Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

Not Don Ruy, though. Gregory reckoned that few groups of pilgrims would have had a knight like Don Ruy joining them on their travels. None of the knights he had ever known in his past had been aware of their failings. Yet this one, Gregory thought, sometimes seemed to radiate sadness, as though he was the victim of a great injustice. At those times he would break down, turning away from the other pilgrims as though he feared to pollute them with his mere presence. At least one knight was aware of the shameful state to which his arrogance had brought him. That must explain it – simple shame. Perhaps Don Ruy could recognise his soul’s needs. Not many knights could.

At this moment, Don Ruy’s attention was fixed upon the frolicking travellers like a man surveying a procession of dogs before they were set upon a bear. Or perhaps, Gregory thought, he was like the bear itself, waiting while his tormentors paraded before him. There was something in Don Ruy’s eyes that reminded Gregory of a convicted felon awaiting his death – like so many of his own friends, the men with whom he had served in the Templars.

Others there were easier in their minds than Don Ruy, Gregory felt sure; all must be easier than Gregory himself. His own guilt was so overwhelming, he could never feel peace. He had made his oath, sworn it before witnesses, and then tried to renege. And then there was the second source of guilt: his act towards his wife. The act that had cost him his marriage.

It was why he had so desperately wanted to be the first to catch sight of the city, as though merely seeing it before anyone else could give his personal pilgrimage a particular sanctity and potency. He would never know now. The peasant boy was King, not him.

Gregory had thought that since he was first in the water, he’d be the first out and off up the hill; he’d be King. But no! The peasant lad scarcely washed himself; just a quick dip, in and out in a minute, and back into his clothing. Hardly clean; hardly pious.

He did not bother to dry himself. Gregory saw the boy throw on his shirt and tunic, snatch up his cloak, scrip and staff, and hare on ahead of them all through the trees. Others were moving off too, and Gregory realised, with a leaden sinking in his belly, that he was too late. He had missed his opportunity.

At the top of the hill now, he stared hungrily along the plain towards the great city of Compostela, but it didn’t arouse even a frisson of religious pleasure. Nothing. He felt a keen desolation, a dreadful sense of loss. His life for the last weeks had held meaning solely because of his focus, his ambition, to reach the city. Now that the end of his journey was literally in sight, it revealed the utter paucity of any other aspect of his life. He had lost his wife, his fortune, and now, he felt sure, his immortal soul.

While he stood there leaning on his staff, a hand over his face, his back bowed, the others were already streaming down the incline towards the city, a mass of joyous humanity. Only two remained at his side. One was Don Ruy, the knight who wore his pride like armour protecting him from the lesser folk about him. The other was Parceval Annesen, a weaselly-looking Fleming with a sallow complexion, thinning hair and bent shoulders. There was a great weight on that Fleming’s shoulders, Gregory thought. He looked like a man who’d been buffeted heavily by the gales of misfortune and had all but gone under. It took one to know one, Gregory thought bitterly. Parceval had been luckier than most, though. At least he didn’t suffer from loneliness. Apparently, one night he’d chatted up a woman pilgrim on the way here, and Don Ruy, so it was rumoured, had walked in on him while he was bulling her. Gregory hadn’t even seen her. Just his luck! He’d been asleep and minding his own business, like a real pilgrim should.

So far as he had seen, the knight and the scruffy Fleming had exchanged scarcely a word, but that was no surprise. A weedy type like Parceval would be scared stiff of someone like this knight, who could sweep your head off as soon as look at you. No, a scruffy little churl like Parceval would never dare engage a man like Don Ruy in conversation, and a great hulking knight like Don Ruy would not demean himself by addressing someone like Parceval – especially if he’d walked in on the tatty little man while he was stuffing a whore.

Gregory fixed his eyes on the stream of excited people rushing ahead, listening to their shouts and laughter, wishing he could be a part of their joyous throng. He was so tied up in his jealousy and self-pity that at first he didn’t realise there was anything wrong; didn’t hear the subtle change as first one, then another man screamed with fear.

‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ Parceval hissed suddenly.

The foul exclamation made Gregory recoil with shock. That a man should speak thus within view of holy Compostela! He was about to command Parceval to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness, when he caught sight of the man’s expression. That made him turn back and scrutinise the plain ahead.

There was nothing obvious at first. Not that he could see, anyway. It was just a crowd running down the hill delighted to be in sight of their destination. Nothing. Maybe someone had tripped, that was all. Then he saw a flash of something glinting in the sunlight between some trees. There was a creaking of leather and shriek of exultation, and there, cantering towards the left flank of the pilgrims, was a force of men-at-arms, a motley band, armed with swords and axes, one or two wearing a pair of greaves or a breastplate, some with simple helmets. There was no uniform to them, no single colour of tabard or tunic, only a general scruffiness that was in itself a proof of their nature. At their front rode an older man with a hunched aspect, kicking his horse onwards, his heels drumming against the flanks. He had a mad, grinning face, Gregory thought, and an odd way of holding his head, as though one side were too heavy.

‘ Malfechores! ’ Gregory heard Don Ruy hiss, and the knight unsheathed his sword.

The small bands of robbers and thieves had grown fearfully since the famine, especially here, because of the turbulent politics over the last few years. They did not fear God’s wrath and would happily attack even pilgrims. Gregory wanted to flee, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, there was another band behind them, three strong-looking men on great rounseys. ‘Lost! We’re lost!’ he groaned.

Even as Gregory fell to his knees, overwhelmed with defeat, he saw the knight’s teeth gleam. Don Ruy planted his feet firmly apart and gripped his sword-hilt with both hands, the point aiming at the three men. Parceval was at his side, his staff gripped tightly in his fists, his face showing his anxiety, but yet fixed and intent. It was the sight of the miserable little churl sturdily challenging their foe that made Gregory realise how weak and pathetic he had become. The reflection stiffened his spirit. He stood, taking up his own staff and holding it as he had once been taught. It was a polearm, a weapon, and a man who could use it offensively was safe from most attackers. That was what he had been taught, anyway, and right now, just the feel of the thing in his hand was enough to give him some confidence. He saw Don Ruy flick a glance at him in which surprise vied with amusement, but he didn’t care; he had been a knight himself once.

However, the three horsemen took little notice of the group. The first was a heavyset man with a badly pocked, square face. As if to conceal his scars, he wore a thin dark stubble, which only served to make him look more intimidating. His brow was low and simian, and his eyes gleamed with what Gregory recognised as fanatical rage as he stared at the carnage on the plain. Pockface was clad in clothes that looked as though they had been expensive, but that was some years ago. His tunic was faded, his cloak threadbare, and his hose were holed in both knees; his mount looked strong and well-cared for, but the harness and fittings were dull and marked from sweat and scratches, showing that they too were old and well-used.