Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

Simon gave a contented belch. ‘What if every single pilgrim here was a killer? We’d have our work cut out then!’

It was while the two friends were leaning back, feeling the soporific afterglow of a good meal, that Baldwin saw his old colleague Matthew again.

The former Templar walked slowly among the tradesmen, speaking to no one, which made him stand out from the other beggars there. Men and women clothed in black all moved with the same lethargic pace, but most offered a greeting to the traders standing there in the crowd. Not Matthew. He walked with his face averted, as though he hated to see how much the people there detested him. In his past he had been a warrior monk, someone notable for his religious dedication, his integrity and his honour. Now he had become a shrunken man.

Baldwin had long ago developed the ability to isolate his logical mind from his emotions. It had been necessary when he saw his friends dying in the hellish Battle of Acre, and had grown still more necessary while he was a renegade knight, avoiding capture as the King’s men hunted down all those Templars who had escaped their traps. Watching Matthew today, he was struck by the fact that the beggar was the most solitary man in the square. Whereas others were disabled to varying degrees or had obvious deformities, it was Matthew, albeit physically whole, who appeared the most cut off. It was curious, but Baldwin felt he understood. A man like Matthew, proud and haughty as he had been, would find it intolerable to have changed into someone who was despised or pitied. That, for him, would be worse than any form of torture.

Baldwin wondered if Matthew would, in fact, have fared better if he had suffered from some of the cruel injuries inflicted on the other Templars. It might have helped him to create a bond with other folk. Then again, perhaps not. Some men were arrogant and, whatever the circumstances, would not see fit to mingle with those whom they considered below them. Matthew was formed in that mould. While other beggars walked together, he kept himself aloof.

They were a lively group, these beggars, Baldwin noticed. A pair of legless men over at the entrance to the square were talking loudly to a deaf fellow, who bent his head, a hand cupping his ear, while he frowned comically, trying to understand what they were saying. Meanwhile a woman who had lost an arm cackled with a young mother, whose children were scampering all over the place. There was a man with a dreadfully disfigured face, who kept it half covered so as not to upset people, yet who burst out laughing uproariously at some joke passed to him by a young servant who lounged at his side. Then there was a small gathering of women nearer the Cathedral, all holding out their hands and piteously calling upon any passers-by for alms; although if they received nothing for their efforts, their cries soon became screeches of outrage. It was a common trait for beggars to hurl imprecations at those who ignored their pleas.

The woman María was there, Baldwin saw. She was a little taller than the rest, and probably louder than all the others put together. Her harangues were more spiteful, too, and her knowledge of Galician sewer-language was, to Baldwin’s ear, impressive.

‘They won’t do well if they keep shouting at people like that,’ Simon commented drily.

‘Maybe they feel they have little to lose,’ Baldwin guessed. ‘If a man will not help them with alms, they see little need to show respect.’

‘It’s damned disgraceful.’

‘It is not honourable, no – but if you were forced to beg, how would you behave? At least this way, abusing those who refuse to help them, they feel a little satisfaction, I imagine. Revenge upon the people who shun them.’

Simon grunted without conviction, and Baldwin’s attention returned to his old comrade. Matthew was near the Cathedral wall now, and he squatted at its foot, his hat tilted slightly back, surveying the crowds like a man who sneered at the antics of children. Catching sight of Baldwin, he half lifted a hand as though to acknowledge him, but then let it fall, as though reminding himself that he was no longer the equal of Baldwin, and could not expect recognition. Had their positions been reversed, Matthew would have refused to acknowledge him, Baldwin was sure, both because he would refuse to have any dealings with a beggar, and because he wouldn’t confess to knowing a Templar. That might be dangerous. Baldwin was sure he should feel upset by this, but somehow it served only to increase his vague feeling of comradeship with Matthew, as though it was their differences which bound them together.

The sun was high in the sky and the heat was growing when Doña Stefanía appeared from an alley behind them. She walked to a table at a corner, shaded pleasantly beneath a great tree, and sat quietly, as though entirely humbled or devastated.

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look.

‘I should like to leave her in peace,’ the knight said slowly, ‘but what of others who might be harmed by Joana’s murderer? The killer might even now be stalking another young woman.’

‘There’s little point in our becoming involved,’ Simon countered. ‘It’s nothing to do with us. There’s no merit in upsetting a Prioress, or whatever she is, just to find out something which is of no importance to us.’

‘No importance?’ Baldwin snorted. ‘Come on, Simon – the truth is always important.’

‘You know what I mean. We have no authority or jurisdiction here. It’s sad that a girl was killed, but what of it? Girls are raped and murdered every day. We should concentrate our minds on returning home and helping our own folks there.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, unconvinced.

Simon stared about him sourly. ‘And anyway, no one even speaks bloody English here. I don’t think I could be any use whatever.’

Baldwin chuckled. ‘Little change from life at home in Devonshire, then.’

‘Oh, you think so do you?’ Simon demanded in mock anger, but as he did so, he caught sight of the lady. She had suddenly shot upright in her seat and was staring at a tall, dark knight. ‘Who’s that?’ he wondered aloud.

‘I wonder why the lady trembles so at the sight of him?’ Baldwin murmured.

Simon was certain of one thing. ‘She’s petrified of him. Come on, let’s see what the matter is.’

Baldwin was nothing loath, because the man who had approached Doña Stefanía was clearly terrifying her out of her wits. He stood near her, a hand resting on his sword hilt in a non-threatening manner, but Baldwin still felt it was right to intervene.

‘Doña Stefanía,’ he called as they came closer. ‘We saw you sitting here. I hope you are feeling better after the dreadful shock yesterday?’

He stopped and smiled at her before turning his attention to the knight.

His first impression was quite favourable. From the look of him, the man came from a wealthy family. His sword’s scabbard was richly decorated, and his clothes showed that he possessed money and delighted in spending it. Today, though, he was not enjoying the benefits of his position. It was plain that he was labouring under some great inner stress from the way that he breathed so heavily, his breast rising and falling like a man who had run some distance in the heat, and yet it was his face that attracted Baldwin’s interest.

He wore a hunted expression. When he heard Baldwin speak, he turned to the English knight with a startled mien, rather like a dog caught stealing meat from the table, as if he fully expected some form of punishment.

‘We have not met,’ Baldwin said.

Doña Stefanía was recovering her poise. Now she lifted her chin haughtily as she introduced them. ‘This man is Don Ruy de Benavente – he says ,’ she said in a voice which clearly declared that she herself doubted his word.