The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘This King Dinis created a new Order,’ Baldwin observed.

  ‘He called it the Order of Christ,’ Matthew agreed. ‘It’s based in Castro-Marim near the mouth of the Guadiana, to protect the Algarve. It was Dinis’s father who won that back from the Moors only fifty-odd years ago with the help of the Temple, and Dinis always feared losing it to a fresh attack.’ He stared down at the table before him. ‘He took all the Templar castles and towns and gave them to his new Order. Castelo Branco, Tomar – all of them. Some he kept for himself, like Pombal and Soure. I suppose he was scared that there might be another power rising in the land if he let the Knights of Christ take all the Templars’ lands.’

  ‘Like the Hospitallers,’ Baldwin muttered to himself.

  ‘I was lucky. I was released when it was decided that I was innocent, but since then I have wandered as you see me now, penniless, destitute. I had no horse, no master … all I had once possessed I gave up in order to join the Templars, holding to my vow of poverty, so when I was thrown from my home, I was utterly bereft.’

  His eyes had been dry for some little while, but now they filled once more and a single tear fell from his right eye, shooting down the darkened cheek and splashing on the table.

  ‘Many were less fortunate,’ Baldwin observed sympathetically.

  ‘Many were more fortunate,’ he countered. ‘They died.’

  Doña Stefanía watched Joana ride off towards the Porta Francigena and made her way back though the crush towards an inn. She had to hold her annoyance in check as she passed through the crowds, trying to preserve her dignity as best she might. Hawkers shouted, beggars pleaded and wept, urchins scampered, one stepping heavily upon her sandalled foot and crushing her big toe, but she kept her lips pursed and made no comment.

  The beggars here were a dreadful nuisance. Children with withered arms, crippled men without limbs, women weeping, declaring themselves widowed and asking for food on behalf of their starving children. They were nothing to do with her. Her own responsibility was to the folk of her priory of Vigo and its manor, and she looked after them as well as she could, with some of the drier husks of bread and the carefully garnered remains of the meals, collected up and distributed to the needy at the convent’s gate. She and her Sisters were generous, as they should be, but there was no reason why she should also support the poor of Compostela. That was the duty of the townspeople here. Doña Stefanía had limited funds, and these were already allocated. And now some must be scraped together for this accursed blackmailer.

  She hoped Joana would find him and carry out her instructions. The maid was devoted to her mistress, of course, devoted and fiercely protective, so probably she would be successful. If Doña Stefanía herself had gone, she might have broken down in tears, which could have been disastrous. It would show this fiend of a blackmailer what a hold he had over her. She had tutored Joana carefully in the time that they had; be calm, be cool, state the position and see what he says. There was nothing more she could do. Soon Joana would be with him, and a short while later Doña Stefanía would know his response. No doubt it would cost her a fortune, the devil! Well, he could go to the devil if he demanded too much!

  For now, there was no point in worrying. Doña Stefanía was nothing if not a realist. The die was cast and there was nothing more she could do. She might as well take her ease. After this morning’s efforts, she surely deserved a good pot of wine, and it might calm her nerves. Yes, a good pot of wine.

  A small smile played about her lips as she sat down at a bench and signalled to the innkeeper. In a corner, she was astonished to see two respectable men – a knight and a prosperous yeoman – sitting with a beggar! A repellent fellow with hunched shoulders and downcast gaze, as though he was scared to meet the eyes of any others in the room – or maybe he was merely ashamed, she amended. He had the appearance of a man who wore his befouled clothes and the grime on his hands and face like a thin patina to conceal his genuine status. When he picked up his cup, he sipped it like a lord; when he spoke, he waited until his companions had stopped before speaking. And he didn’t pick his nose, she noted. That was an improvement on many others.

