Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

‘And you want his head?’ João asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘If it is possible I should like to ask him why he killed this man,’ Baldwin said.

‘Why? Was this man a companion or friend?’

‘He had been a companion once,’ Baldwin said a little stiffly. He was unused to responding to such personal questions. ‘But my interest is in what caused the killer to strike. The man he killed was of no earthly danger to him, and a man who can do that is a danger to all, like a rabid dog.’

João moved. A hand rose from his lap and went to his chin. It rested there a moment, his forefinger tapping thoughtfully against his lips. ‘So you say you are here to question a man who may be one of my freiles , that you wish to ask him about a woman’s death, but you are more emotional about another man who is nothing to do with him or me. You seem driven by powerful emotions, my friend.’

‘I … I seek justice, that is all.’

‘All? I thought that justice was in the hands of the Lord,’ João mocked gently.

‘Justice is also my work,’ Baldwin said simply.

‘Then you are a unique man. This fellow you seek – what makes you think he might have come this way?’

‘A chance comment overheard by another.’

‘And on that mere chance you came all the way here? Perhaps he died on the way. It is many hundreds of miles from Compostela.’

‘He was not alone. He had an English knight as companion, and a squire.’

‘So he may arrive here safely.’ João gazed out of the window pensively. ‘A Portuguese man with an English knight. It should not be too difficult to find such a pair.’

‘Your country is a large enough land,’ Baldwin said drily.

‘True,’ João said, and stood, all evidence of dreaminess gone. ‘Return here at noon tomorrow, Dom Baldwin. I shall consider your request and give you an answer then.’

‘I thank you,’ Baldwin said.

João clapped his hands, and one of the two clerics poked his head around the doorway. ‘Sir?’

‘Take Dom Baldwin to the gate.’

There was nothing more. Baldwin bowed to the still faintly smiling João, and trailed back out into the sunshine. He walked over the courtyard and through the double gates. Only when he was outside the castle did he feel he could take a breath of fresh air. Until then, tension had gripped his chest like a band of iron.

‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured as he mounted his horse. ‘And if I learn nothing then, why, I shall return to Compostela.’

He had spent the last days willing the time to pass until he could get here, and now he had arrived, he found that all he wanted was to be away again.

That night, Munio put his head around the chamber door to ask his wife if she needed anything. By now, Simon’s illness had changed in character. Munio could almost hear the sick man’s muscles grating and working against each other. It seemed as though the fever had turned the sick man’s body to stone, with every bone, every tendon and ligament made as stiff and brittle as flint. His jaws grated tooth against tooth, his fists were clenched, and over all, there was the springing of sweat at his brow and beneath his armpits. Munio had only rarely seen a man who looked so unwell and who yet survived without harm.

‘Margarita?’ he whispered again.

‘Leave us,’ she whispered back, reaching forward with a cloth to cleanse and cool Simon’s brow. ‘I shall let you know when he recovers.’

If , Munio thought as he softly shut the door and returned to his chamber. He lay back on his bed, put his arms behind his head, and prayed that Simon would get well. It would be terrible to think that their guest could die without the comfort even of an old friend.

Baldwin had slept in a comfortable inn near the river. When the sun was up, he woke early, and walked out to the water. Where the ford lay, he trod into the waters and knelt, splashing it over his face and beard, scrubbing with his fingers at the coarse hair.

Looking at his reflection in the water, he studied himself for a moment dispassionately. There were more grey hairs in his beard now, and the wings of silver at his temples were rapidly expanding.

Suddenly he had what he thought was an insight, a view of what he must look like. He had the feeling of being a teenager still. That was how he saw himself – a fellow barely old enough to wear a sword in anger – and it was how he felt, still young. His views hadn’t changed, his opinions and beliefs were the same as they ever had been, and that was why he was here now.

Yes. It was why he was here. A knight errant trying to avenge a comrade who had been murdered. The death of Matthew was unnecessary, and worse, it was pointless. There was no sense in striking down an old man like him. But if his death was pointless, then how much worse was Baldwin’s own journey here?

He had come here, as he told himself, as he told Simon, and as he told Munio, because he wanted to find the killer of the girl, when in reality he was growing persuaded that her murderer might be dead: Domingo. He found it hard to believe that Ramón was responsible. The man had obviously been in love with Joana, and if he craved money, he would not have come here to forswear all wealth.

No. He was here for Afonso. This Portuguese was guilty of Matthew’s murder. María had witnessed it. Perhaps Afonso was annoyed by Matthew’s demanding whine, or perhaps he simply disliked his face. There was no sense in it, no sense in wiping out a life for so little reason, but so often death was like that. Meaningless. It happened because God decided that a man had enjoyed or endured enough.

But here was Baldwin, prepared to fight this Afonso, and for as little reason. Matthew was dead, but he had lived a full, worthwhile life. He had not expired young like so many. Not for him the death of a martyr in Acre when the walls collapsed, nor the tortures or flames in the French King’s dungeons. No, Matthew had lived to a fair age. Did Baldwin have the right to kill another man simply to avenge a long life? No! It was ridiculous! As ridiculous as a middle-aged man coming all this way because his interest was piqued at the thought of seeing a Templar castle like the ones he had lived in. Simon must be wondering whether he had lost his mind completely. Staring down at his face in the water, Baldwin wondered whether there was a touch of insanity in his dark, intense eyes.

He would go to see João, and as soon as that meeting was finished, come what may, he would return to Compostela, he decided. And then, when there was a fair wind and a ship heading in the right direction, he would set off for home, and go back to real life, to his wife and daughter and the serious business of his manor and his court.

Voices gradually intruded upon his consciousness, and he realised he was hungry. He finished his ablutions, and walked to the shore, rubbing his scalp vigorously. As he made his way to the inn, he did not know that he was being watched.

Sir Charles eyed him from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He was sitting on a bench at a tavern on the opposite bank, waiting for his companions to wake, but as a man who was perfectly aware that he had many enemies, he was always on the lookout for anyone who could be a threat, and seeing this middle-aged stranger with the build of a warrior, Sir Charles was sure that here was someone who could be a threat to him. Sir Charles kept studying him with care as Baldwin shook the water from his hands and set off up the lane to his inn.

‘Olá! Bom dia,’ Afonso said as he came out of their room, stretching and casting an eye about the place.

‘So far, perhaps,’ Sir Charles muttered.

João was sitting in his room when a novice tapped nervously at his door to tell him that the Englishman was back. The claveiro told him to fetch the man, and sat staring at the empty desk before him.