The Last Templar

Chapter Thirteen

Next morning, Simon was up early and had soon set off with Hugh trailing along behind. Margaret had agreed to let Black know that he would not be at home, and had sent one of the farm helpers to ride over to his house. She had also arranged for a man to go to Furnshill Manor to explain that the bailiff would be absent for a while and could not help with the investigation of the farmer’s death. But then she had overcome all his objections and forced him to take his servant with him.

Her concerns annoyed her. Margaret knew full well how unlikely it was that he would be attacked, but she could not forget how her father’s body had looked when the men brought it back. The sight had almost destroyed her and she did not want ever to suffer that sort of devastation again. To see his corpse, hacked and violated like that… If she saw Simon’s in a similar state, she thought, it would make her lose her mind. So now she was softly persuasive, insisting gently, “I know he’ll slow you down, but I don’t care. I need to know that you are travelling safely, just in case these men are still in the area.”

“But we don’t know that they’re round here, my love, they could be anywhere. And Hugh’ll slow me down.”

“No, we don’t know where they are, because you couldn’t follow them. So they could be here, so you’ll take Hugh, just in case.”

“No, but…”

“So you’ll take Hugh, just so that I know you’ll be a bit safer.”

“Well, the only thing is…”

“Because that way I know that there’s someone who can help to protect you.”

So at last he had shrugged and given in. He knew Margaret should be safe enough with all the men at the farm, even if the outlaws came here, so it did make sense for him to take Hugh with him. Even so, the thought of the journey did not seem to have put Hugh in any better frame of mind than Simon himself. Hugh was loyal, and had shown himself to be capable in a fight when they had been attacked by three cut-purses many years before, during market day at Moretonhampstead. Simon had been amazed to see his surly and reserved companion suddenly explode into action and, with his bare hands and the use of a cudgel retrieved from one of the band, put the three of them to flight.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Simon had asked, more in astonishment than surprise.

His servant had immediately lost his look of grim pleasure at his victory and instead became shifty, as if shy of demonstrating his skill, wary of earning a new reputation as a fighter. At last, after continual prompting, he looked up again and said, “You try to look after sheep on the moors when you’re small for your age. You try to keep them together when bigger boys come and try to take one or two of yours, because they want to hide the fact they’ve lost a couple of their own. You try it when your dad’ll take the skin off of your arse if you lose even one. You’d soon learn how to fight then, too.”

But that was two years ago now, and he was obviously unhappy about the thought of being waylaid and possibly having to fight with steel. He spent the journey constantly looking all around, which, if possible, seemed to make them go even slower than usual, to Simon’s annoyance.

After a while Simon dropped back until he was level with his servant. “Come on, Hugh. What’s the matter?”

“Hunh?” Hugh looked at him, and Simon was concerned to see the fear on his face.

“I’ve never seen you like this before, what’re you so worried about?”

“I’ve never had to fight serious before. I’ve never known anyone burn a traveller at the stake. I’m just worried that we could get caught by them.”

“But there were only two of them. We should be able to defend ourselves against two.”

“Two knights? Two men in full armour? Two men who’re prepared to risk eternal damnation for killing an abbot? You think we can protect ourselves against them? God!”

Simon rode forward, his face frowning at his servant’s anxiety. It was understandable, certainly, but the bailiff was irritated that his own man could already be anxious. It seemed to show how other people would feel, scared and fearful of travelling until the killers were caught.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. The sky was slightly overcast, with thin, watery clouds moving swiftly over the sky and keeping the main heat of the sun for themselves. They were forced to keep up a good pace merely to keep warm, much to Simon’s delight and Hugh’s disgust, and they seemed to cover the distance in no time.

When they arrived at Clanton, Simon was surprised to find David, the young monk, standing quietly leaning against the gate post to a field, and apparently meditating.

“Good morning, David.”

“Hello, bailiff,” he said, but there was no cheeriness in the welcome, only a kind of blank confusion, bordering on despair.

“Are you alright, David?” asked Simon, feeling sympathy stirring at the sight of the obvious misery of the man.

