Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

At least Gregory was saved from that, because he was taken in by the Kingdom of Aragon and, as such, was safe from the depredations of the Pope’s torturers. At the earliest opportunity, he left the place where he had been held, and travelled back to his home country, England. But although he certainly didn’t feel like a Castilian or an Aragonese, nor did he feel truly English any more. He had lived away for too long. Gregory had been tempted to join another Order, perhaps one of the friars, for he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in a big religious house again. A large monastery or preceptory would feel too much like a prison, after his past experiences of living in what seemed to be a condemned cell.

He bowed and genuflected, then turned to make his way outside, but the press was too great coming in and he was forced like a small eddy when the tide comes in, to retreat to the safety of a pillar, and while he stood there, he saw her again.

The bitch. God, how he loved her! That was why he had helped lay out Joana’s body. It almost felt as though it brought him nearer to his ex-wife. Yes, he adored and detested her simultaneously. His ambivalence was fired by her affairs, rather than diminished. He knew what she was like. She had loathed him while they were married, saying that he was too cold, too distant, too religious – yet then, when he finally cracked and said that he hated her, wanting in that moment of drunken fury to tear her apart – when at that precise instant he swore before them all that he would take up the cloth, he saw that terrible delight in her face. The triumph of a woman who has seen her horse win in a race, knowing that her bets will make her rich. She knew that she had won, that she had conquered and eradicated her opposition.

He was the enemy to her. Always had been, ever since the day of their marriage, as though she had decided from the start that she wouldn’t make him a good wife and would win her freedom and independence as soon as possible. The marriage arranged by her father had been merely a thorn in her flesh.

Therefore, when he declared his desire to join a convent, she had immediately agreed and stated that it was her aim too. All this before witnesses. Christ Jesus! He must have been bloody mad!

Being English, he couldn’t comprehend at first that his rash drunken statement could be in any way binding. As soon as he awoke the following morning, his head pounding like a drum, his belly sick and roiling until he vomited noisily outside the door of their manor, he sought out his wife. His surprise when she visibly recoiled from him was overwhelming. Her maid quickly explained that on the previous night, after hearing him say that he would join the Order of Santiago rather than bed a frigid bitch, on his honour and on his belief in the Gospels, Doña Stefanía had duly stated that she would join the Order herself. Since she apparently couldn’t serve her husband to his satisfaction, she hoped that she would be able to serve God better.

‘Ah, my dear wife, that is all forgotten,’ he said with as much affection as he could muster. ‘We had a row. Even the King and Queen of Castile argue on occasion, I am sure. Let us forget our dispute. Come, won’t you give me a kiss?’

‘Sir, you may forget your oath before God, but before God, I do not,’ she said haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘I have chosen my course. I will not kiss you! What, do you think He would forgive us?’

He was enraged – that was his excuse. Perhaps he should have attempted mastery of her before, because it was always said that a woman needed whipping to keep her controlled, but he hadn’t … he had not wanted to. It seemed a harsh way to treat a wife. Today, though, he was furious. She had not wished to sleep with him for the last year, submitting only when he demanded his rights, and then lying like a piece of marble without moving. He had his headache and his belly was rumbling like distant thunder, and he was a little light-headed from the wine of the night before.

Stepping forward he grabbed her, then threw her upon her bed. ‘I won’t have you deny me again!’

She lay absolutely still. ‘If you rape me,’ she said, speaking up at the ceiling and pointedly not looking at him, ‘I shall declare your rape to the priest. You are raping a Bride of Christ, and you shall be excommunicated!’

‘Damn you!’ he roared, and he leaped upon her.

That was his sin. He had raped her. Yes, she had been his wife, but the woman he raped had formally declared her intention of withdrawing from the world the night before, just as he had declared that to be his own intention.

Earlier he had forgotten it, but seeing her again had brought it all back. He cast a look once more at the cross on the altar, and for some reason felt a curious elation, as though he had confessed; as though he was in fact forgiven. It was a sensation which started in his head, but then moved down to his spine, and he felt it enwrap itself around his lower chest, like a warmth that was spreading itself about his ribs and engulfing him with … well, it felt like it was engulfing him with love.

He gasped. The feeling was like an embrace from God, a cradling as though God was putting His arms about Gregory, and then, as he closed his eyes in gratitude and turned his face upwards, Gregory felt the hair on his scalp move as though God’s breath had stirred it. He was so stunned, he couldn’t move, but merely stood there, basking in the knowledge of God’s love.

It was an age before he could collect himself enough to go out, and when he did the sun was unbearable. He stood for a moment at the top of the steps, dizzy and drunk with love. Drunk with delight, too, for he knew that he was renewed, that God had forgiven him, against every expectation.

The heat was like a hammer beating at his senses, and he knew that he must find a shaded place to sit and collect himself. He wanted to dance and sing and praise God, but his legs couldn’t possibly support him. They were too shaky still. There was a place selling cider a little way off, and he made for it, hoping to grab a chair and collapse in the shade for a while.

Arriving at the tavern, he drew up a stool and sat back in the shade. Soon there was a young serving girl, who smiled at his accent but fetched him some good cider in a jug, which she set at his side. Light, cool and tasty, it was perfect for this kind of weather. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, a beatific smile fixed to his face. This was not contentment, this was ecstasy.

It was some while later that he could open his eyes again and survey the world. He yawned, then glanced about him as he picked up his cup again, and that was when he saw him : the felon who had led the attack on the pilgrims. Aghast, he nearly fell from his stool, but his shock hadn’t been noticed. Domingo had no time to watch others; the hulking fellow was too busy sitting and frowning at the little box in his hands. The surviving members of his robber band sat around him, obviously the worse for wear.

Gregory’s first inclination was to bolt, but instead of making himself conspicuous by running, he pulled his hat over his eyes and got slowly to his feet, preparing to wander off.

Even as he took up his staff again and felt the sun’s radiance through his cloak, he heard a man saying, ‘What now then, Dom? Will she call the city against us?’

‘If you want to talk to me, fool, you call me Domingo! Right?’

Gregory heard the slap of a fist, the sound of a body falling, but dared not glance round. As he made his way out, he couldn’t help but hear the next words.

‘I told you: she ordered us to attack those pilgrims on the way here. She can’t report me for taking her precious box because she knows I’ll tell everyone what she did. That stuck-up bitch of a Prioress wanted all those poor bastards dead.’