The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Read online

  ‘A little humility is good,’ Munio said while he poured himself a large cup. He took a gulp and swallowed with satisfaction. ‘Ah! A good wine, that. Yes, but too much humility is self-indulgent, I always think. I knew a man a little like Matthew once, and he burned at the sight of any injustice, just as you do. He was formed from much the same mould. Once he had been a clavero in the Order of Santiago, a very important man, as you can imagine: the man who held all the keys for a great fort. One day that good man learned that some of the Order’s expensive goods had disappeared, and he sought to find the thief, but the Order’s Maestre accused him of taking it – saying that he was bound to be the one responsible since he had all the keys in his possession.’

  ‘And was he the guilty man?’

  Munio gave him a steady stare. ‘Who can say? Only God knows a man’s heart. For me, it was enough that from that day onwards he became an indefatigable seeker of the truth. The fact that someone had dared to accuse him made him realise how thin is the covering of honour that envelopes even the highest in the land. No family is free of crimes. The French King himself has shown that. Consider his daughters.’

  Baldwin knew what he meant. Some ten years before, the French Crown had been rocked by the wives of King Philip the Fair’s two sons; both young women had been found guilty of adultery. Their lovers had been castrated and burned alive, of course, and the two guilty women were incarcerated at the castle of Château-Gaillard. One died of cold in the first winter, but the other was still living, so Baldwin had heard, in a monastery.

  ‘Certainly no family is free of the stain,’ he agreed quietly.

  ‘Yes. So it matters not what a man was, but how he behaves now,’ Munio said with satisfaction.

  Baldwin let out a breath slowly. He was sure that Munio had divined his past life in the Templars somehow – although now he thought about it, his behaviour regarding Matthew had been less than discreet. If he had shouted his interest in the old Templar from the Pesquisidor’s roof, it would scarcely have been less plain.

  If Munio was to ask Baldwin about his past, the knight was not sure what his position would be.

  ‘There were always many Templars here,’ Munio continued thoughtfully. ‘I met them and grew to respect them in Oxford. When I returned here, I met even more of them. They came here on pilgrimage, for they were constant travellers and keen to ensure that their souls were as pure as they could make them. That was my impression of Templars: that they were honourable and devout. I could not censure such men. Even Matthew, who had suffered so much, he deserved better than to be left desolate as he was.’

  ‘But as you say, a religious man who has been killed at the end of a long life is less cause for vengeance than a woman whose life was ended so early,’ Baldwin ventured.

  ‘No, not less cause, but no more cause. I believe that justice must reflect equally on all. It is not a view which meets with universal approval,’ Munio said, and shrugged, ‘but it serves for my personal creed. Thus, if you go to Tomar, I would like you to spend the same amount of time seeking the killer of Joana as the killer of Matthew. Would you swear to do that?’

  ‘Yes. But I may learn that they are innocent, too. What then?’

  ‘The innocent go free.’

  ‘Yes, but if they are guilty …’ Baldwin spread his hands helplessly. ‘What would you have me do? I cannot murder them myself. That would make me no better than them.’

  ‘True, and if they have joined a religious Order they are safe from our justice,’ Munio agreed. Then he leaned on his elbows. ‘But tell me, how would the Mestre of a religious convent respond if it was shown to him that his latest recruit was a murderer and violator of innocent Catholic women? Or that he was the executioner of a Templar knight who was already so reduced in his position as to be forced to beg in the streets of Compostela?’

  Baldwin drew in a breath sharply. ‘Any Master would surely feel that the culprit should lose his habit. He might insist on the vow of obedience, and demand that the man should leave and join a religious Order with a vastly more onerous round of duties.’

  ‘Yes,’ Munio said with satisfaction. ‘And then, if the man was innocent of the crime, God will ease his toil, because if the man was so devout as to want to join an Order to serve God, he would be comfortable no matter to which Order he was sent. But if he was guilty and had expected to escape, how much more painful would be his punishment. I have always thought that, contrary to belief, the Church is not so generous to failed priests as our secular society is. We only hang a man. The Church keeps him imprisoned for ever.’

  ‘You will allow me to go with your blessing?’

  ‘Yes. But not Simon, friend.’

  Baldwin felt as though he had been slammed in the belly. ‘You mean to hold him hostage?’ he asked, choked.

  Munio looked up, hurt. ‘I called you “friend” because that is how I consider you, Don Baldwin. No, my reservation about Simon is caused by his illness. My wife says that he should not travel, and I am inclined to agree with her. Look at how he was today when you saw him.’