The monk glanced up at him, with a look of loathing, as if furious at such a facile question. “Alright? Alright? After what we saw yesterday? An abbot killed like a heretic? How can I be alright?” His voice dropped to a low mutter, like a child who has been cheated of a promised toy. “We set off in good spirits, and now our leader is dead, murdered in an obscene way. Nothing can be alright again. All I want to do is go back home again, to Tychfield, and now because of this I must go on to Buckland and give my condolences to the priory. I’m sorry, bailiff,” he said suddenly, looking up at him with a small frown. “I’m sorry to be so curt, but I am not used to seeing such sights, and that it should have happened to him…”

The bailiff and his servant dropped from their horses and walked towards the farm with the monk. “I am sorry, it was a foolish question. But this is not: do you have any idea why the abbot was killed?”

Apart from a shrug of the shoulders, he received no response. Simon grunted, head down in his shoulders as he slouched along. “Hunh! I only wish I had the vaguest idea. Why on earth anyone would want to try to hold a man and then make off before he could demand the ransom money… and then to kill the hostage like that – it just makes no sense.”

The monk shrugged again. He was obviously just as confused.

Simon turned a frowning face to the young monk. “Tell me, David. How well did you know the abbot?”

“Not at all, really. I met him when he arrived at Tychfield, my abbey. He was on the way down to Buckland and I was asked to join him and take some goods and gifts with me. He wasn’t very talkative on the journey, he seemed too engrossed with his own thoughts for the most part, so I never really spoke to him much.”

“Oh. Oh, well. So what do you know about him?”

“Well, not very much. He came from France, I know that. I saw his letters of introduction from the pope.”

“From the pope himself?” Simon was surprised. “What was he doing going to Buckland, then. I’d have thought he would have stayed in Avignon.”

David cast a quick glance at Simon, narrowing his eyes and obviously assessing him. “He may have found it better to be out of France.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the new pope didn’t like the last one, so quite a number of men that were in favour then aren’t any longer. I think the abbot was unpopular with the new pope and he was given Buckland to get him out of France.”

“Oh?”

“He never wanted to talk about it, but…” He fell silent and pensive for a moment, but then continued in a rush, as if he wanted to get the words out before he could change his mind. “Well, I think that’s what happened. I think he wasn’t in favour any more. I think the new pope heard about something he had done and he was sent here to be out of the way, and the fact of it hurt him deeply – especially his pride. He was very proud.”

“Why do you say that?”

The monk gave a short laugh, sounding a little bitter. “I’m a monk! I may be young and new to the order, but even so… We’re supposed to be humble. He behaved like a knight in the way he treated others, always arrogant and often abusive. There were several times when he got drunk and insulted other people, and we had to calm them to stop him fighting them. But if you want to know more about the abbot, you’ll need to speak to brother Matthew. He came over with the abbot from France. He must know something about him.”

“Which is brother Matthew?”

“He’s the old one, the happy one – well, usually, he’s not happy now. Poor man! He seems to have taken the whole affair worse than any of us. I suppose because he came over with the abbot from France.”

“Were they friends?”

“Oh, I suppose so… that is… well, yes.” He seemed unsure.

They continued in silence for the rest of the journey. David seemed to almost regret having said as much as he already had and merely grunted at any attempt at further conversation, leaving Simon with the uncomfortable sensation of being a confidante without the pleasure of a secret to hold. He was relieved when they finally came up to the farmyard of Clanton Barton, and he looked forward to speaking to the others with anticipation, hoping that they would be able to shed some light on the affair.

But when he walked into the room with the great fire blazing away he was struck by a complete inability to frame his thoughts clearly, let alone ask any questions. It seemed grotesque to be asking about the abbot’s past in front of these good men when he had only just died, but he could think of nothing else to do. And then again, he knew that he must try to find out as much as possible about the man. It was not a pure guess that he would find answers in the man’s past, it was more a premonition that there must be a logical reason for the murder; especially the method of the killing. Why else would he have died in that way? Either it meant that the killers had taken him and murdered him for no purpose, or they knew him and wanted to kill him for some very specific reason. So the question was: would anyone want him dead? Why would they want to kill an abbot? The only way to find out was to question the monks – surely one among them must have some knowledge of the man who had led them?

