A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Read Online Free PDF Page A

narrow, sharp features of a ferret, Hugh had been raised in a small farm near Drewsteignton,
     and his early years had been spent on the hills protecting the sheep. He had loved mornings like this out there. Yes, it was
     freezing for a man, and when you sat wrapped up in a thick cloak as well as a warm sheepskin jack, you still felt the cold
     seeping into your marrow. A man could die up there and no one find him for days; men
had
died like that. Hugh could remember one from the next vill, an older shepherd whose huddled figure was found by the boy who’d
     been sent into the hills with some bread and cheese for him. He’d been stiff as an oak staff when Hugh saw him, frost over
     his beard and eyebrows, and they’d had to carry him down to the vill like that. There was no point leaving him to thaw on
     the hill.
    It was his time up there on the moors which had shaped the man he had become. For most of his life he had been dour and morose,
     unbending to the wind and the rain. He was known as one who would protect his flocks from any danger, whether it be men, beasts
     or the elements. Anyone who grew up on the moors learned self-reliance above all else, and a man who survived the depredations
     of thewandering gangs of trail bastons, the ‘club-men’ who robbed and killed with impunity in the last years of King Edward I’s
     reign, was one who was strong in spirit. He could cope with the worst that God could throw.
    From the logpile he had a clear view of the moors several leagues south –
his
moors. Usually a line of hulking shapes that loomed on the horizon, today they gleamed in the low sunlight, and he felt a
     strong affection for them. He loved them as any man loves his homelands.
    Hugh stood still, staring, struck with a strange emotion. Not a man prone to sudden fancies, he was aware of an unsettled
     feeling, as though he might never see this again. A melancholy apprehension swept over him, leaving him with a curious desolation.
     He was filled with uneasiness, a presentiment of evil, and the worst of it was, he had no idea what lay behind it. It was
     almost as though the moors were calling to him to leave his home and return to them, but he had no idea why the sight of a
     winter’s chill morning sun on the hill should make him feel so.
    He shivered, an uncontrollable spasm that racked his compact frame, and he muttered, ‘Someone walking over my grave. That’s
     all.’
    Crossing himself against Dewer, the Devil, he bent to his task and began to collect logs and a faggot of old twigs. He cast
     one last glance at the moors, and surprised himself by realising that he had a poignant longing to see again the rough, scrubby
     grasses, the heather, furze and rock. Even the black, square keep of the castle at Lydford would be a welcome sight. Not that
     he could go there just now. His master, Simon Puttock, wasn’t there. He was down at Dartmouth, the port all those weary miles
     away on the southern coast. Perhaps Hugh could return to Simon’s housefor a little. He was still Simon’s servant, after all. He could visit to see that all was well with Simon’s household . .
     .
    What was all this about? He wasn’t leaving Constance and young Hugh on their own just now. Maybe when the weather warmed and
     there was a little less to do. He’d wait until then. It was plain daft to think of going at this time of year. He was mazed.
    He turned from the view and trudged back towards the house, a small figure, easily missed in the great landscape about him,
     many miles from any town, his lands enclosed by the woods on the north, west and eastern sides.
    Hugh didn’t mind. He liked being far away from other people; he had no need of them most of the time. As he shoved the door
     open and dropped the logs on the hearth, the vague feelings of concern faded.
    This was his home. He was safe here.
    The way led him along the road from the inn where he had stayed the night, and all Adam of Rookford could think of was