Michael Jecks - The Templar

Baldwin was unconvinced, but when Munio gave a whistle, his wife came to join them both, and she argued forcefully and vociferously that Simon should remain.

‘He is not well enough to travel, Sir Baldwin. Look at him! You may return and see him at any time you wish, for I doubt you will wake him. He was close to death, and to take him on a voyage now would be fatal. Think of the perils which afflict the healthy at sea, from fevers to sicknesses. If he were merely to become seasick, his body could not cope. Please consider him.’

Baldwin was aware of a horrible feeling of separation. In the past he had always had an able man-at-arms beside him, his Sergeant from the Templars, Edgar, but Edgar was back at the manor near Cadbury with Jeanne, Baldwin’s wife. He had preferred to know that she and Richalda, their daughter, were safe in case of an armed gang, or even the risk of war. Edgar was competent and entirely capable. He would see to it that Jeanne and Richalda were safe.

At all those times when Edgar had not been with him, Baldwin had been pleased to have the sturdy, stolid Bailiff at his side. Simon was resourceful, bright, and a doughty fighter when one was needed.

‘I do not know if I can do this without him,’ he said slowly.

‘Of course you can,’ Munio said briskly. ‘You’ll find these men. If you don’t, persuade the Mestre at Tomar to help you find them. These men all appear to be heading in the direction of the town. If they have already arrived, good, and the Mestre can see to it that they pay for their crimes; if they have not arrived, so much the better, because you can save the Order from recruiting dishonourable souls who should never have been considered for a holy fort.’

Baldwin shook his head doubtfully. To travel so far, without friend, without companion, without even the power of the law to support him, felt foolish in the extreme. Better, perhaps, to wait until Simon was quite recovered, in which case he could have a friend to count on.

How long would that take, though? Days? Weeks? The men already had a good head-start on him. Ramon had left on the morning of Matthew’s death. That was four days ago, now. Even sailing instead of riding on horseback took some time, and these men were some hundred miles away by now. A longer delay might mean their escaping.

‘How long will it take to get to Tomar?’ he asked.

‘The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll get there,’ Munio said unsympathetically, then chuckled. ‘I think three to four days to sail down the coast, then another two or three to travel inland, if you can make good time. I can’t help much, but I can at least give you some currency. I have some libras and soldos which you can use.’

Baldwin stood. ‘I should pack and make my way to the coast if I am to catch my ship in the morning.’

The next three days were, for Simon, unremittingly tedious. Always an energetic man, he loathed lying about. His indolence was a strain on himself and, he admitted, on all about him, but he couldn’t help it. When things grew too much for him, he couldn’t curb his tongue.

If he had been in England, in some part of Dartmoor with a pair of miners, he would at least have felt more or less at home, or if he had been in a city like Exeter, where he knew many people and could count on their dropping in to chat, it would have been different, but here, with all the language difficulties, he felt awful, as if he was being imprisoned by people who could not understand him. Even if he had a simple request, the servants would tend to seek Dona Margarita, or Munio himself, rather than take it upon themselves to try to understand his words. He could ask for water or wine, and one grizzled old devil appeared to comprehend fully when he demanded bread, but that was about it.

If only, he kept telling himself, he had gone with Baldwin. At least he would have been moving, doing something. Not only would he and Baldwin have been able to keep each other’s spirits up, Simon would surely have felt better if he had been occupied. All he could do here was keep on wondering where his old friend was, and how he fared. There was no point telling himself the truth — that he might have suffered a dangerous relapse, nor that he would have slowed Baldwin down; all he knew was the boredom of loneliness and uncertainty.

For there was uncertainty in any journey. The grimmest and most fearful outcome of Baldwin’s trip to that place … what was it called? Oh, Tomar! Yes, the worst possible outcome was that Simon would never hear from Baldwin again. There were so many dangers — rivers in spate, bandits, mountains, rockfalls — even if Baldwin survived the terrible risks of a sea crossing. Having once sailed over the seas to Galicia, Simon had thought that the perils of seafaring would diminish, but he was perturbed to learn that his own travel had merely given him a livelier appreciation of the dangers, and now his every thought was bent towards Baldwin and his safety.

He was standing by the window in the late morning on the fourth day after the knight’s departure, feeling glum and lonely, when Margarita stole in quietly and studied him.

‘So, you are ready to ignore my words and climb from your bed?’ she asked with mock seriousness.

Simon smiled. ‘My lady, how could I remain in that bed knowing that you were about to arrive? Besides, my very bones ache from inaction. I’m not used to this!’

He would have said more, but he had a natural inclination to avoid rudeness before any woman, especially one who had nursed him through an illness.

‘It is like being caged, I suppose,’ she said, studying his body. He had lost much weight, and his face was quite haggard, with deep lines at his brow. What made him look worse was the constrained expression on his face, like a prisoner who can see and hear real life continuing outside his cell, but may not go out and experience it himself. She thought it made him look a little like a vulnerable boy-child, petulant at the unfair rules that held him here, but accepting their authority nonetheless. ‘Would you like to join me on a visit to the market?’

‘Madam, I should kill for the chance!’

In the bright sunshine, he put on the hat again. The long peak that felt so stupid did at least reduce the overpowering glare of the full sunlight. He wore a thin shirt and one jacket only, on Margarita’s advice, and although he could feel the enormous power of the sun’s heat, it did not make him feel queasy or weak as it had the day he collapsed.

‘You should drink more,’ she said. ‘That is probably what affected you.’

‘I had drunk plenty,’ he retorted, but without rancour. ‘I had gone that morning with Baldwin to one of the troughs near the stables, I think.’

‘Sometimes the air in certain areas can be bad,’ she said. ‘If you can smell rotten eggs, the air can affect you, I have often observed.’

‘Malaria, yes,’ he said. ‘I have heard of it. But I thought that it caused yellowness of the flesh and similar ailments?’

‘In some people, yes, it can,’ she agreed. ‘Others are affected like you, and find that their bowels are loosened and they have a violent fever. I do not think you were so badly stricken, but it must have been a cruel fever.’

Simon nodded, but his mind was already on other things. A hawker was selling cockleshells, and when he looked past her, he saw a man with intricate little necklaces of shells. It was exactly the sort of trinket that his daughter would adore, especially since it came from a place so far from her own home and experience. He indicated the seller, and nothing loath, Margarita took him to the man and haggled on his behalf.

Afterwards, she was keen to acquire meat for the evening meal, and she walked enthusiastically along the benches on which were set out all the bleeding cuts from the animals which had been slaughtered that morning in the shambles, the blood still staining the cobbles where the apprentices hadn’t yet washed it away. While she was studying the slabs of meat and consulting with the butcher as to how she wanted it prepared, Simon went for a stroll. He saw a table set out with wines and made his way over to it, ordering a pot of red in a loud voice and draining it in two gulps. It was strongly flavoured and had a metallic taste, but Simon had been told to drink more after his illness, so he gulped down a second dose as soon as the man had refilled the cup, and found that his attitude to the city was marginally improved.