Michael Jecks: The Templar

While he stood there leaning on his staff, a hand over his face, his back bowed, the others were already streaming down the incline towards the city, a mass of joyous humanity. Only two remained at his side. One was Don Ruy, the knight who wore his pride like armour protecting him from the lesser folk about him. The other was Parceval Annesen, a weaselly-looking Fleming with a sallow complexion, thinning hair and bent shoulders. There was a great weight on that Fleming’s shoulders, Gregory thought. He looked like a man who’d been buffeted heavily by the gales of misfortune and had all but gone under. It took one to know one, Gregory thought bitterly. Parceval had been luckier than most, though. At least he didn’t suffer from loneliness. Apparently, one night he’d chatted up a woman pilgrim on the way here, and Don Ruy, so it was rumoured, had walked in on him while he was bulling her. Gregory hadn’t even seen her. Just his luck! He’d been asleep and minding his own business, like a real pilgrim should.

So far as he had seen, the knight and the scruffy Fleming had exchanged scarcely a word, but that was no surprise. A weedy type like Parceval would be scared stiff of someone like this knight, who could sweep your head off as soon as look at you. No, a scruffy little churl like Parceval would never dare engage a man like Don Ruy in conversation, and a great hulking knight like Don Ruy would not demean himself by addressing someone like Parceval — especially if he’d walked in on the tatty little man while he was stuffing a whore.

Gregory fixed his eyes on the stream of excited people rushing ahead, listening to their shouts and laughter, wishing he could be a part of their joyous throng. He was so tied up in his jealousy and self-pity that at first he didn’t realise there was anything wrong; didn’t hear the subtle change as first one, then another man screamed with fear.

‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ Parceval hissed suddenly.

The foul exclamation made Gregory recoil with shock. That a man should speak thus within view of holy Compostela! He was about to command Parceval to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness, when he caught sight of the man’s expression. That made him turn back and scrutinise the plain ahead.

There was nothing obvious at first. Not that he could see, anyway. It was just a crowd running down the hill delighted to be in sight of their destination. Nothing. Maybe someone had tripped, that was all. Then he saw a flash of something glinting in the sunlight between some trees. There was a creaking of leather and shriek of exultation, and there, cantering towards the left flank of the pilgrims, was a force of men-at-arms, a motley band, armed with swords and axes, one or two wearing a pair of greaves or a breastplate, some with simple helmets. There was no uniform to them, no single colour of tabard or tunic, only a general scruffiness that was in itself a proof of their nature. At their front rode an older man with a hunched aspect, kicking his horse onwards, his heels drumming against the flanks. He had a mad, grinning face, Gregory thought, and an odd way of holding his head, as though one side were too heavy.

‘ Malfechores! ’ Gregory heard Don Ruy hiss, and the knight unsheathed his sword.

The small bands of robbers and thieves had grown fearfully since the famine, especially here, because of the turbulent politics over the last few years. They did not fear God’s wrath and would happily attack even pilgrims. Gregory wanted to flee, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, there was another band behind them, three strong-looking men on great rounseys. ‘Lost! We’re lost!’ he groaned.

Even as Gregory fell to his knees, overwhelmed with defeat, he saw the knight’s teeth gleam. Don Ruy planted his feet firmly apart and gripped his sword-hilt with both hands, the point aiming at the three men. Parceval was at his side, his staff gripped tightly in his fists, his face showing his anxiety, but yet fixed and intent. It was the sight of the miserable little churl sturdily challenging their foe that made Gregory realise how weak and pathetic he had become. The reflection stiffened his spirit. He stood, taking up his own staff and holding it as he had once been taught. It was a polearm, a weapon, and a man who could use it offensively was safe from most attackers. That was what he had been taught, anyway, and right now, just the feel of the thing in his hand was enough to give him some confidence. He saw Don Ruy flick a glance at him in which surprise vied with amusement, but he didn’t care; he had been a knight himself once.

However, the three horsemen took little notice of the group. The first was a heavyset man with a badly pocked, square face. As if to conceal his scars, he wore a thin dark stubble, which only served to make him look more intimidating. His brow was low and simian, and his eyes gleamed with what Gregory recognised as fanatical rage as he stared at the carnage on the plain. Pockface was clad in clothes that looked as though they had been expensive, but that was some years ago. His tunic was faded, his cloak threadbare, and his hose were holed in both knees; his mount looked strong and well-cared for, but the harness and fittings were dull and marked from sweat and scratches, showing that they too were old and well-used.

Behind him was another man, slighter of build and calmer in appearance. He had the long, regular face, fair hair and blue eyes of a northerner, and he peered ahead with less rage, more calculation. His clothing was newer than his companion’s, and the horse he rode looked to be of better quality.

The third man was plainly not a knight. Short and plump, this fellow snorted and spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the ground at his horse’s hoof. His hair was black with white feathers at his temples, and he had the quizzical look of one who has seen enough fighting and death in his time. Behind him he led two packhorses, both heavily laden. He shifted in his seat, squinting ahead and resting a hand on the blade that sat in the rough, undecorated scabbard at his thigh. He glanced in Gregory’s direction and the latter saw his eyes narrow as he took in Don Ruy, but then his fierce, dark eyes met Gregory’s as he addressed his two companions in a light Scots accent.

‘Aye. Well, are we goin’ to join in or just sit and watch all the long day?’

With that, the fair man gave a high, giggling laugh, and then suddenly he drew his sword, whirled it about his head a few times, and slapped it sharply on his horse’s rump. In an instant he was off, racing down the hill, his sword flashing in the sunshine like a torch in the wind, hair streaming behind him. The man-at-arms clicked his tongue, but he had already dropped the reins of the packhorses, and his rounsey was moving to follow the fair-haired knight.

The warrior with the pockmarked face muttered a curse under his breath, spat, and then raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks. Before the other two could get far, he was level with them, his mount straining at the gallop, and Gregory could hear his hoarse roar even over the thundering of hooves.

By now, the band of malfechores had scattered the pilgrims, and two had stopped to take up bundles where they had been dropped. As Gregory watched, he saw a sudden gout of blood, and saw the ‘King’ spinning, a rider raising his sword for a second hack. Suddenly a great slab of the King’s head seemed to separate from the rest of his body, a third of his face and skull falling away to lie on his shoulder, exposing the pink and grey horror of his brain. There was a fine, pumping mist of red, and then he fell, thrashing, to the ground. His attacker lifted his sword in triumph, but then the three were on them.

First was the madly shrieking fairhead, who galloped full tilt at a group of four who were circling a pilgrim and taunting him. With a sharp sweep of his blade, he took the head and a shoulder entire from one man, rammed the horse of a second, bludgeoning the rider from his seat, and then stabbed a third through the throat; the dour man-at-arms came a little way after him, ducking below an ill-judged thrust like a tumbler, and stabbing viciously once, upwards beneath his opponent’s chin, so that his sword appeared through the top of his victim’s skull, then withdrawing it swiftly lest it become snagged as the corpse slumped and toppled from the saddle. Finally there was the apelike warrior, who gave a bull-like bellow like a berserker of old, and charged straight at the thickest mass of malfechores with a sword in one hand and a long-handled knife in his other. He rode with his reins dangling, gripping his mount with his thighs alone, guiding the horse by sheer force of will, apparently, or so Gregory thought, as his two blades flashed wildly, already red with the blood of his enemies. Gregory saw one man stabbed and bludgeoned from his horse, only to be trampled. Unconsciously, he had clenched his right fist, and was following the blows when he realised what he was doing and shamefacedly unfurled his fingers.