The Last Templar

Chapter Eighteen

Black led them all up the hill, moving slowly and carefully in the faint luminosity of the brightening dawn, his sword a faint grey glimmer against the darker colours around.

Simon felt lightheaded and his chest seemed tight as he toiled slowly behind the hunter. He had a kind of nervous, almost fearful, trepidation at the thought of the fight to come, but step by step he found that it was becoming smothered by his anger and disgust at what these men had done, killing and raping in his shire. He gritted his teeth and carried on. His stomach felt empty, his muscles frozen, and his nerves were all on edge at the thought of fighting, but he slowly became aware of a gleeful expectancy. After all, these men would hardly surrender without a fight, they were trail bastons; they would know that after a trial all they could expect would be the noose. They must fight to the death, expecting no quarter, if they were given the chance. The posse must make sure they had no chance.

They slowly walked on, and then, when they were halfway up the hill, Black held out his hand stiffly in warning and the men all froze into immobility. Simon felt his bowels turn to water as he looked up the hill and saw a figure standing up, high above them, near a tree. If he saw the posse, he could give the alarm – they would lose the chance of surprising the outlaws. The figure seemed to be stationary for a while, then turned and disappeared, and Simon realised with a quick breath of relief that he must have been urinating. The hand slowly drifted away and they moved off again, their tension and excitement growing with every step.

There was a gully here, a steep-sided cleft in the hillside, with a small trickle of water at the bottom, and Black led them up it. The sides appeared almost to be cliffs, tall and grey, looming up on either side, with a slight, lighter greyness above them where the sky hurried towards dawn. They moved slowly and cautiously, trying to avoid the rocks that lay strewn all around as if intentionally placed to catch an unwary blade and give warning, pausing every now arid then to listen before continuing.

It was a miserable journey, one that Simon would never forget. They clambered over rocks and mud, trying to keep out of the water, trying to keep their weapons from knocking against the stone of the walls, walking hunched to prevent their being seen, but trying to move quickly so that they could get to the camp before dawn broke and maintain the surprise of their attack. Simon found his mind wandering as though it wanted to avoid thinking about the skirmish ahead, as though it wanted to ignore the danger they were walking into, and by ignoring it make it disappear. He found himself thinking about Lydford and his new role, thinking about his wife and daughter and how they would enjoy the life at the castle deep in the moors.

But then, with a feeling of near relief, he saw the hand come up again and realised that they were almost at the top of the gully. Up ahead he could see the lighter grey of the sky, outlining the top of the hill itself. Simon frowned as he peered ahead. He could see no sign of the trail bastons, no smoke from a fire, no movement. There seemed to be no one near, only the posse itself, and the only sounds he could hear were the heavy breathing of the men behind him and the blood hammering in his ears.

Black moved off softly and disappeared, a darker smudge against the horizon for an instant, then gone. Simon and the men stayed where they were and waited. It seemed like an hour before the hunter came back, but it could only have been a few minutes, and as he stood at the top of the gully he seemed to pause before waving them on.

Simon quickly moved up to the top of the gully and stood beside Black as the others came out. When they were all out and waiting, the hunter led them swiftly up, along a track in the grass, to a mound at the top of the hill which stood slightly proud of the ground all round like a wall. He flattened himself against it and listened, then sidled along, motioning the others to do the same. At last, Simon heard a sound. It was a horse whinnying from the other side of the earthwork, and as he heard it he gripped his sword more tightly as he followed the hunter.

Dawn was a glow in the east now, showing the clouds distinctly and lighting their way as they followed the side of the wall. Apart from the horse there was no sound, nothing apart from their soft footsteps on the grass. There was not even a breeze. His tension mounting, Simon saw the hand signal once more. This time, he was sure, would be the last. They were almost at the entrance now, a darker mark against the grey of the earthen wall. He saw Black turn quickly and glance at the men behind, then he seemed to lean forward and peer through to the camp before motioning urgently. Then he was gone.

Simon took a deep breath, muttered a quick prayer, and darted after him.

