Casting Samson (11 page)

“I need more evidence,” she murmured. “There must be something! If only you could talk. If only you could tell me the truth.”

Hearing a discreet cough behind her, Anne turned quickly to find Aubrey Bodicote hovering anxiously by the railings.

“I’m sorry if I intrude upon a moment of reflection…”

“No, not really. Just wondering how to find out the true history of this place. The Records Office and County Library only have a few papers dating back to the thirteenth century, certainly not a full account.”

“It’s a pity the church’s own records were destroyed in the fire of 1886.” The vicar smiled. “You’d like to prove the legend about Hugh building the church on his return from the Crusades.”

“I really would, but there’s no proof. I’ve found evidence that a Hugh of Moreton did own this land, and the stone in the wall tells us he died in 1325, but there’s no mention of his going to the Crusades, and nothing to say that he was a Templar. Besides, I’ve now found that the Templars had already been disbanded by then.”

The vicar’s kind old face creased into its habitual worried lines. “Oh dear, is it so important to you?”

Anne smiled, stepping out of the Lady Chapel and walking with him back to the door. “No-o, I don’t suppose it matters that much, really, at least only to gratify my own vanity. I quoted the legend when I wrote that piece for the paper, and someone has challenged it.” She gave a sigh. “And the most galling thing is, they’re probably right—there
is
no truth in the legend.”

“Then put it aside, my dear. Pride can lead us on many false roads, you know.”

“Oh, I do know, but I can’t let it rest until I have at least researched it thoroughly. I really don’t like to be beaten.”

“And what if you prove the legend false?”

“Then I must come clean, I suppose. But at least I can pass on my findings to you, so that the truth will be known by everyone.”

To the two Templar knights hidden amongst the cedars it was clear that the travellers were doomed. From their vantage point on the hill, the knights watched the Muslim raiders on their small, swift horses sweep down to the road and surround the little party, sunlight flashing on their blades as they engaged the guards. It was a common occurrence in the Levant. Once pilgrims were out of sight of the huge crusader castles built to defend the routes, they were easy prey for marauders.

“I never cease to wonder at the stupidity of these pilgrims!”

Hugo smiled. “Nay, Brother Giles, not stupidity. Innocence. They believe it is their right to travel in this land.” He sighed and loosened his sword. “Come, brother. We will help them.”

The two knights set off down the hill towards the battle scene below them, and Hugo prayed they would be in time to save at least some of the pilgrims. The guards put up a brave fight, but their adversaries were cunning fighters, and by the time the Templars reached the road there were less than a dozen combatants still mounted. Bodies littered the ground, and riderless horses shivered nervously at a distance as the knights set their mounts to the charge, uttering their battle cry.

“
Vive Dieu! Saint Amour!”

Hugo drew the heavy double-edged sword and held it high, slashing down with deadly effect as he charged into the fray. In an instant his experienced eye summed up the situation. Four guards were fighting in a circle, trying to defend two females huddled beside the remains of a broken litter. The arrival of the two knights caused a momentary confusion. Hugo swiftly dispatched an attacker and swung his horse about to confront another. Even as he moved, he saw that two of the raiders had broken through the guards and reached the two women. One of the men snatched the nearest woman and threw her across his saddle.

“Giles!”

“Aye, brother. I see it. You go after her. I can hold them!”

Hugo brought his blade crashing down upon his opponent and set his spurs into his horse’s flanks. The stallion surged forward in pursuit of the two raiders who were flying the scene with their prize. His horse was fresh and soon gained on his quarry. One rider slowed and turned in an attempt to stall Hugo and give his companion and the captive time to flee, but the Templar was ready for him. With only the slightest break in his speed, Hugo’s sword flashed and the man screamed as his right arm was severed.

The remaining rider was almost within reach. Hugo saw him glance behind and he gripped his sword, ready to strike, but before he could attack, the rider thrust the woman from his saddle prow. Hugo reacted instantly, hauling on the reins and swerving just in time to prevent his mount from trampling the inert form on the road. He hesitated; the rider was galloping away, and although Hugo was confident he could still catch him, it would leave the woman defenceless. He jumped down from his horse and knelt beside her.

The veil had slipped aside, exposing an abundance of soft brown hair spread about her shoulders. Carefully he lifted the still form, turning her until her head rested against his arm. The face was scratched and dusty, but apart from a darkening bruise on her temple there was little blood. Hugo pulled off his glove and brushed the grit from her face. The eyelids fluttered and she stirred, raising a hand to ward off his touch.

