Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

Baldwin introduced himself and Simon, who stood a short distance away, listening with complete incomprehension. He had been determined to make an effort to learn a little of this language on the ship coming over, but the sickness which assailed him had made that a hopeless venture, and since arriving in Compostela there had been little time for him to gain even a smattering of the language. All he could do was watch and listen, hoping to gain some sort of understanding of what was being said.

‘Did you travel here together?’ Baldwin asked politely.

‘No, Don Baldwin,’ Don Ruy said. He appeared to have recovered himself a little. ‘We met briefly on the journey, but did not travel together. My group was not in favour of feminine companionship on what was intended to be a penitential journey.’

‘Indeed? Then your companions must have been a very pious band,’ Baldwin said. Inwardly he condemned the man for his priggish attitude.

‘Perhaps. I think most of us sought to find some spiritual peace on our way.’

He stood like one who was waiting for an interloper to depart and leave him to continue his conversation, but Baldwin turned to Doña Stefanía with a sympathetic smile. ‘So, my lady, did you sleep well? I trust that sadness did not unduly disturb your slumbers?’

‘I scarcely slept a wink,’ Doña Stefanía snapped. ‘How could I? No maid to help me disrobe or see to my hair … it was appalling. And so sad that Joana should be murdered like that,’ she added with a wave of self-pity.

‘I can only express my deepest sympathy,’ Baldwin said.

‘And I too,’ Don Ruy said stiffly. He made as if to move nearer the lady, but she blanched noticeably and shifted herself farther up the bench. It was only a small movement, but Simon and Baldwin saw it, and Simon took a step to one side, so that he could threaten Don Ruy’s flank if he should think of attacking her.

Don Ruy glanced at him, and there was frank disbelief on his face as he realised what Simon’s aim was. He took a short pace back, turning to face Simon more directly but saying nothing. Glancing at Baldwin and then Doña Stefanía, his expression looked accusing.

‘Simon, stay your hand,’ Baldwin said in English, before speaking to Doña Stefanía. ‘My lady, it is clear that you are perturbed. Is there anything I can do which would help you?’

‘There is nothing,’ Don Ruy said. ‘A misunderstanding, that is all. Leave us. We must talk.’

Doña Stefanía shuddered and looked appealingly at Baldwin. ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, don’t leave me with him. I …’ she swallowed heavily. ‘I fear he means to kill me.’

Frey Ramón felt exhausted. His knees ached, his eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and he tightened the girth on his mount like a man in a dream, although this dream was a nightmare. All he could think of was that poor, shattered body, now lying quietly at rest in her grave.

The horror of seeing her lying there on the trestle in the square would never leave him, he felt sure. It was terrible, the worst sight he had ever known. The woman to whom he was engaged, brutally slaughtered like that, left to water the soil with her own blood. He had felt a part of him die when he saw her.

This journey would be long and hard. He had surrendered his position in the Order by running away, but he couldn’t regret it. All he could do was go far away and try to find some peace. There were other Orders he could join. Perhaps he could make his way to the sister Order of Santiago, the Knights of Sao Thiago. They had broken away from Santiago a few years ago, but they still wore the same emblems and held to the same Rule.

‘Sao Thiago,’ he muttered. ‘Or the Order of Christ?’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing,’ he told the groom, an older man with the pinched features of one who lives in constant pain. ‘I was thinking aloud.’

‘They say that the Knights of Christ have taken over from the Templars,’ the groom said helpfully.

‘So they are rich and arrogant, then,’ Frey Ramón said.

‘No more than the other Orders,’ the man said. Frey Ramón had removed his Order’s tunic, so he wore no distinguishing marks that showed him to be a Knight of Santiago. ‘But I’ve heard that the Knights of Christ are the most honourable of the lot. They turn their noses up at any fripperies, refuse too much food, and spend all their time training to kill Moors.’

‘I don’t care,’ Frey Ramón said. He could not help but slow in his work. He had the horse saddled, and he turned to his bags. There was a little food and a skin of wine, and he had a spare shirt and a tunic in another. With his great cloak to wrap himself in at night, he had all he needed.

He had thought that the Order of Sao Thiago would serve him best, because he knew the Rule. It was bound to be much the same as that of Santiago, since it was an offshoot. But one reason was also because he liked the idea of being married. Now that was an impossible dream. Certainly he would never marry now. The memory of that poor, destroyed body prevented his ever finding peace with a woman, so he might as well hurry south, escape his memories, and find meaning in action, fighting the Moors.

If he were to seek action, he should join the Order which promised the best chance of fighting and serving God.

He cocked an eye at the groom. ‘You know much about such matters, friend.’

‘My daughter, she married a Portuguese and lives near Tomar. She came to visit me last month.’

‘Which Order do you think is nearest the Moors for fighting?’ he asked.

‘That is easy. The Order of Christ has its headquarters at Castro-Marim. That’s down in the Algarve.’

‘The Algarve?’ Frey Ramón repeated. That was territory which had only recently been reconquered. Frey Ramón racked his brain and felt sure he had heard that Castro-Marim was on the River Guadiana, near the sea, but on the edge of the King of Portugal’s territory, near Africa and the Moors who infested that land. ‘And this Order has a castle at Tomar?’ he asked.

‘Yes. They took over the old Templar castle there,’ the groom said. ‘I saw the place once. Right on top of the hill over the town. A magnificent castle.’

‘It sounds very pleasant.’

‘Yes. But it is a hard ride, Señor. Perhaps eight days if you ride like the wind.’

A few hours later, the land opened before Frey Ramón, and he took a deep breath. This was the future for him. His past was gone and done, and all he had to look forward to now was an uncertain future as a warrior. He asked for no more.

There were some memories he would never be able to forget. The first time he had met Joana, the feel of her flesh when they first lay together, that silken hair, so glossy and black.

Then there were the other memories, such as the sight of Joana last night. He would have to ride for miles to escape from that. Perhaps he never would. The dreadful, macerated remains of his fiancée would always be in his heart, as though it was his fault she had died, as though he was responsible.

As, in a way, he supposed he was.

Doña Stefanía was appalled at her predicament. There was no one to help her here, not now Joana was gone. No one here whom she felt she could trust; nobody to advise her.

Perhaps she could have spoken to a cleric – but that was a stupid idea! she scolded herself. No priest would want to help her once he heard that she had succumbed to her carnal lusts on the way here. Worse, he would want to hear more about her sins, to be assured that she repented, and would probably insist that she remain in the Cathedral until a suitable guard could be found to defend her honour on the way home. Humiliating! The rumours would spread like wildfire, if she knew the way that gossip was passed about in a Cathedral like this. There was no such thing as a secret, only a story half told.