Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry when he began writing the internationally successful Templar series. There are now twenty books starring Sir Baldwin Furnshill and Bailiff Simon Puttock, with more to follow. The series has been translated into all the major European languages and sells worldwide. The Chairman of the Crime Writers' Association for the year 2004–2005, Michael is a keen supporter of new writing and has helped many new authors through the Debut Dagger Award. He is a founding member of Medieval Murderers, and regularly talks on medieval matters as well as writing.

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The Knights Templar

They had all joined taking three vows: poverty, chastity, and obedience…for they were monks: warrior monks, dedicated to theprotection of pilgrims in the Holy Land -- until stories spread by anavaricious king who wanted their wealth for his own destroyed the order.

There was one knight, however, who escaped the stake, vowing justiceas he watched his innocent brothers die.

A Dastardly Deed

When the mutilated body of midwife and healer Agatha Kyteler is discovered in a hedge one frozen wintry morning, it at first appears the lack of clues will render the crime unsolvable -- until a frightened local youth inexplicably flees his village and a hue and cry is raised. Sir Baldwin Furnshill, once a Knight Templar, however, has doubts about the boy’s guilt, and enlists friend and bailiff of Lydford Castle, Simon Puttock, in the hunt for a murderer. But what they seek lies somewhere on the darker side of the village of Wefford, beneath layers of jealousy, suspicion, and hatred -- and the buried truth could prove fatal to anyone who disturbs it.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Merchant's Partner

Avon Books

Chapter One

It was not until much later, when winterhad relaxed its grip and spring hadtouched the land with the fresh, yellowgreenshades of renewal, that the feelingsof horror and revulsion began to fade.

The knight knew full well that they were not goneentirely but merely superseded for a time by the pragmaticconcerns of the villagers. The beginning of anew year forced the killings out of people's minds.Everyone was too busy for contemplation, preparingthe fields and making use of the increasing daylight.But the murders had been committed late in the winter,and the long, cold evenings had given time for the storytellersto reflect and embellish. With their faceslighted by the angry red glow at the fireside, the familiesthrilled to hear about them time and again.

He could not grudge the people their fascinationwith the murders?it was only natural in such aquiet, rural shire. Devon was not the same as otherparts of the kingdom, where people lived in continualanxiety. On the northern marches men fearedmore attacks from the Scottish raiders, while at thecoast people were terrified of raids by the French pirates. Here the only concern was the possibility of athird failed harvest.

No, it was not surprising that the people looked to astory like that of the murdered witch to enliven theirevenings, not surprising that every man had his ownopinion of the truth behind the killings, or that somenow lived in fear of her ghost in case she sought revengeon the village where she had been killed.

Thinking back now, he was not sure when it allbegan. It was surely not the day when Tanner called,the Wednesday morning when he first saw the bodywith his friend the bailiff. It was before, maybe on theSaturday, when he was out hunting and saw the womenfor the first time. The morning he spent falconing withthe rector of Crediton.

"It's bitter, isn't it," said Peter Clifford again.

Without looking at him, Baldwin grinned. His concentrationwas focused on the slender figure clutching at hisgloved fist, admiring her slate-colored back and blackbarredwhite chest. She sat like a high-born Syrianwoman, he thought. Confident, strong and elegant, notthick and heavy like a peasant, but slim and quick. Evenas he gazed at her, the head under the hood turned to facehim as if hearing his thoughts, the yellow, wickedlyhooked beak still and controlled. It was not threatening,but she was asserting her independence, knowing shecould take her freedom when she wished: she was no dog,no devoted servant?and like all falconers, he knew it.

The priest's words broke in on his meditation and,giving a wry smile, he turned back to the rector of thechurch at Crediton, the corners of his mouth liftingunder the narrow black moustache. "Sorry, Peter. Areyou cold?" he asked mildly.

"Cold?" Peter Clifford's face appeared almost bluein the chill of the early morning as he squinted at hiscompanion. "How could I feel cold in this gloriousweather? I may not be a knight, I may be used to sittingin a warm hall with a fire blazing at this time ofyear, I may be thin and older than you, I may be sorelyin need of a pint of mulled beer, but that does not meanI feel the bitterness of this wind that cuts through mytunic like a battleaxe through butter."

Baldwin laughed and looked around at the land.They had left the forests behind and now were onopen, bleak moorland. The weak winter sunshine hadnot yet cleared the damp mists from the ground, andtheir horses' hooves seemed almost to be wading in thethick dew underfoot. Bracken and heather covered thehill and shimmered under the grayness.

They had left early, almost as dawn broke, to gethere. Baldwin had rescued the peregrine as a youngand vicious juvenile in the previous year and Peter hadnot yet witnessed the bird hunting, so the knight hadeagerly agreed to bring her and show off her skill. Forhim it was a pure delight to watch the creature climb,only to float, high and silent, almost as if she was aslight as a piece of wood ash.

This was ideal land for falcons, up here on the moor,away from the woods. Shorter in the wing, hawks werebetter at chasing their prey and were used by their astringersto hunt among trees or other cramped areas.The falconer used his long-winged birds on open landwhere they could rise quickly, soaring up to their pitchand staying there, touring above their targets until theystooped down like a falling arrow, rarely missing theirmark.

Shrugging himself deeper under his cloak, Peter Clifford grimaced to himself as they rode along. Lastnight he had thought it would be pleasant to go hunting,after their meal and with plenty of Sir Baldwin'sgood Bordeaux wine inside him, heated by the greatfire while they chatted of the latest Scottish attacks tothe north. Then he had envisioned a warm day, the skya perfect blue, the hawk swooping on to her targets. . . He glowered. Now he felt only cold: cold,damp and miserable. There was a fine sheen of silverymoisture all over his cloak and tunic, the wind cutthrough to his bones, and his face felt as though he waswearing a mask of ice. It was not as he had imagined.

His feelings of chilly discomfort were emphasizedby the relative calmness of the man beside him. Baldwinsat as straight and alert as the bird on his fist,swaying and rocking with the slow walk of his horse.He was a strange man, the rector thought, this quiet,educated and self-possessed knight. Very unlike thenormal warriors Peter Clifford met passing throughCrediton ...

Excerpted from The Merchant's Partnerby Jecks, Michael Excerpted by permission.
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