The Last Templar

Chapter Twenty-three

When they finally clattered up the drive to the manor it seemed as though the house was deserted. There was nobody at the front, and although they went through to the stable yard they could see no one. Even the hostlers were away, so they made their way round to the front and, while Hugh waited with the animals, with a face still black from what he considered to be a wild-goose chase, Simon pounded on the door.

After a few minutes there was the sound of heavy feet stomping down the passageway inside and the door was opened. It was Edgar, Baldwin’s servant.

“Yes? Oh, it’s you, bailiff.”

“Yes, where is your master?”

Edgar’s face had an arrogant and supercilious air, as if he was not concerned by Simon’s interest in his master, but was vaguely amused by his presence. “Sir Baldwin is out riding. He should be back in an hour or so.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for him inside, then,” said Simon, pushing the door a little wider, but then he stopped as a thought struck him. “Er, we’ll just see to our horses first.”

He turned and took the reins of his mount from Hugh, leading it round the house to the stables at the side. The yard was still empty, so he led the horse to the open door and tied it up, before taking the saddle off and rubbing it down. Hugh followed and, still silent in mute reproach, began to see to his own horse.

When he had finished, Simon walked to the stable door and looked out. There was still none in the yard. He crouched down and examined the floor of the stable. It was packed earth, strewn with straw. Then he stood up and started to kick the straw aside, bending every now and again to look carefully underneath it. He covered the whole floor in this way, finally standing with an expression of frowning disgust, his hands on his hips, surveying the stable, before going out into the yard.

To Hugh he seemed to have gone mad. He finished rubbing down his horse and saw that it had hay and water before running out after his master, his face full of concern at this new evidence of his eccentricity.

He found Simon standing and leaning against the wall of the house, a sad smile on his face as he stood staring at the view. Hugh walked over to him cautiously and hesitantly.

“Master?” he enquired softly. “Master? Are you well? Would you like to come inside and rest in front of the fire?” He had heard of similar maladies before, now he thought about it, from his mother. She had said that often shepherds who spent too much time alone up on the hills in the cold and wet could get confused in their thoughts. Usually the next stage would be one of shivering, before a fever took over and ran its course. Maybe this was the aftereffect of their days on the moors? He nervously held out a hand to touch his master’s arm.

“What?” Simon snapped and turned at the interruption to his thoughts, fixing Hugh with an acerbic eye. “What are you talking about? What is it?”

“I thought… Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh. “Yes, I’m alright. Look!”

Hugh’s face turned slowly in the direction of his finger, but his eyes stayed glued to his master’s face. He risked a quick glance. Simon was pointing at the ground. Hugh looked back. Simon seemed to be saddened by the mud, he was staring at it with an expression of resigned misery.

Confused, Hugh looked back at the dirt, staring, wondering what this meant. All he could see was the mess of a stable yard, thick with dirt and straw, and here and there the prints of the hostlers and their charges. Simon seemed to be pointing at a patch lying in the protection of the stable wall, where the rain of the last two days had not dropped, but it was close to the entrance to the stables themselves. He stared at the prints of feet and hoofs. He frowned and peered, leaning as he looked, at one hoofprint, a deep print, the print of a big horse, a print that showed itself to be missing a nail.

“I suppose we’re lucky that it was here. The rain didn’t get to it, so close to the wall, or it would be impossible to read. But I think it proves that I was right and…”

“What is it? What are you doing?” They both whirled round to see Edgar standing a short distance away, glaring at them.

“Come here, Edgar,” said Simon quietly – but for all the apparent calmness, Hugh could hear the bitterness in his voice. “We’ve found something interesting.”

“What?” the servant said suspiciously as he walked closer. Simon pointed down with his left hand. Edgar seemed to find his eyes drawn irresistibly down, following the finger, but when he looked up, confused, he found himself staring at Simon’s sword point. He stared in astonishment at the blade held in Simon’s hand, then glared at the bailiff.

“What is this?” he said, his voice registering angry incredulity.

“That is the print of a large horse, a large horse missing a nail on one shoe. It’s the same as the prints we found by the dead body of the abbot of Buckland,” said Simon softly.

“No. No, it can’t be!” Edgar said, looking from one to the other as if in complete bewilderment. Then he seemed to sway weakly, toppling to his left, and raising his hand to his face as if about to swoon.