“Gently, my lady. You are safe.”

The words seemed to reassure her, and the hand fell back as she relapsed into unconsciousness. He lifted her, surprised at how little she weighed. He laid her across his saddle and, when he had mounted, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. She stirred again, and he looked into her eyes. They were as green as emeralds.

“You are safe, lady.”

The eyes studied his face for a moment, before the lashes drooped again. Hugo set his horse to a walk, taking her weight on his arm to protect her from the jolting.

“Mary—my maid?”

“We are going back now, madam, to find her.”

But when they returned to the site of the attack, there were only bodies. Hugo stopped at a distance from the carnage and dismounted, laying the woman gently on the ground before going on alone to look for survivors. His glance swept over the scene. Travellers and attackers had fallen together. At the centre lay the servant, Mary, her throat cut and the blood blackening the dust around her head. Hugo spotted Giles, his white mantle stained crimson from his wounds. The knight was barely alive. Hugo touched the livid face, and for a moment the eyes opened.

“Hugo, how many live?”

“Just one. The woman. Her captor escaped.”

“We slew the rest—everyone.”

“So I see. It was well done, Giles.”

The dying man coughed, blood spattering his lips. “So much, to save one life.”

He raised his hand and Hugo grasped the fingers, his vision blurring with unaccustomed tears.

“When will they learn?” he muttered. “Why can they not see that it is not safe to cross this land with anything less than an army?”

There was no reply. Hugo released the lifeless fingers and rose to his feet. He caught three of the loose horses and returned to the woman, who had raised herself on one elbow, watching his approach.

“My maid?”

“Dead. All dead. Guards, raiders—everyone.”

She gazed up at him blankly. Mistaking her shock for cold insensitivity, unaccustomed anger flared within him. He fell on his knees beside her and caught her shoulders.

“Was it your doing?” he cried, shaking her, “Was it for you that these innocents died in this hell? May God forgive you, madam, for they are all perished, together with my brother knight!”

She shrank before his anger, her eyes darkening in fear, but she did not look away. Hugo suddenly felt very weary. He released her and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

“Sir, I am sorry for your companion. When we left Tyre, we were well prepared for this journey.” She struggled to control her voice. “My husband hired men to accompany us to Acre, but those souls lying over there are members of my own household. The rogues my lord paid to guard us stole away in the night, taking with them three caskets of money and jewels, leaving us no choice but to continue unprotected.” She turned her anguished gaze towards him. “Do I not deserve your pity, sir knight, rather than your scorn?”

“Madam, you deserve a husband who knows better how to take care of his own!”

He was surprised that she made no angry response, merely bowing her head. After a moment she said, “Would—would you grant me your aid to reach Acre, sir? My husband will reward you well.”

“I will escort you, madam, and I seek no reward except God’s. But we must move now.”

She looked towards the bloody scene. “Should—should we not…bury them?”

“To delay is to risk another attack. When we reach Acre we will pass on the word. It will be done. Now, can you stand?”

“I think so.” She looked past him to the horses. “More than that—I can ride.”

“There is no lady’s mount.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “As a girl I rode anything. I will manage as you do. When we reach Acre I will ride pillion behind you, as befits a lady, but until then we will get on faster if I ride alone.”

“So be it.” Hugo shrugged, led forward one of the horses and threw her up into the saddle, trying not to let his eyes dwell on the soft white leg and dainty foot she displayed. He handed her the reins.

“If we are to travel together, perhaps I should know your name?”

She held out her hand to him. “Agnes de Chercourt.”

“Hugh, humble knight of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.” He bowed over her hand, but her fingers clung to him.

“An Englishman?”

“Yes, my lady.” Looking up, he found she was regarding him with a long, considering look. Then, as if satisfied, she released his hand.

“If you take the spare horses, sir knight, I will follow.”

Hugo led the way off the track and up the hillside into the trees, explaining that this would give them cover against any other bands of outlaws patrolling the area.

“How far are we from Acre?” she asked him.

“Less than a day’s journey.”

“And tonight?”

“We must sleep in the woods.”

Hugo did not light a fire as it might attract unwelcome attention. He chose a rocky outcrop that afforded some shelter, tethered the horses amongst the trees and suggested my lady wrap herself in her cloak and try to sleep beneath the slight overhang of stone.

