Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

It was not true. Baldwin ran a hand through his hair. Once black, now it was threaded through with silver, just like his beard, although his eyebrows themselves were in fact still all black. No, it was not true. He could sometimes tell when a man lied, he could sometimes feel when a man was behaving dishonourably, but nothing more than that. All he possessed as a keen investigator of crimes was his knowledge of the world; that, and his unswerving loathing of injustice. Those two were all he needed as Keeper of the King’s Peace, because Sir Baldwin believed with every part of his soul that it was better that ten men who were guilty should be set free than that one innocent man should be punished. There was no more fundamental rule that governed his life. Years ago, when he was a callow young Templar Knight, perhaps he would not have believed so fervently in this principle, but now he had no doubt. Since seeing friends imprisoned, tortured to death, or slaughtered by slow roasting over a charcoal fire, his perspective had changed, because he knew that they were innocent.

Baldwin shook himself. This was no time to be thinking such grim thoughts. He was here because he had killed a man, an innocent man, and his pilgrimage was his way of atoning for that crime. Standing here in the Cathedral, his mind should be bent solely on the reason for his coming so far, not rehearsing the list of crimes against him and his comrades.

His eyes rose at that thought and he found himself gazing up into the eyes of the statue of Saint James. Then he felt a curious sensation: a tingling along his spine, not at all unpleasant, and he became aware of a conviction that here he need not beg forgiveness: it was offered freely. In Saint James’s eyes there was compassion and kindness – and understanding. Baldwin’s raw mood faded, and he found his normal optimism returning.

He was content. ‘Come, Simon. Let us go in.’

Gregory had entered the city with his soul weighed down by the recent attack. It had been so swift and ferocious, especially the way that the three strangers had joined in … it made him feel dull and uneasy, like an old man who is reminded of the magnificence of his youth when he sees other young men chasing women or drinking, and knows that all his own abilities are gone for ever. Just his luck that the first chance of protecting pilgrims would arrive when he was too old to help. Ironically, he still felt as young and virile as ever.

The feel of the horse between his thighs was, to a knight, almost a religious experience: separate, yet a part of him, rearing and plunging among the multitude of armour-clad men, turning and pounding off on massive hooves to a fresh point in the line of battle, seeking always to be there at the front. There was that raw, unalloyed delight of feeling one’s sword slice through a man’s arm, shoulder or skull, of relishing that power to end life, impregnable in one’s suit of steel. Yes, there was real joy in killing. He could remember that.

Here, inside the cathedral city, those urges were wrong. Gregory didn’t need a priest to tell him that. Here men were supposed to appreciate the kindness and generosity of Saint James and, through him, Christ. Death and bloodshed were anathema to the cult that had given birth to this marvellous cathedral.

He passed through the Porta Francigena , the French Gate, and walked down the Via Francigena towards the Cathedral, musing on the fact that these places were so-named purely because so many pilgrims came here, like him, straight from France. It was strangely stirring to think of so many travellers passing this same way.

The roadway was lined with street traders of all kinds – hawkers in gaily coloured clothes shouting, a few brazen women leering at the men, although they waited more for those who had already visited the Cathedral – perhaps because they had learned from experience that a pilgrim needed to refresh himself spiritually before trying to slake his more natural desires.

Gregory hesitated at a wine-seller’s counter then purchased a small cupful at an exorbitant price; he didn’t grudge the fee. It felt so good to have almost reached his goal. He only hoped that he might find some peace when he arrived in the Cathedral. If only he’d been made King – but then, as he reminded himself, he would be lying dead on the plain now if he had, with the other pilgrims who’d been caught in the ambush.

Setting his cup upon the board, he was about to rejoin the line of pilgrims when he stopped. There, a scant yard away, he had seen her , he was sure! Certainly it must have been her; there couldn’t be two women in the world with that peculiar heart-shaped face, the same tip-tilted nose, the high angle of the cheek, the rich, ruby mouth and little chin.

She was wearing a pleated wimple and fine-looking tunic of some light material, as befitted so wealthy a woman, and she was riding a good ambler , a horse trained to walk with the legs at each side moving in unison, first both of the left side together then both of the right, to give a gentle, rocking gait that was more comfortable than a horse’s usual motion.

Gregory felt as if he was in a dream as he followed after her, along the rest of the roadway and up into the square at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was easy to keep her in sight, because she was one of the few pilgrims on horseback. Most had left their mounts back at the stables near the gates so that they could make the last few yards of their journey on foot. Not her, though. Oh no, my lady Prioress wouldn’t want to sink so low. Only a peasant would walk, she’d have said. Poisonous bitch!

She stopped in the square when she saw the milling crowds there. Gregory had heard that this place was called ‘Paradise’ by the people who lived here, but no thought of that came into his mind as he watched his ex-wife dismount and leave her horse in the hands of a loitering stablehand. Gregory’s attention was entirely bound up with her as she climbed the stairs slowly towards the central column, preparing to put her hand in a niche in the stone to give thanks for her safe arrival.

Her! Giving thanks to a Saint, like any pilgrim, Gregory thought bitterly, when it was she who had made him foul with sin. She shouldn’t be allowed in a place like Saint James’s Cathedral; she should be barred. It would be just his luck if she were to accuse him of guilt, and he was refused entry, he thought glumly. If only he could hate her; but he couldn’t. She was beautiful, and he adored her.

If only, he thought, he didn’t still love her. Doña Stefanía de Villamor, the woman who had been his wife.

Gregory was not alone in spotting her. Although Parceval had not set off until some time after him, he had not halted for wine or food and arrived in the square at the same time as the anguished penitent.

Parceval had caught sight of Gregory staring at him several times during their journey, and at first it had worried him, thinking the old dolt had recognised him, but he felt sure now that he was secure. It was only the snobbery of an older man staring at his social inferior. Bloody bastard. It was embarrassing enough, having to wear this filthy clothing, and assume the shabby appearance of a peasant. But it was, after all, what he had intended. No one who knew him as a wealthy merchant would recognise him like this, surely.

Ah, it was good to be back in the warmer country of Galicia. The last time he had been here, it was a little later in the year, at a time when the local people were harvesting their fruits and grains. Now, in the early summer, it was certainly damper, but at least the rain was warm – far better than the miserable conditions which had prevailed in Ypres when he left. That had been far colder. Christ Jesus, yes. Although the circumstances of his departure might have coloured his feelings.