Michael Jecks - The Templar

But his bad humour faded when he stood at the doorway and could see the sun bursting through the branches of pale leaves, dappling the little yard with shadows that moved gently as the breeze blew. There were soft colours here, pale yellows and ochres, and flowers Baldwin had known when he used to live in the South: plants with rich purple blooms, others with bright red leaves, and olive trees with their tiny, green-white star-shaped flowers. The sight caught at his heart. He felt as though he had come back home, as though he had only been half alive in all the time that he had been living in England.

He had missed this. The scents on the air, the sound of people laughing and talking unhurriedly, knowing that today would be warm again. If there was to be rain, it was no matter. The rain was needed in order to preserve the plants. And if it rained, it would be warm, not the chill mizzle they were used to, out on Dartmoor.

The last time he had been to Southern Europe was so long ago, he could hardly recall it, and yet seeing Matthew in the square had brought it all back to him. Now, with the soft breeze stirring the leaves above him, Baldwin felt oddly excited. It was in a warm climate where he had first felt the urges of lust, chasing girls along alleys in the sunshine to snatch a kiss or rolling in the long grasses with the sun warming their naked bodies. Suddenly aware of a poignant longing for her, he wished his wife Jeanne was with him.

At the inn, the keeper’s older daughter took Baldwin’s pack and promised to launder it. The people of the town went upriver a short distance to where there was a series of rocks on which their washing could be beaten and then left to dry, she said.

‘I hope she’s careful,’ Simon commented as she departed.

Baldwin, who was feeling a little constricted in one of Simon’s cast-off shirts, grunted. ‘Why?’

‘It sounds like the place where we found Joana yesterday. I wouldn’t like to think that there could be another murder.’

Baldwin set his mouth. The death of the woman was a terrible reminder that no matter how holy the city, men still harboured motives to kill. ‘I wonder if Munio will ever learn who killed her?’

‘I doubt it.’ Simon cast a look at Baldwin. ‘I was considering it last night while you snored. The sad fact is, any number of people here could be felons, so how could you tell? A pilgrim is automatically to be assisted by all, regardless of age, sex, or whether he has murdered even. A murderer would be safe from the rope until he returned home to face the law. And that’s what gets to me: so many people here have set out on their journey for precisely that reason — because they are guilty of something. That’s why pilgrims come here, after all, to atone. They commit some terrible sin, and travel all this way to pay for it.’

‘True enough, I fear,’ Baldwin responded sadly; it was certainly true in his case. ‘Many towns in Europe will impose a pilgrimage on a murderer.’

The two left the place and walked through the shaded alleyway out to the square. This early in the morning, there were fewer people abroad, and Simon and Baldwin saw that the inn where they had drunk with Munio the night before was open and ready for business. They sat at a table under a large tree and were soon happily chewing coarse bread and dried meat, washing it down with a smooth, sweet cider.

Simon gave a contented belch. ‘What if every single pilgrim here was a killer? We’d have our work cut out then!’

It was while the two friends were leaning back, feeling the soporific afterglow of a good meal, that Baldwin saw his old colleague Matthew again.

The former Templar walked slowly among the tradesmen, speaking to no one, which made him stand out from the other beggars there. Men and women clothed in black all moved with the same lethargic pace, but most offered a greeting to the traders standing there in the crowd. Not Matthew. He walked with his face averted, as though he hated to see how much the people there detested him. In his past he had been a warrior monk, someone notable for his religious dedication, his integrity and his honour. Now he had become a shrunken man.

Baldwin had long ago developed the ability to isolate his logical mind from his emotions. It had been necessary when he saw his friends dying in the hellish Battle of Acre, and had grown still more necessary while he was a renegade knight, avoiding capture as the King’s men hunted down all those Templars who had escaped their traps. Watching Matthew today, he was struck by the fact that the beggar was the most solitary man in the square. Whereas others were disabled to varying degrees or had obvious deformities, it was Matthew, albeit physically whole, who appeared the most cut off. It was curious, but Baldwin felt he understood. A man like Matthew, proud and haughty as he had been, would find it intolerable to have changed into someone who was despised or pitied. That, for him, would be worse than any form of torture.

Baldwin wondered if Matthew would, in fact, have fared better if he had suffered from some of the cruel injuries inflicted on the other Templars. It might have helped him to create a bond with other folk. Then again, perhaps not. Some men were arrogant and, whatever the circumstances, would not see fit to mingle with those whom they considered below them. Matthew was formed in that mould. While other beggars walked together, he kept himself aloof.

They were a lively group, these beggars, Baldwin noticed. A pair of legless men over at the entrance to the square were talking loudly to a deaf fellow, who bent his head, a hand cupping his ear, while he frowned comically, trying to understand what they were saying. Meanwhile a woman who had lost an arm cackled with a young mother, whose children were scampering all over the place. There was a man with a dreadfully disfigured face, who kept it half covered so as not to upset people, yet who burst out laughing uproariously at some joke passed to him by a young servant who lounged at his side. Then there was a small gathering of women nearer the Cathedral, all holding out their hands and piteously calling upon any passers-by for alms; although if they received nothing for their efforts, their cries soon became screeches of outrage. It was a common trait for beggars to hurl imprecations at those who ignored their pleas.

The woman Maria was there, Baldwin saw. She was a little taller than the rest, and probably louder than all the others put together. Her harangues were more spiteful, too, and her knowledge of Galician sewer-language was, to Baldwin’s ear, impressive.

‘They won’t do well if they keep shouting at people like that,’ Simon commented drily.

‘Maybe they feel they have little to lose,’ Baldwin guessed. ‘If a man will not help them with alms, they see little need to show respect.’

‘It’s damned disgraceful.’

‘It is not honourable, no — but if you were forced to beg, how would you behave? At least this way, abusing those who refuse to help them, they feel a little satisfaction, I imagine. Revenge upon the people who shun them.’

Simon grunted without conviction, and Baldwin’s attention returned to his old comrade. Matthew was near the Cathedral wall now, and he squatted at its foot, his hat tilted slightly back, surveying the crowds like a man who sneered at the antics of children. Catching sight of Baldwin, he half lifted a hand as though to acknowledge him, but then let it fall, as though reminding himself that he was no longer the equal of Baldwin, and could not expect recognition. Had their positions been reversed, Matthew would have refused to acknowledge him, Baldwin was sure, both because he would refuse to have any dealings with a beggar, and because he wouldn’t confess to knowing a Templar. That might be dangerous. Baldwin was sure he should feel upset by this, but somehow it served only to increase his vague feeling of comradeship with Matthew, as though it was their differences which bound them together.