Michael Jecks - The Templar

And looking up at it from the bottom of the hill, Baldwin suddenly wondered how pious and good the men of the new Order were. This castle was intimidating, a place built to protect those who lived inside, and to threaten those who lived without. Yet Baldwin had sworn to question the Portuguese. He had given his word to Munio when Munio gave him money to come here; he would not return without attempting to honour that vow. With a sigh, he led the horse up the pathway.

It was only a dirt track, and Baldwin could see through the trees as they thinned, taking in the view of the lush green lands on all sides. The ground was hilly, but not in the same way as Devon, where it was impossible to see much more than the next two hills from another. Here, it was possible to see for many miles, to far-off hills coloured blue with the distance, each plainly visible in the rolling countryside because none was of any great height. It also made the sky seem much broader, like the skies Baldwin had known as a youngster, when he had spent time in the islands of the Mediterranean. There too the sky had appeared larger, bluer, and more wonderful. In England, it was ever grey, he considered.

He could feel his heart begin to beat faster as he wound upwards, and suddenly found that on his right was a great mound of rock, on top of which was a wall, the first part of the castle’s outer defences. Each block was massive; daunting in its size. It made Baldwin wonder how men could have moved, shaped and installed such huge lumps of stone.

But pondering on such things was merely a ploy to delay his arrival. He turned his horse resolutely to the front. To reach the entrance, he must walk about the base of this wall of rock to a final flat wall, in which was a large arched gateway. With hesitant feet, he undertook this journey, and then stopped.

It was rather anticlimactic to see that the gate was wide open and that men stood laughing and lounging in the sun.

Afonso clattered along the roadway. There, downriver, was the great castle, and he burned with excitement at the thought of actually arriving there at last.

‘It is a good location for a fort,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Astonishing place. Good height. Difficult for anyone to scale that hillside. Plentiful water at the foot, which should mean that there is enough to fill a well, and the countryside here looks marvellously fertile. The peasants must be well-ruled. They don’t seem so lazy as English ones.’

There was a sniff from Paul. ‘Perhaps they are happier with their lot,’ he commented.

‘Paul is sometimes prone to such cheerful comments,’ Sir Charles said to Afonso. ‘He agrees with me, by and large.’

Afonso nodded, but he was only half-listening. For the most part, his mind was focused on the castle and his reception there. He had longed for the day when he would reach this place, having achieved his goal, and yet now there was that strange feeling of relief. Both relief and joy at success; balanced with the recognition that he had not in truth achieved all he could.

That old man, Matthew. His face kept returning to Afonso, that last expression of happiness — at his death. That curious acceptance.

No matter. Afonso had done his duty, and now that he was done, he had one last act to perform — and that must be done here at the Castle of Tomar. He wondered how Charles would react when he heard what Afonso intended.

As Afonso knew, this was the place where the Templars had managed their affairs in Portugal. It was the centre and hub of their Portuguese operations. The place where a man who had sought to harm them would go.

Baldwin waited at the gate while a cheerful-looking lay Brother was sent to ask what they should do with the stranger at the door. Before many minutes had passed, a tall man strode around the side of the gate, and stood eyeing Baldwin closely, but without rudeness. He had the manner of one who was delighted to see that he must welcome an equal, but he was also convinced and confident in his power.

It was not only the set of his shoulders and the way that his hand rested on the hilt of the large sword that hung at his hip; Baldwin thought that the power resided in the slightly hawkish set of his face and the dark and intelligent eyes, perhaps also in his white tunic with the red cross, so reminiscent of the Templars’ own uniform. It made Baldwin’s heart feel as though it had missed a beat for a moment.

When he started to speak, welcoming Baldwin, the man’s voice was deep and sonorous, and although his Latin was slightly archaic, it was nonetheless easily comprehensible, and that was a relief after the last days of trying to make himself understood to a succession of ill-educated, or not educated at all, priests between Obidos and Tomar.

‘You look like a man who has travelled far, my friend.’

‘I have travelled from Santiago de Compostela in the last week and a day,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, from England.’

‘You have come a long way to see us here. But I should be reluctant to interrogate you without offering you a little wine. I am called Frey Joao, the claveiro . Please come with me.’

He walked at a swift pace, taking Baldwin around the mass of the huge tower on the right, a continuation of the mound of rock which Baldwin had followed to the gate. They were in a cleared area between two gates, a perfect defensive killing ground, Baldwin noted. Then, suddenly, they were in the open. Stables, kitchens and stores were set out, leaning against the castle’s walls, while men hurried about their duties. Wagons and carts rumbled and squeaked, and smoke rose from braziers, some heating bolts of metal for smiths, while others were more prosaically being used to cook fish.

‘Welcome, Sir Baldwin, to Tomar. The castle-convent of the new Order of the Knights of Christ.’

Simon was drenched in sweat. His face was suffused and his nose bled profusely, and although Margarita washed him carefully, when her husband entered the room quietly and stood at the foot of Simon’s bed, he could smell that odd odour. ‘How is he?’

‘No better,’ she sighed, standing and stretching. She had been at Simon’s side for much of the night. ‘It is no surprise. After falling into that sewer, I can only wonder that it has taken so many days for him to succumb.’

‘He seemed so hale and fit yesterday,’ Munio observed.

She nodded, but there was no need to say anything. Simon’s eyes were open, and bloodshot, and he had a rash over his belly, chest and back, but he was not awake. Instead he appeared to have a form of muttering delirium.

‘I hate to have him here like this without even a friend to sit with him,’ Margarita added.

‘With you by his side, he is fortunate enough, Wife,’ Munio said gruffly.

‘It is not the same as having his own wife here,’ she said tiredly, pushing the hair away from her face. ‘And he is so weak already after that first attack. He is not ready for this.’

‘All we can do is try to build him up,’ Munio said comfortingly. ‘There is nowhere better for him than here. Do you want more wine for him?’

‘Yes. I think he will need more. And I should get some sleep, too.’

‘Do, and I shall arrange for someone to take over here,’ Munio said.

His wife nodded and took his proffered hand, but as she rose to her feet, Simon gave a low moan, and his head began to move from side to side, his hands clutching at the bedclothes. With a patient look at her husband, she sighed and sat down at Simon’s side once more. She had nursed enough people, including two sons who had not survived to five years old, to know that the next few days would be the most crucial for Simon. If he was to live, he must get through the next week.

Baldwin followed Joao through a small doorway near the vast cylinder of the church. It gave out onto a cloister, in which white-clothed monks and novices were working at their desks. Walking silently around them, the claveiro turned left through a doorway, and into a small office, in which a pair of clerks sat bickering over their work.