Michael Jecks - The Templar

The Prioress was little better. There was something that was holding her here, although she wouldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t make it out. If she’d wanted to, she could have thrown herself on the mercy of the Bishop. That must surely be better than sleeping with Parceval and the damage this could do to her immortal soul — not to mention the ruination of her career here on earth. Yet instead of asking for help, or even leaving town and heading back to her convent, which wasn’t that far away — only a few leagues — she stayed here, gazing at the beggars and thieves about the place, making it her business to talk to the whores and sluts as though she was thinking of taking up their cause before God. As though a stale who plied her trade in the Cathedral yard could hope to receive God’s sympathy!

Not many men could make it to Compostela when the whole of the van Coye family was determined to skin them alive. He had been lucky at times, certainly, but generally he’d been clever and one step ahead. That was why he was here, and not lying dismembered in a ditch somewhere on the way.

Dona Stefania was suspicious, he could tell. She looked at him just a little bit warily, as though wondering whether he had in fact killed her maid and gone off with the money. Well, why shouldn’t she wonder? He would too in her position. She already knew he was a dangerous man, that he had killed before and was here because of that fact. There was no secret about it.

He felt rather than heard her movement as she stretched out a hand, and he sniffed and cleared his throat. Instantly the hand withdrew. They deserved each other, he thought bleakly; she was only there because she wanted his money, and he was there because he wanted her body and the fleeting forgetfulness it provided. She detested him, in all probability, and he didn’t trust her an inch.

‘Are you asleep?’ he asked gently.

‘Mmm.’

‘Odd, that man putting up such a fight — the one who attacked our band of pilgrims.’

She grunted, but he was sure that she was listening carefully.

‘He was the leader — I told you that, didn’t I? And yet he was no coward, apparently. He tried to take the Englishman with him. Failed, though. He got killed but the Englishman lives.’

Yes, he was lucky to have reached Compostela. Van Coye’s family had tried to have him murdered, no doubt about that. Bloody bastards! Van Coye had deserved his end. He was ever an argumentative arse, was Hellin van Coye. From the first day he arrived at Ypres to the day he died at Parceval’s hand, he had been a bastard. Big, strong, and proud of his power, Hellin used to bully all about him into submission. He’d push anyone, just to see them retreat. Mastery over others, that was the thing.

Well, one day he picked on a man who wouldn’t back down. Hellin saw him in a tavern, and when he saw the girl with him, he was smitten, by all accounts. The youth was not half Hellin’s age, but that didn’t worry van Coye. If a man was smaller, younger, weaker and less experienced, so much the better.

Parceval was very drunk when Hellin began his assault. Well, they all were. There must have been seven or so customers left in the inn by the time Hellin noticed the boy arrive. The lad walked with his girl to a dark corner in the tavern — a stupid error. He was away from the door, and must pass by Hellin again to escape the place. Not that Parceval knew this at the time. He was outside, spewing again. He’d already been forced to go out and puke once to make space for more ale, and now he was feeling the onset of the next bout. His skin felt too tight, his face was hot, his body clammy, but he felt marginally better and was rising to return when he heard the noise inside.

It was strange how some men lost all control when they were drunk. Hellin was one such. Whenever he had too much to drink, he wanted to fight, and tonight was no exception. Apparently he made a great game of laughing at the couple, jeering and making stupid comments about the man. He’d a fair group of his friends about him, and they kept on and on until the couple rose to leave, the maid hiding her face beneath a veil. Then Hellin stood and blocked their path. The tavern was only a small place, and there was nowhere else for escape. The youth pushed the girl behind him, and Hellin held out his hands innocently, the brutish features — Christ Jesus , how Parceval hated that face! — expressing apology, as though he suddenly realised that he had gone too far and wished to apologise, but when the boy trusted him, Hellin van Coye drew him to his breast, snatched the boy’s own knife and plunged it into the side of his neck, thrusting down with all the force at his command. The lad fell without a murmur, probably dead before he reached the ground, and then it was that Hellin took the girl.

He was nothing if not democratic though, Hellin van Coye. When he had enjoyed his game with her, he held her thrashing form for his friends. He wouldn’t have wanted them to miss out on the fun.

Many wouldn’t believe the story afterwards. Ypres had been such a lovely little town, but things had changed, perhaps forever, when the famine struck and swathes of the population were struck down. In one month in 1316, a tenth part of the city’s people had died from hunger. After those days, the murder of one young man and the rape and subsequent suicide of his woman was of little note. There were many more things for the folk to concern themselves over, such as would there be any food on the table that night?

Parceval had coped very well with things. Until that hideous night, he had been a cheerful fellow, always the first with the offer of an ale or wine when the taverns were open, always the first to open his wallet, the first to see the humour in a youngster’s shame or embarrassment. It all changed that night, though, because of Hellin.

For Parceval, that scene haunted his dreams. Drunk, confused, he returned to see the boy dead on the floor. The girl was discarded at his side, eyes screwed shut, her wimple and veil gone, her dress torn apart, her skirts clutched to her in the hope that she might cover herself.

He could do nothing. His horror rose, choking him, searing his soul, and as he reached towards her, Hellin and another grabbed him and pulled him from that hellish room.

The lot of them callously left her shrieking to herself in the middle of the floor, covered with vomit and her lover’s blood. The men walked down an alley, two trying to support Parceval, but they had only gone a short distance when Hellin bethought himself that it would be amusing to pick on someone else. He did that sometimes; he was as unpredictable as the thunder. This time it was Parceval’s turn.

Hellin turned on Parceval and accused him of not taking his chance with the girl. That, he said, was disloyal. Or was it because Parceval had no ballocks? Here was Hellin, providing them with a pleasant chicken to stuff, and the least Parceval could do was show willing and pile in. All this was said with that customary glowering mien with the twisted lip, that meant it was either a joke, or that Hellin was working himself up to a killing frenzy.

Parceval had said nothing at the time. He was recalling that face — that pure, white, terrified face. It was appalling. He felt his stomach react, and he emptied his ale over the roadside to the hilarity of the companions, but then he lurched away, and while his ‘friends’ spoke and laughed, he sought a trough and washed his face and hands.

That poor girl had screamed as though her soul was being torn from her with pincers of steel. She had screamed as though the entire legions of heaven were powerless to help her, as though there was nothing, nothing in this world that could ever rebuild the life that was shattered that night. When the men had all left her, she had taken up the knife that had ended her man’s life, and slit her own throat, rather than suffer any more. What could life have been to her after that night?