Michael Jecks: The Templar

The roadway was lined with street traders of all kinds — hawkers in gaily coloured clothes shouting, a few brazen women leering at the men, although they waited more for those who had already visited the Cathedral — perhaps because they had learned from experience that a pilgrim needed to refresh himself spiritually before trying to slake his more natural desires.

Gregory hesitated at a wine-seller’s counter then purchased a small cupful at an exorbitant price; he didn’t grudge the fee. It felt so good to have almost reached his goal. He only hoped that he might find some peace when he arrived in the Cathedral. If only he’d been made King — but then, as he reminded himself, he would be lying dead on the plain now if he had, with the other pilgrims who’d been caught in the ambush.

Setting his cup upon the board, he was about to rejoin the line of pilgrims when he stopped. There, a scant yard away, he had seen her , he was sure! Certainly it must have been her; there couldn’t be two women in the world with that peculiar heart-shaped face, the same tip-tilted nose, the high angle of the cheek, the rich, ruby mouth and little chin.

She was wearing a pleated wimple and fine-looking tunic of some light material, as befitted so wealthy a woman, and she was riding a good ambler , a horse trained to walk with the legs at each side moving in unison, first both of the left side together then both of the right, to give a gentle, rocking gait that was more comfortable than a horse’s usual motion.

Gregory felt as if he was in a dream as he followed after her, along the rest of the roadway and up into the square at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was easy to keep her in sight, because she was one of the few pilgrims on horseback. Most had left their mounts back at the stables near the gates so that they could make the last few yards of their journey on foot. Not her, though. Oh no, my lady Prioress wouldn’t want to sink so low. Only a peasant would walk, she’d have said. Poisonous bitch!

She stopped in the square when she saw the milling crowds there. Gregory had heard that this place was called ‘Paradise’ by the people who lived here, but no thought of that came into his mind as he watched his ex-wife dismount and leave her horse in the hands of a loitering stablehand. Gregory’s attention was entirely bound up with her as she climbed the stairs slowly towards the central column, preparing to put her hand in a niche in the stone to give thanks for her safe arrival.

Her! Giving thanks to a Saint, like any pilgrim, Gregory thought bitterly, when it was she who had made him foul with sin. She shouldn’t be allowed in a place like Saint James’s Cathedral; she should be barred. It would be just his luck if she were to accuse him of guilt, and he was refused entry, he thought glumly. If only he could hate her; but he couldn’t. She was beautiful, and he adored her.

If only, he thought, he didn’t still love her. Dona Stefania de Villamor, the woman who had been his wife.

Gregory was not alone in spotting her. Although Parceval had not set off until some time after him, he had not halted for wine or food and arrived in the square at the same time as the anguished penitent.

Parceval had caught sight of Gregory staring at him several times during their journey, and at first it had worried him, thinking the old dolt had recognised him, but he felt sure now that he was secure. It was only the snobbery of an older man staring at his social inferior. Bloody bastard. It was embarrassing enough, having to wear this filthy clothing, and assume the shabby appearance of a peasant. But it was, after all, what he had intended. No one who knew him as a wealthy merchant would recognise him like this, surely.

Ah, it was good to be back in the warmer country of Galicia. The last time he had been here, it was a little later in the year, at a time when the local people were harvesting their fruits and grains. Now, in the early summer, it was certainly damper, but at least the rain was warm — far better than the miserable conditions which had prevailed in Ypres when he left. That had been far colder. Christ Jesus, yes. Although the circumstances of his departure might have coloured his feelings.

About his neck was a small skin filled with water, and he took a swallow now as he made his way through the crowds, darting between pilgrims and wanting to curse as one stood on his foot, another bumped into him and a third pushed him aside on the way to a pie-seller. If these people had any respect, they would surely make way for him. He was rich, damn them all!

Not so rich now, of course.

It was so unfair that he should have been made to pay. In his eyes, the killing — he refused to call it murder — was completely justified. Hellin van Coye had deserved death, and Parceval had dealt it out. The whole town had supported his action, and although he had been forced to pay compensation to the widow — who was grateful to him for making her a widow and ending her living hell — and must complete this penitential pilgrimage to Compostela, that didn’t change his basic belief that he was innocent of any crime. Even now the thought of Hellin’s crime made him feel faint. Hellin, the man who had killed Parceval’s soul. He could feel the sickness wash through him, as though it was washing through his soul, polluting him still. Please, God, he begged silently, forgive me when I have completed this pilgrimage. Don’t forsake me when I need Your help so badly!

He felt the bitterness bubble up again, and tried to force it down. There was no point in anger now. He had done what he needed to do, and that was that. He was here to show his remorse — ha! Remorse for the death of that devil’s spawn? With a cynical shake of his head, he told himself that when he returned to Ypres, that would be enough to earn him rewards from people who would assume him to be still more decent a man with whom to do business, because he had made this journey (a notably expensive trip, after all). And if some refused to deal with him because of his ‘crime’, others would come to him because he was known to be someone who would stand up for his rights and his property, surely a notable citizen.

The tears were back. Him notable , after all his crimes?

He brushed the tears away and took a deep breath. There was no reason for him to feel guilt. Guilt was for the guilty. He was here to show that he was accepted as an innocent not only by the city’s ruling elite, but even by Saint James himself. He had not meant to do anything wrong. It was the fault of beer — and of Hellin van Coye.

Pleased with this conclusion, he squared his shoulders. Just then, gazing ahead, he caught a glimpse of her — the Dona Stefania — and his heart began to beat a little faster. He could remember every curve of that delectable body from the time they had met. Beautiful. The memory hadn’t dimmed. Christ alive, no! If anything it was thoughts of her which kept him awake in the early hours.

‘Dona Stefania,’ he murmured to himself. She wouldn’t have forgotten him; she couldn’t have. No, so why not renew their acquaintance? Forgetting entirely the attack in which he could so easily have been killed, Parceval began to forge his way through the crowds, but even as he thrust himself onwards, he realised that he would never be able to reach her before she got to the Cathedral’s doorway. There were simply too many people here in the square.

Cursing under his breath, he was bemoaning his bad luck when he saw the lady start to climb the stairs that led to the great doors. All there were slipping their hands into the niches about the main column, atop of which Saint James himself sat gazing down with a welcoming expression on his stone face. While Parceval watched, he saw a man arrive at Dona Stefania’s side, a stolid, slightly hunched man, with a curious way of holding his head, as thought it was too massy on the left side to be supported.