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

  ‘I don’t know why I allowed you to persuade me to come here with you,’ Simon said mournfully. ‘Look at me! I’m a Devon man, through and through. What am I doing all this way from my home and family?’

  ‘Be content. We might have travelled all the way on foot like so many others,’ Baldwin reminded him.

  The memory was not enough to soothe. ‘You think that makes me feel any better?’ Simon snapped. ‘And don’t snigger like that. I’ve never felt so near to death in my life before.’

  ‘I only feared that you might intentionally hasten your end,’ Baldwin chuckled.

  ‘Hilarious.’

  Their initial journey had been violent, as they aimed for la Coruña, and Simon’s belly had roiled in response. He had sailed many times, as he had said to Baldwin before they first boarded their ship at Topsham, but he had never seen seas such as those they encountered on their way here. Baldwin, he was sure, had felt poorly, but that was nothing compared with the prostration which Simon experienced. Following the advice of a sailor, he had remained in the bowels of the ship, and although he tried to lie down and sleep, he could find no ease. Blown from their course, they made landfall farther east, near Oviedo, to Simon’s eternal gratitude, while Baldwin had remained up on deck for the entire journey, and denied any illness.

  ‘A fine officer you will be for the Keeper of Dartmouth!’ Baldwin chuckled.

  ‘To be the Abbot’s man in Dartmouth I won’t ever have to set foot on a ship,’ Simon retorted. He was soon to become the Abbot of Tavistock’s representative in Dartmouth, now that the King had granted Abbot Robert the post of Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, a lucrative position for both Simon and the Abbot. ‘Anyway, even you agreed that the sea was about the worst you’d ever seen.’

  Baldwin showed his teeth in a brief smile. He was slightly taller than Simon, and although he was prone to run to fat, he drilled daily with his sword and clubs to keep his belly flat and his chin from doubling. It had not been a conscious effort to keep trim, but a continuation of his regime of training. Baldwin had learned weaponry when he was young, but later he had joined the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, and while in the Order had learned to respect their attitude towards constant practice with weapons. Only by using the sword and lance effectively as a part of God’s army could a knight bring honour to himself and to God, Baldwin believed.

  But then the Templars were destroyed.

  When the Templars had been arrested, Baldwin had been distraught. For two years he had travelled about Aragon, Navarre and other lands, hoping to find a new purpose to his life, for until Friday, 13 October 1307, when the Templars of France were arrested and imprisoned, he had believed utterly in his Order, and had no other life than that of a Knight Brother. But then, when the Pope himself declared the Order dissolved in his bull Vox in Excelso, in 1312, Baldwin was left without home, faith or hope. His Order existed solely to support God and the Pope; the Pope was the man to whom all the Templar Knights ultimately gave their loyalty, yet this Pope had destroyed them. God had allowed him to see the most holy Order brought to destruction.

  It was in memory of his Order that Baldwin still wore a small beard that followed the line of his chin. Few English knights affected a beard, but Baldwin felt it necessary, even if it did itch here in the warmer climates. He wanted to honour his dead comrades. It was for that same reason that he wore a Templar cross on his sword. The symbol of his faith was strongly engraved on the bright blue tempered blade, a constant reminder to him that he should use the weapon only to the glory to God – or his own defence. Sadly, it was this same sword which had led to this pilgrimage. He had used it to kill the wrong man. The memory made him shudder, as though someone had walked over his grave.

  Like all knights who had trained with lance and sword from youth, Baldwin was of a broad and muscular build. His face bore just one scar, from a raking knife-cut, but apart from that his features were unmarked. There were deep lines at either side of his mouth, but the main signs of his anguish at the loss of his Order had faded since he had been married to his Lady Jeanne two years ago – and especially since his daughter Richalda had been born. Since then his brown eyes had grown calmer, although they could at a moment’s notice achieve a powerful intensity. Some said he could see through a man’s soul when he studied them closely.

  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 Pórta 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 exper
ience 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.

  About his neck was a small skin filled with water, and he took a swallow now as he made his way through the crowds, darting between pilgrims and wanting to curse as one stood on his foot, another bumped into him and a third pushed him aside on the way to a pie-seller. If these people had any respect, they would surely make way for him. He was rich, damn them all!

  Not so rich now, of course.

  It was so unfair that he should have been made to pay. In his eyes, the killing – he refused to call it murder – was completely justified. Hellin van Coye had deserved death, and Parceval had dealt it out. The whole town had supported his action, and although he had been forced to pay compensation to the widow – who was grateful to him for making her a widow and ending her living hell – and must complete this penitential pilgrimage to Compostela, that didn’t change his basic belief that he was innocent of any crime. Even now the thought of Hellin’s crime made him feel faint. Hellin, the man who had killed Parceval’s soul. He could feel the sickness wash through him, as though it was washing through his soul, polluting him still. Please, God, he begged silently, forgive me when I have completed this pilgrimage. Don’t forsake me when I need Your help so badly!

