“No. No, nothing. I— Thanks, my love.” Simon gratefully took a jug of beer from his wife and took a deep draught as she sat beside him to listen. “I hope we’ll hear something soon, but God only knows how long it’ll take to check all the roads to the west.”
“Aye. Trouble is, with the time and everything, they may’ve finished him off at night. They could’ve made off in the dark. Maybe no one did see them,” said the hunter gloomily.
Simon nodded slowly. “I know. And if we find no trace to follow, we might never find out what really happened and who did it.”
“What do we do if we hear nothing from Tanner’s search?”
“Keep searching. Tell people farther afield. There’s not much else we can do, is there? If we can’t find any trace of them, we’ll have to assume they’ve gone somewhere else and won’t attack anyone round here again.”
“Aye.” And with that monosyllabic response, Margaret felt that Black allowed himself to sink into a brooding melancholy. He seemed downcast by his inability to track the killers and by the thought that there was little more he could do unless Tanner brought fresh news from his search. She was repelled by this depression, it seemed ridiculous to her that he should be so despondent when there was still hope. Simon sat quietly, glaring at the mug in his hand.
After waiting in silence for some minutes she had to try to lessen the strain of the silence. She broke into their meditation with a voice that sounded a little high and unnatural even to her own ears. “Did the monks help?”
Simon nodded slowly and pensively, and Black said, “I heard you’d been over to Clanton Barton again to speak to them. What did they have to say?”
“Not much, really,” said Simon with a small frown as he thought again about his conversation with the monk. He quickly told them what he had learned. “At least we know the abbot’s name now. He was called Oliver de Penne.”
“Oliver de Penne? Never heard of him,” said Black, ruminatively shaking his head.
“No, neither have I. I’m sure he was not from around here, I think he must have been as French as his name suggests.”
Black puckered his brow restlessly. “It just seems odd that he should have been killed like that.”
Simon’s face registered scowling concentration, and then his wife saw his brow clear as he stared past Black’s shoulder to the wall behind, musing. Glancing back at John Black again, she saw that the hunter’s face showed a mounting exasperation and dejection, as if he was already almost thinking that they had lost, that they would never find the killers, and when she looked back to her husband she could not help a brief flare of pride at the contrast.
Margaret had married Simon not because she had realised that he would become a powerful man in the shire, but because she could see in him the same incisiveness that her father had possessed. As a farmer’s daughter, she had been raised as a pragmatist. Whether the decision to be made was to cut the crops now or tomorrow, or to build a new byre or not, her father had instilled in all his children the same common-sense principle: always decide what was needed first. He used to say that it was useless to try to do something if you weren’t even sure what it was. Only when the objective was chosen and clear could it be tackled.
It seemed to her now that they were trying to make cob without straw. They had no information, so how could they expect to be able to decide anything? And yet Black had almost given up already; he seemed to have decided that they were defeated. How could he feel like that when they had not even explored some of the possibilities? She rose and returned to her stirring.
“So how much do we really know about this abbot, then Simon!” she asked thoughtfully, her back to the men.
“His name, Oliver de Penne; his position as abbot at Buckland; and the fact that his horse was a grey mare. We know he had money with him.”
“And?”
“He had spent time in France - with the pope at Avignon. It appears that he was popular with the last pope, but, if Matthew’s right, not with this one. He seems to have been an arrogant man, and prone to fighting, from what David and Matthew both said. Beyond that, not very much.”
“And he was scared of being waylaid, from what you saw?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Hmm.” She carried on stirring thoughtfully. Turning she saw her husband’s gaze resting on her and she smiled before continuing, “He was taken into the woods where no one would hear, and burned at the stake?”
“Yes.”
The hunter winced, his eyes screwed into thin slits with his distaste at his thought, as if expecting to be told his idea was nonsensical. “Bailiff, I can’t help thinking… well, look, we can’t imagine that it was any normal robber did this to the abbot - it wouldn’t make sense, would it? No, so we’re left with this strange killing, maybe there’s some kind of meaning behind it? Now, it strikes me that it’s the way they kill heretics in France.”
“Yes. Thank God we haven’t sunk so low in England. The king won’t allow the Inquisition into the country.”
“No, but do you think this could be something like that? He was French, from his name.”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Simon stared bleakly into his drink.
“After all, it’s almost like someone’s trying to make a show out of the death, if you see what I mean.”
The bailiff stared at him. “You’re saying he could have been killed to make some sort of a point?”
Shrugging, the hunter said, “Well, I can’t see any other reason to kill him like that. Can you?”
“No. No, I can’t,” said Simon, frowning thoughtfully at his wife’s back. He shook his head. This was getting him nowhere - he knew nothing about these things. Could Baldwin help? He was only recently back from France.