When he thought back on the mad scramble of the fight later, it seemed that the next few minutes were a discordant melee of disjointed and seemingly disconnected events as the men ran silently into the camp and tried to capture the trail bastons. It was as if the men were all somehow tied individually to their own brief tableaux with their enemies, each small battle with its own participants, each separate and unique, but each linked one to another to create the whole. It seemed to Simon, when he thought about it, that it was like a tapestry. A tapestry composed of a number of individual threads that combined to build the picture, and, like a tapestry, the picture could only be discerned when the whole was viewed together.

But for Simon, as he ran full pelt into the camp, the battle was pure confusion. There seemed to be no sense or coherence in the small struggling groups of men and the only thought in his mind was that they must stop the outlaws and prevent any further attacks.

Just as they came in through the gap in the rampart, he caught a glimpse of Black. He had almost run into a man who was about to wander outside, a young man who was yawning and stretching as he walked, only to stop, dumbfounded, at the sight of the posse rushing in. He seemed too surprised to make a sound. Without pausing in his stride, the hunter thumped him in the belly with a balled fist and he fell with a gasp of pain, his hands clutched to his stomach. Another man was crouching over the embers of the fire, his hands outstretched over the ashes to warm, and Black made for him as he stared at his attacker in stupefaction. But then he seemed to realise his danger and shouted, and all at once the camp seemed to stir. Simon was behind Black, and ran towards the farthest sleeping figure, but as he came close, the man stirred and rose, snatched up a club, and danced lightly away from Simon’s first hasty thrust.

Now the camp was full of struggling men. Simon caught a glimpse of a man from the posse going down, but then he felt the club scrape along his jaw in a fast, glancing blow, and he had to dodge back. Crouching, sword making swift movements from side to side pointing at the man’s belly, he watched his opponent.

The man’s eyes were shifting nervously from Simon’s face to the battle behind him. Blinking quickly, his thin, drawn features seemed to radiate confused tenor as he licked his lips, but then he pounced, the club swinging up from low to reach towards Simon’s face. Moving aside and catching the cudgel on his blade to move it away, the bailiff snarled, “Give up!” as he circled like a wrestler, the heavy sword twitching left to right. “Surrender! You can’t win.”

From the fleeting glimpses he had of the rest of the battle, it was clear that the posse would have no need of the men on the horses. Already only four outlaws were still fighting, and even as he watched another fell with a scream, clutching at his side where a huge gash had opened his body to show the bones of his ribs. Now there were only three, but as he looked, he realised that one of the three was the man they wanted.

He was a great, square bear of a man, a vast, solid mass of bone and muscle, with a shock of dark hair that fell over his little eyes, black with anger, as he whirled and spun, his sword in one hand, a misericord in the other. He had already wounded Fasten, who lay unmoving on the ground beside him. Black and two other men were surrounding him now, darting in to stab and slash, but even as they moved, he appeared to have slipped away, as if he could perfectly anticipate their every movement, as if he was always slightly quicker than they. If it was not so terrible a sight, it would have been almost humorous, the way that this huge man seemed to be able to dance in and among the other three, but then any amusement disappeared as another of his attackers fell, to crouch on hands and knees, coughing, before falling to his side and shuddering, like a rabbit with a broken back, until at last he lay still, with a dark stain spreading over his chest.

The sight made the bailiff pause for a moment too long, and his opponent took the opportunity to lunge forward, swinging the club down from over his head to strike Simon’s skull. Startled, Simon met it on the flat of his blade, but the momentum of the outlaw forced him forwards just as the sword was knocked down by his own blow, and as he rushed on, he fell onto the blade.

He seemed surprised, when he looked down, to see the metal jutting from his chest, and when he glanced up at Simon, his eyes seemed to hold only a complete bewilderment, no fear or anger, just a total incomprehension that this could have happened. But then all expression fled and he fell at the bailiff’s feet.

Simon stood panting for a moment, staring at the body with a sense of irritation. Why hadn’t he surrendered? But even as the thought struck him, he felt the glow of pride at his victory, at winning his first fight to the death. The feeling was soon smothered by noises from behind, and, turning, he saw the knot of men around the big man again. Sword still in his hand, he strode towards the group.

