Free The Last Templar by Michael Jecks Page A

disgust, Simon dismounted and strode over to the priest.
    “Afternoon, Peter. What happened, then?”
    The rector of Crediton church was a slim and ascetic man in his late forties. He was dressed informally in a light tunic that came down to his knees, with warm woollen leggings underneath. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence in his pale face, his skin soft and light from the hours spent indoors reading and writing. The hair that Simon remembered being a light red was a faded straw colour now and the face was worn, though not by troubles - the lines that creased it were caused not by pain and fear but by too much laughter and enjoyment of life. The lines at the sides of his eyes, deep cracks of crow’s feet, all came from joy. Now they wrinkled into furrows in his pleasure at seeing his friend again.
    “Simon!” He held out his hand. “It’s good to see you. Come, you know why you were asked here, I hope?”
    The bailiff nodded. “I believe there was a man inside there when it went up?”
    “Yes,” - this was John Black, the hunter - “I saw the fire when I came back from my work last night. The place was well in flames already then.”
    He stood firmly, a small and compact man, confident and self-assured. The wiry frame of his body looked as if it could chase an animal from one end of the kingdom to the other on foot, and the litheness of his movements reminded Simon of a wolf, as if in hunting the wild creatures a little of their ways had rubbed off and been absorbed by him. His face was square, flat and stolid, as uncompromising as a slab of granite, and his eyes gleamed darkly. Above thick eyebrows that formed a continuous line across his brow his hair was a deep black, almost raven, and hung in lank wings around his serious face.
    “Why did you think Brewer was inside?” Simon asked.
    “I didn’t at first. I thought he could be somewhere else. But when we started to try to put the fire out, when we could see inside, we saw the body. It’s still on his bed.”
    Involuntarily, Simon glanced over at the building, as if almost expecting to see a figure rise from it. He frowned at his superstitious fancy and concentrated again on the evidence of the hunter.
    “As soon as I saw that, I told the others to carry on with putting out the flames, and I went straight over to get the rector.”
    Simon nodded absently and looked at the priest. “Yes, John arrived just after dawn, and when I had heard his tale I sent Hubert to fetch you. I came straight here to see if I could help. By the time we arrived the flames were out. We were waiting for the building to cool before going inside to get the poor man’s body out.”
    “How long before we can go in, do you think?” said Simon, peering back at the wreckage.
    Black turned to follow his gaze. “I reckon it’ll be a little longer. One man’s dead - there’s no need to risk any more lives to get his corpse. We might as well leave it until we’re sure it’s safe.”
    Nodding again, Simon started walking towards the house to have a closer look. The soot and ashes under his feet seemed soft and yielding, not hard and crisp like the ashes in his fire at home. What could have produced such snowy-soft residue? There were several people standing and gawping nearer the walls, and Simon had to push some out of his way, glaring at them when they murmured angrily. Ignoring their complaints, he walked up to the front door and peered inside.
    The door was a charred and broken mess, hanging haphazardly from its bottom hinge. Inside, the rubble was still very hot; he could feel the glowing embers warming his face, as hot as summer sunshine. At first it was difficult to make out anything much, the inside seemed to be a mass of grey or black, with different shades all around, but with nothing to differentiate one pile from another. The timbers of the roof must have collapsed brutally, he thought. If someone was underneath, there was no chance of surviving that huge weight