The Last Templar

Chapter Twenty-six

One week later, Simon rode over to see his friend Peter Clifford for one last visit before he went to take up his new position at Lydford.

“Come in, come in and sit down, old friend,” said the priest when he entered, handing his cloak to the servant at the door. When he was seated and had a full tankard of wine in his hand, the priest sat back with a contemplative smile and surveyed him.

The last time they had met, on Simon’s return from the hunt for the trail bastons, Simon had seemed older. There had been new lines of worry and anxiety on his face and brow, deep impressions like scars. But now the priest was pleased to see that peace had returned to his features, making him seem younger once more. It was as if he had tested himself in a severe trial and found himself satisfied with the result. The memories of the horrors he had seen would never leave him, Clifford felt, but he already seemed to have been able to put them into perspective.

The priest nodded to himself. He was happy that his young friend was more than capable of the new job he had been given. He was not like so many officials, grasping for whatever extra money could be squeezed from others in unfair taxes, this man was fair and honest. Clifford was all too aware of the extortion and corruption prevalent in other shires, and was pleased to think that at Lydford at least the common people would be protected.

“So when do you leave for Lydford, Simon?” he asked after a pause.

“We go tomorrow. It will take a few days to go all that way with the things that Margaret wants to take with us. We have already had to organise two ox carts.”

“So you should be there in a week?”

“Yes, I would hope so. We shall stay in Oakhampton for a day or so and introduce ourselves to the bailiff there, then go straight on.”

“I see.” Clifford poured himself a little more wine and raised an enquiring eyebrow at his friend, who shook his head. He put the jug back on the hearth. “It was sad to hear about the Carters – and Roger Ulton. I suppose no man can see into another’s heart, but I would never have thought him a murderer.”

“No. He did not seem evil. The Carters will be all right, they’re mostly guilty of acting foolishly, and their offences seem unimportant compared with Ulton’s.”

“Yes, or compared with those of the outlaws. It’s good that the trail bastons are in gaol, thanks to God! That’s one horror less for the people hereabouts to fear, especially after killing the abbot like that!”

“Yes,” said Simon, avoiding his eye.

“They should be found guilty when they are tried, so that will be an end to the matter. Roger and they will soon have to pay for their crimes with a rope.”

“Yes.”

Frowning slightly, the priest nodded in amused perplexity as if he was confused by a disparity between the bailiff’s words and his appearance. Leaning forward, Clifford carefully placed his tankard down beside him while he looked at his friend. “Simon, you seem to be trying to keep something from me!”

The bailiff looked up, his expression one of indifferent innocence. “Me? What would I keep from you?”

“Simon!” the priest tried a mixture of sternness and humour together.

“Oh, very well, Peter, but I charge you to keep this silent as the confessional.”

The priest frowned slightly, but nodded. “You have my word.”

The bailiff smiled at him, but now Clifford could see that he was troubled as he spoke, as if something had been giving him difficulty for a while and it was with relief that he could at last speak to another of his problem.

“Let us suppose,” Simon began, “that there has been a murder, or some other crime. Let us suppose that men have been caught for this crime, but that they were not guilty of it. Somebody else was. There is evidence that shows who was guilty, but the man responsible is a fair and honourable man who could be of use to the area. The men who are assumed to be guilty are truly guilty of many other crimes and if they are punished they will not be missed. If the evidence is presented, a good man will be destroyed. Would I be right in withholding the evidence, do you think?”

The priest let out his breath in a low whistle. “You would have to be very sure that you were right!” he said at last. “You could be mistaken, after all, and be letting the guilty man go free purely because he has confused you and pulled the wool over your eyes. Why should you believe him?”

The bailiff shifted guiltily, as though he was himself the object of the conversation. He seemed to think carefully before answering, then spoke with conviction. “No, I am certain that I am right. I know who did it and I am sure of his motives. No, the only thing that worries me is whether I am right to keep back the evidence.”

“Well, if you are as sure as you seem to be that this man is good and useful, I would say that you would be right. There are so many crimes. What good would it do to have yet another man punished if he could be of use to the people around here? And if, as you say, the others who will be punished are already guilty of other crimes, I assume you mean by that they will die anyway, so what difference will it make to them? I suppose that if you must keep something back in order that one should remain free, I see no problem with that.”

“Good. That was as I thought. Thank you, old friend.”

“So, you have had a great success with the matter, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you have caught the murderers of the abbot and of Brewer and the killers of the merchants. It is a good way to begin your tenure at Lydford, isn’t it?”

It was late afternoon when Simon returned home. He threw the reins of his horse to Hugh, who took them with his usual taciturn grimace, and wandered through to the hall of his house.

It seemed odd to see the place like this, he thought, with so many of their belongings packed away in boxes and ready to be collected on the morrow for the journey to Lydford. As he clumped over the floor to his wife it seemed as if the whole building echoed in its emptiness, and as he listened to his own footsteps, he realised that he must get used to the sound of emptiness, for the castle would be just as quiet in the absence of its master, Lord de Courtenay.

“How is Peter?” said Margaret as he kissed her.

“Oh, he’s fine. He wishes us all the best in Lydford, bless him. I shall miss him when we have gone.”

“I am sure he will visit us often, my love. Now, do you want some wine?”

He sat and gratefully took the mug she passed, then sat in silent contemplation. So much seemed to have happened since his return from Taunton that he was still not fully relaxed. Nor would he really be able to recover, he knew, until he was in his new home and had taken up his new duties. But now he had spoken to Peter Clifford at least he was sure he had done the right thing.

As he was thinking this, Hugh entered to announce a guest.

“Sir Baldwin Furnshill.”

The knight entered, Edgar a little behind him as usual, both loudly stomping over the floor and bowing slightly to Margaret and Simon.

