The Last Templar (3 page)

Lost in his thoughts, he had a deep frown on his face as he rode. He was a tall and muscular man with a body honed from riding and hunting, in his prime at nearly thirty years old. His hair was thick and a uniform dark brown, with no grey or white hairs to mar the youthful looks that hid his age so well. His complexion was ruddy from the days regularly spent in the open air and the saddle. Fortunately his daily exercise had so far prevented the build-up of fat that he remembered so well hanging under his father’s chin as heavy jowls, making him look so much like one of his mastiffs, but he could still feel the early onset of thickening around his waist from the heavy beer that his household was so proud of.

From his sun- and wind-burned face his dark grey eyes looked out with a calm confidence. He was fortunate to have grown up near Crediton, and to have been taught how to read and write by his father’s friends in the church - a fact that would surely make him unique among the other bailiffs in the district - and he was confident that he was fully capable of the responsibilities that had been given to him.

Looking up at the sky he could see it was already starting to darken as the sun slowly sank over to the west, and he threw a glance back at his servant, who plodded along behind on his old carthorse. “Hugh,” he called, resting his hand on the rump of his horse as he twisted in his saddle to face backwards, “I think we’ll stop off at Bickleigh for the night, if they’ll let us. It’ll be dark long before we get home to Sandford.”

His servant, a lean, morose, dark-haired man with the narrow, sharp features of a ferret, glared back. His demeanour was that of a prisoner being taken to the gallows who had been asked about the weather - angry at the interruption of his thoughts and suspicious of the reasons for the comment.

Satisfied that the remark was made with no malicious intent, he grunted his assent as he lolled in his saddle. He had no desire to ride any farther tonight, and Bickleigh was known to have a good stock of wine and beer - it would be a fine place to rest as far as he was concerned.

The bailiff smiled to himself. Although Hugh had travelled a great deal with his master in the five years since he had taken up his position, he had never fully mastered riding. His family were farmers near Drewsteignton where they kept a small herd of sheep, and until he started to work for Simon he had never ridden a horse. Even now, after a great deal of individual tuition, he still sat too loosely, radiating discomfort as he allowed the horse to plod along with him on its back.

Simon had once asked him why he seemed so ill at ease with horses, partly out of concern, but also from a degree of frustration because his servant’s slowness held him up when he had far to travel.

Glaring aggressively at the ground, Hugh had taken some time to respond, and when he did at last answer it was with a low and mumbling voice, it’s the distance. That’s what I don’t like.“

“What do you mean, the distance?” Simon had asked, confused at the taciturn response, if that’s all you’re worried about you ought to go faster so that we can get there more quickly.“

“That’s not the distance I mean. I mean the distance down,” Hugh had said, glowering truculently at his shoes, and Simon had stared at him for a few moments before roaring with laughter.

Remembering, Simon grinned to himself as he turned back to face the road ahead. It led along the River Exe here, meandering with the turbulent water at the edge of the forest, and he found himself watching the darkness between the trees on his right with wary interest.

Since the beginning of the rains the previous year the shortage of food had led to a number of the poorer people taking up a life of robbery and thieving. He was not really very worried with this area, but he was all too aware of the problems. As always, when food became scarce the prices rose, and people who would normally have been law-abiding were forced to resort to rougher methods of obtaining what they needed. Now that the crops had failed for a second year several bands of outlaws had grouped themselves together to be safer from the forces of the law. These people, known as “trail bastons‘, were trying to eke out a living by taking what they could from unwary travellers. Simon had not heard that any had come to his own area, but he had been warned that one group had apparently started operating a little further north, in the king’s forest up near North Petherton. There had been no news of them coming this far south, but just in case he kept an eye open for an ambush.

It was with some surprise that he recognised the feeling of relief as they came up to the hill that led to Bickleigh, as if he had been under a high level of tension for hours. He had not realised that he had been so on edge, and so it was with a small smile of rueful disgust that he should allow himself to be so worried about outlaws when there was no need to be, that he turned into the track that led to the little castle.