The knight, as Simon assumed he was, was the last to struggle now, and his hoarse voice bellowed his rage at the men who circled him like hounds as he struck and slashed at his assailants, his eyes small black flints of rage as he fought, like the mad eyes of a cornered wild boar.

“Hold! Stop this madness!” Simon shouted as he came close, but, although the man with Black seemed to hesitate, the knight carried on, pushing the hunter and his companion backwards, forcing them to give ground as he screamed his fury and battle lust at them. He moved quickly, like a thunder bolt, seeming to always find a slight point of weakness, pressing his advantage, pushing and pushing until the two against him had to fall back, slashing wildly in their attempt to defend themselves.

But then his luck failed him. He thrust hard, knocking aside Black’s companion’s sword, and stabbed the man deep in his belly, the sword almost disappearing in his body, and as his victim stared uncomprehendingly at the blade in him, Black stepped quickly behind the knight and struck him in the back. Quivering, the knight roared and almost seemed about to spin and strike at Black, but then he tottered and fell to his knees, hands behind him, vainly trying to pull the sword out.

Simon stopped, and as he stared, something caught him at the back of his head and he found himself falling down, not to the ground but into a huge black pit that seemed to open in the grass in front of him, and it was almost with relief that he accepted the cool softness of the darkness as it seemed to sweep up to engulf him.

When he came to again, he found himself lying on his back outside the camp, a rug over him to keep him warm, facing the view to the south. It had become a clear and bright day, with a deep blue sky surrounding the thick, white clouds that meandered slowly across it, and Simon lay and watched them for a while, his mind wandering, losing himself in the pleasure of being alive.

He heard footsteps and turned to see Black and Tanner walking towards him. Trying to sit up to greet them, he found that his muscles seemed to have turned to aspic jelly, and all he could do was slowly topple over. Stunned, he lay there. He heard a laugh, then feet ran to him and gentle hands caught him up and leaned him against the wall of the camp. When he next opened his eyes, he found himself gazing into the faces of a serious Black and a smiling Tanner as they crouched in front of him.

Tanner seemed to be unmarked, but Black had a dirty rag tied over what must have been a long cut in his arm that went all the way from his wrist to his elbow.

“What happened to me? I was going over to see you, Black, when everything went…”

“One of the outlaws hit you with a cudgel and knocked you out. He’d been with the horses, over at the back of the camp, and you were in his way when he tried to make a run for it. Don’t worry, though, we got him!”

“So, how long have I been…?”

“Not long, bailiff, only a half hour or so. Look, the sun’s hardly up yet!” said Tanner, smiling at him.

“Our men, how many are hurt?”

Black answered. “Old Cottey, Fasten, and two others are dead. Three are wounded, but none of them seriously, they only had scratches. I’ve been marked by that giant from Hell, and you’ve got a knock on the head. That’s all of the damage.”

Simon shook his head in sad disbelief. “Four dead? God!”

“Come now, bailiff,” said Tanner gently, “we did well, after all we were against a knight, from the look of him, and we’re mainly untrained as soldiers. We did well to manage so much for so few lost. And don’t forget that the whore’s son himself killed two and wounded another. If it wasn’t for him we’d’ve lost few indeed.”

“Yes, and any battle will have injured men at the end of it,” said Black. “Now, how are you? It only looks like a scrape, but it must have been a hard one to make you fall over like that.”

Simon cautiously felt his skull. There was huge lump where his head had caught the force of the club, with the hair matted and gritty with blood and dirt. “I think I’m alright,” he said uncertainly. “I just have a headache now.”

Tanner peered at the wound and frowned a little. “Yes, it should heal well. It looks clean enough and there’s little damage that a good sleep won’t cure.”

“How many did we catch?” said Simon.

“None got away,” said Black. “There were nine, like I thought. Four will swing for their crimes, the rest, well…”

“I want to see them,” said Simon, struggling to his feet.

“No, no, wait until your head’s better,” said Tanner, in some alarm at the pale face of the bailiff.

