Free The Last Templar by Michael Jecks

views all the way to Dartmoor, and in the hamlet itself there was a cheerful balance between trees and open land. Most of the houses were to the west of the stream and the strips of fields lay to the east; an ancient clapper bridge led from one side to the other and also crossed the new sewer that led into the stream. It gave the vill a pleasant, rural aspect as Simon rode in from the north, although he was struck by the sight of the great trees that crowded in from the forest behind the houses. It appeared to him that they were almost threatening in the way that they towered over the human habitation.
    From a half mile away Simon could see the tall pillar of smoke that hung over the surrounding landscape, and he also became aware of the smell of burning, the stench increasing as he came closer to the village.
    It seemed outrageous that such a quiet and peaceful little hamlet should have been so violated by fire, but it was, as Simon knew only too well, a very common occurrence. The old houses did not have chimneys to direct smoke and sparks away from the thatch of the roofs, they relied on the height of the roof itself as protection. If they all had chimneys the number of cottage fires would reduce dramatic ally, because the sparks would alight on the external and damp thatch. As it was, the glittering motes that rose from the flames were carried up into the eaves, where they often lodged. Every once in a while they would make the dry interior thatch catch fire. And, when that happened, all the people inside could do was get out quickly and hope that water thrown at the roof would save the main part of the house.
    Riding up through the centre of the village, Simon could see that it had been too late for this place at least. To arrive at the house he had to ride past the inn, then follow the road round to the left as it lazily swung down towards the moors. As he followed the road through the village and turned to face south, the house became visible and he paused, motionless, as he took in the sight that met his shocked gaze.
    The old building was almost completely destroyed. The roof was gone; presumably it had fallen in when the flames got too hot, or so he supposed. The wall at the side was still visible, but the far end of the house, the end farthest from the road, had collapsed, and taken down a large section of the side wall with it. Even Simon, who knew little about building, could see that the damage was irreparable.
    He kicked his horse into a slow amble and continued up to the house. All around lay a covering of soot, lying surprisingly thickly underfoot. In Simon’s experience even the hottest fires produced far less than this, and he found himself pensively considering the ground as he rode forward, wondering what could have produced so heavy a layer, until he heard his voice called. Looking up, he saw his old friend Peter Clifford standing with a small group, not far from what had been the main door.
    Peter was standing and talking with some of the local men, one of whom Simon recognised immediately as the hunter, Black. The others he had not met before, he thought, and assumed they must be locals to the hamlet. Judging by the number of men walking all over the area, this made them fairly unique: the tiny hamlet could not have contained even half of the people gawping and staring at the wrecked building.
    To Simon’s disgust, there was almost a fair-time atmosphere in the little village, as if the fire had been staged as an inaugural celebration, a cheery blaze to begin festivities. There were people of all sorts standing and staring at the destroyed house, fascinated by the sight of the remaining walls standing up like the fangs of a massive beast. He could see a family he knew from Crediton, a merchant and his wife with their young son, pointing and talking while their son giggled and played, as if this was only another place designed for him to enjoy himself and not the scene of a recent death. Snorting in