Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

‘Like the Hospitallers,’ Baldwin muttered to himself.

‘I was lucky. I was released when it was decided that I was innocent, but since then I have wandered as you see me now, penniless, destitute. I had no horse, no master … all I had once possessed I gave up in order to join the Templars, holding to my vow of poverty, so when I was thrown from my home, I was utterly bereft.’

His eyes had been dry for some little while, but now they filled once more and a single tear fell from his right eye, shooting down the darkened cheek and splashing on the table.

‘Many were less fortunate,’ Baldwin observed sympathetically.

‘Many were more fortunate,’ he countered. ‘They died.’

Doña Stefanía watched Joana ride off towards the Porta Francigena and made her way back though the crush towards an inn. She had to hold her annoyance in check as she passed through the crowds, trying to preserve her dignity as best she might. Hawkers shouted, beggars pleaded and wept, urchins scampered, one stepping heavily upon her sandalled foot and crushing her big toe, but she kept her lips pursed and made no comment.

The beggars here were a dreadful nuisance. Children with withered arms, crippled men without limbs, women weeping, declaring themselves widowed and asking for food on behalf of their starving children. They were nothing to do with her. Her own responsibility was to the folk of her priory of Vigo and its manor, and she looked after them as well as she could, with some of the drier husks of bread and the carefully garnered remains of the meals, collected up and distributed to the needy at the convent’s gate. She and her Sisters were generous, as they should be, but there was no reason why she should also support the poor of Compostela. That was the duty of the townspeople here. Doña Stefanía had limited funds, and these were already allocated. And now some must be scraped together for this accursed blackmailer.

She hoped Joana would find him and carry out her instructions. The maid was devoted to her mistress, of course, devoted and fiercely protective, so probably she would be successful. If Doña Stefanía herself had gone, she might have broken down in tears, which could have been disastrous. It would show this fiend of a blackmailer what a hold he had over her. She had tutored Joana carefully in the time that they had; be calm, be cool, state the position and see what he says. There was nothing more she could do. Soon Joana would be with him, and a short while later Doña Stefanía would know his response. No doubt it would cost her a fortune, the devil! Well, he could go to the devil if he demanded too much!

For now, there was no point in worrying. Doña Stefanía was nothing if not a realist. The die was cast and there was nothing more she could do. She might as well take her ease. After this morning’s efforts, she surely deserved a good pot of wine, and it might calm her nerves. Yes, a good pot of wine.

A small smile played about her lips as she sat down at a bench and signalled to the innkeeper. In a corner, she was astonished to see two respectable men – a knight and a prosperous yeoman – sitting with a beggar! A repellent fellow with hunched shoulders and downcast gaze, as though he was scared to meet the eyes of any others in the room – or maybe he was merely ashamed, she amended. He had the appearance of a man who wore his befouled clothes and the grime on his hands and face like a thin patina to conceal his genuine status. When he picked up his cup, he sipped it like a lord; when he spoke, he waited until his companions had stopped before speaking. And he didn’t pick his nose, she noted. That was an improvement on many others.

Later on that day, she noticed him again, this time in the street, and he gave her a chill smile, ducking in a bow that was so courteous, it might have been given by a knight. That was when she realised that it was the man Matthew who had accosted her in the square. She barely acknowledged him, of course. A Prioress had no need of companionship from a mere beggarly peasant, after all, but then a short while later, he walked past her, and her nose twitched. He might look disreputable, but at least he didn’t stink like some; in this climate men often smelled worse than hogs. This fellow had the odour of citrus about him, and some spices, as though he had rubbed them into his skin to take away the stench of sweat. It made her look at him again, wondering.

There were always men who were born to a certain position and who then lost all, some from gambling in tournaments, others from gambling on politics and being forced into exile. This fellow could be one such man – someone who had been born to a good position, but who was then forced to beg because he had somehow lost the favour of his master.

The observation made her feel a vague sympathy for him. If he had been born to nobility, he deserved her compassion. Anyone of rank who had sunk so low as to depend upon the gracious gifts of others must be deeply humiliated. To be like that, she told herself, was worse than being dead. The disgrace must be intolerable.

Not that all men could appreciate such finer feelings, of course. Her ex-husband Sir Gregory was one such example: he had none. No humblesse , no shame. No understanding of others, the devil! Ah, but why should Doña Stefanía trouble herself over him? When all was said and done, he was a mere churl, no better than a serf, and it was unlikely he would learn of the blackmail.

The idea that he might get to hear of her behaviour secretly appalled her. He could make all sorts of trouble for her, especially now, with the little box so securely held in her purse, she thought, a hand going to it and stroking it through the leather. Merely to touch it like that made her heartbeat slow a little. Yes, Gregory could have caused untold harm if he had heard. He mustn’t ever learn of her fornication. It would all have been so easily resolved if Domingo had succeeded, the damned fool. All he had to do was kill Ruy and, regretfully, her tatty little lover Parceval, and all would have been safe. Instead the fool saw to the death of most of his men, including his own son, and since then his mind was turned more to his own grief than to what she needed from him. That was why she had to pay this blackmail.

It all came down to money. Always did. People had no interest in anything else. They wanted cash no matter what it cost others. Certainly Sir Gregory had never concerned himself about others. From the look of him he was short of money now. He could have been a friar. Maybe he was! That would be a joke. A loud, roaring, rich knight reduced to poverty.

It had been a terrible shock to see him on the way here. Blasted man! In all the lands of Christendom, why did he have to come here? Maybe it was because he wanted to atone for some of his past offences. There were certainly enough of them.

She was bemoaning her fate when she realised that a man was approaching her.

‘My dear lady! I felt sure it must be you as soon as I saw you in the crowd. Such elegance and grace could never be duplicated on this earth. Dearest lady, may I kiss your ring?’

She turned with a start, her heart leaping into her mouth, and gaped. ‘My God – Parceval!’

The Fleming bowed with as much grace as he could muster, smiling at the expression of shock on her face. ‘You didn’t expect me here?’

‘I didn’t, no. Not so soon. You made very good time.’

‘Well, a man in a hurry can always find a means of speeding himself on his way,’ Parceval said easily. He tugged his purse around his belt so that it was under his belly, and reached inside. Pulling out some coins and peering at them shortsightedly, he held one aloft for the tavern owner to see and peremptorily demanded wine.