Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

But the pleasures were offset by the sadness of Matthew’s death, and by the grim reality of his descent into poverty and dishonour. It was terrible to hear how a man had sunk so low that he was finally killed for his attempts at blackmail.

As if that were not bad enough, Baldwin had the guilt of what he had put his friend Simon through. The Bailiff had willingly joined him here, but when Baldwin left him, he had almost died of his fever. True, the careful nursing of Munio’s wife had protected him from death, but it had been close, and there was always the possibility that the next few days would put an end to all of them.

He glanced up as a wild cry came from the master, and suddenly he heard an awful snapping noise, as the mainsail over his head tore from top to bottom. He was almost shoved from the ship by crew members as they ran up the ratlines and battled with the sails against the wind, desperately trying to rescue what they could.

Baldwin pulled himself hand over hand to the little cabin at the rear of the deck, and hoisted himself into the reeking interior. Vomit puddled all over the floor, and the three men inside were a uniform green colour, Simon lying on the floor near the stern, Sir Charles and Paul looking faintly better because they were at least vertical, both sitting with their backs to the curved wall.

‘Has the devil come to claim his own yet?’ Sir Charles asked pathetically.

‘He would not have to cast his net far, would he?’ Baldwin said, and would have essayed a chuckle, but then as the boat lurched, Simon spewed, and Baldwin fled for the open deck again.

And while Baldwin and Simon prayed for salvation amidst the howling horror of an angry sea, while Parceval sat in a tavern with a new lady, and while Doña Stefanía sat at the side of her altar and watched with greedy pleasure as the first of the queue of pilgrims entered her little church and walked to the relic to give thanks and pray to Saint Peter, hundreds of miles away to the north and east, in the great church of Orthez, the priest sighed as he picked up the casket containing the relic.

It was cool here, down in the undercroft, a good place to preserve things. He knew that perfectly well, for after all, it was where the hams and sausages were hung until they were wanted, deep in this cool, dry interior. Perfect.

The box was beautiful. He held it reverently in both hands, then walked with it to a slanting shaft of light. In it, the box gleamed. There was a fingerprint on the cross, and he wiped it with care on his sleeve, and breathed on it to polish it. Then he made his way up the stairs to the main body of the church itself. There, he bowed to the altar, and moved along the choir to where his Bishop stood. The Bishop held out his hand.

‘You have it?’

‘Yes, my Lord Bishop.’

He passed it over and bowed again while the Bishop tentatively opened it a crack and peered inside. ‘Wonderful to think that so little can be so marvellously efficacious.’

‘It was a Saint.’

‘Yes.’

The Bishop picked up the box which Doña Stefanía had returned to them. ‘You can burn this,’ he said as he reverently laid down the other casket in its place. ‘As if we’d have let that poisonous mare have the real relic! She must have tried to thieve it at the outset.’

‘She has told the Bishop of Compostela that she has the relic, and she is already winning many pilgrims.’

‘I know,’ said the Bishop with a chuckle. ‘She says that she swapped over the bones because the Saint wanted to remain at her church.’

‘When will you tell her that we only sent her a bit of the tailbone of a hog?’

‘Later,’ the Bishop said with satisfaction, kneeling before the casket. ‘There’s no hurry. Later.’