“And you, sir, will you not rest?”

“Presently.” He sat in front of her, looking out over the hill, so that she could see only his broad back.

“Sir, what—what would have become of me, if you had not come to my aid?”

“They would have used you for their pleasure, then sold you in the slave market.”

She shuddered. “You say it so coldly.”

“It is the truth.”

He felt a small hand clutching his sleeve.

“Then pray do not leave me. If we are attacked again, I would rather end my life on your sword than be a slave.”

He put his own hand over hers. “Pray God it will not come to that. I will remain with you, madam, until I can deliver you to your husband.”

“Right, eleven robes and headdresses for the Philistines, seventeen assorted angel costumes for Jacob’s Ladder, we still need a pair of sandals for David—and Goliath has shot up another four inches and needs his costume altered!” Miss Babbacombe was going through her list of costumes.

Anne grinned at Deborah. “I’ll let down Goliath’s trousers if you want to start unpicking the sleeves.”

Deborah nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. Thanks, ladies. I’ll go and have a word with the Mothers’ Union. I still don’t know if they’ve dressed Moses.” Miss Babbacombe wandered off, frowning over her notepad, leaving Anne and Deborah to their sewing.

“Did you enjoy the dance on Friday, Debs?”

“Mmm. It was better than I expected. How about you, did you have to spend all your time in the kitchen?”

“No, no, I was only helping out for a while.” Anne gave a little smile. “I enjoyed it.”

“Who was the guy who came looking for you, fair hair and glasses?”

“Professor Duggan. He’s the don from the university who wants me to retract all the stuff in the paper about St. John’s being a Templar church.”

“And will you?”

“Not on your life! I just wish I could find a bit more evidence. There’s no records, you see, no written evidence. But I’m sure it’s there, I’m just missing something.”

She looked up as Miss Babbacombe returned, still pondering her lists.

“We’ve forgotten Samson.”

“Oh? I would have thought that would be easy, just a loincloth.” Anne’s eyes twinkled.

“No, no. Loose breeches and perhaps a tunic if the weather is inclement.”

“Oh. What a waste of a lovely body.”

“Sorry, Anne, what did you say?”

Anne grinned, but shook her head.

“Nothing, Clara. But surely we can’t have forgotten him. I remember we made a list of costumes right at the beginning, and ticked them off as we went.”

“Yes. That’s the trouble. We
did
make a costume, but it was for Eric Monkwater—I measured him up before he went off on that disastrous ballooning trip.”

“Oh, dear. And he’s a lot shorter than Josh, isn’t he? Well, we’re getting very short of time now.” She tapped her teeth pensively, then shot a glance at Deborah. “I don’t suppose you’d go up to the Towers tomorrow morning? You could get Josh’s measurements and drop them in to me? I can have the costume cut and sewn by Friday’s rehearsal.”

“Excellent idea, Anne,” Miss Babbacombe agreed. “If you could do that for us, Deborah my dear, that’s one more job I can cross off my list.”

In the face of such gratitude Deborah couldn’t refuse, and the next morning saw her cycling along the Oxford Road, notepad and tape measure in her pocket.

The Towers Hotel was situated on the western edge of the village. It had been built over a century earlier as a gentleman’s country residence, and the Victorian Gothic turrets and gables were just visible over the tops of the surrounding trees. As a child Deborah had not been able to decide whether it was the home of a wicked giant or a fairy princess. Certainly as she cycled up the tree-lined drive in the warm morning sun, the house seemed to welcome her.

The receptionist greeted her with a bright, professional smile. After their last meeting, Deborah wondered if Josh would be as happy to see her. “Josh? He won’t have started work yet. You might find him in the garret—his flat in the old stables at the back of the house.”

The garret was easy to find. A flight of wooden steps led up the side of the stable block to a green-painted porch. Deborah hesitated and glanced at her watch. Ten-fifteen. What if he was asleep? What if he was in bed with Demelza?

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” she told herself crossly. “You’ve a job to do. And what is it to you, anyway?”

She knocked gingerly and was about to retreat when she heard movement behind the door; it opened and Josh appeared, wearing only his jeans, his black hair tousled.

“Oh.” She felt herself blushing. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you out of bed. M-Miss Babbacombe forgot to get your measurements, for the pageant…”

He yawned. “Oh, yeah. Come in.”

