… I was thinking, well, wondering really… I still can’t believe that he could have killed Brewer, even if it does look as if he killed the abbot.” His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be contemplating his thoughts again, then, head on one side and without looking at his servant, he started to speak, slowly and concisely. “If the knight
had
captured the abbot and taken him hostage, if it
was
Rodney, it was either a chance meeting and robbery or it was planned and intended - perhaps a revenge attack. If it was revenge for some misdeed, then we’ll probably never know what the deed was. Right, but if it was not, then it was a chance attack. What would that mean?”

He was mumbling as he considered, his brow deeply puckered. “The knight and another man found the monks on the road. They took the abbot and carried him off into the woods. They took him a long way, then tied him to a tree, set light to him and watched him die. Why kill him like that? If they had to kill him, why not a knife in the back or a rope round the neck, so that they could get away as quickly as possible. Just because he was killed that way it seems unlikely that it was a chance attack.” He shot a keen glance at Hugh. “Does that make sense?”

Hugh thought for a minute, his bottom lip out as he considered the logic with frowning concentration. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I think so.”

“Fine. Even so, let’s carry on. So, assuming that it was mere chance: if they had done all this… Let’s just think it through. If they did this, if they killed the abbot, then why did they divide? Why did one take all the money and the abbot’s mare, the other the war horse. Why? The war horse was worth more - and what happened to the other man’s horse? The monks said that both attackers were mounted, so where is the second horse?”

“Maybe the other man took both horses?”

“Why? Why should he? What would be the point? One man with two horses is suspicious, he might raise attention.”

“Oh, I don’t know! Anyway, John Black must be right, it surely was the same man who killed Brewer.”

“What? Him? The knight? Killed Brewer?” His incredulity made his voice rise. “Why, for the money? How would a travelling knight hear about the wealth of a farmer on his way past? Is it really credible? Anyway, let’s just sort out the abbot’s death first, shall we!

“Right, so I think we have to assume that it was not chance, but that it was an intentional meeting. So the knight and his accomplice saw the monks on the road and attacked. What does that mean? There was no ambush, that seems odd. So maybe the knight happened to come upon them and recognised the abbot - from behind? No, of course not. You don’t recognise a man’s back on horseback, you only recognise a face. So that means he must have heard about the abbot, have known about him before they came upon the monks, and chased after him, trying to catch him. Perhaps the two of them had been chasing the monks for some time? But even so…”

“What, master?”

“Well, why on earth would they split up after the killing? If there were two of them, and they had been chasing the monks for some way, why would they divide immediately afterwards? You would think they would stay together -that the immensity of their crime would hold them together.”

Hugh was confused now. “So what are you saying? I…”

“I just don’t believe that he killed the abbot. I can’t believe it! I think that whether he came across the monks on the road by chance or whether he was looking for them, either way he would have kept his war horse. He was a knight, he would not have just left it or given it away! A war horse costs over a hundred pounds!”

“Er… well, yes, but…”

“So, could his own story have been genuine? Could it be true that he found the horse? Could it be true that he came across it and took it because he had no other?”

“Master, perhaps…”

“No,” said Simon decisively. “I’m certain the killer of the abbot was someone else. And that means that Master Black’s opinion must be wrong. Black thinks that because a murderer went through the area, he must have killed Brewer on the way. I think Rodney didn’t kill de Penne. I believed him when he seemed so shocked at the idea of killing a monk, and I think it’s equally unlikely he could have killed the fanner - after all, Brewer was very unpopular, surely it’s more likely he was killed by someone local, someone who hated him? No, someone
else
must have killed them!” He kicked at his horse and coaxed it into an easy canter, and, sighing, Hugh urged his own horse to keep up.

Without having to follow a trail, and being able to keep to the roads and lanes, they made good time and were in Drewsteignton by midday. They paused to water the horses, then were on their way again, keeping to an easy pace so as not to strain their animals, and were in Creditor at dusk. Hugh expected his master to suggest that they went on immediately, and was surprised when he blandly mentioned his aches and pains and proposed that they should stay the night with the priest at Crediton church, Peter Clifford. Shrugging, Hugh agreed, but with a suspicion at the back of his mind that his master must have an ulterior motive - he seemed too off-hand about the suggestion.

The priest was delighted to see them. He rushed out to welcome them, arms outstretched, his eyes gleaming with delight. He led them through to his room and, when they were seated by the fire, poured them mulled wine.

“So, my friends, what are you doing so far from home? I heard about the gang killing the abbot, and that you went after them - did you have any joy in your hunt?”

Simon stared at his pewter mug as he spoke. “Yes, Peter, we caught them all, down on the moors. They managed to kill again, though.”

“Oh, no!” Clifford’s brow wrinkled in his sadness at the news.

Simon leaned forward and fixed a firm stare on his friend. “Peter, do you remember a knight passing through Crediton at about the same time as the monks? Did you hear anything about a stranger? A tall man, very broad, and sitting on a great horse? He might have had a companion with him.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. Why, who was he?”

“His name was Rodney of Hungerford. We found him with the trail bastons - he seems to have been an impoverished knight. John Black and the others think he might have killed the abbot.”

“No, I’m sure I would remember if I had heard anything of him.”

“Yes. Ah well, it was worth a try.”

“So. This attack, Simon. Did many get hurt?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Simon, and went on to describe the murders, the posse’s chase over the moors and the fight with the outlaws. The priest sat attentively, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his mug in his hand, nodding his understanding at the tale as it unfolded.

“I see,” he said when Simon had finished. “So many poor souls! And all for lust, lust for money and lust for the women. Oh dear God, take them into your care and protect these poor souls.” He stared unseeing into the flames. After a pause, he looked up keenly at the bailiff. “But you are not sure that these men were the killers of Brewer and the abbot?”