“I suppose you have all heard that we found your abbot’s body?” he started, as he walked in and sat down, looking around at them all. They had all started at the sound of Simon’s voice when he had entered, all turning swiftly to stare, as if panicked by the mere sound of a human, looking as frightened as a flock of sheep upon hearing a dog. Now they seemed to be listening intently, sitting forward on their seats as he spoke and staring at him with the fixed, eagerly frowning concentration of men who would try their best to help. He sighed, this was not going to be easy. “He was killed by someone who tied him to a tree and burned him – probably while he was still alive. Obviously he was robbed, but that hardly explains the matter, does it? Why should he have been killed in that way? Why would someone burn him like a heretic? I have no idea why or what could have happened, and I need your help.”

He stood and slowly paced the room behind the huddled monks, who turned to watch him. He kept his eyes on the ground, carefully thinking as he went, as if he was talking to himself and not to them, almost as if he was unaware of their presence. “He was taken from you, as if he was to be kept for a ransom; he was taken deep into the woods like a hostage. But robbers normally go in larger groups, they don’t usually go around in pairs. They stay within a group so that they can ambush travellers more easily. So were these men part of a bigger group, or were they alone? Only the two were seen, there were no tracks of any others, so it seems that they were alone.

“They took the abbot into the woods. That would be normal, to avoid the roads and make an escape before the hue and cry could be raised. But normally it would mean that the robbers would be trying to escape, to go somewhere safe, somewhere to hide with their hostage and his money until they could claim the ransom. These men simply tied the abbot to a tree and set fire to him. Why? Why would they do that?” He spun around and glowered at the monks. “I can’t see a reason.”

He slowly tramped back to his chair by the fire, sat and stared at them again. “So I want you to tell me all you can about this abbot. What was his name, where did he come from, why was he going to Buckland? Everything. Who knew him best, out of all of you?”

He tried to ask the question as gently as possible, but the monks all stared at him in silent alarm, as if they were scared that he might accuse one of them of wanting the abbot dead. Perhaps it was the shock of the realisation that this seemed to be no ordinary attack by robbers that held them so quiet, but after a few minutes Simon could feel his confusion at the lack of response turning to impatience.

He looked over at David, his voice harsher. “One of you must have known him, even if only a little. Who was he? What was he like?”

“He was a proud man.” It was a statement of fact, a mild comment, as if it was an easily pardonable fault in one who ranked high in God’s army. The oldest monk had spoken – no longer the cheerful monk who could wink as if snaring a joke, now he was a small, worried man who sat with his eyes cast down as if he feared the response of his brothers, but even as Simon looked at him, his gaze came up to meet Simon’s questioning scowl with calm defiance. He seemed to consider for a moment, then continued. “He had been a knight in France and had served the pope well, which gave him his pride, and he was favoured by Pope Clement, rest his soul, until Clement died. Afterwards he was offered Buckland, and he resolved to come here to spend his last years in peace and dedication.”

“Your name?”

“I said Matthew.”

“Thank you. So who was he?”

“His name was Oliver de Penne.”

“Why would he have been offered Buckland? Why not an abbey nearer his home? Why was he sent so far from the pope?” asked Simon, his eyes narrowing as he tried to understand.

“Why Buckland? Maybe the pope thought it would be far enough away from any old temptations, from anything in his past that could persuade him to stray.”

“How do you mean, a woman?”

The old monk smiled gently. “There are many temptations, bailiff. I do not know. Maybe, yes, a woman. Who can tell?”

“Do you have any idea why he was so worried about being attacked on the road?”

“Worried about being attacked?” The old man seemed genuinely surprised at the question.

“Yes. When I met you all on the road near Furnshill, he seemed very worried about being attacked. He kept asking me to join you on your journey and seemed annoyed when I refused.”

“Perhaps,” said the monk, shrugging. “I think many people are anxious when they are in new lands, when they don’t know the roads and the villages. I am sure that he was simply hoping to have the company of a man who knew the area.”

Simon thought for a minute. “Possibly,” he admitted. Now he thought about it, could he not have been wrong?

Maybe it was just the natural fear of a man of peace in a new and seemingly threatening country? No, even as he wondered, he knew that the abbot’s fear was more than the normal caution of a traveller. It seemed to be a deep-rooted terror, almost as if he expected to be attacked. “But, surely, if he had been a knight and was proud he would not have been so fearful of a new land? He must have travelled before.”