  Later on that day, she noticed him again, this time in the street, and he gave her a chill smile, ducking in a bow that was so courteous, it might have been given by a knight. That was when she realised that it was the man Matthew who had accosted her in the square. She barely acknowledged him, of course. A Prioress had no need of companionship from a mere beggarly peasant, after all, but then a short while later, he walked past her, and her nose twitched. He might look disreputable, but at least he didn’t stink like some; in this climate men often smelled worse than hogs. This fellow had the odour of citrus about him, and some spices, as though he had rubbed them into his skin to take away the stench of sweat. It made her look at him again, wondering.

  There were always men who were born to a certain position and who then lost all, some from gambling in tournaments, others from gambling on politics and being forced into exile. This fellow could be one such man – someone who had been born to a good position, but who was then forced to beg because he had somehow lost the favour of his master.

  The observation made her feel a vague sympathy for him. If he had been born to nobility, he deserved her compassion. Anyone of rank who had sunk so low as to depend upon the gracious gifts of others must be deeply humiliated. To be like that, she told herself, was worse than being dead. The disgrace must be intolerable.

  Not that all men could appreciate such finer feelings, of course. Her ex-husband Sir Gregory was one such example: he had none. No humblesse, no shame. No understanding of others, the devil! Ah, but why should Doña Stefanía trouble herself over him? When all was said and done, he was a mere churl, no better than a serf, and it was unlikely he would learn of the blackmail.

  The idea that he might get to hear of her behaviour secretly appalled her. He could make all sorts of trouble for her, especially now, with the little box so securely held in her purse, she thought, a hand going to it and stroking it through the leather. Merely to touch it like that made her heartbeat slow a little. Yes, Gregory could have caused untold harm if he had heard. He mustn’t ever learn of her fornication. It would all have been so easily resolved if Domingo had succeeded, the damned fool. All he had to do was kill Ruy and, regretfully, her tatty little lover Parceval, and all would have been safe. Instead the fool saw to the death of most of his men, including his own son, and since then his mind was turned more to his own grief than to what she needed from him. That was why she had to pay this blackmail.

  It all came down to money. Always did. People had no interest in anything else. They wanted cash no matter what it cost others. Certainly Sir Gregory had never concerned himself about others. From the look of him he was short of money now. He could have been a friar. Maybe he was! That would be a joke. A loud, roaring, rich knight reduced to poverty.

  It had been a terrible shock to see him on the way here. Blasted man! In all the lands of Christendom, why did he have to come here? Maybe it was because he wanted to atone for some of his past offences. There were certainly enough of them.

  She was bemoaning her fate when she realised that a man was approaching her.

  ‘My dear lady! I felt sure it must be you as soon as I saw you in the crowd. Such elegance and grace could never be duplicated on this earth. Dearest lady, may I kiss your ring?’

  She turned with a start, her heart leaping into her mouth, and gaped. ‘My God – Parceval!’

  The Fleming bowed with as much grace as he could muster, smiling at the expression of shock on her face. ‘You didn’t expect me here?’

  ‘I didn’t, no. Not so soon. You made very good time.’

  ‘Well, a man in a hurry can always find a means of speeding himself on his way,’ Parceval said easily. He tugged his purse around his belt so that it was under his belly, and reached inside. Pulling out some coins and peering at them shortsightedly, he held one aloft for the tavern o
wner to see and peremptorily demanded wine.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘we set off at dawn and it was only later I asked where you were and was told you were staying behind. That was – oh – three days ago? You travelled quickly.’

  ‘No, I set off before you,’ Doña Stefanía said. ‘I arrived here at noon yesterday.’

  ‘You must have hurried,’ Parceval said, but inattentively. He was watching the tavern-keeper.

  It was fortunate that he didn’t catch sight of Doña Stefanía’s face as he raised the coin again. Had he done so, he would have observed rather less pleasure at their meeting than he might have wished.

  For her part, the lady was appalled that her lover had materialised here. She had enough troubles without this, but then another thought struck her and she stared suspiciously at his heavy purse.

