Michael Jecks - The Templar

Baldwin’s sympathy for her eroded as he noticed that as she spoke, she put her hand out to Parceval. That man patted it and met Baldwin’s gaze with a calm smile. Baldwin’s feelings rose in favour of her husband. As she spoke, Parceval met Baldwin’s look again; there was a smug expression on his face.

Biting back his contempt for the man, whoring about with this Prioress, Baldwin was about to make a sharp comment when he caught sight of Simon’s face. ‘My friend, are you quite well?’ he asked, concerned.

‘Yes,’ Simon lied. He felt as though he had a fever and was drunk at the same time. It was difficult to keep his vision in focus, and he must squint even to see Baldwin clearly. ‘I am just thirsty. Where’s that blasted innkeeper?’

Baldwin stared at him, then bellowed to the serving staff to bring a large jug of water.

Gregory shot from the tavern as soon as he thought it was safe, and bolted around the corner to stand with his back to a wall, panting slightly after the unwarranted exercise, ears straining for a sound of pursuit. If he could, he’d have laid an ambush for the devil, caught him, then showed his wife that she couldn’t catch him out so easily. He wasn’t just any green squire, he was a knight by birth and training, damn her soul! This fellow was plainly in her employ, a hireling who had been told to hurt him. Why, Gregory had no idea. All he did know, was that he was unwilling to sit about and wait to be killed.

The alley into which he had darted was a quiet little thoroughfare, and as he waited, listening, almost no one passed by. It was good, because it meant he could hear any steps approaching. There was the occasional heavy tread of boots and slapping of sandals, but nothing that sounded like a pursuit, and after a few moments his heart slowed to its normal rate, as his body realised that there was no need to panic any longer. He could have wept. Why on earth had he married that vindictive woman? Obviously she was after him. God in heaven — were those men told to kill all the pilgrims, just to make sure they killed him ? How could she be so wicked?

He had been standing with his palms against a rough wall, and now he forced himself to pull them away. The left one was scratched. On the wall, he saw that there was a small projecting nail. At the time he had felt nothing, but now he was aware of a throbbing. It must be a sign of his mental distress.

Why should his wife have wanted to kill him? Surely she couldn’t still bear him a grudge? She had punished him anyway, ruining his reputation and forcing him to go, like her, into a convent. Rape, she called it. Rape! When it was a wife’s duty to her husband. Not that she would ever admit to that. As far as Stefania was concerned, it was a sign of his brutality, nothing more.

What had he ever done, other than love her? It was just his luck that he should have married a woman who was incapable of returning affection. She had no idea of love. Couldn’t understand when he gave her his own unconditionally. It simply wasn’t part of her make-up.

Damn it! Gregory knew that God Himself had forgiven him. Why couldn’t she ? Was she so blind? And now she wanted him dead, she wanted revenge. She was prepared to see the felon and his band kill all the pilgrims, just so they could strike him down.

Gregory felt a most peculiar courage take him over. He suddenly wanted to confront her. He had endured enough guilt over the years for his one mistake and saw no reason to continue to suffer. What, after all, had he done that was so wrong? Nothing! It was her , with her warped sense of morality. Her, and her airs and graces. Well, damn her. It was nothing to do with Gregory, and he refused to hide in the shadows. He had as much right to be here in Compostela as anyone else. He refused to run scared. Why should he?

Looking at his scratched palm again, he felt a rising annoyance. He wasn’t evil. If the silly mare wanted an apology, he could give her one, but he would no longer keep avoiding her and hiding all the time.

With a sniff, Gregory put his nose in the air and set off towards the little room where he had a lodging. Less than halfway there, he was suddenly struck from behind by a massive buffet that made him fall to his knees, dazed. Looking up, he was about to open his mouth and cry for help, when the next blow caught him over his ear, and he collapsed on his elbows. There was a rushing in his ears, and the ground opened up in front of him. With the inevitability of disaster, Gregory felt himself toppling forwards, and he began the fearful journey into the deep darkness.

Just as the roaring noise overwhelmed him, he heard a strange guttural voice rasping in his ear. ‘Leave the Prioress alone, you bloody bastard.’

‘Stop your damned bellyaching!’ Simon said, averting his head from the bowl of watered cider. ‘God’s Ballocks! If I wanted to fill myself with water, I’d jump in the river.’

‘You are lucky to have been with us when you collapsed,’ Baldwin said.

They were still in the tavern. Once he was sure that Simon was going to recover, Munio had left them to go and speak to the house of Musciatto to confirm that Parceval had told the truth about the money. The Prioress had hurried away with Parceval while the two lifted Simon and set him down on the table top. Baldwin now stood above him, cooling a cloth in a bowl of chilly vinegar and dabbing it on his head. He had felt a terrible fear when Simon toppled over, thinking that the Bailiff might die. Others he had known had died from heat exhaustion — and the idea that his best friend should succumb was appalling.

‘Are you sure you are …’ he choked out.

‘I am fine, Baldwin! God in heaven! I was just a bit thirsty, that’s all.’

Baldwin could not prevent him from sitting upright. He stood back, wiping his hands on the cloth, then thought better of it, dipped it in the vinegar, and passed it to Simon again.

‘Are you sure this is supposed to help?’ Simon growled. ‘It makes me feel like puking.’

‘Better that than dying,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘Are you sure you haven’t shown any sign of illness until today?’

‘Well, only a little,’ Simon admitted reluctantly.

‘What?’

‘I just felt a bit … I had a touch of gut rot during the night.’

‘Last night? What of before?’ Simon’s shiftiness made Baldwin exclaim in exasperation. ‘Good God, man! You should have told me.’

‘I will in future, Baldwin. All right? Now give me more cider, and then we can decide what we need to do next.’

Baldwin sat on a bench and watched as Simon drained his cup. ‘I don’t know that cider is the best drink for a man in your condition,’ he said miserably.

Simon lowered his cup. ‘Baldwin, I am not dead, and I won’t die either, provided I am just a little more careful. That’s all I need, a bit more care.’

‘Very well,’ Baldwin said. He looked in towards the tavern-keeper. ‘He does not seem to like having you lying on his table.’

‘Tough!’ Simon said unsympathetically. ‘If he wants, he can come here and tell me I’m not allowed. I’ll settle his mind on the matter.’

Baldwin smiled. He was about to speak when he heard an odd noise outside in the crowds. ‘What’s that?’

Simon turned his head, wincing a little as he did so. ‘Sounds like some sort of upset.’

‘My heavens, I hope it’s not another dead man,’ Baldwin murmured. He sat up and stared out into the roadway, craning his neck to see what was happening.

Simon hopped down from the table and tensed his legs slightly. He still felt rather wobbly, but a great deal better than he had before. ‘Any sign?’