The Last Templar Read online

  “Black, your wife said that Brewer was a heavy drinker, yes? Good, now, innkeeper, tell these men what you just told me,” said Baldwin, motioning towards the little group.

  The innkeeper leaned back against his wall, rubbing his hands on his noisome tunic, and gave a quick belch. “About old Harold Brewer, sirs. He was here last night. He came in, like normal, just after dusk and stayed until too late. I suppose it must’ve been gone eleven by the time he went. It must’ve been getting close to the middle watches.”

  “So he decided to go home then?” Simon asked.

  “Well.” The man’s eyes were sly, and almost seemed about to wink. “Well, no, he didn’t decide to go. I decided for him. He was getting loud again, and when he started his roaring I let him know he might be better off in his bed.”

  Baldwin leaned forward. “You got him outside, you put him into the lane. What then? Please tell my friends.”

  “Well, I got him out, and there was this other man walking up it, going his way. I called out to him, said, ”Take this one with you, we’ve had enough for one night,“ and he seemed to be happy enough to help. He came over and took Brewer by the arm. Well, that was enough for me, I went back inside to clear up.”

  “But, as far as you could see, this man was taking Brewer home with him?”

  “Oh, yes. Even after I shut the door, I could hear Harold shouting and cursing him. He wanted more ale, he wanted to stay here, he wasn’t ready to go home yet. ”Course, he wasn’t getting any more to drink from me. He was ready to start a fight again - and I’ve had enough of him fighting in my inn over the years. I felt sorry for the man, though. It sounded like he was getting the rough end of Harold’s tongue alright.“

  “Didn’t you see who it was, this helpful stranger?” said Simon, and the twinkling, merry eyes were fixed on him. For an instant he saw through the friendly exterior, to the selfishness, the disinterest that lay behind, before the facade dropped down again like a portcullis.

  “No. It was dark and I had just come out of the inn. I could only make out a figure, and I shut the door as soon as I called out to him. No, I never saw who it was, and I wasn’t very interested. All I wanted by then was to get Harold out and get up to my bed.”

  The men left him at the door to his inn and made their way farther up the street, Black seeming deep in thought, and Simon staring at Baldwin with an expression of puzzlement. “So how can we find out who this man was?”

  The knight turned and faced him with a smile. “We ask people, Simon. We ask people.”

  Chapter Six

  It was getting late now, the air was more chill and the shadows were beginning to grow as the little band trooped after the knight. As they went he shot questions at Black, pointing at houses and asking about the occupants - how many people lived there, how long for, had their parents been there before them? Black seemed to know a fair deal about all of the villeins in the hamlet, he was often asked to fetch food for them on his travels, even though he had only been living there for some four years, since he married and agreed that he would move into the area so that his wife did not have to leave the village she had grown up in.

  Baldwin cleared his throat. “This man walking back in this direction, whoever he might have been… I suppose it would make sense if he lived in one of the houses in this direction. Of course, he might have been out to do some chore and was going to return home later, if he came from farther down the lane, but it would make sense to me to ask whether anyone at this side of the village, this side of the inn, was out late last night. What do you think, Simon?”

  The bailiff nodded, his animosity towards his companion forgotten now in his interest. “Yes, I would think that should make sense. Black, who do you know who could have been out that late at night?”

  He considered, scowling at the road ahead and scratching at his belly, his mouth drawn down into a crescent of near-humorous misery in his deep contemplation. “Well there’s four that would be up at that time that I can think of. Cenred, the warrener, is often out late. He has to be, to try to get the badgers and foxes and keep his rabbits safe. Then there’s Alfred, the young Carter boy. He has to look after the sheep over by the tor, so he’s sometimes late back. Edward, his brother, often joins him. And there’s Roger. He’s often out late.”

  “Why?” said Simon, his eyes narrowing at the lack of explanation and peering at the hunter.

  He was rewarded with a rich laugh. “Because he’s wooing a woman over at Hollowbrook. Emma Boundstone. He gets back as late as he can most nights!”

  They were almost back at the ruined house now. The crowd that had come to see the fire was thinner, the people, losing interest, having dispersed after the body was removed. The remaining spectators were the locals themselves, standing around in small huddles and talking in low voices, their eyes flitting suspiciously over the men with Black as they came close.

  “Black,” said Baldwin, “I want you to point out the four men you just mentioned. Then bring them over to us. Now, which are they?”

  “That there’s Alfred, his brother’s beside him,” the hunter said, indicating two young men. The first was slim but fit-looking, a lithe man with tallow-coloured hair, a dark, ruddy complexion and quick, shifty movements, reminding Simon somehow of a rat. His brother was a little taller, but his hair was mousey, thin and wispy. His figure was more expansive, fuller, as though he liked his beer too much, and even from fifty yards away his bright, rosy cheeks seemed to hint at excessive consumption. His eyes, though, seemed as quick and sharp as his brother’s, almost eagerly tripping over the bailiff and his friends with quick, snapping glances.