“No, I want to see them now! I have to find out what sort of men they are,” said Simon firmly as he lurched up and leaned against the wall.

Tanner and Black looked at each other, then the hunter shrugged imperceptibly and stood, giving the bailiff his good arm and helping him over to the entrance.

The prisoners stood in a huddle at the far end of the camp, their arms tied, with two men from the posse standing nearby to guard them, their swords out and ready. Simon allowed himself to be led up to them and stood for a moment, swaying a little with his headache, watching them intently, like a spectator looking at a bear and assessing its fighting ability before the dogs were let loose. In one corner was the figure of the knight, back against the wall as he glared at the posse.

“He won’t last long, bailiff,” said Black softly.

Walking towards him, Simon was shocked to see the bitter hatred on his face. It was obvious that he could not survive the journey to Oakhampton. A thin trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth, and as the three men approached they could hear the blood rattling in his throat with his laboured breathing.

“Come to gloat? Want to see your victim in his defeat?”

The sneering words were harsh, thick with disgust and loathing, and as if the taste of them were poison, he hawked and spat, then coughed, the spasms wracking his body like a vomiting fit. When he looked up at them again, his features seemed as pale and waxen as those of a corpse, making the dark hair seem false, as if it had been painted with tar. The scar was a furious pink flame, but even this seemed to be fading with his spirit, the eyes those of a man in a fever, bright and liquid as they glowered up at his captors.

Squatting nearby, eyes fixed on the knight’s face, Simon considered the wounded man and asked, “What is your name?”

Coughing again, the knight spat a thick gobbet of blood to the ground beside him, then stared at it reflectively for a moment. “Why? So you can dishonour my memory?”

“We want to know who was responsible for so many deaths, that is all.”

“So many deaths?” The voice was bitter as he looked into Simon’s eyes. “I’m a knight! I take what I need, and if any man tries to stop me, I fight.”

“You’ll even fight merchants? Couldn’t you find stronger foes?” asked Simon coldly and the knight looked away. “You’re not from here – where do you come from?”

“East, from Hungerford.” He coughed, a series of jerky, short motions that made him wince and pause, trying to calm himself and ease his breathing. When he spoke again a fine spray of red mist burst from his mouth, colouring his lips as his life ebbed. “My name is Rodney.”

“Why did you join this band? If you were a knight, why become an outlaw?” asked Simon, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness in the black eyes.

“I lost my position when my lord died. I was on my way to Cornwall when these men ambushed me, and they gave me a choice: join them or die. I chose life.” His lip twisted, as if he recognised the irony of the words given his present position. “I rode into their ambush and would have died – there were too many of them for me to defend myself. I tried, but it was pointless. I did not yield to them, but in the end I gave them my word that I would live with them and they swore to accept me. They allowed me to live, and I agreed to help them. In exchange for my life.”

The bailiff nodded. He had heard of penniless warriors joining wandering bands, searching for new identities and trying to survive by any means. “Why kill, though? Why murder so many?”

The coughing was worse, becoming more tortured as the man’s face grew paler and he began to sweat. His voice was laboured, as though his throat was parched. “We killed for food and money… Those we robbed the other day were wealthy… They were only merchants… What is there for a knight without a lord? Without land, without money? I had lost everything when the outlaws overtook me… Why not join them? What else was there for me to do? I could have continued to Cornwall, but there was no guarantee of a living there… At least with the outlaws I knew I was accepted…”

“But why did you kill the abbot?”

“What abbot?” The words brought on another fit of coughing, and while waiting for it to stop, Simon watched the man with disgust leavened with pity. Pity for the pain of his slow death, but disgust at the contempt he showed for any man born to a lower class, and the assumption that mere possession of a sword conferred the right to kill.

When the spasm passed, Simon said, “The abbot you burned – murdered – in the woods. Why did you kill him?”

“Me? Kill a man of God!” For a moment there was a look of surprise, quickly replaced by rage. The huge figure heaved upright and glared, so suddenly that the bailiff could not help flinching.

“Me? Kill a holy man!”

“You and your friend took him and burned him to death,” Simon continued doubtfully.