  She had hurried here, leaving in the dark to avoid meeting this man and his companions as soon as the blackmailer had made his demands. Frey Ramón had left with her, happy to be with his Joana, and delighted to be there to protect them both when Domingo’s men were left behind.

  When she met Parceval two weeks ago, he had told Doña Stefanía that he was a penniless pilgrim.

  How, then, had he come to be in possession of so much money?

  Chapter Five

  Just as Parceval was sitting down with Doña Stefanía, Baldwin and Simon were rising to leave the same place with Matthew.

  ‘Take a little of this, old friend,’ Baldwin said gently, holding out his hand.

  ‘No, Sir Baldwin. You keep it. You may have need of money on your travels. It is many leagues from England, as you will know. Many a weary mile to walk. How long did it take you?’

  Baldwin held out the handful of coins for a moment longer, but seeing the proud expression in Matthew’s eyes, he shrugged. ‘We came by boat from Topsham. A merchant brought us in a matter of days. Sadly we were blown from our course, and ended up in Oviedo, so we had a walk of it from there.’

  Matthew gave a smile that was all but a wince. ‘It is good to hear that you are successful, Sir Baldwin. I would not like to think that all my comrades were as unfortunate as me.’

  ‘I fear that many are,’ Baldwin said sadly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Matthew said. ‘Some survived, though. In Portugal, some still hold positions of power and authority.’

  ‘I had heard that,’ Baldwin said. ‘In some of our old forts.’

  ‘Yes. In those which Dinis the King gave to the new Order of Christ, there are some men who were simply given the opportunity to change their title. All he did, when all is said and done, was take the words “And the Temple” from their name. Now they are “Soldiers of Christ”. A tiny change. Such a little thing, and the Pope will accept them. While men like me, honourable men who did all we could to support the Pope, are shunned and left to beg like lepers!’

  Baldwin touched his shoulder as he spat the last words. Matthew’s jealous grief was all too apparent; like so many Templars, like Baldwin himself, he felt the prick of betrayal. Clement V had been their only ruler on earth, after the Grand Master himself. They had all been proud that they answered to the Vicar of Christ himself and no other man. It was partly that pride which had ruined them, Baldwin knew, because the jealousy it instilled in others helped to ensure their destruction.

  ‘But perhaps …’

  Baldwin smiled encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There could be former Templars in positions of authority in Portugal. If a man could find them and report them to the Pope, he might reward such loyalty …’

  Baldwin felt his heart stop within him but when he spoke his voice was soft and kind. ‘I hope no one would ever consider such a wicked act. What would be the point of persecuting innocent men to the end of their lives? You might just as well say that men could hunt me down … or you, old friend.’

  Matthew gazed up at him with a dreadful expression of loss on his face. ‘Oh Christ, what am I become!’ he wailed.

  ‘Please, do not upset yourself …’ Baldwin began, but Matthew cut him off with a dismissive gesture and a weakly smile.

  ‘Do not worry about me, Sir Baldwin. It has been good to see you again – very good – but I must be going now. If I remain with you, people will wonder what sort of man you are, and there will be little chance of your finding a room for the night. No innkeeper wants folk who mix with my sort. You could catch fleas and all sorts from me!’

  He gave a brave, sad grin, and pulled his hood up over his head again, setting off along a narrow alleyway as though intending to avoid all other people.

  A pathetic creature, was Simon’s thought, but he kept his silence. One look at his friend showed him that Baldwin was deeply affected by the chance encounter.

  ‘So many of us,’ Baldwin mumbled. ‘I wonder how many still wander the lands like him?’

  ‘Were there many? I thought all your comrades were installed in monasteries or got placed in the Hospitallers,’ Simon said hesitantly. He was unwilling to continue the conversation if it might trouble his companion, but he was intrigued. It was rare that Baldwin would discuss his experiences in the Templars. Even now, neither actually mentioned the name of the Order, not while they were in the open. If Baldwin had been discovered as a ‘renegade’, a Templar who had not been captured and who had never suffered a punishment nor been forced to submit to the Inquisition, he could be arrested here.