Then, startled, his eyes focused sharply and he drew a quick breath as his mind considered a new possibility -could Baldwin have been involved somehow? He was recently back from France, he had Edgar as a perpetual shadow, he was a knight - could he have had something to do with the abbot’s death? Had Baldwin and the abbot known each other before?
It was with a small sigh of relief that he remembered the day he had first seen the monks and then mentioned them to the knight at Furnshill. No, of course it could not have been Baldwin, if so he would surely have expressed some interest in the travellers when Simon spoke of them. As the bailiff recalled, the knight had not shown even a passing curiosity, he had dismissed them and gone straight on to talk about his new estates.
Eyes glazing again, his attention wandered around the room until he focused again on his wife. She was clever, he knew, and keen to understand his work. He could see that, even in the way she had asked about this affair just now when Black had seemed to become so despondent, and her questions had made him start thinking again. If she had not… A quick grin suddenly cracked his serious features.
Stirring the pot, Margaret was smiling to herself. It had not taken much, but it had worked - at least Black was thinking again! With a slight feeling of smugness she threw a glance at her husband, and was irritated to see that he was grinning at her with an eyebrow lifted ironically as if he could read her mind. She stared back at him coolly; it was obvious he realised what she had done, but when she turned back to the pot she too was grinning, and had to fight to control a giggle.
“But why should someone have wanted to do that to de Penne?” she heard Black say musingly.
“I don’t know. It’s not as if he was known down here.”
“Same with Brewer. Why would someone kill him?”
“For money, I suppose. And he was hated, Cenred said, by almost all the people in the vill.”
“Well we don’t even really know that Brewer had any money. It was a rumour, but no one ever saw it.”
“So we don’t even know that he was wealthy, or at least we don’t know he kept money at the farm?”
“No.”
Simon raised a hand to his head and rubbed his brow with the back of a fist. “Oh, God. Ne
ither killing makes any sense. Why…‘
He was cut off by a loud knocking at the door. Margaret stopped her stirring and the two men sat still and silent, all their eyes turning to the tapestry that covered the entrance from the screens. Simon had to contain the urge to leap up and answer it himself in case it was a message from Tanner, and as he sat his eyes were gleaming with hope. As soon as Hugh came in with a young man, slim and dark, who was stained after riding quickly through the puddles in the lane, his face ruddy from the exertion, Simon slumped back in his seat with a grimace of disgust. This was not one of the men from the posse, he would have remembered his face. As the young man entered, he looked from Black to Simon with confusion in his dark eyes until Simon motioned him forward.
“Sir? Bailiff? I’ve been sent from Sir Baldwin Furnshill. He sends his best wishes and asks if you and your lady could join him this evening at the manor.”
Simon shot a glance at his wife and smiled at the unmistakable signs of hope on her face, forgetting his conversation with the hunter. He feigned disinterest, casually glancing in her direction. “I don’t know. Margaret? Would you like to go?” he asked, his voice showing his unconcern.
She raised an eyebrow and looked at him with an expression of exasperation on her face. He knew only too well that she wanted to meet the new master of Furnshill, she had told him so; especially now she had heard a little about the strange new knight. She ignored her husband and turned to the messenger with a sigh of patient suffering. “Please tell your master that we will be pleased to join him this evening, but do warn him that the bailiff seems a little confused today. It’s probably his age,” she said sweetly, and with a slight shake of her head, as if in disgust with her husband, she turned back to the fire and took the pot from the flames.
Simon smiled to himself. He could think of no other man he would prefer to discuss the abbot’s death with, especially since Baldwin had seemed so interested in the death of the farmer. Could he help with this killing too?
Later, as they rode together from Sandford to Cadbury, leaving Edith with a maid, Margaret turned and saw Hugh was trailing a short distance behind. Turning to Simon, she gave him a look of wary concern. “Simon, do you really think that the murders can’t have been done by the same people? It seems such a strange coincidence that both deaths should have involved fires.”
He grunted noncommittally as he turned his mind back to the mysterious deaths. “The only similarity between the two deaths is in the fact that fire was common to both.”
“Surely that’s enough of a coincidence, isn’t it? When did someone last die from fire?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. If both men died in fires at home, then I could understand it. If both were taken on the road and ransomed, then I could happily say, ”Yes, here’s a coincidence.“‘ But I can’t. One man seemed to die in his bed, one died at a stake. One was definitely robbed, one may - only may - have been.”
They fell into a thoughtful silence as they jogged along on their horses. Could there be a small band of trail bastons this far south, Simon wondered, one that had started raiding down south of Crediton, had found the Brewer house and killed him and had then gone on and seized the abbot? And then - in a fit of jealousy at the hostage’s wealth, perhaps? - killed him in that senseless manner?
