The Last Templar aktm-1 Page 21

  She walked through the door to the hall and sat at her chair in front of the fire. She could hear the muffled shouts and thumping as her husband and Hugh grabbed food and water, and then, making her turn swiftly to the door, she heard a small sob. There at the door was Edith, her face wrinkled and ancient in her grief and stained with tears. Margaret quickly rose and went to her, gathered her up, and carried her to the chair, gentling her and murmuring softly. Sitting, she rocked her child, her own eyes watering in sympathy at her daughter’s distress.

  “Daddy’s going away again, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he’ll not be away for long, Edith. There’s no need to worry,” said Margaret, blinking against her tears.

  “But he might be hurt!” cried Edith. “I don’t want him to go!” She subsided into sobs, and Margaret, suddenly overcome with a renewed sharp fear, as if her daughter’s terror reminded her of the dangers, could think of nothing to say, feeling smothered by her own dread. What could she say? That he would be safe, that he would not be gone for long? Margaret was too aware of the risks to be able to lie effectively while trapped in her own fear. They sat together in silence, the girl shaking with her anxious tears while Margaret stared at the fire.

  Soon Simon arrived and stood in the doorway to bid his wife farewell. He was holding a bag in each hand and was once more wearing his sword. As he looked in, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he had interrupted his wife and daughter in a secret discussion, for he knew that he was the cause of Edith’s weeping, and there was nothing he could do to cheer her up. He quietly put the bags down and walked over, to stand over them as they sat, and when his daughter looked up, her eyes huge in their despair, he felt the breath catch in his chest, and knelt and encircled them both with his arms.

  “What is it?” he asked gently, looking into Margaret’s eyes.

  Edith answered, her voice breaking occasionally as she took great gulps of air. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay!”

  “I won’t be gone for long, love,” he said. “I should be back in a couple of days, that’s all.”

  “But you may get hurt!”

  He gave a short laugh and reached one hand up to tousle her hair. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have lots of men with me to look after me.”

  She jerked to avoid his hand and hid her head in Margaret’s shoulder, weeping softly. He released them reluctantly, confused at his inability to stem the tide of tears, and rested back on his heels, but Margaret looked at him with a smile of understanding as she began rocking her daughter again.

  “I think we had better postpone our move to Lydford,” he said at last. “At least until this affair has been sorted out. Can you tell the men that we’ll have to delay for a week or two?”

  She continued stroking and rocking Edith as she looked at him questioningly.

  “I don’t know how long it’ll take us to get these men, so maybe we should wait until they’re caught and plan the move then?”

  “Alright, Simon.” Her voice was calm and low. “Just be careful and catch them quickly. We’ll be waiting here. Don’t worry about us, just go and catch them and come back as soon as you can.” Nodding, he rose, kissed her quickly, and crossed the room to the door. He picked up his bags and turned to smile at them, then he was gone.

  Only when she was sure that her husband had left the house did she begin to weep.

  Hugh was already on his horse beside the two Furnshill men, so Simon quickly tied his bags to his saddle and lifted himself up. Mounted, he wheeled his horse and led the way up behind his house to the road to Copplestone.

  They rode quickly, the bailiff ignoring Hugh’s curses. His mind was on the organisation of the posse and what they would have to do when they arrived in Oakhampton, and his face held a fixed frown of concentration as they swept along the lanes. They followed the road along the ridge and were soon dropping into Copplestone, where they met the main group of the posse, some twelve strong, in the town centre. Black was not yet there. He had apparently taken it upon himself to ride to all the other men’s houses to call them to the posse, and would be coming along later after fetching the last of them.

  The men all stayed on their horses while they waited, and the publican of the inn brought them beer, giving the whole affair a holiday atmosphere, as if they were lords at the beginning of a hunt. Simon was concerned at first that some of the men might get drunk, but then he realised that it was probably unlikely. They all seemed to be talking too loudly and laughing, but the beer was slow in going down, and he suddenly understood that they were all nervous and needed the courage that the drink brought, as if they were preparing for a battle. He sat back on his horse and watched them.

  They were all firm, stolid men, these yeomen. Although Simon knew only a few by name, he recognised most of them. Almost all were farmers from the area, strong men, well used to the harsh and changeable weather of the moors. Their horses were not the strong war horses of a group of knights, they were all the small local ponies, but they were sturdy and could travel for miles across the moors, feeding themselves by cropping the short grass that lay all around, with no need for extra provisions to be carried.

  The men were all nervous and brittle as they waited, as if they all wanted to get the matter over and return to their homes, but it was not merely the nervousness of personal danger. All of the men wanted to help in the capture of the gang, that was obvious. There was a tenseness, a muted excitement in their loud laughter and shouting voices, almost as if they were waiting for a fair to begin so that they could get on with their enjoyment of the day. They were not fearful for their own safety, rather they were keen to get on with the serious matter of catching the outlaws and getting rid of the danger they represented; not just the risk to travellers, but the threat they represented to the whole area.