“Ah, yes, bailiff. Perhaps he had.”

Simon sighed. “Can any of you remember anything else about him? Anything that could help me?” None of them moved. They sat staring at him in silence, apart from the older monk, Matthew, who gazed imperturbably at the ceiling.

Simon held up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Is there nothing more you can tell me? There must be something, something in his past that could give us a hint why this should have happened to him. I cannot believe that he was killed for no reason – even a madman would have had to have a reason to kill an abbot.” He had no answer. The monks sat still and quiet, staring in their shock and fear. “In that case I can do no more here. Good day!”

He strode out angrily and paused outside in the long, dark-panelled corridor. He knew that they were confused and worried after the attack and the death of the abbot, but surely there must be a reason for his death? It was inconceivable, surely, that it was just a random attack? And one of them must know why he had been so scared of being attacked on the road.

As he put his hand on the latch to let himself out, he heard his name called, and on turning he was surprised to find that David and Matthew had followed him out. He nodded curtly, and with a questioning eyebrow raised.

“Bailiff, we will be continuing on our journey soon. Before we go, Matthew would like to have a word with you,“ said David, and went back into the room.

Simon stood and waited. The monk seemed not to mind the silence, staring gravely at the bailiff.

“Shall we go outside, bailiff? It seems sad to be indoors like rats when the sun is shining, especially after the rains of the last two years.”

Matthew waited while Simon opened the door and held it open for him, then led the way out into the lane and slowly strolled up it meditatively, as if unaware of Simon’s presence alongside.

“There are some things, bailiff, which are better left unsaid in front of my brothers,” he began quietly. “They are unused to the secular world. Even David, who has only been in the order for a matter of a few years, has not really had much dealing with the outside world. This whole affair has upset them all very deeply, as you can imagine. That is why I stopped them all running after the robbers. David wanted to give chase, but I stopped him. I thought the others could be put into danger – and I thought the robbers might kill de Penne if they knew they were being hunted. It seemed sensible to get help instead.” He sighed. “I was wrong, it seems. Perhaps if we had given chase we could have saved him.” He stopped suddenly and turned to the moors reflectively. “They are magnificent, aren’t they?” he said as he stared at them blankly.

Glancing past him, Simon nodded, but then, wanting to keep the monk talking, he said, “So you think that his past would shock the others?” and was pleased to see the quick, suspicious frown that Matthew shot at him.

“His past? Well…” he paused, seeming undecided as he considered. “Yes, quite possibly, but not for the reason you think.” They started to walk again. “You see, the Church is a simple place for many. They think it is dedicated to the worship of God, and to the improvement of people who want to dedicate themselves to God. My brothers know that, and that is all they wish to know. I am different, because I was called late in my life. I have been many things, seen many places and peoples.” He laughed briefly, a sudden gust of laughter. “I have even been what they would call a pirate!”

“So?”

“So, my friend, I know what the world is like. They do not. I try to be humble and assume the best in people, but always I have to struggle with the cynicism that I developed in my youth. It is hard, sometimes. So, when I was called to become a monk, I felt that I could live the life of seclusion well and help others, but I can not totally believe the reasoning behind all of the orders from the church. They do not all come straight from God. Some come from men. The other monks all accept any order as if it comes from God without any human interference.”

“I don’t think I quite…”

“No, my apologies for rambling. You are right. What I am trying to say is that my friends cannot comprehend what life at Avignon is like. I can, because I was born in the secular world and lived in it for many years. And then, when I was called, it was at first to become a senior monk, joining an ancient and noble order, where it was essential that honour and honesty should be upheld. It was only quite recently that I joined this order, my friend, and I spent my first years at Avignon. Bailiff, the pope is Christ’s vicar on earth. He should be the leading Christian – pious, faithful and honourable. But this is not always so. You see, Holy Mother Church is organised and run by men, and they are as fallible as any other men. Control of the Holy See carries with it a great deal of power and wealth, so within it are many who wish to usurp that power. Men come and are promoted for money; men are given indulgences for gold. And sometimes, when the pope wants to allow it, a ruler can purchase a position for a friend. And that friend becomes strong and even more wealthy by his new position. But if the pope then changes, if the old pope dies and a new one takes over, then those men in power can suddenly have their wealth and authority removed, and they are left to find a new position.”