Margaret watched as his hand slowly came up to scratch at his ear, a sure sign of perplexity. His frown would soon disappear, she knew, as a new thought occurred to him, making him lose his glowering concentration as he peered ahead, looking as if he was lost, like an old man confused of his surroundings, until he had worried the thought to death and gone on to the next one. Smiling, she saw the anticipated expression appear and turned her gaze back to the view ahead.
They topped a hill and waited at the top for Hugh, who toiled slowly after them. From here they could see for miles and Simon was happy to rest and stare, forgetting the affair for a moment as he leaned on his saddlebow and breathed in the clean air.
Margaret watched him with a little smile as he sat comfortably on his horse. She was proud of his strength and calmness, and loved him for his gentleness with their daughter, but behind her smile she was worried. She had never seen him as absorbed as he was now with these killings. In the past he had sometimes been forced to get involved with legal matters, when there was a theft in the village, or a land dispute, but generally they had a quiet life together - there were not that many crimes in this part of the world. She was fearful, too, that these killers could strike again, that another person could be killed for no apparent reason. As she thought, though, she suddenly realised that her main fear came from how it would affect him.
She was fully aware that her husband held a position of responsibility, and she was proud that he had managed to achieve it. She would not have held him back from any ambition that drove him, being content to look after their daughter and create the family they both wanted, but she was nervous that this killing could have eaten into him so much. Since the murder he had seemed to become more introverted, quietly mulling over it time and again and withdrawing from her, or so she felt. Would it stop with the capture of the killers? She could not tell. Now all she wanted was an end to the matter so that they could move to their new home and forget it, but she was not sure that he would be able to, not until he had caught the men responsible.
Simon turned as Hugh came near and noticed her staring at him. Grinning quickly, he said, “Come on, then. Let’s go and get some food.”
Baldwin Furnshill walked slowly along the lane that led to his house with his mastiff. His brother’s death had left him with a sizeable kennel to manage, and he now found himself responsible for over twenty dogs as well as the estates.
It was fortunate that he had always liked dogs, he thought. One of the trials of the last few years had been the enforced lack of dogs - not just because of the lost hunting opportunities, although he enjoyed a pursuit as much as the next man, but also because he missed the affection. It was wonderful to see the eyes light up, to see the happiness spread over the black muzzled face at the sudden appearance of the master, and now, while he was still so lonely and keen for a companion, the dogs could at least give him that uncomplicated adoration that required so little in return.
He patted the wiry, fawn coat of the huge mastiff walking beside him. Although he had only been home for a short time, this dog seemed to have attached herself to him already. She had been devoted to his brother, he had been told, and had been inconsolable when he had died, nuzzling at his body where it lay on the ground and whimpering until, at last, she had seemed to realise that he had died, and had sat back to howl her grief to the sky.
But as soon as the new Furnshill arrived she seemed to understand that he was the new master of the house. It seemed to Baldwin that she transferred all of her affection and loyalty to him as soon as she first met him. Perhaps it was because somewhere deep in her canine intelligence she recognised him as the brother of her dead favourite, or maybe he had some similarity to his dead brother in appearance that struck a chord. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for her immediate acceptance of him, as if in some way it demonstrated the legitimacy of his claim to the estates, and he had quickly grown to love her ugly, wrinkled face with the huge, constantly open and dripping mouth and calm brown eyes. In no time he had become used to the fact that wherever he went, within his house or outside, his dog would be never more than a matter of feet away, as if she continually needed to reassure herself that this new master had not disappeared.
From the lane Baldwin could see for over a mile towards the south, so he saw Simon and his small party when they were still a long way off, and he watched them slowly climbing the shallow hill that led to his home with a glowering stare.
Normally he was reserved and cautious with strangers and found it hard to trust people. It took him a long time to develop feelings of friendship for anyone; the life of a warrior was harsh and dangerous, especially when his liege lord was gone, and too much ha
d happened in Baldwin’s life for him to be able to take people at face value until he had grown to know them well; and even then he would usually reject a friendly advance.
But with the bailiff he found his natural distrust weakening and the feeling gave him a sensation of wary concern. With a wry grimace, he wondered whether it was the effect of having a stable base, a home at last after so many years of wandering. Was he simply getting soft? Looking for friends, getting too old for the life of a knight? It was possible, he knew, but somehow he doubted it. He felt that it was more due to Simon’s obvious honesty and honour. Shrugging, he clenched his jaw in an attitude of determination, the scar blazing vividly on his cheek. No matter! He could not trust the bailiff with his past, not in any detail. How could he? Even a close friend would find it difficult to ignore a background like his. A recent acquaintance like Simon? No - at least, not yet.
He patted the dog on the head and started back towards the house as the party came closer, the mastiff lumbering happily just behind his heel. Then, as if he was determined to enjoy himself and ensure the pleasure of his guests, a vast, welcoming smile spread over his dark features, and he spread his arms wide and bellowed his greeting.
The Last Templar Page 19