  When trail bastons started in an area, it was common for them to raid outlying homes, raping the women and killing the men. The men of the posse in the square knew what had happened near North Petherton, where several farms had been destroyed by gangs of ruthless killers. In their own pragmatic way they had decided that they would not allow the same madness in their countryside, and they were determined to prevent this gang from surviving.

  Black arrived more than an hour after Simon and Hugh, leading a group of six additional men whom he had collected on his way. He nodded gravely to Simon as he came into the village, then rode up to the inn and took a pint of beer, draining it in one long draught. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he urged his horse over to the bailiff.

  “Sorry it took so long, but some of the men were in the fields.”

  “That’s fine.” Simon looked up at the sky. “It’s getting late, though. We’d better be moving if we want to get to Oakhampton.”

  Black nodded and shouted to the men. Slowly they handed back their mugs and jostled into position, and soon they were all moving off, not in an organised unit like a wolf pack, but a strung-out line of men and horses, a group of individuals bound together by their common need for defence against the threat of the trail bastons. Simon and Black rode in front, not from any need to lead, but simply so that they could set the pace.

  They rode along briskly, and had passed the track to Clanton Barton before Simon realised they were there. He turned and looked back at the farm when he became aware, staring hard at the buildings as if he could penetrate the walls and see the monks inside, but there was no sign of them. Had they left already?

  “I was thinking,” said Black from beside him. “Do you think that this lot could be the ones that killed the abbot? I mean, could the men who killed the abbot have been part of this band? A vanguard out looking for food, and when they saw the abbot they took him for his money?”

  Simon turned and stared at the road ahead, his face blank as he thought. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  They rode on, keeping to a smart pace. They would not be able to reach Oakhampton before night, and Simon was content merely to get as far as possible and
find somewhere to camp and finish their journey the following morning. The road led them between thick woods as it curved around the moors, swinging lazily as it took them farther southwards. When they had left Bow some three miles behind them the light began to fade and Black started to look for a camp.

  At last, as the light was sinking towards darkness, they came to a small stream and Black called the halt. In little time the horses were hobbled and watered, then the men lighted fires and settled down, wrapping themselves in their cloaks or blankets as they sat down to drink and eat before sleeping.

  Simon sat a little apart from the rest. He was exhausted after the day. His hangover was gone, thankfully, but his whole body was tense and stiff from his hours in the saddle, and he felt. as though he had aged ten years since leaving Furnshill manor that morning. He wrapped himself in his cloak and was soon dozing, propped up against a tree not far from the stream.

  Next morning they were all up before dawn and ready to continue before it was light. Grimly, in the chill grey of the early morning, they carried on, making their way along the gentle slopes of the road between the trees.

  They had only travelled another two miles from their camp when Simon saw Black frown and stare at the road ahead. He held up his hand for the posse to halt, and as he did, Simon thought he could just hear hoofs up ahead. He felt Black’s quick glance at him, then the hunter kicked his horse to amble forward a little. Simon followed, his face frowning as he stared ahead at the next bend in the road, quickly checking his sword hilt as he went, while the men behind went silent and tense, wondering who could be riding so quickly at this time of the morning.

  Soon they saw a horse gallop around the bend in the road, a small piebald horse with a young man on its back. As soon as he saw the posse he reined in and slowed, his expression one of suspicion as his eyes roved over the men standing grimly in front of him.

  “Morning,” said Black. “You’re in a hurry.”

  “I’m carrying a message,” the youth said shortly.

  “Who for? Where are you going?”

  The youth’s eyes held Black’s for a moment, then glanced behind him again at the others. “To Crediton.”

  Simon edged his horse closer. “You need have no fear of us, friend. We’re a posse, on our way to Oakhampton to help follow the trail bastons and catch them.”

  The youth’s face radiated relief, the suspicion falling away as if it was dirt wiped away by a cloth. “Thank God! I’ve been sent to ask you to come, only I hadn’t realised you would be this far already – I thought you were outlaws! Quick, you must come back with me, there’s been an attack!”

  “We heard, that’s why we’re on our way, we had a messenger last night.”

  “Last night? But that’s when the attack was!”

  There was a mumble of anxious voices from the men, but it died when Black turned and glared. Simon leaned forward in his saddle.

  “Where? What happened?” he said urgently.

  “Late last night, sir. A group from Cornwall, on their way to Taunton. They were only six miles from Oakhampton when they were set upon and robbed, and many were killed. Two of them managed to get to our farm, a boy and a woman. Our house wasn’t far from the attack. They are there still. They said that the robbers were being hunted over to the west of the town, so my father thought I should ride for Crediton and get more help, so I was on my way…”

  “Yes, yes, I see,” said Simon meditatively, then looked over at Black. “This must be another attack.”

  “Yes,” said the hunter. “So Tanner may not have heard about it yet. We may be the first, the nearest to hand.”

  “We have to go there and see what we can do!”

  Black shrugged and turned back to the boy, who waited with a nervous keenness. “Your farm – is it on the way to Oakhampton from here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take us there, then.”

  They rode at a canter, all of them eager now that they seemed to be so close to the criminals, and it was only another hour before they were riding down the muddy track that led to the farm.

  At the door, the youth dropped from his horse and ran for the house. Black and Simon told the others to stay outside before following him inside.