“Yes. So do you think that’s what happened to de Penne?”

The monk laughed again. “I have no doubt. I think he was a favourite of King Philip of France and the last pope. He nearly told me as much one night when he had drunk too much. He was miserable, bemoaning his fate, and complaining about his misfortune. He said that he had been a member of a great order, and that he had performed a service for Pope Clement, and that this was the reason for his position of power, but that the new pope disliked him, and had him removed from the papal court. Hence his move to Buckland.”

“Did he say what this service was?”

“No, my friend. Nor did I care. When you have spent some time at Avignon you tend to ignore the moaning and wailing of people who feel hard done by. There are too many who feel just that. Too many forget their vows of poverty and chastity in these harsh times.”

“So you think he was sent here as a punishment? He was banished?” said Simon, frowning.

“Well yes, but you’re right; it was not a very tough penalty, was it? After all I understand Buckland to be a thriving abbey, and in beautiful country. No, I think he was simply sent away to where the pope, or another of his enemies could forget him. He rose up – and then was caused to fall.”

Simon frowned at his feet. “Could an enemy from Avignon have sent someone to kill him?”

“No. I suppose you mean the pope, but no, I’m sure that he would not do such a thing. Perhaps one of his bishops, but I doubt it. No,” he said, pausing once more and staring at the moors as they lay lurking in the distance. “No, I think it is unlikely. I would dare to guess that it was simply a chance encounter, that the robbers killed him for some slight or insult. After all, he was a proud man, maybe he insulted them and they decided to punish him for it. Nothing more.”

“But that can’t be it! I just can’t believe it, brother. They must have been either mad or… or they knew exactly what they were doing and intended to kill him that way, to make some kind of point, perhaps.”

“Then they were mad,” said Matthew evenly, still gazing at the view, but with a certain tenseness, a stiffness, Simon felt.

“But why? Why take a man and kill him like that? Even if they were mad, surely they would have found another man to kill? Why an abbot? It makes no sense!”

“There are many reasons to kill, bailiff,” said the monk, turning sharply to face him, but without rancour; more with an expression of sadness on his face. “Too many reasons for you to understand, perhaps. I have known some – fear, hatred, jealousy. Oh, yes, I have known many, And sometimes I have been mad while I have killed.” His eyes seemed to mist over, as if he was moving back in time as he remembered and drawing away from Simon as he spoke. “When I was a soldier I killed many men. So the abbot’s end was a bad one… I have seen worse – I have done worse. That was why I joined the order, to try to forget, and at the same time for atonement. Now, as I look back, none of the killings I did made much sense.”

“So you really think it was madmen?”

“Yes, I do. Someone was mad when they did that to de Penne.”

“Then we must catch them, to stop them doing it again.”

“Must we?” the monk said, looking at him with a gentle sadness. “I do not think they will do this again, bailiff.”

“Why not?” Simon asked, confused now.

“Whoever did this was mad, but they are well now and will not do it again. I feel sure of it. Your people are safe from them.”

Simon stared at him. “How can you say that?” he managed at last, controlling his anger with difficulty. “How can you say that? The man was killed horribly and you imply that his killer was mad but now is alright? How can I believe that?”

The monk shrugged, and after a moment Simon calmed a little. “So you do think it was somebody who was after the abbot?”

“I think his time had come and the Lord decided to end his life. I think the Lord selected an agent to perform his task – and maybe that agent was afflicted with a madness while he did the Lord’s will. But, now God’s will has been carried out, the killer is probably normal again. And now” – he glanced up at the sky, “Now I think it is time you returned home before it gets too late.” He turned and started back to the house.

“Brother! Wait, please. Will you not explain more? Why do you think…”

“No, my son. I think I have said all I wanted to. Don’t forget what I have said.”

Simon stood and watched him go back to the house. He turned at the door, as if wondering whether to say something more, but shook his head vaguely and went in. Simon was left with the distinct impression that the old monk knew more than he was letting him know. He shrugged and wandered over to the horses, where Hugh stood, whittling at a stick with a knife. As Simon drew near he looked up and hastily put his knife away.