The little keep was one of many built over the years to help defend the shire from the men of Cornwall, held by the de Courtenay family. It was a small fortified building, a square stone tower, with a simple wall surrounding it for protection. Like so many castles built in its time, the entrance to the building was through a door on the first floor, reached by a small external staircase. Bickleigh was used more now as a hunting lodge than a defensive post, and was visited only infrequently, once or twice each year, by Lord de Courtenay. It had its own bailiff who was responsible for tax collecting and the maintenance of the farms on the land all around, but beyond that it was a quiet place, nestling deep in the woods at the side of the hill over a mile from the main road to Tiverton. It had originally been used as a small fort and had been permanently garrisoned against attack, but now it was left alone, a small rural backwater, ignored even by its lord in favour of other larger and more imposing castles with strategic importance - and better hunting.

For Bickleigh was not important now. Oh, Simon knew it had been, back in the days after the invasion when it was essential for the Normans to have their outposts well positioned all over the country they had won. Then it had been crucial as a staging post between Exeter and Tiverton, one of the hundreds built by the invaders to pacify the population that was always ready to revolt against their new king - especially the Wessexmen of Devon. But now? Now it was superseded by the others.

Simon rode up to the front of the old wall and dismounted at the gate, leading his horse through into the courtyard beyond. Warned by the loud clatter of the hoofs on the cobbled yard, a smiling groom arrived and took the bridle from him, pointing to the great oak doors at the top of the stairs that led inside to the living quarters. Smiling back, Simon nodded before mounting the stairs and walking in through the main door where he met John, the de Courtenay’s bailiff of Bickleigh.

“Simon, old friend,” he said, holding out his hand as his eyes wrinkled in a smile of welcome. “Come in, come in. Would you like some refreshment? It’s good to see you again.”

Smiling and squeezing John’s hand, Simon nodded. “Thank you. Yes, some beer and food and a place to rest for the night, if I may. I’m on my way back home and I can’t stay in the saddle any longer today. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” John put his arm around Simon’s shoulders and laughed as he led him along the screened passage to the hall. “Come on, let’s get you fed!”

The little castle echoed in its emptiness as John led the way to the hall. It always surprised Simon that a castle, one he had known to ring to the sounds of cooks, servants and guests, could seem so deserted when the lord was away. It was almost as if the whole building was in hibernation, waiting for the master to return. As they walked, the sound of their booted steps seemed to ring throughout the tower as they trudged along the flagstones of the passage, until they came to the hall where John had been sitting before a roaring fire. Soon servants arrived carrying cold meats and wine, which they placed on a table near Simon, and he sat and helped himself. Hugh arrived after a few minutes - he had been helping to see to the horses - and sat with his master to eat, losing his customary moroseness as he surveyed the array of food before setting to with gusto.

Later, after John had watched them eat their fill, he had them draw their seats up beside the fire and, leaning over, refilled their cups with wine. “So what’s happening out in the world, then?”

Simon grinned at his older friend, who sat in front of him on his settle, his face warmed where it was lit by the orange glow of the flames, but then he turned his gaze away to peer around the hall.

It was like a tall cavern, almost square at the base, and lighted by the fire and the candles, sitting in their brackets on the walls, that guttered in the draught that fed their flames, the tapestries that covered the windows giving no protection from the gales outside. The floor was covered in old rushes and the smell of the place was a pervasive mixture of bitterness and sweetness - from the dogs’ urine and from the putrefying remains of ancient meals and bones that lay hidden among the stems on the floor, the normal smell of an old hall. Simon would have been happier if the rushes had been replaced more often, but he knew that John held to the old view that it was better not to change them too regularly - that was the way to bring in infection.

When he looked back at John, there was a slight concern in his eyes; his friend had aged since they last met. He was only ten years older than Simon himself, but his body was skinny and seemed ancient, prematurely hunched under his tunic from lack of exercise and from too often sitting in the cold and reading by candlelight. The thin face looked strangely pale and waxy from spending too much time indoors, and the lines on his forehead and either side of his mouth made deep grooves on his features, casting their own dark shadows in the firelight. When they had last met John had borne a head of thick greying hair, but now it was almost a pure white, as if he had been given a sudden shock. Simon had not expected to see him so greatly changed in only seven months, and as he looked at his friend he suddenly realised how much pressure he would be under with his own new position at Lydford.

