The Last Templar aktm-1 Read online

  The warrener opened the door himself. He looked as though he had just risen from his bed, with his tousled hair and sleep-fogged eyes, which he was rubbing as he stood on his threshold, blearily staring at the stranger on his doorstep.

  “Are you Cenred?” Simon asked and, when the man nodded, “My name is Simon Puttock, I’m the bailiff. I’d like to ask you some questions about the night before last.”

  The warrener blinked. “Why?” he said.

  Simon could have wished he had asked almost any other question. “Because it’s possible that the man who died that night…”

  “Old man Brewer,” said the warrener helpfully.

  “Old man Brewer,” Simon agreed, “could have been murdered, and I’m trying to find out whether he was or not.” Somehow he felt a certain degree of relief that he had managed to finish his introductory speech, and he continued with more confidence. “So I want to know what you were doing that night and where you were, when you got back home and so on.”

  The man’s face was still sleep-blurred as he stared at Simon. He had friendly, open features, a large, round head on top of a thick, square body. He was obviously faintly amused as he looked at the bailiff; a small smile played around his full, red lips and his dark brown eyes were creased where the laughter lines lay. The hair on his head seemed thin, as if he was soon to lose the crown, but his chest made up for any loss from the thick, black, curling mass that peeped from the open top of his smock. He was bearded, and the hair here too was dark, except at the point of his chin, where it showed ginger, as if it had been dipped in paint and permanently stained when he was young. He was probably only eight and twenty years old, but his face seemed more wise than his years implied, and Simon found himself feeling nervous, as if he should apologise for interrupting the man’s sleep.

  Shaking off the feeling, he said, “So where were you that night? The night before last?”

  Cenred appeared to find the question mildly funny – he looked almost as if he was about to laugh – but then he saw the earnest expression on Simon’s face and seemed to reconsider. “Come inside and have a glass of beer, bailiff. We can talk more comfortably indoors, and I’m sure you’re thirsty after your ride.”

  He was right, Simon knew. His throat was parched from the journey, and it would be more pleasant to sit. He nodded and followed the man into his hall.

  It was a simple room, but with signs of modernisation. The first thing that Simon noticed was the chimney. This was the first small cottage he had been in where there was such an innovation – most people were happy enough to let the smoke drift out through the thatch of the roof as their forebears always had, but this man obviously wanted more comfort than a smoking fire offered. In front of the fire was a large, granite block which served as a hearthstone, and here the man had placed his mattress. He rolled it up and set it beside the fire to keep warm.

  “I was up all night trying to catch a fox. You woke me,” he said simply and walked out to the back to fetch the beer. Simon walked to a bench and pulled it over to the fire, setting it down on the rushes by the hearth to wait. Cenred was soon back, carrying two large earthenware pots, one of which he passed to Simon, before dragging another bench from the wall, so that he could sit facing the bailiff.

  “So you want to know where I was night before last, eh?”

  The bailiff nodded silently, studying this large, comfortable and, above all, confident man. It was the confidence that shone like the light of a lantern in the dark, in vast contrast to the hesitant nervousness of the three men whom he and Baldwin had seen the day before. Where they had shuffled and twitched this man seemed to be positively enjoying himself, sitting comfortably, legs outstretched, one hand on the seat beside him, the other gripping his pot of ale.

  “Well, now. I left here in the late afternoon. I had to go up to my coppice to get poles for fencing to replace a section that fell. I took the poles straight over to the warren and fixed the fence, then went round the traps. At one of them there was a badger, which I killed, but near another I found the pelt of one of my coneys. Well, I spent a good half hour looking around to see if I could find the trail of the beast, but I couldn’t, so I came back here, had some supper, and…”

  “When would that have been,” interrupted Simon.

  “When? Oh, I suppose about dusk. Say about half past seven. Anyway, I went back up to the warren then, to see if I could find the animal that did it. I stayed up late, but I couldn’t see any sign, so I came back.”

  “What time did you arrive home?”

  “I really don’t know. It was long after dark, I know that, but more than that I can’t say.”

  Thinking, Simon said musingly, “To get home you don’t go through the village, do you?”

  “No, the warren is down on the moor, about half a mile to the south from here, so I only pass the Ulton house and Brewer’s on my way home.”

  “Hmm. Tell me, what do you think of the Ultons?”

  “Oh, they’re alright. They’re jealous of me, or at least Roger is, but they seem friendly enough.”

  “How do you mean, jealous?”

  “I am a free man. Everyone else in the village is either a cottar or a villein, but I earned my freedom. I earned it by buying it from the Furnshill estate, and it has made some people a bit difficult. It’s foolish, because others – look at Brewer – are more wealthy than me, but that doesn’t stop them envying me.”