  The house was an old dwelling, with rough thatch that needed replacing, but inside they found it to be a cheery home, lighted with a warm orange glow from the fire roaring on the hearth. Sitting in front of it were a boy and a young woman.

  As they walked in their messenger stood uncertainly by the door, as if nervous of entering, and when Simon looked in he realised why and winced. The young woman could not yet be twenty years old, he could see. She was obviously tall, a strong and slim figure with a firm and elegant body under her robe, but it was her face that caught his attention. She was obviously terrified; it showed in the way that she sat huddled, as though to comfort herself, it showed in the paleness of the face under the thick and long black hair as she turned to stare fearfully at them, in the wide and tear-filled dark eyes, in the trembling of her chin under her tightly pursed lips, and it was so palpable, so clear, that Simon felt the pain himself, and longed to go to her and comfort her.

  The boy sat quiet and still, hardly acknowledging them as they entered, but sitting silent in front of the flames, with his straw-coloured hair reflecting the glow, and staring at the men with unseeing eyes, as if they were of such little importance that they merited no response. He was beyond fear; he seemed to have lost all sense.

  As Simon and Black walked closer, an older couple came in behind them and, while the man caught them by their arms, the woman barged past and went to the two figures.

  “Sorry, sorry, but they’re…” the man said haltingly. Simon gazed at him uncomprehendingly, then glanced back into the room. The older woman was cradling and gently rocking the younger, who clung to her like a frightened child to its mother. “Come outside, please,” the man said. “Come outside, we can talk there,” Simon and Black exchanged a glance and followed him out.

  In the open, the man seemed surprised at the sight of the men on their horses, and appeared to be concerned until Simon’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. “Don’t worry, friend. We’re the posse from Crediton. We’re here to help with the trail bastons.”

  At this the farmer relaxed visibly. “Thanks to God! For a moment I was thinking you could be the same that…”

  “What has happened? All we know is what your son told us,” Black interrupted.

  The old man’s eyes misted. “You’ve seen what they’re like, friend. They turned up at my door last night, just like you see them now. We haven’t been able to get a word from the boy, he just won’t talk at ail. Just sits and stares all the time. The girl’s his sister, or so it seems. They were riding up to Taunton with their parents and others and camped some two miles yonder.” He pointed to the southwest, towards the grey line of the moors. “They had made their camp and were preparing their food when they were attacked.”

  “Do you know when it was?” asked Simon.

  “No. All she will say is that it was after dark. She says that men rode into the camp and killed all the men, and some of the women too. I think that the other women were kept for… for…”

  “You think they were to be molested?” Simon said, feeling his anger grow as he realised what the two indoors must have witnessed.

  Black’s face grew dark too. “Was she raped as well?” His own wife could not have been many years older, Simon realised.

  The old man nodded slowly. “She won’t talk to me, but she told my wife.” He shrugged and there were tears in his eyes when he glanced at Simon. “When I go into the room she just goes quiet and holds on to my wife. She’s so terrified of men, just like when she saw you gentlemen. My wife says she hasn’t ever seen anybody so scared.”

  “Did she describe the men who attacked them?” asked Simon, ignoring the hissed curse from the hunter.

  “No. All she would say was that one of them looked lik
e a knight, all in armour, whatever that means. He could have been wearing a hauberk of plate or chain, or dressed in full armour for all I know. The others were just ordinary men.”

  Black and Simon exchanged a glance, then, slowly, Black nodded grimly.

  Turning back to the farmer, Simon said, “Can you let us have your son to show us where they were attacked? Can he find it?”

  “Oh yes. You don’t really need his help, it’s clear where it happened, but you can have him by all means.”

  Quickly, Black and Simon swung into their saddles and, when the farmer’s son was ready, they made their way back along the track to the road and then south and west towards the moors.

  The men were all silent and deep in thought as they went. As he considered the little information that the farmer had been able to give them, Simon found himself shivering, straining under the influence of the greatest passion of rage he had ever felt. It was not just the senseless brutality of the trail bastons, it was seeing the horror-struck girl. Her absolute terror at the sight of him and Black seemed to show the degree of her suffering. He kept returning to the same question: who could do this? Who could inflict such pain on a girl so young; who could shatter the lives of a little boy and his sister; who could produce such misery and live with himself afterwards?

  It felt as though the breath came in hot rushes, as if he was inhaling flames, and he sat tall and straight in his saddle as he rode, as if his anger had doubled his strength and energy.

  The hunter rode beside him with a stolid, hunched mien, riding smoothly and effortlessly, but when Simon glanced over at him he could see that Black was as angry as he himself. He stared ahead, hardly blinking, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead as he went, and he reminded Simon of a cat, a cat that has just seen a shrew and is slowly stalking it with the intense and total concentration of absolute absorption. But the anger was shown by his quick movements, by the occasional snapping turns of his head as he glared into the woods on either side, as if daring them to hide the men they hunted, and by the sudden, swift, snatching of his hand as he grabbed at his short sword, as if he was caught every now and again by a desire to pull it from its scabbard and kill.