The Last Templar by Michael Jecks Page A

the warmth of her gaze, he realised that this was too superficial an evaluation - this was a very intelligent woman. Her intellect was clear in her appraising eyes, in the speed of her glance as she subjected the men to a minute scrutiny, in the measuring, almost bold and defiant, stare when she caught the eyes of the others.
    Her husband seemed almost shy as he explained why they were there, as if he was more afraid of worrying her than he was of upsetting the knight and bailiff, and instinctively Baldwin knew his concern was unjustified.
    Jane Black was intrigued. She had never seen such important men in her village before - Blackway was too far from the normal routes for any officials to bother to stop off - and she was not sure why they were so interested in old man Brewer’s boy. The visitors did not seem to want to explain, but that did not matter to her; she knew that her husband would tell her all about it later. As she listened, though, it was the knight who caught her attention. He seemed so earnest, so intent, as he watched her, and as she responded to their questions she saw that his gaze fell upon her lips, as if trying to make sense of her words before their meaning could even be imparted to his brain by his ears, as if everything she said was so crucial, of such fascination, that he had to listen with his whole soul.
    “Do you remember his name?” Simon asked.
    Jane Black slowly wiped her hands on the cloth that served as an apron while she lost herself in her past, in the times when she was a young girl, long before she met John Black, and when the Brewer family had been together. Slowly the pictures started to come to life, as she recalled faded visions of years long passed, of a boy with a simple rough tunic who always seemed to be close to tears from the beatings his father gave, a boy who longed for a mother, but whose mother had died during his birth, a boy who wanted love and affection from a father who seemed to blame him for his widowhood. He had always seemed cowed, like a dog that was thrashed too often, waiting for the next whipping. She had always felt a sneaking sorrow for him, as if she could have taken him up and helped him, perhaps by becoming the sister he had never had. But kindness between children was difficult. She had given in and joined in the vicious jibes and sneers of her friends. When had he left the area?
    “His name was Morgan; he was named after the father of his mother,” she said, her eyes seeing only the past.
    “Why did he leave, Mrs. Black?” said Baldwin, a scowl of incomprehension darkening his features.
    “Why? Oh to get away, I think. He managed to save some money and went to Exeter. He got his lord’s agreement -that was your brother, Sir Baldwin. It’s not surprising. Brewer was a hard man. I can remember seeing Morgan bruised and hurt on mornings when his father had been in his cups the night before.”
    “Did he often get drunk, then?”
    She gave a chuckle. “Oh yes, sir. Very often indeed! It was rare for him to get home sober. Many was the night he had to be helped home from the inn or from a friend’s house after too much ale or cider.”
    Baldwin nodded slowly. “And he became violent when he had too much to drink?”
    Her eyes seemed to film over as she looked at him. “Yes,” she said at last. “He would often abuse others. If he had drunk too much he tried to fight - and he was strong, sir, very strong. My father used to try to avoid him, but others would be hit by him. He even used to hit the very men that were helping him home. Oh, yes, he could be very violent.”
    “This son, Morgan. You think he’s still in Exeter?”
    “No, I doubt it. If he had any choice, I think Morgan would have gone as far away as he could. He had no need of his father’s money, I think. He earned enough himself in the city and could easily afford to travel farther.”
    “Do you know where he can be found?”
    “Oh no. No, I’ve no idea. And I doubt whether