Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

Baldwin slammed the blade away with his own, grasping his sword like a staff, his left hand on the blade, pushing down with both hands. Ruy, for all his strength, couldn’t control the full weight of Baldwin’s body over his own blade. He was already crouched in a difficult position trying to thrust, and Baldwin’s move unbalanced him. Falling, he could do nothing to protect himself, and he landed heavily on his right shoulder, forcing him to grunt, and then he gave a louder cry as Baldwin kicked him hard in the belly. Don Ruy was infuriated by that blow. It made him roll over to stab upwards with his sword, but before he could complete the manoeuvre, he felt the ferocious chill of a bright blue blade tingling at his throat.

‘Submit!’ Baldwin hissed through clenched teeth.

Don Ruy stared at him, his eyes glittering with resentment, but then the blue blade moved and he could feel the flesh begin to part. He cried, ‘I yield!’ and his sword clattered on the pavings.

Simon grumpily accepted that he had few grounds to object, but he still did, volubly, as the rather alarmed-looking men gathered together by Munio lifted him gently onto a door and carried him back to the Pesquisidor ’s house.

‘You should not have taunted him,’ Munio said, gazing at him mournfully.

‘I only tried to get him to talk,’ Simon said indignantly. ‘How was I to know that the damned fool would jump on me for that?’

‘He said you accused him of rape and murder! What else would you expect him to do?’

‘I didn’t accuse him of that. I said he knew where the murderer was, and he does, I’d bet, from the way he went for me.’

‘Oh, I see. He attacked you because you didn’t accuse him?’ Munio said. ‘Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense!’

‘No! I accused him of knowing who the murderer was, and he was protecting her, more than likely. He’s a fool, that knight.’

‘I can at least agree with that,’ Baldwin said. He was walking on the other side of Simon’s makeshift bier, and he cast a look at Munio. ‘He went quite mad. Good thing he’s in gaol for the night.’

‘Potty!’ was Simon’s conclusion. ‘He damn nearly broke my head, too.’

They had reached the house now, and the party turned into Munio’s entrance, the peasants carrying Simon carefully up the cobbled track. It was quite rank with weeds, and they must mind their step so as not to jolt Simon too badly. None of them wanted to risk Munio’s wrath, because he appeared to be in a particularly sour mood today.

Sir Charles and Paul had trailed behind them, hoping that a meal of some kind might be in the offing. Munio glanced at them bleakly, then motioned to them to enter as well.

As they sat about the table with a thick stew ladled into their bowls and plentiful supplies of coarse bread, Baldwin told them all he had learned about Matthew from Afonso. There was a strange feeling that, by telling this story, somehow his own sense of betrayal was diminished. Matthew was a weak man. There was no crime in that. He was as other men were – a human being. Fallible, he could be twisted by those who were more corrupt, ruthless, or simply more brutal than himself. And once he had agreed to lie to protect himself from torture, he was lost. There was no one who would support him. His former companions and friends would not look at him, either because they knew of his perjury and despised him for it, or because they too had committed the same crime, and avoided any man who might remind them of their evil deed, condemning all their friends in exchange for their own freedom from torture. The men with whom he had colluded thought him a coward and ignored him, while those who knew nothing, merely believed the accusations against the Templars and assumed that he was as foul as he had himself confessed. No man would have dealings with him. Thus he was forced to beg.

‘It’s sad to see people begging,’ Simon said meditatively. ‘There are many such here. Not because there are more poor folk here than in other towns, but because many people here will give alms. The beggars know that pilgrims are likely to have been sent here, or to have set off to come here, because they have committed some crime and will be willing to give money away to the poor. And beggars are faceless people, who are used to being ignored. It must be rare indeed for a beggar to be heard, watched or threatened.’

Baldwin glanced at him. ‘Matthew wasn’t threatened by Afonso, Simon. He would have been killed by Afonso – but Afonso found he was already dead.’

‘Yes. And we know who did it.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

Munio gazed from one to the other. ‘Who, then?’

It was Simon who responded. ‘Pour me a little more of that marvellous wine, and I think I can put in place a means by which we can show you.’

‘When?’ Munio demanded.

‘In the morning, I think,’ Simon said. ‘That will give that fool Don Ruy time to clear his head and calm himself. It will also make him appear more vulnerable. And should give us an extra little piece of incentive.’

The next morning was grey and cool, and when Baldwin threw open the shutters, he felt that the weather was suitable for the end of this grim little affair.

He had set off for this pilgrimage with a heart that was keen to purge itself of the hideous murder he had committed, and he had hoped that when he arrived, his soul would be lightened; instead he had found an old comrade, lost him, and finally learned of his perfidious behaviour. It was a sad man who stared out at the roadway before the house.

While the household stirred and readied themselves for food, he went out and walked away through the city until he reached the gates. He left Compostela and walked up along the river again until he came to the ford. There he sat on a rock and studied the ground once more. Simon had been mysterious all last night. He and Baldwin knew the culprit, but Baldwin had only guessed because of Matthew’s death. As to why, he thought he knew that as well, but Simon’s twinkling smile made Baldwin wonder whether he had got completely the wrong end of the stick.

He would not learn anything here, though. Walking quickly back to the city, he felt himself grow a little out of breath, and told himself sternly that today he must make time to practise with his weapons. It was his normal regime at home to play with them for at least as long as it took for his blood to heat sufficiently to make his muscles ache and burn, and the sweat to run.

At Munio’s, he was surprised to see a massive bowl set at the door ready for beggars. The norm was for one tenth of a household’s food to be given up to the poor, but this was almost enough for Munio’s entire staff and guests. Roasted fowls, pies, even a large cheese, were thrown in higgledy-piggledy, and Baldwin remembered that he had not yet eaten. He hurried into the house to see if there was any food left after the others had broken their fast.

In the hall there was still a little wine, watered and flavoured with spices and oranges, and some bread. He took a large piece and a handful of olives, and stood chewing while servants arrived to clear the room. The tables were emptied, then their cloths removed while the tops were stacked against a wall and their trestles folded and put away. Soon there was only Munio’s own table standing on its dais, and before it a wide, clear space.

Sighing, Baldwin took his seat on a bench.

He did not have long to wait. Munio arrived soon after the last of the tables were removed, and shortly after him Guillem hurried in, carrying his pots and parchments. He sat down and began to prepare his tools, glancing about him enquiringly as he did so. Then the other interested parties filtered in.