“Bugger! Quickly, Hugh!” said Simon, but as he spoke, the man seemed to explode into action. Shooting upright, Edgar leaned away from Simon’s sword, which had followed him as he staggered, knocked it aside, and sprang forward and caught Simon by the throat, forcing him to the ground, the bailiff’s eyes wide in his surprise and shock at the sudden attack as he fell with the servant on top of him.

Hugh sighed, watching them roll in the mud and dirt of the yard. He reached for his purse and untied it, hefted it in his hand for a minute, then brought it down on the back of Edgar’s head with a solid and satisfying thud. Edgar slumped to lie comatose on top of the bailiff, and it was only with difficulty that Simon could roll him off, crawling out from underneath the suddenly collapsed body.

“I… er, maybe you should tie his hands, Hugh,” he said, wincing as he staggered slowly upright with one hand to his throat. Hugh nodded dourly and went into the stables. There were some leather thongs hanging on a hook, one of which he brought out, and he soon had the unconscious Edgar trussed like a chicken. They picked him up and dragged him round to the front of the house, through the door, and into the hall, where they dropped him in front of the fire.

It was over half an hour before he came to, wincing painfully as he shook his head slowly to clear it and glaring at the two men sitting nearby.

“I think you should explain why you killed the abbot,” said Simon, leaning forward and contemplating the man with his chin on his hand.

“I didn’t kill him, I…”

“We know you did. The hoofprint proves that. We know that the monk Matthew knew Baldwin, and that he asked the others to wait while he came here to visit your master. We know that when the monks left Crediton you and your master followed them and caught up with them beyond Copplestone. You took the abbot into the woods and killed him. Then, when he was dead, you went north to the road and came home. All I want to know is why!”

Edgar seemed to waver for a moment, then his jaw set into an expression of determination. He struggled, wriggling until he was sitting upright, then glared at the two on the bench.

“We know you did it, but why?” Simon repeated. “Why kill him in that way? Had he offended your master? Was it a woman?”

The servant still stared, but at Simon’s question he seemed to start. When he began to talk it was in a slow, contemplative voice, almost as if he was reciting slowly from memory.

“It… it was a woman. She was my wife. De Penne caught her and raped her, and I swore vengeance. I had tried to catch him in France, but when we got here I saw Matthew in the town and he said who he was travelling with. Matthew knew nothing about it. When they left, I followed with a friend and caught up with them outside Copplestone. I captured the abbot and… I killed him.”

Simon leaned forward, a frown of disbelief on his face. “You tell me you killed him like that for a woman? Your wife? You were married while you were in service to a knight? While you were travelling all over the world?”

“Yes. My master gave his permission.”

“And your master was not present at the killing?”

“No.”

“But the print, that was from his horse.”

“Yes, I took his horse.”

“And his armour?”

“I… I have armour.”

Simon looked at him without a word for a moment, then said, “So you are saying that he had nothing to do with the matter? So who was with you? Who was your friend?”

“I will not give him away.” It was said angrily, as if the question was an insult, as if the suggestion that he could betray a friend was inconceivable, was contemptible.

The bailiff stared at him musingly, his chin still resting on his hand. His eyes never left the face and eyes of the man on the floor in front of him, gazing intently at him as he considered, until Edgar dropped his angry gaze and glared at his lap.

“No,” he said at last. “I don’t believe you. I think Baldwin must have been involved and you’re protecting him.”

“It was as I have said! I did it. Sir Baldwin was not there.”

“We shall see.” Simon rose and walked over to the door. “Stay here with him, Hugh. I need to think.”

He walked out, went to the front door and stood outside to wait.

It was very difficult. Simon had only recently made the acquaintance of Baldwin, but he felt as though they had been friends for years. He liked the knight’s calm and steady gaze, the way that the man seemed to throw himself into whatever he was doing, as if he was determined to enjoy every day to the full, like a young man who has recently discovered new pleasures. And now he had to accuse this man, his friend, of a hideous murder. Almost before he was able to get to know him he must denounce him.