  He felt the bitterness bubble up again, and tried to force it down. There was no point in anger now. He had done what he needed to do, and that was that. He was here to show his remorse – ha! Remorse for the death of that devil’s spawn? With a cynical shake of his head, he told himself that when he returned to Ypres, that would be enough to earn him rewards from people who would assume him to be still more decent a man with whom to do business, because he had made this journey (a notably expensive trip, after all). And if some refused to deal with him because of his ‘crime’, others would come to him because he was known to be someone who would stand up for his rights and his property, surely a notable citizen.

  The tears were back. Him notable, after all his crimes?

  He brushed the tears away and took a deep breath. There was no reason for him to feel guilt. Guilt was for the guilty. He was here to show that he was accepted as an innocent not only by the city’s ruling élite, but even by Saint James himself. He had not meant to do anything wrong. It was the fault of beer – and of Hellin van Coye.

  Pleased with this conclusion, he squared his shoulders. Just then, gazing ahead, he caught a glimpse of her – the Doña Stefanía – and his heart began to beat a little faster. He could remember every curve of that delectable body from the time they had met. Beautiful. The memory hadn’t dimmed. Christ alive, no! If anything it was thoughts of her which kept him awake in the early hours.

  ‘Doña Stefanía,’ he murmured to himself. She wouldn’t have forgotten him; she couldn’t have. No, so why not renew their acquaintance? Forgetting entirely the attack in which he could so easily have been killed, Parceval began to forge his way through the crowds, but even as he thrust himself onwards, he realised that he would never be able to reach her before she got to the Cathedral’s doorway. There were simply too many people here in the square.

  Cursing under his breath, he was bemoaning his bad luck when he saw the lady start to climb the stairs that led to the great doors. All there were slipping their hands into the niches about the main column, atop of which Saint James himself sat gazing down with a welcoming expression on his stone face. While Parceval watched, he saw a man arrive at Doña Stefanía’s side, a stolid, slightly hunched man, with a curious way of holding his head, as thought it was too massy on the left side to be supported.

  ‘Get away from her, you bloody bastard!’ he muttered.

  Chapter Two

  On arriving at the great column, Simon and Baldwin knelt and reached in with their hands, in the ritual of holy greeting to the Saint, Baldwin gazing up at the Saint with a murmured prayer, soon after repeating the paternoster.

  Simon was bemused to see his friend so overcome.

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, as he well knew, had been a Templar, and Simon also knew that his friend was deeply embittered by the destruction of his Order. It wasn’t the kind of act that could ever be forgiven: Baldwin had been a driven man since the end of the Templars. Before that, Simon reckoned, Baldwin must have been focused on the ruin of the Moors who had evicted the Christians from their most holy
city and forced them from the Crusader kingdoms in 1291 when they kicked the last of the garrison of Acre from the Holy Land. Baldwin was deeply religious, though he detested the Pope and eyed the Church askance, and Simon reckoned he must have been a ferocious enemy of the Moors.

  Since that terrible year of 1307, Baldwin’s life had utterly changed. He had lost his friends, many of whom were murdered by the French King’s men and the Church’s own ‘Hounds of the Lord’, the Dominicans, who manned the inquisitions and tortured the poor warriors, most of them unlettered, who had been held for so long. Men who had devoted their lives to God and His Holy Land were persecuted by another of the Pope’s own Orders. It was no surprise that Baldwin had been so deeply disgusted, nor that he blamed the avaricious instincts of a corrupt and ignoble King and his lackey, the Pope at Avignon.

  And yet Baldwin still trusted and believed in God. Simon wasn’t so sure whether, if he himself had undergone these same trials, he would have been able to maintain the same faith as his friend. Baldwin seemed convinced that the Pope was responsible, and that had left him untrusting of politics and power, but he still had a strong belief in God and God’s determination to protect His own.

  Simon sniffed. If it had been him, he might have renounced his religion entirely and joined the ranks of the Moslems in the face of such dishonour and treachery. Others had, from what he had heard. Poor devils, once they realised that their own faith was turning against them, they bolted and found comfort in the ranks of the Moors. At least there they were respected.

  Baldwin had strode on into the nave and Simon withdrew his hand from the hole in the column, cast an apologetic look skywards to where the Saint’s figure now seemed to peer down with a more forbidding expression, and scurried after his friend.

  Parceval didn’t recognise the man at Doña Stefanía’s side, but Gregory did, and as he saw the tatty-looking figure bend towards his ex-wife and murmur in her ear, he felt a worm of unease uncoil in his gut. Like the painful ache in his bad shoulder that invariably predicted a change in the weather, this feeling left him convinced that he would soon know more of the man he had seen leading the attack against the pilgrims.