The Last Templar Read Online Free PDF Page A

dogs’ urine and from the putrefying remains of ancient meals and bones that lay hidden among the stems on the floor, the normal smell of an old hall. Simon would have been happier if the rushes had been replaced more often, but he knew that John held to the old view that it was better not to change them too regularly - that was the way to bring in infection.
    When he looked back at John, there was a slight concern in his eyes; his friend had aged since they last met. He was only ten years older than Simon himself, but his body was skinny and seemed ancient, prematurely hunched under his tunic from lack of exercise and from too often sitting in the cold and reading by candlelight. The thin face looked strangely pale and waxy from spending too much time indoors, and the lines on his forehead and either side of his mouth made deep grooves on his features, casting their own dark shadows in the firelight. When they had last met John had borne a head of thick greying hair, but now it was almost a pure white, as if he had been given a sudden shock. Simon had not expected to see him so greatly changed in only seven months, and as he looked at his friend he suddenly realised how much pressure he would be under with his own new position at Lydford.
    “Apart from my new position, you mean? The only thing people were talking about in Taunton was the price of food.” They talked for a time about the effects of the rains on their crops, and the sudden increase in prices after the last failed harvest, until the door opened and both fell silent, watching a servant enter and stride quickly across the hall to speak to John. After a moment he rose with an apology.
    “Pardon me, Simon. A traveller has arrived and asked to speak to me,” said John as he stood and walked to the door.
    Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked over at Hugh. “A traveller? At this time of night? It must be more than three hours after dark!” Hugh shrugged with indifference and poured himself more wine.
    After only a few minutes, John came back with a tall and strong-looking man, obviously a knight, wearing a heavy cloak over a mail hauberk that looked old and appeared to have seen several battles, from the scars and scratches that were visible. Behind him was a servant, a lean and wiry man of Simon’s own age, with eyes that seemed to flit over the whole room as he entered as if he was looking for any signs of danger. As he came in he moved to the side of the knight so that he could see directly into the room, then followed along behind.
    “Simon,” John said with a smile, “This is Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the new master of Furnshill Manor.”
    Rising, Simon took the stranger’s hand. He seemed calm, but Simon noticed a subtle wariness in his eyes, a slight hesitation as he shook hands, and as soon as Simon released his grip, the knight took a step back and shot an enquiring glance at John, who swiftly introduced them while Simon’s eyes flitted inquisitively over the two strangers.
    The knight was tall, probably a little taller than Simon himself, and carried himself like a lord. Broad and thickset under his mail, he stood proud and haughty, like a man who had fought successfully in several battles. Simon had to peer to see his face in the dark room; it was scarred on one side - not too deeply, merely as if he had been scratched by a knife, a normal mark for a warrior. But that was not what Simon first noticed. No, it was the deep weals, the lines of pain that stood out, the furrows of anguish that travelled from underneath his eyes, past his mouth, to finish in the hair at his jawline. They pointed to great suffering, as if he had known a level of pain so deep as to be almost unbearable, although he did not seem very old.
    Simon placed him at around thirty-five; his dark hair and the neat, almost black, beard an uncommon feature with modern knights that just followed the line of his jaw seemed to hint at no more than that. When the knight turned