MAureen Ash: A Deadly Penance

Although Bascot, in keeping with his reticent nature, had spoken little of his dissatisfaction with the outcome of this latest enquiry, D’Arderon was aware of it. The younger knight was adept at concealing his emotions, but the preceptor knew they ran deep. Even though, after so many years, it would be impossible to apprehend the villain who had attacked and violated a young and innocent girl, the failure to mete out retribution for the crime offended Bascot’s strong sense of probity. D’Arderon’s younger confrere needed an outlet on which to vent his frustration and as the preceptor’s glance fell on the wooden case that held the recently arrived weapons, a notion came to him of a way in he which he could provide one.

Picking up one of the swords, d’Arderon tossed it, haft forward, to Bascot. With an automatic reaction, Bascot caught the weapon and looked at the older knight in surprise.

“What think you of the weight?” the preceptor asked, reaching down and extracting another blade. “They seem to me to be lighter than usual.” Grasping the hilt in his two broad hands, he arced the sword experimentally through the air, then shook his head uncertainly. “I think perhaps they should be tested before they are put to use by any new initiate to the Order.”

Since there were only d’Arderon and Bascot of knight’s status in the commandery at the moment, Bascot realised that the only way the swords could be tried was for the preceptor and himself to face each other in mock battle. It was not often that d’Arderon engaged in such an exercise, although he kept himself fit by spending at least two hours each day raining blows with a heavy metal bar on one of the wooden blocks set up at the far end of the compound. Now past his sixtieth year, the preceptor’s wide, stocky body was, nonetheless, still heavily muscled and Bascot knew that despite being a score of years younger, he would be hard put to keep pace with the older knight. Still, he welcomed the challenge and appreciated the preceptor’s purpose in offering it. To put his skills to such a hard use would divert his mind from the darkness that was engulfing it.

D’Arderon sent one of the men-at-arms for two of the kite-shaped shields kept in the armoury, and told him to also bring a pair of helms, solid steel caps fitted with nasal bars. Both the preceptor and Bascot were wearing the heavy boiled leather tunics that were commonly donned in wintertime and, since the swords were blunted, there would not be any need for chain mail. When the soldier returned with the equipment, the rest of the brothers in the enclave stood back, expectant grins on their faces, to watch the two senior officers engage in combat.

As he and d’Arderon circled each other, Bascot knew he had to be wary of the preceptor’s larger bulk. The older knight, he was certain, would not be as quick on his feet as in the days of his youth, but the strength of the preceptor’s arm would more than make up for his lack of speed. They traded a few tentative blows and then Bascot was taken by surprise as d’Arderon surged forward and rained blows on his helm. He had not expected the preceptor to move with such alacrity, a mistake he would not make again. Turning so that his sighted left side gave him more clarity of vision, Bascot locked his shield into that of his opponent, and pushed d’Arderon back, then aimed a blow at the preceptor’s momentarily exposed sword arm. D’Arderon barely had time to ward off the attack and retaliated with eagerness, his blunted sword whirling.

The battle went on for some minutes, both knights enjoying the fray, with first one gaining the advantage and then the other. The watching men-at-arms could not contain their admiration for the skill they were watching, and above the clang of metal, their whoops of approval could be plainly heard. When the small bell in the chapel tower rang out a warning that it was almost time for the service of Vespers, it was to the disappointment of all that the contest was called to a halt. Reluctantly, both combatants lowered their shields, and then grinned at one another.

D’Arderon slung his buckler across his shoulder and, coming over to where Bascot stood, clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you tired enough now to let your anger rest?” he said.

“I am, Preceptor, and thank you for your instruction,” Bascot replied gratefully.

“Then come, and we will go and worship Our Blessed Lord together.”

As they and the other Templars filed into the church, Bascot felt the warmth of camaraderie engulf him. The strenuous exercise had lifted the cloud of his despondency and it was with a joyous heart that he went forward to join his brothers in prayer.