He felt a bleak depression stealing over him as he considered what he must do. And how would the man react? Would he reach for his sword? He was a knight, after all. He may well decide to deny his guilt in trial of combat with his accuser, and Simon was uncomfortably aware that it would require a great deal of heavenly assistance to overcome such a strong opponent. He walked round the house to the log where he had sat only a few mornings before while he nursed his hangover. It seemed so long ago now, so long since he had enjoyed the evening with this man, since his wife had laughed at every sally made by the grave but witty, educated knight.

Slowly he eased himself onto it and stared out over the grounds in front.

Baldwin arrived almost an hour later, dirty and soaked from his ride. As he came up the track, he waved and roared a greeting to Simon, who still sat on his log. He returned the wave, smiling briefly at his friend’s obvious pleasure in seeing him, then ambled round to the stable yard as the knight came up to it.

“Simon, so you’re back then. You were quick. I wasn’t expecting you yet,” Baldwin shouted as he dropped from the saddle and reached forward to shake Simon’s hand. “Have you brought your wife? Is Margaret here?”

“No, Baldwin. I thought it best not to bring her. Not today,” said Simon, his face haggard. He tried to smile as he shook hands with the knight, but although the mouth obeyed his brain’s command, his eyes could not lose their look of hunted fear.

“You look very serious. Is there something the matter?” said Baldwin, pausing as he led his horse to the stable. Simon shook his head dumbly, and, shrugging, the knight continued. Simon felt his eyes drawn down, and he stared in misery. There could be no doubt. There on the ground in front of him was the proof. He put his thumbs into his belt and followed the knight, who was taking the saddle off his horse and patting its neck.

“What is it, Simon? Can I help?” said Baldwin, the sympathy showing in his grave eyes and making Simon feel even worse.

“The abbot,” he said flatly, making the knight pause in his patting.

“Yes?”

“Why did you murder him?”

Baldwin’s eyes glittered, a spark of anger lighting his features, but as quickly as it had flared it died, and he sighed. “How did you find out?” He sounded almost uninterested as if he did not really care but thought the question should be asked for form’s sake.

“I didn’t, really,” sighed Simon. “I felt it couldn’t be the trail bastons, but I didn’t really know it was you until I saw your horse’s hoofprints.”

The knight looked down in surprise.

“You’re missing a nail in one of the hind hoofs. We saw that at the murder scene. It was the only thing we had to follow.”

Baldwin patted the horse’s neck again absentmindedly. “Well, we’d better go indoors and talk about it,” he said, and slowly led the way into the house.

As he entered the hall and saw Edgar sitting on the floor in front of a grim-faced Hugh, who was sitting with his sword drawn and pointing at him, Baldwin turned in anger. “Why do you hold my man like this?” he grated. “Is it not enough that I…”

“Sir Baldwin! Sir Baldwin, I have already admitted it,” said Edgar, quickly interrupting. When Simon looked at him, he thought that the man seemed almost to be pleading. He sat there with an expression of desperate yearning, as if he was anxious that he should be permitted to confess, as if the knight should not take away this chance of… what? Confession? Absolution? Simon turned back to the knight as he slowly made his way to his servant.

“You have admitted it? You?” Baldwin said softly. He walked to Edgar’s side, then crouched by him, his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Will that help us? We have nothing to fear, Edgar. If die I must, I will die happy at last. But I will not let you die for something I was responsible for.” He looked at Simon. “I can guarantee this man’s obedience. You have no need to leave him tied up like an animal.”

Simon heard Hugh’s cry of“ Master!”, but he kept his eyes on Baldwin. He gazed back, not with anger, but a kind of indifferent sadness and pain, as if this was the last thing he wanted, to have brought his servant to this pass and put the bailiff, his friend, to this trouble. Simon could not discern any remorse, any guilt. It was as though he was fully aware of what he had done, but that he felt it was nothing – of no importance. With a curt gesture, Simon acquiesced, and Baldwin took his own dagger and released his man.

“Go and fetch wine. There is no need for us to suffer thirst while I confess,” he said, patting Edgar on his shoulder. He walked unhurriedly to the bench. Seated, he motioned to Simon, who slowly walked over and sat opposite, next to Hugh.

The knight sighed, the firelight throwing occasional flashes of orange and red on his face and making his eyes glitter. He studied Simon carefully, a small smile on his face even as his brow wrinkled, as if he was wondering how to tell his tale.

“I killed him because he was a heretic and evil, and because he caused hundreds of my loyal companions to die.”