  The hunter’s finger jabbed out again. “He’s Roger Ulton, him over there.” He seemed to be indicating a quiet, bookish-looking man with a thin, pale face and sunken eyes. For all that he, by the look of him, was only some nineteen years old, he looked squashed and nervous. Simon looked at him with interest. The man’s air was of a fearful dejection, as if he was waiting to be accused, knowing that he was bound to be assumed guilty.

  “What about the other one - the warrener?” asked Baldwin quietly.

  “Cenred? Can’t see him here. I suppose he’s out at work.”

  “Good. Right, go and get the two brothers first, would you, Black. We should be able to get this matter over with fairly quickly now, I think, with only five men to see.”

  “Five? But there’s only four, surely,” said Black, looking surprised.

  “No, there’s you as well, Black.”

  His face as dark as his name suggested, the hunter soon brought the two young men over. It seemed that Alfred was the younger of the two, and his sly, cunning eyes seemed to be everywhere as he stood in front of the others, whereas his older brother stood as if nervous, his eyes on the ground in a display of humility. Alfred looked as if he was only just out of his teens; he still had the boldness of youth, as if he did not understand that he was being questioned about a possible murder. He seemed fearless, unabashed in front of the bailiff and the knight as they sat on a fallen tree trunk with Black and Edgar standing behind. Simon looked at the man with interest. His tallow hair seemed too bright, somehow, for the dull, monotonous life of a cottar, and his lively and cunning manner did not fit in with the bailiff’s opinion of how a villein should appear. He wore a faded blue tunic beneath a leather jerkin. His worn and stained leggings were patched and mended, showing their great age, and around his waist was a thin leather belt, with a wooden-handled knife in a leather sheath hanging in front. He gazed back at the men with arrogance and defiance in his eyes.

  Edward kept his eyes downcast. He had more the appearance of the servile country labourer that Simon expected. The bailiff was by no means a harsh or cruel man, but he did understand the differences between men, and he knew how they were expected to react. The son of a castle seneschal, Simon knew that it was impossible to constantly keep servants quiet and humble. The nature of his fellows was such that they could only take so much, but then they w
ould snap. After all, any man needs self-respect, and that can only be achieved if respect is given by others. Simon knew this, and he gave his men an according amount of regard. But, even so, most of his own men would be humble in front of a new lord when presented for the first time - no matter what they might say afterwards!

  This older man was dressed simply, with thick stockings, tightly bound with the thongs from his sandals under a light tunic and short cloak. He looked warm in his clothes, and Simon was surprised to see that all his garments seemed fairly new - there were no stains or patches as yet, unlike those of his brother.

  Baldwin appeared to have noticed the same disparity, shooting little glances from one to the other as he sat. Then, “I understand that you were out late last night, both of you. Where were you?”

  He waited to see which would answer, his eyes small glinting sparks under his lowered brows. At last Alfred, quickly snooting a confirmatory look at his brother from the corner of his eye, said, “I’m a shepherd for my father’s flocks. We were up with the sheep.”

  “Aren’t you a little old for that type of work?”

  His face was blank. “No, I’m only twenty, and I’m the youngest in the family, so I normally go out to see to them and make sure they’re alright. Edward often comes with me.”

  “Ah yes, Edward. What do you do for a living?”

  “Me? I sell goods at markets. I collect them from the town and take them with me on my cart. Why?”

  “Why do you help your brother with the sheep?”

  “Just so that we can get out of the village and talk alone. And it means he’s finished sooner. Why?”

  The knight ignored the question for the second time. “What time did you return last night?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Alfred, seeming keen to speak again, as if nervous that his brother would say too much. “I suppose we left the hill at about half past ten o’clock. I doubt whether it would have been much later.”

  “How long did it take you to get back?”

  “What, to get home? Oh, I suppose about a half hour, I don’t know.”

  “Did you see anyone else on your way home?”

  The young man glanced at his brother as he answered for him. “No, no one.” Simon was sure that he saw something -anger, or fear maybe in his dark eyes. Why was that?

  “When was that, when you got into the village?” asked Baldwin, frowning in the manner that Simon was beginning to recognise as demonstrating intense concentration.

  “Yes, just as we came into the village.”

  “And you saw no fire as you passed Brewer’s house?”

  “No, there was nothing -I could stake my life on that!”