  “What do you know about Brewer? No one has been able to tell me much about him. Did you know him well?”

  The warrener’s friendly smile did not leave his face, but his eyes lost their focus, making him seem to almost go into a daydream as he thought. Now when he spoke, his voice had fallen, becoming quieter and lower.

  “He was not an easy man. Everyone hereabouts was sure that he had a lot of money, but I don’t know whether that’s true. It didn’t make him popular, anyway.”

  “No?”

  “No, he had money but he kept it for himself. And he was a heavy drinker, and when he had drunk too much he got violent. He was a big man, Brewer, and when he decided to hit someone, he could hurt.”

  “Did anyone have a reason to hate him, then? Did he hurt anyone recently?”

  The warrener gave a sudden laugh, a great gale of amusement, and had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand before he could answer.

  “Oh, sorry, bailiff, sorry! Yes, you could say that. He was a drunkard, often got into fights, was always sneering at others and belittling them. I don’t think you really understand how people felt about him! Round here it’s hard to find anyone who did like him!”

  Chapter Nine

  The bailiff must have shown how much this comment depressed him, because the warrener stood, walked over, and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Come now, bailiff! It’s quite likely he just died in his bed and it was an accident. Are you sure you’re not chasing a wild goose? Come on, give me your pot. If you like my beer, you may have another pot with me.” So saying, he took Simon’s mug and went through to the back room.

  By the time he returned, Simon had managed to recover to the extent that he was able to smile again in gratitude for the fresh ale. “Thank you. Do you mind humouring me a little further? For example, did you see anybody when you did finally get home? We have been told that someone helped Brewer home on the night he died, but no one seems to know who it could have been. Do you?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t see him being helped – I assume you mean he was being dragged home after he was thrown out of the inn again? I thought so. No, I didn’t see him.”

  “Are you surprised that someone would help him? After what you said, about him being so unpopular?”

  “No, people often helped him home. Oh, he was hated alright. Arrogant and rude, and he would always use his fists when he couldn’t find words, but this is a small vill. We need to get on. Otherwise, if there’s arguing, how can we get the harvest in, or get the ploughing done? We have to get on togethe
r – it’s just that he made it hard.”

  “How?”

  The warrener’s eyes crinkled again in amusement. “Do you like braggarts? No, well that’s how Brewer was. The rumours about his money – well, I don’t know if they’re true, but he certainly helped put them about. He owned his own oxen, always had money for ale, and always seemed happy to put others down.”

  “I see.” The bailiff peered at the fire. “And you didn’t see him that night?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, but then he put his head on one side and glanced at Simon with what the bailiff felt was a faintly shamefaced smile. “But I think I might have seen someone on my way home.”

  “Who?”

  He gave a short giggle. “I’m not sure! It was far too dark. I’ll tell you how it was, though. I’d finished trying to catch the fox, or whatever it was, and was on my way home again. I was annoyed and tired, and I had just got past the Ulton place when…”

  “Have you any idea what time it was?”

  Cenred gave him a pitying look. “I don’t know why you keep asking me that. Look, I don’t carry an hour candle with me out of doors, bailiff. How could I know what time it was? All I know is, it was dark. It could have been just eleven o’clock or well past midnight. How could I tell? No, all I can say is it cannot have been more than one, and it was past ten, but beyond that I don’t know – I was too tired to think about it. Anyway, as I came past the Ulton place and down the road towards my own, I could have sworn I saw a figure at the edge of the road. It would have been down by Brewer’s house, I suppose, opposite, in the trees on the other side of the road. At the time I did nothing – I…” He paused, embarrassed. “It seemed like a slim, dark figure. You know, what with the dark and the shadows from the moon and everything, when I saw this shape scuttling into the trees in front of me I sort of thought back to the old stories and, well, I walked past and tried to forget I’d seen it. Anyhow, it was around Brewer’s house, on the other side of the lane, where the trees come and meet the roadway. You know where I mean?”

  “Yes, yes, I think I do,” said Simon. But he was thinking, who could it have been? What time was it, was it one of the two brothers? Was it Roger Ulton? Was it the man who had led Brewer home? Or was it someone else?

  Simon stood outside the warrener’s cottage for several minutes when they had finished talking. He wished that Baldwin was here, that the knight could have heard the evidence of Cenred, so that he could have the advantage of his opinion, but the knight still had not turned up. Kicking at stones and pebbles, he made his way back to his mare, untied her and walked south with her, away from the village.

  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 s
o 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?”