She following him inside but stopped by the porch door and didn’t close it. “Just here will do. I have a tape measure.”

He obediently stood while she measured his arm, then from the nape of his neck to the waist and from his waist to the floor.

“I, um—need a chest measurement.”

He raised his arms obligingly. “Good job I’m not wearing a shirt then.” His dark eyes glinted at her as she reached around him, their faces just inches apart. “Much more accurate in the flesh, so to speak.”

Deborah tried to concentrate on her task, writing the figures in her notebook. When she finished, she closed the book and took a deep breath, screwing up her courage.

“Josh, I’m sorry—what I said the other night—”

“Forget it.”

“I was angry, but you went off before I could—”

“Yeah, well your fella was there. I take it that’s who he was, the guy waiting for you at the restaurant?”

“Bernard? Yes. That is, he’s not—” Deborah broke off, not knowing how to explain about Bernard. “Anyway, that’s not important. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean what I said.” She risked looking at him. “Are—are we still friends?”

He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “Of course we are.” His fingers moved round to the back of her neck, she felt a gentle pressure as he drew her towards him. Her courage vanished. Panicking, she pulled away and stepped to one side, trying to sound businesslike.

“Right. Good. That’s it, then. I’ll be off.”

Josh grinned. “Haven’t you missed one measurement?”

“Pardon?”

“What about my inside leg?”

The twinkle in his eye belied his innocent tone. Deborah pushed the tape firmly into her pocket. “We don’t need that. The leggings are very baggy.”

“Well, now you’ve woken me up, won’t you at least stop for a coffee?”

“What about Demelza?”

“Oh, she’s still asleep. Why don’t you come and meet her?”

That was too much for Deborah. With a strangled “Goodbye,” she hurried out the door and down the steps.

What a wimp you are, Deborah Kemerton!
She peddled furiously down the drive. This wasn’t the Middle Ages; she shouldn’t feel shy at entering a man’s home and catching him half-dressed. Kylie Tring would not have turned and run. She would have joked with him, probably stopped for that coffee.

She slowed to negotiate the turn onto the main road. She was twenty-three, had lived in London and yet she felt so much less worldly-wise than a girl several years her junior who had never left Moreton.

“What you need,” she told herself grimly, “is a good dose of confidence.”

Unfortunately, Deborah knew that was not something one could pick up at the local chemist.

Anne leaned back on the sun-lounger and stretched luxuriously. Her first free Sunday for weeks. She’d forgotten how hard it was to work full-time, and she was relishing the thought of a few hours in the garden. Her peace was short-lived—with a sigh she went indoors to answer the insistent summons of the telephone.

“Mrs. Lindsay? Toby Duggan…from the university.”

“Oh—hello.”

“I—er—I wanted to apologise for Friday—for interrupting your evening.”

“You already did that, Professor.”

“Did I? Oh. Well…I was studying a few more papers today, concerning the history of Moreton-by-Fleetwater.”

She smiled to herself. “I thought this was merely a sideline of yours. You seem to be putting in an awful lot of work on it.”

“My concern is to prevent you from making a grave error, Mrs. Lindsay.”

“Okay. You are right, of course. So tell me what you’ve dug up now.”

“Well, there’s mention of the area in the 1166 records, when the whole of Moreton was owned by…Look, this would be a lot easier to discuss face-to-face…”

Anne pulled into the car park of the Plough Inn at exactly eight o’clock. She wondered why she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to meet Toby Duggan when she’d intended to spend the evening tidying her garden until dusk and getting an early night. She hadn’t changed out of her jeans, but had pulled on a soft cream sweater over her T-shirt, now that the day was losing its heat.

Her face was hot, still glowing from the sun, as she entered the inn. It wasn’t crowded, since most of the Sunday evening customers preferred to be outside, making the most of the fine weather. The professor was sitting alone at a small table. She was unaccountably warmed by his welcoming smile as he rose and joined her at the bar. She noted the blue jeans, the dark sweatshirt. He looked more sportsman than scholar.

“What are you having?”

“No—it’s all right, I’ll get it—”

“But I insist.”

“Oh, just a large fruit juice, then, thanks.”

He handed her the drink and led the way back to the table, where his own pint glass was waiting beside a large notepad. He hesitated as he was about to sit down. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Right, well then.” He grinned. “Sorry, not really used to this sort of social meeting.”