“Welcome, friends. Please take a seat. Some wine?”

After a few minutes of general talk Baldwin asked Simon to join him outside to look at a new horse. Smiling quietly to himself, Simon followed the knight out into the open air and round to the stables at the side of his house.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” said the knight, patting the neck of his mare, a pure white arab.

“Yes, she is,” Simon agreed, sipping at his wine as he looked at the animal. She seemed one of those creatures built for speed and agility, prancing nervously under the two men’s gaze, all fire and spirit as she rolled her eyes at them.

Baldwin did not look at the bailiff as he spoke quietly, but stayed staring at the horse. “I do not know how to thank you, my friend.”

Simon shrugged, embarrassed. “Then don’t. I don’t believe you are evil, even if you did kill the abbot. That was an act of revenge, no more, and I think any man would find it hard to condemn you for ending a life so steeped in crime. In any case, what good would your death serve? There are enough men who would be prepared to see you hang for killing the abbot, but what good would it do? As you said, it seems a remarkable coincidence that the abbot appeared here when you had just given up your quest. I don’t know, maybe it’s that that stopped me – the thought that it could be God’s will. Maybe it’s because I don’t know whether I would have been able to stop myself doing the same. Whatever the reason, I can live with my conscience.”

“Even so, you would be right to send me for judgement.” The bailiff shifted uneasily. “Yes, I know. And maybe I should. But I cannot see what good that would do. Oh, the court would have the man who wanted to see the abbot dead, it is true, but would that bring him back? And even if you were sent to court, would it help anyone to have you convicted? I do not think so.”

“But I am a Templar. I should be in prison for that alone.”

“Well, I have looked into that. Very few Templars were ever arrested in this country, and all were allowed to disappear. Why should you be any different? I believe you when you describe how the Templars used to be. I can remember how my father used to talk about them, which was always with respect as an honourable Order, as honourable as any other monks.”

“But what if the trail bastons are found guilty of the murder of the abbot?”

“They won’t be. Godwen’s evidence shows that there was only one man with the grey and that was Rodney, some days before he met the trail bastons. I have made sure that the main crimes they will be tried for were those they committed at Oakhampton, which means the ones before Rodney joined them. They don’t even deny them, so they will only be tried for those. It will make the hearing a lot faster. Of course, some people may wish to believe that Rodney of Hungerford was guilty of the killing of the abbot, but it’s hardly my fault if they want to, is it? I have done and said nothing that would confirm that they had anything to do with de Penne’s death.”

The knight stopped staring at his mare and turned to him. “You must be glad that the madness of the last weeks is over at last – Brewer’s murder discovered and his killer caught, the abbot’s death explained, the outlaws caught. Now you can go to your new home in peace and matters here can return to normal.”

“Yes. It would have been impossible for me to go without settling things here. Did you know that they have found Brewer’s son?”

“No, I had not heard.”

“Yes, Morgan Brewer was found in Exeter. He’s a merchant now, and apparently wealthy. That was where his father used to get his money from. His son sent money home now and then to help keep him.”

“Ah, I see. Is he coming back?”

“No. It seems he hated his father as much as everyone else. He has said he will remain in Exeter and continue as a merchant. The only reason he sent money back was to stop his father following him, to keep him here.”

“I don’t understand – why send money to his father if he hated him so much?”

“It’s simple, apparently. Morgan Brewer has a good living in the city, he’s well known and liked. He didn’t want an old and dirty farmer arriving and disrupting his life. He agreed to send money when his father wanted, and it was not much to pay to keep him away. The farm cost little and stayed profitable, and the old farmer needed little to keep him in ale.”

Baldwin looked at him thoughtfully. “But why did he boast to the Carters and Ulton, then? If he had to live by his son’s alms, why did he brag of his own fortune?”

“Perhaps he looked on his son’s success as being a measure of his own? I don’t know.” Simon shrugged. “It’s possible that the old stories are true and he came back from war with money – maybe if you dig under his floor you will find a chest filled with gold. I don’t know. It’s sad, though,” Simon’s eyes became reflective as he pondered. “It’s sad to think that Brewer could die and leave no one to mourn him. Nobody seems to care that he’s gone, not even his son…”

Baldwin turned and gripped Simon’s upper arm. “My friend,” he said quietly and gravely, “his problems are over, and the miserable end he suffered was his own fault. He lived by making others unhappy, that is why he was killed, why his son left him, and why he will not be mourned. Forget him; he is gone. There’s no need for you to mourn him. You have done enough for others. Here, while we are alone, I want to give you my thanks. If you never manage to do another good deed for all the rest of your life, you can at least die easy, knowing that you have given me a new life.” His eyes rested on Simon’s for a minute, then he said, “And know that I will always help you if you ever need it.”

Simon laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, his temporary gloom fleeing. “You may regret that! I have already thought of a way you can be of use.”

A vague suspiciousness gleamed as Baldwin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me? How?”

“Don’t look at me like that! It won’t be too painful, I swear!” Simon laughingly protested. “Since the death of your brother the area has been without a magistrate, a keeper of the peace. I knew you would wish to help the area as you may, so I have put your name forward, and I think you will be the next magistrate of Crediton.”

Absolute horror showed in Baldwin’s face. “What! Me, a keeper of the king’s peace? But… but for that I have to be…”

“Yes, you cannot be out hunting all day, you have to sit on the bench and work for your living.”

“But Simon, I’ve never done anything like that before, how…?”

“You will learn fast enough, I think. Now, enough! Let us go in and see what Margaret has produced for us.”

They strolled back to the front of the house. At the door, Baldwin stopped and looked at the view. “Simon,” he began quietly, but the bailiff shook his head.

“No. My friend, you are a man of position. That is all that matters and all that need be known. Come, let’s eat.”

They walked in and shut the door behind them.