  Baldwin was unconvinced, but when Munio gave a whistle, his wife came to join them both, and she argued forcefully and vociferously that Simon should remain.

  ‘He is not well enough to travel, Sir Baldwin. Look at him! You may return and see him at any time you wish, for I doubt you will wake him. He was close to death, and to take him on a voyage now would be fatal. Think of the perils which afflict the healthy at sea, from fevers to sicknesses. If he were merely to become seasick, his body could not cope. Please consider him.’

  Baldwin was aware of a horrible feeling of separation. In the past he had always had an able man-at-arms beside him, his Sergeant from the Templars, Edgar, but Edgar was back at the manor near Cadbury with Jeanne, Baldwin’s wife. He had preferred to know that she and Richalda, their daughter, were safe in case of an armed gang, or even the risk of war. Edgar was competent and entirely capable. He would see to it that Jeanne and Richalda were safe.

  At all those times when Edgar had not been with him, Baldwin had been pleased to have the sturdy, stolid Bailiff at his side. Simon was resourceful, bright, and a doughty fighter when one was needed.

  ‘I do not know if I can do this without him,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Munio said briskly. ‘You’ll find these men. If you don’t, persuade the Mestre at Tomar to help you find them. These men all appear to be heading in the direction of the town. If they have already arrived, good, and the Mestre can see to it that they pay for their crimes; if they have not arrived, so much the better, because you can save the Order from recruiting dishonourable souls who should never have been considered for a holy fort.’

  Baldwin shook his head doubtfully. To travel so far, without friend, without companion, without even the power of the law to support him, felt foolish in the extreme. Better, perhaps, to wait until Simon was quite recovered, in which case he could have a friend to count on.

  How long would that take, though? Days? Weeks? The men already had a good head-start on him. Ramón had left on the morning of Matthew’s death. That was four days ago, now. Even sailing instead of riding on horseback took some time, and these men were some hundred miles away by now. A longer delay might mean their escaping.

  ‘How long will it take to get to Tomar?’ he asked.

  ‘The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll get there,’ Munio said unsympathetically, then chuckled. ‘I think three to four days to sail down the coast, then another two or three to travel inland, if you can make good time. I can’t help much, but I can at least give you some currency. I have some libras and soldos which you can use.’

  Baldwin stood. ‘I should pack and make my way to the coast if I am to catch my ship in the morning.’

  The next three days were, for Simon, unremittingly tedious. Always an energetic man, he loathed lying about. His indolence was a strain on himself and, he admitted, on all about him, but he couldn’t help it. When things gre
w too much for him, he couldn’t curb his tongue.

  If he had been in England, in some part of Dartmoor with a pair of miners, he would at least have felt more or less at home, or if he had been in a city like Exeter, where he knew many people and could count on their dropping in to chat, it would have been different, but here, with all the language difficulties, he felt awful, as if he was being imprisoned by people who could not understand him. Even if he had a simple request, the servants would tend to seek Doña Margarita, or Munio himself, rather than take it upon themselves to try to understand his words. He could ask for water or wine, and one grizzled old devil appeared to comprehend fully when he demanded bread, but that was about it.

  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.’

  ‘I seem to recall …’ Simon murmured, and was then quiet. The man with whom she had enjoyed an affair: Don Ruy had said that he was a Fleming. ‘Wasn’t there a Fleming as well as Don Ruy in your band of pilgrims?’

  ‘Yes. That was the same man. I had heard that he had a fling, but I had no idea then that the woman he had had a fling with was my own wife!’

  ‘So Domingo actually attacked the very same band in which you travelled, along with her own lover?’ Simon mused. Two things had occurred to him. First, Domingo was evil and dangerous, but he clearly wasn’t mad. Second, Domingo was a very competent killer. He didn’t draw back at the last moment. If he had struck down Gregory, the latter would have remained down. He might have killed Joana, but there was no possibility that he had knocked Gregory down as well.

  So the man who had attacked Gregory must have been someone else altogether.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ship rocked gently as it passed down the Portuguese coast, and Baldwin was content. In the glorious sunlight of a summer’s day, his wide-brimmed travelling hat pulled down tightly against the breeze, his head rammed deep into the bowl-shaped crown, he felt as though he was achieving something – and he was filled with excitement at the idea of seeing a Templar church.

  In the distance off the port side of the ship lay another small town. Fishing boats painted in bright colours with large sails, moved slowly over the clear, blue water, the crews throwing their great nets into the water or hauling on the ropes that would pull up the pots for catching lobsters. These were the things that Baldwin remembered from his last visits to Portugal – the prevalence of fresh fish throughout the country, and the broad, azure sky.