The Last Templar (33 page)

“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.”

“Who?”

“Brewer. He often used to fight.”

“Do you know who he had been fighting with on that night?” asked Simon, leaning forward in his eagerness.

“No, you’d have to find out from Stephen. He’d know.”

The bailiff leaned back a little, frowning at the youth. “Why didn’t you tell us all this before? Why did you lie to us?”

“I didn’t want everyone to know about me and Emma. I didn’t want to break off with her. But then I heard from…” His voice trailed off.

“Who? What did you hear? Who from?”

His eyes rose and at last he found the courage to hold Simon’s gaze. “From Stephen at the inn. He told me he knew I was lying, that the Carter boys had seen me there, had seen me going up to Brewer’s house with him. They were following us. They must have killed him, and they’re trying to put the blame on me. It’s their word against mine, Stephen said. He told me I’d better leave - run away.”

Chapter Twenty-one

When Sir Baldwin Furnshill rode down the shallow incline into Blackway the next morning, he was in a mood of keen anticipation. The bailiff’s message had been brief but intriguing - new evidence had been presented and, in the light of Baldwin’s earlier interest, would he like to come and help? The knight had set off immediately, and found Simon and Hugh sitting outside the inn on one of the benches. His friend seemed tired, his face showing how much strain he had been under in recent days, and Baldwin was surprised that the bailiff’s welcome appeared muted, his eyes seeming to flicker over Edgar and he as they arrived. There was no answering smile to the knight’s cheery greeting. Beside Simon was Hugh, his face drawn into its customary scowl.

“So, bailiff,” said Baldwin. Somehow he felt the need to use Simon’s title. “How are you? I understand that you’ve caught the killers of the merchants?”

“Yes,” said Simon, looking up at him. The black moustache and neat beard framed the knight’s small, square teeth as he grinned down at him. Then he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dropped to the ground.

“Landlord!” Baldwin stood, arms akimbo, waiting for the innkeeper.

“We have some questions for this man,” said Simon while they waited, and quickly told of his conversation with Ulton the day before. Then his eyes met the knight’s with a sudden intensity. “I am determined to find out what really happened, Baldwin. I will not leave the death of even a poor villein unavenged when I go to Lydford. I think he was murdered, and I mean to find out who was responsible. When I have, I’ll get the abbot’s killer too. Will you help me?” His tone seemed almost to imply a challenge to the knight.

Baldwin met his gaze coolly. “Of course. It’s my duty to my lord to help his bailiff- and Brewer was my villein. But I heard the outlaws had killed the abbot? That was the tale in Crediton.”

“Possibly,” said Simon shortly, but just then they heard a step approach and, turning, saw the landlord, his eyes flitting nervously from
the bailiff to the knight
under
their
suspicious gaze. “Yes?” he said. “What do you want of me?”

“Edgar, go and serve yourself,” said Baldwin. “And fetch me an ale!” he added in a bellow as Edgar disappeared inside. Glancing at the bailiff, he sat beside Simon on the bench before fixing a grim stare on the unfortunate innkeeper, and Stephen suddenly knew he was in great trouble. He could feel the tension: these men were judging him, and at the thought, his hands dropped from his belt, as if suddenly nerveless, to dangle by his side.

Simon drew a deep breath and let it out in a quiet sigh. The depression and doubt were lying on him heavily. Could Baldwin be involved in the murder of the abbot? Everything seemed to point to him, and when he threw a quick glance at the knight, he saw Baldwin was tense as well, as if he knew the suspicions Simon held. What if… He squared his shoulders and sat upright on the bench, and when he looked over at the knight again, there was a calm, appraising expression on his face. They stared at each other for a moment, then Baldwin suddenly grinned, as if the cares of the world had fallen from his shoulders, and Simon felt his own features creak into a wan grimace in return.

When he turned to face the innkeeper it was with a renewed vigour. With that glance and brief smile the knight had seemed to be trying to demonstrate his understanding, to show that no matter what happened he would not blame Simon.

In any event, Simon felt, now was not the time to speculate about the abbot’s death, that could wait. As he had said, Brewer’s death had been first, and the investigation deserved his concentration. Putting all thoughts of de Penne’s murder aside, Simon glared at the innkeeper for a minute in silence.

“Stephen,” he 6egan
softly, “we want to ask you about the
night that Brewer died. This time we want you to tell the truth.”

“Oh, but sir, I’m sure I never—”

“Shut up.” It was Baldwin who spoke this time, his voice flat and dismissive, tainted with revulsion, as if the man disgusted him. “You lied to us last time we were here,” Simon continued. “But I’m sure I—”

“You told us you didn’t see who helped Brewer. Who was it?”

There was no mistaking the fear now, Baldwin thought. The innkeeper had appeared to go quite cold, his face clammy and almost yellow, even in the bright late-morning sun. T said, it was dark and—“

“It was Ulton, wasn’t it?”

After the question had been asked there was a long silence and pause, as if the whole village was waiting for the man’s response. He stared at Simon as if transfixed, his eyes wide and staring, with small gobbets of sweat breaking out on his head.

“Well?” asked Simon.

“Yes.” His voice came as a low mutter. “Yes, it was.”

“Why did you lie to us before?”

“I didn’t lie! I told you it was dark, that I couldn’t hardly see. Anyway, Roger was helping me by taking Brewer away. Why should I make you think it was him killed the old man? The old bastard could have made a saint want to kill him, and you were bound to hear what his temper was like. Why should I make you think it was Roger?”

“So you say you don’t think Ulton killed Brewer?”

“No, of course not!”

Simon glanced over to Baldwin briefly, and saw him nod with conviction. There was no doubting the sincerity in Stephen’s voice. Looking back at the publican, the bailiff asked, “Were there any strangers here around then? Did you see a wandering knight here in the days before Brewer’s death?”

The publican’s eyes dropped to his feet as he thought back, but when he looked up again he gave a single emphatic shake of his head. “No.”

“So who else was here that night?”

“Who else? Oh… there was Simon Barrow, Edric, John, the Carters—”

“What? The Carter boys were here that night?” said Baldwin, leaning forward and frowning at the man.

“Why, yes…” Clearly terrified, the landlord gazed back, wondering what he might have said wrong.

“Did they say anything to Brewer?”

“Well…”

“Was it the Carters Brewer’d been arguing with that night?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“Brewer was in a foul mood.” Now he had started, the words fell from the stout character as if he had kept them dammed and now the sluice was opened he could not halt the flow. “He said the boys were wasters, no better than beggars. He said that he could buy them up three times over- them, their farm, their parents… everything! And still have money over. Edward tried to calm him down, but he was mad. It was the drink always did it to him, I think. He tried to punch Edward, and Alfred got in the way, and Brewer hit him. That was when I got him out -I didn’t want any fighting in my hall. I took him out and there was Roger, he said he’d take the mad bugger home. He couldn’t kill, he’s no murderer - he’s a kindly sort, not a killer.”