“Are we going back now?”

“Yes. Yes, we’re going back.”

They mounted their horses, and with a last, frustrated glance at the farmhouse, Simon wheeled his horse and they rode off.

They were deep in the woods here, and Godwen caught the occasional glimpse of the cottage as they came towards it through the trees. “Thank God!” he thought, “this’s the last one. After this we can go home.”

Godwen and Mark had been sent by Black to visit the assarts in the woods near where the abbot’s body had been found, to ask whether any strangers had been past that day – and to make sure the people were well and had not themselves been attacked. So far they had found nothing, and Mark was keen to finish their task.

The faded and patchy walls of the limewashed cottage showed more clearly now as they came close, and the trees opened out into a wide, trodden yard to show the smallholding. There was a new house; with the chimney gently trickling thin streamers of smoke into the air and leaving the surroundings redolent of its sweet promise of warmth and rest. The windows were close set under the thatch, where the rain could not be blown in to dampen the tapestries behind, and the door was almost in the middle, giving the place a feeling of symmetrical stability. When they reined in at the front there was no sign of the owner, and Mark allowed his horse to skitter restlessly as he peered at the holding. Watching him, Godwen sighed. Mark radiated sulkiness, his black eyebrows fixed in a thick line above the glaring brown eyes, his thin mouth set hard and resolute below the narrow, broken nose. Even his hair, thick and luxuriant as a hedge in spring, seemed to be sprung and taut with his emotion.

“No one here, from the look of it,” said Mark, glancing over at him. Godwen grunted. “Knock at the door.”

“No need, my loves. I’m here.”

Spinning, Godwen saw a short but heavyset man standing behind Mark, who, taken unawares, jerked round in a spasm of fear. Smiling, Godwen kicked his horse forward.

“Afternoon.”

“Ah, afternoon to you. What can I do for you?”

He seemed amused by their arrival, watching them from under his bushy brows, the grey hair seeming to fit him like lichen on an old log it was so grizzled and rough-looking. His clothes were almost exclusively leather, from the tunic to the kilt and down to his light boots, and he carried a rusted pike in his hand. Mark seemed to be at a momentary loss for words as he gazed at the man, so it was Godwen who introduced them and explained their visit while the man listened, ducking his head now and again to show he understood.

Cutting the explanation short, Mark snapped, “If you heard nothing, then just say so and we’ll be gone. Did you hear anyone? Or see anything?”

Perhaps it was Mark’s curt sharpness, but Godwen could almost feel the little man withdraw from them at this. He seemed to almost shrink in front of them, as if he could hide in his coat.

“Oh, no, no, sir. I didn’t hear him, I’m sure,” he said softly, as if afraid, but Godwen was convinced he could see a little gleam in his narrow, dark eyes.

“Good. That’s that then. Come on, Godwen,” said Mark.

He whirled his horse around, trotting off as if expecting Godwen to follow like a dog now that he had been given the command.

The woodman watched him go, then turned his gaze to Godwen, where he sat musingly on his horse. “Aren’t you going with him?”

Godwen shrugged and gazed at Mark’s back as he rode into the trees again, a bland expression on his face. He had no desire to listen to Mark’s moaning all the way home. “He’ll not need me to help him find his way,” he said mildly and turned back to glance at the leathery little man.

His eyes fixed on Godwen’s face, the man seemed to consider for a moment before nodding seriously. “I think you’re right. He seems to know what he wants. Only trouble is, he’s in too much of a hurry.”

“Yes. I’m not, though. Can I ask you a couple of things?”

“Course!” said the man. “What do you want to know?”

Godwen looked over at the lane, to where it passed through the woods some fifty yards away. “You didn’t hear the man as he died, but did you hear or see anything else?”

“Not on that night, no. Nobody came past then.”

“Has someone come past since then? A man who could have been a knight on a great horse? He probably had a squire or someone with him on a smaller horse?”

“No, no pair of men, just the one.”

“One?”

“Yes, there was a knight came past two days ago, my love. Big man he was. But he was all alone.”

“Was he on a war horse?”

“Oh no, no. No, he was on a lovely little grey mare.”