“Who dares say that I did? I…”

Even as he opened his mouth to give a furious denial, there came a fresh eruption of blood from his mouth and nose, and his words were drowned as he fell to his side, clutching at his throat in a vain attempt to breathe and thrashing in his desperate search for air and life, his eyes remaining fixed on Simon. There was no fear there, just a total anger, as if at the injustice of the accusation. The bailiff sat and watched, no longer with any feeling, merely with a faint interest in how long it would take the man to die. In his mind he could see the burned corpses still, the blackened arms hanging from the wagons, and the little bundle of rags in the moors, the girl killed so far from her home. He felt that all his sympathy was expended now, spent on the knight’s victims.

The end was not long in coming, and when the spirit had left, Simon stood and looked at the body with detached contempt, before glancing up at the other two, and saying, “Get the dead outlaws collected together and have them buried. We’ll take our own dead back with us, but these can lie here unshriven.”

While Black shouted to the men from the posse and gave his orders, the bailiff stared down at the body. Even after killing so many, the knight had denied harming the abbot. Why? God would know his crimes, and Rodney must have known he was dying – why deny the murder? Was it possible that he told the truth, that he had not killed de Penne?

When he turned and studied the remaining prisoners, his face was set in a frown of consideration. The youngest, a sallow man with pale hair and skinny appearance who looked to be only two or three and twenty years old, stood shuffling his feet uncomfortably under his gaze, and as Black finished issuing his instructions, Simon pointed to him and beckoned. The youth nervously glanced at his companions before cautiously walking over to stand some six feet from the bailiff.

“Hah!” Tanner gave a gasp of amusement. “How did you pick him?” When Simon threw him a quick look of incomprehension, the constable carried on, “He’s the man who hit you on the head – the one who was with the horses.”

Now that the youth came closer, Simon could see that his thinness was due to undernourishment. His high cheeks stood out prominently in his fleshless face, and his light blue eyes were sunken and looked watery, as if all the colour had faded away. His gaze was shifty, looking all round, at Simon’s shoes, at his shoulders, over behind him, and only occasionally meeting his gaze before flitting away again in his fear.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked, and was surprised at the harshness in his own voice.

“Weaver, sir.”

“Where are you from?”

“From Tolpuddle, sir.”

Simon looked at Black, who shrugged with an expression of disinterest. He looked back at Weaver.

“How long have you been here, lad?”

He seemed to want to avoid Simon’s eyes and stared at his feet. “A month.”

“How many have you killed in that time?”

He looked up with a flare of defiance glinting in the blue of his eyes. “Only one, and that because he would’ve killed me otherwise!”

“What about the merchants? Do you say you weren’t involved in their deaths?”

Weaver stared down at his feet again, as if the brief flame of anger had used all of his energy. “No. I was looking after the horses.”

“Do you think that makes it better? You were in the gang that killed them all, weren’t you?” he held up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “How many were killed?”

Weaver’s glance dropped. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “I don’t know. Ten, maybe twelve.”

“Where…” Simon wiped a tired hand over his eyes. How could this man have helped kill so many? His voice was low and sad when he continued. “Where were you and the band before that?”

“Over near Ashwater.” he said sullenly.

Simon looked at the hunter again, but he showed no more interest in Ashwater than he had in Tolpuddle. “When did you leave there?”

“I don’t know, maybe a week ago.”

“So when did you get to Copplestone?”

“Where?”

“Copplestone. Where you killed the abbot.”

“What abbot? I don’t know nothing about that!”

“When did you leave Ashwater?”

“Like I said, about a week ago.”

“Where is Ashwater?”

All of a sudden Simon became convinced of the man’s honesty – he was telling the truth because he knew he would die anyway. He had lost any interest in deception now, he was simply uninterested; all he wanted to do was get back to his friends and find some peace with his own kind before he had to face the rope.

“Over west, north of Launceston,” he heard the man say, and heard the breath hiss in Black’s teeth as he made to move forward, but Simon squeezed his hand on his arm and the hunter stayed still, glaring at Weaver.