She hid her smile, determined not to make it any easier for him. She said pointedly, “But this is not a social meeting, Professor.”

“No, no. Well then, let’s get down to business. First of all, let’s establish what you already know about Moreton.”

Anne put down her glass. “The present-day village can be traced back to the fifteenth century and is built within a loop of the Fleetwater. There was some sort of manor house to the south of the river, with a small settlement and its own church—there’s an ancient yew tree growing there and we think that’s the site of the old church.”

“Well, we know that yew trees are often associated with churches.”

“Exactly.” Anne nodded. “The whole area was abandoned during the Black Death, and a lot of the stone was used for later buildings. St. John’s stands on a natural rise just west of the present village, across the river. Its first mention in the parish records is in 1311. Earlier information is a bit sketchy, but it may have been in existence long before that.”

“This is what I’ve turned up.” Professor Duggan opened the notepad, frowning over the densely packed lines of black writing. “In 1166 Henry the Second ordered an account of all knights’ fees, and there’s a mention of a John of Moreton owning much of the land in this area, including the manor house at Moreton. He was succeeded by his son, Andrew. Now, in 1185, we have a survey of all Templar land in the country. Moreton-by-Fleetwater is
not
mentioned.”

“I never said it was Templar land, only that the church was
built
by a Templar. What you’ve told me doesn’t conflict with our theory that Hugh of Moreton built the church, since the stone in the church says he died in 1325.”

“Excuse me—you said
our
theory?”

“The Pageant Committee. The Lady Chapel, which contains Hugh’s effigy and memorial stone, is the oldest part of the church. In the County Library there’s a copy of a document dating from the sixteenth century, stating that the church was built by Hugh of Moreton for private family worship and that he’s buried there.”

“And is there any information to say that Hugh of Moreton was a Templar?”

“No, but—”

“Then you still have no evidence.”

“What about the effigy itself? The feet are crossed, a sign of Templar burials.”

“One of the signs, but not decisive proof. And you seem to discount the fact that the Order was dissolved in 1312. From the end of the thirteenth century the knights were persecuted. Some were tortured, many were executed. That was mainly in France, I admit. In England most of the Templars just disappeared, but even so, hardly a good time to be building so visible a declaration of one’s loyalty.”

Anne bit her lip. How calmly he refuted her arguments. She noticed he was watching her and she gave a reluctant laugh.

“Okay. I admit I’m cross that I can’t convince you. But I haven’t finished yet.”

“No, I’m sure you haven’t. Perhaps I should come and have another look at your church, if I may?” Observing her sudden frown, he sighed. “My good woman, there’s no need to look so suspicious. It is a straightforward suggestion.”

“Do you know much about architecture?”

“A little.”

“Well, it’s not my church, so of course you may look at it, if you want to.” She was aware that she sounded ungracious.

“Actually I think it would be better if you showed me round, since you are so familiar with it now.” Behind the glasses the blue eyes were gazing at her quite innocently. He added, “Your carnival is less than two weeks away, so the sooner the better, really.”

“I’m working Tuesday and Thursday this week…”

“I could make it tomorrow.” His manner was brisk. “I’ve a meeting with the Dean at nine, but then I’m free for the rest of the morning. What if I meet you at the church at about ten-fifteen and we’ll have a look around together?”

“Well, if that’s what you want. I’ll get the key from the vicarage. They have to keep it locked now. Vandals, you see.”

“Of course.” He pointed to her empty glass. “Can I get you another drink?”

She rose. “I’ll get them.”

Anne had only intended to stay for a short time. She’d planned to listen to his new arguments, make a few notes, then come away to prepare a counterattack. Yet although neither of them mentioned Moreton or the carnival again, she made no attempt to leave. Over a few more drinks—mineral water and fruit juice, Anne was glad to observe, since they were both driving—their discussions ranged over politics, teaching, travel and many more subjects she could not even remember afterwards. She was startled to hear the landlord’s call for last orders interrupting their conversation.

“Good grief, is that the time? I’m sorry—I never meant to take up the whole evening, Professor.”

“It’s been a pleasure, truly.”

She picked up her bag. “I must get back. Hemingway will be starving by now!”

“Who?”

“Hemingway, my cat.”

“You live alone? He must be company for you.”

She looked at him, a challenge in her grey eyes. “Please don’t imagine you’re dealing with a lonely old lady who makes up history just to get attention.”