The Last Templar

by Michael Jecks

  The road curved away to the left almost immediately after the warrener’s house, heading more directly south as it passed the ruins of Brewer’s cottage. Keeping to the lane, the bailiff walked on, hardly giving the wreck a glance. It was strange, he felt, that now that Baldwin had firmly planted the concept of a murder in his mind, the actual reality of the death seemed almost irrelevant. The house was of no importance any more. Brewer’s animals held no relevance. The only issue that could hold his attention was the man responsible.

  Once past the collapsed and smoke-stained building, the road opened out a little, pointing straight to the blue-greyness of the moors. Here, it was clear, the road had moved away from ancient holdings, away from fields and pastures, away from possessions and owned land, because it suddenly gave up its meandering and ran, straight as a rule, leaving the stream behind on its left bank.

  It was here, where the road continued in solitude towards the distant hills, that the Ulton house stood. It was a once-large, solitary longhouse. It must have stood here for more than a hundred years, a cob building, basically constructed of old clay, earth and dung, originally positioned for a farmer and his children, but with his master’s security in mind as well. For here the sweep of the country could be seen ahead, an enemy, whether it be a Cornish horde or Vikings from the coast on a chevauchee, could be seen early and the alarm raised. Simon knew that now, since the fortunate ascent of William of Normandy, the raids and killings of the foreigners had all but ceased, but where the privations from alien armies had been halted, there was always the threat of attack from a less distant foe.

  It was not many years since the last civil war, a vicious and senseless time during which alliances were made and broken with monotonous regularity, while men tried to juggle their loyalties to stay on the side that was most likely to give them power and wealth - should they win. And if they seemed less likely to win? Change loyalty quickly!

  From this house, with its massive walls and tiny windows, the occupant could not only see for miles along the track, a view unhindered by trees for most of the way, he could also put up a spirited defence. As with many of the older properties, the old farm had one large door to give access. To attack it would be foolhardy, and probably costly, as the defenders could use the windows as bow-slits.

  But the years had not been kind to the old house. When it was built, it would have given security and protection to a good-sized family and to the cattle, geese and hens of the yard. The single-storey house would have enclosed all livestock as well as the humans. Not now. The western wall had collapsed - possibly due to too much rain on a badly thatched roof, maybe because of too many dry summers followed by the rains of the last two - for whatever reason, the cob had failed, and the resulting disaster was plain.

  The wall must have fallen initially at the corner, Simon thought, and had smothered a large area, as if pushed out by the weight of the roofing behind, creating a semicircular space of mud and filth. The roof had followed shortly afterwards, the thick timber of the ridge showing like a stark, black spine, the rafters drooping like ribs from the wreckage of the thatch.

  The damaged portion amounted to almost half the house, but the remaining part was still apparently habitable, and now, as he came round to the southern-facing wall, he could see that strenuous efforts had gone into protecting the rest. Baulks of timber, probably rescued from the roof, had been propped against the walls to prevent further slippage. Where the roof had disappeared, granite blocks had been set on the top of the walls to give some defence from the rain and stop the cob being washed away, and a new wall was being built inside, under the thatch, to close the huge hole. It might mean that the house would be half its previous size, but it would at least be usable.

  The bailiff stood pondering for a while. This family obviously had need of money - if they believed the tales of the wealth of Brewer, if they believed that he had a money box hidden under his floor, was it not possible that they might try to take it? He was such a drunk, might they not have felt that if they went to his house late at night they could take it while he slept? And if he had seen them, they might have killed him to hide their theft, then fired the place to hide their guilt.

  “Bailiff!”

  Simon turned slowly, still considering, to see Black walking towards him. “Ah, John. Have you seen Sir Baldwin yet today?”

  “No, bailiff. I’ve not seen anyone but you so far. I think I may have some news for you.”

  He quickly explained what his wife had seen on the night of the fire - Simon still could not quite call it murder - and the time when she had seen it.

  “So, young Roger was coming back from the wrong direction. He can’t have been telling the truth when he said he was with Emma all evening. Why else would he lie, other than to hide his guilt?”

  Simon scratched his neck thoughtfully. “I don’t know, but I think we ought to go and see this Emma and find out what she has to say about it before we speak to Roger again.”