  Baldwin believed him. Alfred seemed absolutely convinced that there was no sign whatever of the fire then, but that still left the question: when did it start? He glanced at the younger man again, who was staring at him with vague interest - or was it hostility? Then, looking at the older man once more, “Did you part at any time on the way back?”

  To his surprise it was Alfred who answered before his brother could open his mouth. “No. We were together the whole time.”

  As the two were led away and Black fetched Roger Ulton, Baldwin raised the corners of his mouth in a poor mockery of a grin and faced Simon. “Well?”

  “I didn’t like the look of the younger one, and I didn’t trust him. But whether they were capable of killing Brewer and trying to hide the fact afterwards - well I just don’t know.”

  “No, neither do I,” said Baldwin reflectively. “But it did seem as if the younger one - Alfred - was trying to hide something. I don’t know. Edward seemed honest enough, or at least he didn’t say anything that I could put my finger on.”

  “No. Well, let’s see what this Roger has to say for himself,” said Simon, and they both turned to the man walking towards them with Black.

  Close to, he looked less anaemic than he had from a distance. He was a thin young man, surely not an uncommon sight after the last two years of famine, and his emaciated appearance was heightened by a curious pallor in his complexion. His clothes, light brown woollen shift and leggings, seemed too large for him, and Simon immediately wondered whether they were originally made for a brother - or a father? His boots were worn and flopped as he walked, adding to the general effect of decay that he seemed to project, and they looked too large for his feet. His tunic had a hood, but it was thrown back as he walked to the knight and bailiff, to show an effeminately long, thin neck. Like his features, this was very pale, and Simon found it attracted instant attention. Almost as a disability draws the eyes against the wish of the onlooker, this neck, swanlike in its elegance, seemed to exert some power over the vision, as if wanting to emphasise its own vulnerability by dragging the gaze to it, so that the observer could wonder how the red blood could pump beneath such pure alabaster flesh.

  It was with an almost physical effort that the bailiff had to wrench his eyes away and lift them to the face of the witness. By the sudden twitching jerk at his right, he knew that Baldwin had been similarly affected. They both studied the face in front of them with interest.

  Like Edward before him, Roger kept his eyes cast downward in humility, the perfect example of a poor serf. But his eyes flickered occasionally as he tried to glimpse the faces of the two questioners before him. His face was as thin as his neck, and as pale, creating a disturbing contrast with his hair, which was raven black, as dark as Black’s own. But where the hunter gave off an aura of strong and vibrant health, this man seemed weak and sickly. His mouth was a thin streak slashed under his nose, the nose looked as though it should have a permanent dewdrop dangling, and his eyes, when he looked up, seemed watery and almost colourless, as if, like a coloured book in the rain, their paint had been washed off. The whole impact of this man was unappealing - there was not even the interest, Baldwin thought, of young Alfred. At least he had a spark of individuality; he would make a good trader. This one seemed to have nothing.

  The knight looked down at his own feet, wondering where to begin, and then, as he looked up, caught a fleeting glimpse of a different Roger. For a split second he caught and held the man’s eyes, and, in that moment, he realised that the man was not as weak as he had thought.

  “You are called Roger?” he started sternly.

  “Yes, sir.” He had a strangely deep voice, an unexpected bass from such a thin body, and he spoke with almost reverential respect.

  “Last night you went to visit your woman, this Emma…‘

  “Emma Boundstone, sir. She lives with her parents at Hollowbrook.”

  “Yes. What time did you leave her?”

  Perhaps it was the curtness of the question, or the frowning glare from the knight, but whatever the reason, the young man’s face coloured instantly.

  “Why, sir?”

  “What?” Baldwin slammed his glove down onto the trunk beside him, and bellowed, making Simon jump and nervously stare at him. “I asked you when you left her! Do not presume to ask me why I ask. Answer the question.”

  “Sir, I mean no offence, I… it was about ten o’clock, sir. Ten o’clock. No later, I think.” and he subsided, his face down once more in apparent misery.

  More softly now, Baldwin said, “How far is Hollowbrook from here?”

  “About three miles, sir. Not more, I should say.”

  “So you were back here again at… what, about half past ten, maybe eleven o’clock?”

  “Earlier rather than later, sir. Nearer half past ten than eleven.”

  “And did you see anyone on your way home?”

  “No, sir. I saw no one.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “No. My parents are still there. And my brother.”

  “So they would know when you got in?”

  “Oh no, sir. They were all asleep by then. No, I came in quietly and went to my bed without disturbing them.”

  Baldwin nodded and looked over at Simon. “Do you have anything to ask?”


  “Yes,” said Simon, leaning forward and fixing a glowering stare on the man. “Where is Hollowbrook from here?”

  “Where? It’s over there, sir,” said the man, pointing back down the road, to the south.