Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

If only, he kept telling himself, he had gone with Baldwin. At least he would have been moving, doing something. Not only would he and Baldwin have been able to keep each other’s spirits up, Simon would surely have felt better if he had been occupied. All he could do here was keep on wondering where his old friend was, and how he fared. There was no point telling himself the truth – that he might have suffered a dangerous relapse, nor that he would have slowed Baldwin down; all he knew was the boredom of loneliness and uncertainty.

For there was uncertainty in any journey. The grimmest and most fearful outcome of Baldwin’s trip to that place … what was it called? Oh, Tomar! Yes, the worst possible outcome was that Simon would never hear from Baldwin again. There were so many dangers – rivers in spate, bandits, mountains, rockfalls – even if Baldwin survived the terrible risks of a sea crossing. Having once sailed over the seas to Galicia, Simon had thought that the perils of seafaring would diminish, but he was perturbed to learn that his own travel had merely given him a livelier appreciation of the dangers, and now his every thought was bent towards Baldwin and his safety.

He was standing by the window in the late morning on the fourth day after the knight’s departure, feeling glum and lonely, when Margarita stole in quietly and studied him.

‘So, you are ready to ignore my words and climb from your bed?’ she asked with mock seriousness.

Simon smiled. ‘My lady, how could I remain in that bed knowing that you were about to arrive? Besides, my very bones ache from inaction. I’m not used to this!’

He would have said more, but he had a natural inclination to avoid rudeness before any woman, especially one who had nursed him through an illness.

‘It is like being caged, I suppose,’ she said, studying his body. He had lost much weight, and his face was quite haggard, with deep lines at his brow. What made him look worse was the constrained expression on his face, like a prisoner who can see and hear real life continuing outside his cell, but may not go out and experience it himself. She thought it made him look a little like a vulnerable boy-child, petulant at the unfair rules that held him here, but accepting their authority nonetheless. ‘Would you like to join me on a visit to the market?’

‘Madam, I should kill for the chance!’

In the bright sunshine, he put on the hat again. The long peak that felt so stupid did at least reduce the overpowering glare of the full sunlight. He wore a thin shirt and one jacket only, on Margarita’s advice, and although he could feel the enormous power of the sun’s heat, it did not make him feel queasy or weak as it had the day he collapsed.

‘You should drink more,’ she said. ‘That is probably what affected you.’

‘I had drunk plenty,’ he retorted, but without rancour. ‘I had gone that morning with Baldwin to one of the troughs near the stables, I think.’

‘Sometimes the air in certain areas can be bad,’ she said. ‘If you can smell rotten eggs, the air can affect you, I have often observed.’

‘Malaria, yes,’ he said. ‘I have heard of it. But I thought that it caused yellowness of the flesh and similar ailments?’

‘In some people, yes, it can,’ she agreed. ‘Others are affected like you, and find that their bowels are loosened and they have a violent fever. I do not think you were so badly stricken, but it must have been a cruel fever.’

Simon nodded, but his mind was already on other things. A hawker was selling cockleshells, and when he looked past her, he saw a man with intricate little necklaces of shells. It was exactly the sort of trinket that his daughter would adore, especially since it came from a place so far from her own home and experience. He indicated the seller, and nothing loath, Margarita took him to the man and haggled on his behalf.

Afterwards, she was keen to acquire meat for the evening meal, and she walked enthusiastically along the benches on which were set out all the bleeding cuts from the animals which had been slaughtered that morning in the shambles, the blood still staining the cobbles where the apprentices hadn’t yet washed it away. While she was studying the slabs of meat and consulting with the butcher as to how she wanted it prepared, Simon went for a stroll. He saw a table set out with wines and made his way over to it, ordering a pot of red in a loud voice and draining it in two gulps. It was strongly flavoured and had a metallic taste, but Simon had been told to drink more after his illness, so he gulped down a second dose as soon as the man had refilled the cup, and found that his attitude to the city was marginally improved.

Although he was used to working for long periods alone on the moors, this place was too alien for him to feel entirely at home. The heat, the crowds, the odd tones of the voices, all assailed his senses and made him feel more than ever like a stranger, or an outcast.

It was while he stood at the wine counter that he saw Gregory again. The cleric was standing pensively at a stall which sold many pewter badges for pilgrims to display on their clothes, and as Simon watched, Gregory picked up a large cockleshell and purchased it.

‘That should suit your hat!’ Simon said.

Gregory jumped and turned with a face bright red. ‘Ah! I had thought you were gone with your friend.’

‘You heard that Baldwin had left?’ Simon said, rather surprised.

‘I … I asked,’ Gregory said hesitantly. ‘You see …’ He was suddenly shy, glancing away from Simon and looking about them in the square. Taking the plunge, he spoke so low that it was all Simon could do to hear him over the noise of hawkers. ‘When we attacked the tavern that day – the day you were knocked down?’

A polite way to put it, Simon reflected. Aloud he merely prompted, ‘Yes?’

‘That day … I saw his sword when he drew it.’

‘So?’

Gregory looked at him quickly. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he said, and would have turned away, but Simon realised what he had seen: Baldwin’s sword, the special little riding sword of which he was so proud. The sword into whose blade was etched a Templar cross in memory of his service and his friends.

Simon caught his shoulder. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, speaking quietly, ‘but why should you ask about him because of that?’

‘He was … Well, so was I. For a time. A short time,’ Gregory said miserably. He looked up at Simon. ‘I was not faithless. When my wife divorced me, I chose to take my own vows. It was just my luck to have married such a vicious shrew, and as soon as I could, I joined the Order. Best thing I ever did.’

Simon was aware of Margarita. ‘Shall we share some wine, Gregory? Let us take a seat for a while.’

Margarita wanted to return home, but she was prevailed upon by Simon to remain with him. To his shame, he insisted that he felt weak, and must have a few moments sitting. The call on her generosity of spirit was effective, although Simon saw that she did not believe him entirely, and he wasn’t certain whether the expression in her eyes was hurt and offence at being lied to, or simple amusement.

‘Now Domingo is dead, what will your wife do?’

‘Ex-wife,’ Gregory said dismally, his hand holding a cup. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but I still love her. It makes me feel a fool, but I can’t help it. Even after she had her servant attack me, and had him kill all those people, and clobber me again the other day,’ he said, his hand rising gingerly to touch the egg-shaped lump on his tonsure, ‘I still can’t bring myself to hate her.’

‘What will she do? She will need some form of guard to return to her Priory, won’t she?’

‘I suppose so. From what I have heard, she will have the services of another bully boy. Some damned Fleming she’s taken up with.’