“You’re lying, boy. You wouldn’t’ve been able to get to Copplestone in time,” Black snarled.

“I don’t know about Copplestone.” he snapped, then looked at Simon. “I’m going to swing, sir. Why should I lie? I don’t care what you think, but I had nothing to do with no abbot.”

Simon’s mind was reeling. It wasn’t these men then? So who had killed de Penne? He gathered his thoughts: the monks had said that there had been two men, hadn’t they? What if…

“When did you meet the… the knight?” he asked, his voice faltering.

“Him?” Weaver’s voice showed disgust. “Rodney of Hungerford? We only found him a few days ago. We tried to catch him. He rode straight into the middle of us, but he held us off when we attacked; he even killed our leader. He had money but there was little we could do about it. In the end we let him join us, because he could fight.”

“Where’s his friend?” said Simon, guessing.

“What friend?”

“He was with a man.”

“He was alone when we found him.”

“Where? Where did you meet him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Down near Oakhampton. He said he was going to Cornwall.”

Even Black seemed interested now, and was watching Weaver with keen intensity.

“So did he say where he had come from?”

“Hungerford, like I say. I think it’s… he said somewhere over east…”

“Was he on a war horse?”

“War horse? No.” Weaver gave a short laugh. “No, he was on a mare, a small mare.”

“A mare?”

“Yes. A grey. He said he’d found it on the way, he said he’d found it saddled and bridled, like its rider had been knocked off.”

“Did he say when?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some days ago, maybe two before we found him. He said it had some money in its bags but he wouldn’t share it with us.”

“Did he say where he found the horse?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Think!”

“He might’ve. I think he said some way east of Oakhampton, but I…”

“And you’re sure he said the money was on the horse?”

“Yes.” His voice was becoming bored, as if he found the questions tedious now.

“So…” Simon began, but he was cut off by a shrug from the young man, a tiny gesture of indifference.

“I don’t care, and I don’t see why I need to help you. Whatever he may have done it’s nothing to do with me.” Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Weaver took a step back, seeming to dare them to question him further. “I don’t care. I’ve told you all I know.”

Simon shrugged. Did it really matter? How much could he trust this man anyway? Weaver stared at them both for a moment, then turned and walked back towards his companions, making the hunter’s face redden with anger at his impertinence. He seemed about to shout, and would have gone after the outlaw for his rudeness, but Simon said, “No. Don’t bother. He’s told us enough.”

Black stared at him, but then his face calmed and he gazed after the man as he rejoined his group and sat down, glaring defiantly at them. “Yes. Yes, he has, hasn’t he? So the knight came from east. He must have come through Exeter, out on the Crediton road, and met the monks on the way.”

“But the monks said there were two of them.”

“Maybe there were. Maybe they argued and split up. Who knows? Anyway, it’s easier now. At least we have the abbot’s killer, thanks to God! I suppose he must’ve killed Brewer on his way through.”

“What?” Simon spun to face him.

“Well, he said he was coming from the east, didn’t he? He must have killed Brewer, taken his money, then carried on. After he killed the abbot he met up with this rabble and joined them.” He tucked his hands in his belt with satisfaction. “Yes, I think today’s work has put an end to the killing.”

He turned and ambled slowly out of the clearing, and Simon followed, but as they went, Simon heard a quiet whinny and his head snapped round at the sound. “Where are their horses, John?”

“Horses? Oh, over there.”

“Let’s have a quick look.”

They walked over to where the robbers’ horses stood hobbled from the previous night. They were a mixture, from small, hardy ponies to some huge draught animals, and Simon stood for a minute looking at them. “Black?”

“Hunh?”

“When you tracked the abbot’s killer, you said that one of the horses was a big horse and was missing a nail on a shoe.”

“That’s right.”

“And the abbot’s horse was a grey mare with a scar on the withers.”

“Yes.”

“Have a look at these, will you? See if one of them is missing a nail. And see if there’s a grey mare with a scar on the withers as well.” He turned and wandered out again, to lie on the grass looking out over the hills; over the green, grassed and tree-dotted hills towards the sea, and soon he was asleep, dozing in the warm sunlight.