“Apart from my new position, you mean? The only thing people were talking about in Taunton was the price of food.” They talked for a time about the effects of the rains on their crops, and the sudden increase in prices after the last failed harvest, until the door opened and both fell silent, watching a servant enter and stride quickly across the hall to speak to John. After a moment he rose with an apology.

“Pardon me, Simon. A traveller has arrived and asked to speak to me,” said John as he stood and walked to the door.

Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked over at Hugh. “A traveller? At this time of night? It must be more than three hours after dark!” Hugh shrugged with indifference and poured himself more wine.

After only a few minutes, John came back with a tall and strong-looking man, obviously a knight, wearing a heavy cloak over a mail hauberk that looked old and appeared to have seen several battles, from the scars and scratches that were visible. Behind him was a servant, a lean and wiry man of Simon’s own age, with eyes that seemed to flit over the whole room as he entered as if he was looking for any signs of danger. As he came in he moved to the side of the knight so that he could see directly into the room, then followed along behind.

“Simon,” John said with a smile, “This is Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the new master of Furnshill Manor.”

Rising, Simon took the stranger’s hand. He seemed calm, but Simon noticed a subtle wariness in his eyes, a slight hesitation as he shook hands, and as soon as Simon released his grip, the knight took a step back and shot an enquiring glance at John, who swiftly introduced them while Simon’s eyes flitted inquisitively over the two strangers.

The knight was tall, probably a little taller than Simon himself, and carried himself like a lord. Broad and thickset under his mail, he stood proud and haughty, like a man who had fought successfully in several battles. Simon had to peer to see his face in the dark room; it was scarred on one side - not too deeply, merely as if he had been scratched by a knife, a normal mark for a warrior. But that was not what Simon first noticed. No, it was the deep weals, the lines of pain that stood out, the furrows of anguish that travelled from underneath his eyes, past his mouth, to finish in the hair at his jawline. They pointed to great suffering, as if he had known a level of pain so deep as to be almost unbearable, although he did not seem very old.

Simon placed him at around thirty-five; his dark hair and the neat, almost black, beard an uncommon feature with modern knights that just followed the line of his jaw seemed to hint at no more than that. When the knight turned back and smiled, his dark brown eyes creasing in welcome after John’s eulogistic description of his younger friend, Simon could see the hurt there as well. It was a shock to see it, as if it was a blemish that should have been polished away long ago. But it was there, a melancholy that seemed as though it would never be able to leave, a depression that appeared to have taken such deep root that to exorcise it would remove the knight’s very soul, and Simon could feel the sympathy stirring in his breast at the sight.

“Please, come and sit. You were travelling very late, sir. Please sit and rest,” he said, shoving Hugh to make more space on the bench.

The knight bowed slightly and his mouth twitched in a half smile as Hugh sulkily moved farther up the bench away from the flames.

“Thank you. But there is space for me here,” he said, indicating John’s trestle and slowly easing himself down onto it, sighing as his muscles relaxed. He gratefully accepted a cup of wine from John and took a long, contented draught. “Ah, that’s good.” His servant stood behind him, as if waiting to be given an order - or was it that he was standing ready to defend his master? “Edgar, you can sit as well.”

Simon glanced up at the servant as he moved round to sit, and was vaguely disturbed by the expression of wary distrust he could see in the dark features, as if he was being weighed up, measured and assessed in comparison with other potential dangers. Then, to Simon’s vague annoyance, this arrogant servant seemed to decide that the bailiff was no risk, as if he was not of enough significance to merit being classified as a threat. Edgar glanced down and seated himself, staring around the room, his eyes occasionally lighting briefly on the other people present. He seemed a distrustful man, Simon felt - even when seated he seemed to be glowering, as if doubting his, and his master’s, safety.