  Baldwin gave him a troubled look. ‘Some escaped to monasteries, I think, although I do not know how many. There are so few whom I have met and spoken to, like Brother Matthew there. He is older than me. When his wife died, he joined the Templars and, being childless, gave all his possessions to the Order. I remember meeting him when I had only recently joined myself. He was a tall, powerful man then. My heavens! He has changed.’

  ‘What happened to those who weren’t …’ Simon didn’t know whether to say ‘executed’ or ‘burned’, but he wanted to spare Baldwin’s feelings.

  ‘Many had already died. There was one old man, I heard tell, who was tortured so badly, they roasted his feet over a brazier until his feet were gone. Can you imagine that, Simon? He had to be carried into the Inquisition with a sack in his hand, and when he was asked what was inside, he showed them: it was the charred bones of his own feet! How could a Christian do that to an old man whose sole offence was loving God, and being prepared to lay down his life for God?’

  His voice was pained. Simon knew that Baldwin was tormented with the thought of his friends being forced to suffer.

  ‘You know, Simon, those men would never have submitted to any agony that the Moors could inflict on them. Any pain, any cruelty, would have been shrugged off. But these torturers were their own kind, they were all Christian – that was what made them give up. The Inquisition was composed of men like them, men who had taken the same vows to God and before God. That was what really destroyed them, the fact that it was the very same men whom they had fought to protect, who then betrayed them. Such brutality! Such dishonour!’

  ‘You think most were killed?’

  ‘No. Some, I heard, escaped the arrests and fled to Lettow, to join the Teutonic Order. Some, I believe, went to the Hospitallers for, to be fair to them, many Hospitallers were appalled at what was done to the Templars, just as so many Orders in Castile, Aragon, Navarre and Portugal were. It was so obvious that the accusations were false.’

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said, although he privately had his doubts. He could never tell this to Baldwin, but he believed that the allegations were quite possible. If the Pope could believe the stories, Simon was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, because the Pope had more advisers than he. ‘So two Orders accepted renegades?’

  ‘More than that. But in places like, oh, like Pombal or Soure, none of the old Order could be allowed to remain, because it might seem that the King was condoning the re-emergence of the Temple. He couldn’t afford to do that, so he evicted all the knights and their sergeants.’ And many, as Baldwin had heard, bit
ter at their dishonourable fate, had committed the all-but inconceivable crime of renouncing their religion and joining the Moors. Perhaps some had not actually given up their faith, but they had certainly gone to fight for the enemy. Baldwin could not blame them for that, not when their own religion had seen to their persecution.

  ‘So no Templars remain in their castles?’

  Baldwin pulled a face. ‘I have heard that some places still have Templars. Many of the old ways continue in towns like Castro-Marim. Perhaps that means a few of my old friends survived the purges, just as Matthew himself did. I should like to go there to find out. Portugal is not so very far from here …’

  His face was wistful. Simon saw his profile as Baldwin stared out southwards as though he could gaze through the walls of the buildings and far-distant hills and see a place he could remember from his youth. He looked so preoccupied, Simon was reluctant to break into his mood, but they had a pressing need.

  ‘Baldwin, we still have nowhere to sleep.’

  ‘You said we could sleep by the river.’

  ‘You said we shouldn’t.’

  Baldwin chuckled drily and then gave himself a shake, as though he could shed his grim thoughts like a dog shaking itself free of water. ‘Very well. Let us see if we can find a loaf of bread, a cheese, and a skin of wine. Then we may take them out of the city for a short way and rest by a quiet river unobserved by any. If it is dangerous, so be it. Today has been too lovely to think that we could be harmed by people.’

  Simon smiled and walked with Baldwin to the vendors in the square, but all the while he kept shooting little glances at his old friend. No matter what Baldwin said, his face did not express pleasure in a lovely day. Rather he looked pensive and melancholic.