  There was still no sign of Baldwin, so they rode out of Blackway together to cover the four or five miles to Hollowbrook. For the most part they went in silence. Simon was brooding on the testimonies he had so far been given and trying to see where they fell down, if any of them did. He had no desire to convict anyone of murder, least of all an innocent man, so he was reconsidering all of the evidence so far in an attempt to assure himself that he was right to suspect Roger Ulton.

  The house owned by Emma Boundstone’s parents was large and relatively new. The whitewash gleamed in the early afternoon sunshine, and the yard in front of the big door was cleared of muck. It seemed plain that the people living here were proud of their property.

  Simon stood back when they arrived. He had never met any of this family, whereas John Black was well known in the area. It would be better for John to knock and introduce himself first.

  The door was opened by a short, cheery, middle-aged woman, dressed in a black shift with a grey wimple covering her braided grey hair. Her face was almost completely round, and seemed to be composed of circles - the eyes were twin dark beads, her nose was a small button, her cheeks had patches of red like two small rosy apples, and even the chin was an almost perfect sphere. As she stood in the door, Simon found it impossible not to return her smile. It would not merely have been rude, it would have been almost obscene to so reject such a happy and pleasant woman.

  “Well, John, so how’re you this fine day?”

  “I’m well, Mrs. Boundstone, well. How’s your husband?”

  “He’s fine, John. Fine. Is it him you’re looking for?”

  “Ah.” He hesitated, glancing back at Simon. “And who’s this, then? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.” Simon stepped forward. As he came closer, he could see that her head only came up to his shoulder, and so she could only be some five feet tall, and from the look of her that was probably the same as her diameter. “Good day, Mrs. Boundstone. My name is Simon Puttock. I’m the bailiff of Lydford. Could we speak to your daughter, please?”

  The little woman’s smile hardly flickered, but he could see the shrewd eyes glinting as she looked up at him. “Ah, you want our Emma, do you? Yes, she’s inside. Wait here, I’ll get her.”

  She had hardly left the door when Emma arrived, and Simon found her a disappointment. He had been wondering what this young woman would look like, what kind of girl could desire the young Ulton boy - and now he discovered that opposites could attract. Emma Boundstone was as large, in her way, as her mother, but without her charm. She was a little taller, maybe five feet two or three, and well rounded, but there the similarity ended. Hers was a plain face, long and heavy-set, much like her body. She gave the impression of weight, although it was more sturdiness than fat. From a high and sloping forehead, her face dropped away, square and solid, from the flinty little eyes, past a thick nose, down to a slit of a mouth. Her braided hair looked like rope in the way it hung down either side of her cheeks. Her body was thick and heavy, and would have looked less ou
t of place on one of her brothers. Simon found himself wishing he could forget questioning her and return to the comfortable warmth of her mother’s gaze.

  As the girl came forward, she stood aggressively, one hand on her hip, as if daring them to begin. “Well? You wanted to speak to me?”

  Simon nodded, wondering how to start. “Yes, you see, I would like to ask you about the night before last.”

  “What about it?”

  “I understand that you were with Roger Ulton, from Blackway?”

  “Yes.” It was clear she was not going to try to help them.

  “What time did he arrive here to see you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Simon could feel his patience starting to crack. “Then give me a rough idea, Emma.”

  “Well,” she put her head on one side in a gesture that would have been coquettish in a smaller woman. In her it appeared merely clumsy. “He got here after dark. I suppose it must have been about seven or so. Why?”

  Ignoring the question, he continued, “And when did he leave you?”

  “About half past eight.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A spark of defiance glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t you ask him, if you don’t believe me?”

  The two men looked at each other, and suddenly her voice became peevish, petulant, as she said, “He’s alright, isn’t he? Is he hurt or something?”

  “No, he’s fine as far as we know. Why did he leave so early, we thought you and he were considering betrothal.”

  She tossed her head with a gesture of impatience. “Oh, yes. We were. But we argued, if you want to know. He refused to marry me until he had finished rebuilding his father’s house, and that could take him until next year! I told him, if he wants me, he had better hurry up -I may not wait for him. We argued, and in the end I told him to go. That’s why he left me earlier than usual.”

  That night, sitting with Margaret in front of their fire, Simon related the day’s events. He had left Black on the way back from Hollowbrook - it would have been close to dark by the time they got to Blackway, and it seemed pointless to go there when he could continue and get home earlier for once.

  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 mo
unted 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.