Free The Last Templar by Michael Jecks Page B

when it fell in. He could see the massive beam lying where it had fallen across the centre of the floor, one end still supported by the wall, the other on the ground. Suddenly, before he could avoid it, a sudden gust of wind blew air from the room into his face. Caught unawares, unprepared, so that it hardly even occurred to him to try to evade it, he inhaled the stench.
    The wind was filthy, carrying the noisome odour of death almost as a solid, physical mass but that was not all. It was not just the nasal reminder of the body inside that caught at the throat and made the eyes water, it was the burned faeces, the remains of the excreta of the livestock that had lived in the house with Brewer, the ordure of decades, that, now subjected to the fire, seemed to grasp at the lungs with invisible, poisoned tentacles of bitter virulence. Gagging, he turned and coughed, soon wretching miserably.
    He could take no more and, turning away, he stumbled, choking, back to where the others waited.
    “Foul, isn’t it?” said Black conversationally, grinning, as if passing comment on the weather.
    Still coughing, Simon gave him a baleful glare before hawking and spitting, trying to clear his throat of the viscous tang. It was while he was spitting with venom that Baldwin Furnshill arrived.
    He appeared on a huge grey horse, Edgar as usual just behind, and dressed in a white tunic with a small emblem on his breast, which even at this distance Simon could recognise as the de Courtenay badge. The knight had soft leather boots on his feet and seemed to have left his armour and weapons off for the day, although he still wore his misericord, his long, narrow-bladed knife named for its task in battle; the “mercy‘ was the blade used to finish off the wounded on the battlefield.
    Seeing the small knot of men, Baldwin kicked his horse and ambled over to them, his eyebrows raised a little as he saw a new coughing fit taking over the bailiff. The other men, he could see, were grim-faced and dour. Smiling at the priest and hunter, he nodded curtly, “Hallo, friends,” then turned a perplexed grin to the bailiff.
    “Have you come to gawp as well, Baldwin?” said Simon, squinting up at the knight bitterly. Was everyone from all around going to come and stare? It seemed depressing that even his new friend was exhibiting ghoulish tendencies.
    “No, Simon. We were out riding and wanted to make sure that the people here did not need help. This is my manor’s land.” His eyes glittered darkly, as though he was ready to take offence at Simon’s attitude, but then, as he peered at the scene and saw the people standing, pointing and chattering, he appeared to understand Simon’s feelings and gave a small dry smile. “I told you I wanted to take an interest in my villeins, didn’t I? How are the people that lived there?”
    “Only the one man, thank God! But as far as we know he’s still inside. It’s too hot to fetch him out yet,” said Peter. “A sad business, eh? Surely there’s enough misery for the poor without being burned to death in their beds?”
    “He wasn’t that poor,” said Black, a faintly ironic smile on his face, as Baldwin sprang lightly from his horse and threw his reins to Edgar.
    “No?” Peter seemed surprised, a slight frown on his face as he peered at the hunter. “He always seemed to be, or at least he always said he was.”
    “Ah, well, yes. He was always hard up when someone wanted money or alms, or at least he always said so. People here have wondered how he always seemed to be able to buy ale, how he could afford a full team of oxen, how he managed to buy his way out of his duties as a villein when he wanted.”
    “What do you mean?” said Simon. “Are you saying he was a thief or something?”
    The hunter gave a short laugh. “Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. No, I think that the old tale’s true. I think he made a lot of money when he fought in the wars five and twenty years ago and he’s been able to