The Templar's Penance

Chapter Eleven

As he waited, Sir Charles stood in the shade of a great vine that had been trained over some beams. He had plenty of time, but he did wish other men would be a little more punctual.

Behind him, sitting at a table with a jug of wine, his man-at-arms Paul worked at honing his long-bladed knife with a stone. The edge had grown dull with fine rust during the downpours of the last couple of days and Paul, who was nothing if not meticulous with his weapons, had undertaken to give them all a good polish. His bow was already beeswaxed, the string carefully treated and packed in a waxed cloth to keep it dry; his arrows had been inspected individually, the line of each checked for curves, the fletchings stroked to see that they remained flexible. Now he was putting a fine edge on his knife again. ‘A man who looks after his weapons knows that they will look after him,’ he was proud of reciting. It was one of the lines he had been taught many years ago when he had been a squire in training, and he had the annoying habit of bringing up such homilies every so often as though they carried the weight of Gospel truth, rather than being the utterings of a rather boozy and impecunious country knight.

Paul had been brought up in Gloucestershire, where his father had installed him in a noble household so that he might learn the arts of war, but then his old man had made a classical and unfortunate mistake. Just at the time that the lonely, widowed old King was falling for attractive young women, Paul’s father had made a joke about one. His fall from grace was rapid and he had plummeted so far, he had to leave the country.

His son, though, had flourished. Paul was adept with all weapons and soon learned the finer skills of horsemanship. He was one of those men who have an immediate affinity with horses, and could guide his mount almost without conscious effort. Better than that, he was also a thoroughly efficient squire. In the thick of a battle, he never lost his nerve or panicked. Sir Charles was happy to fight knowing that Paul was behind him as a support. If Sir Charles lost his horse, Paul would be there with a remount; if Sir Charles lost a mace, his axe or sword, Paul would canter up with a new one. He almost seemed to know in advance when a weapon was required, and appeared at the instant he was needed, never too early, never late. He was the perfect squire.

They had met when Sir Charles had been a knight in the service of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, and had remained together even after the trials caused by Boroughbridge.

Earl Thomas was a great lord, and uncle to the King, Edward II. It was said that he was the richest man in the kingdom after the King himself, and Sir Charles believed it. If anything, Earl Thomas was the wealthier of the two. He had none of his nephew’s spendthrift habits, like throwing money at his latest boyfriends, playing with peasants, pretending to act on stage with his pretty boys and the like. It was true that Earl Thomas’s wife had run away, but the Queen herself would have done so too, if she had had the chance. At least Earl Thomas’s woman couldn’t complain about being deserted in her own bed. Queen Isabella didn’t even have the opportunity to take a lover, since all the courtiers were of the King’s sexual persuasion, or so Charles had heard.

It was certainly true that Earl Thomas knew how to win loyalty. He might be more careful than the King with his money, but he didn’t hoard it. He believed in the old system, in spreading his wealth and distributing largesse. Earl Thomas had thrown banquets which put the royal ones to shame, held tournaments in which the prizes were greater than any elsewhere – especially since the monarch had sought to ban them. Everything that Earl Thomas tried, he achieved, and living as part of his household meant that some of his glory was reflected upon Sir Charles. He and Paul were very content there, with plenty to eat, even during the famine, good quality weapons, women to bed, and two new tunics each per year. Few men were so well looked after.

Sir Charles was not troubled by the actual sequence of events. All he knew was that one day, his master, Earl Thomas, had lost favour with the King. He neither knew, nor cared, what possible cause there could be. It didn’t matter a damn. What happened was that the two men had fallen out, and suddenly the King attacked. Earl Thomas’s life came to an end at Boroughbridge, when his men tried to flee by passing over the bridge, only to be opposed by that bastard Andrew Harclay. He and a small force of dismounted soldiers held the bridge and prevented their escape. The King caught Earl Thomas, and executed him.

When the disaster struck, and when they heard of the defeat of the army, Sir Charles and Paul realised that there was no point in their remaining. There was not even a widow to protect; she had left six years before. Sadly, the knight and his man-at-arms joined the long lines of broken men marching away. There was no telling how a vengeful King would treat them, and Sir Charles and his squire left the country, taking a ship to France.

The pair initially hoped that they would find a new master very quickly. There were always petty wars going on up and down Europe, and Sir Charles started out confident that he would be able to find a post which would suit his skills very soon – but apart from a talk with a man who said he knew Roger Mortimer and had planned Mortimer’s release from the Tower of London, hinting that he would raise a host to defeat the King himself, there was no offer of a position. Even war appeared thin on the ground. Sir Charles reluctantly concluded that either the man was mad, or stupid. He would need more than a couple of disgruntled knights and their squires to be able to attack England and supplant the King. The fool was even boasting that he had the support of the French King and his daughter, Isabella, who was Queen of England – but Sir Charles couldn’t believe that. What would the Queen see in a fellow like Roger Mortimer?

Sir Charles and Paul soon left Paris. It was not a city in which they felt comfortable, and after hearing the recruiting story of Mortimer’s man, they agreed that they should seek employment elsewhere. If there were men trying to build an army, the King of England’s spies would not be far away, and rather than have Edward believe that he was the King’s determined and sincere enemy, which would probably lead to a short life and death in a darkened alley, Sir Charles chose to ride eastwards. He had heard that there was money to be earned in Lettow. The Order of Teutonic Knights was keen for new companions, and there were rumours of vast wealth to be won.

It was while he was on his way there that he met Dom Afonso.

Sir Charles had been bemoaning his shortage of funds. The last of his plate had been pawned in Paris for a pittance, to buy bread and cheap cheese, and he and Paul had nothing left. Neither was prepared to starve or suffer the pangs of thirst, and so, when they saw a deserted tavern by the side of a road, they entered and drank their fill. Dom Afonso was there too, a grim-faced man with staring eyes. Sir Charles saw him and wondered what sort of a man he might be, but then some French peasants entered and Sir Charles’s fate was sealed.

It was the rudeness of the peasants that upset him. He was unused to churls walking into a room disrespectfully and barging past. No English peasant in Lancaster would have dared do that. Astonishing behaviour. Quite extraordinary.

The first man to do it was a swarthy, barrel-chested fellow with a cast in one eye. He saw what sort of man he had pushed, but said nothing, merely carried on, waving to the tavern-keeper. After him came a pair of men, both carrying bills in their belts. Then a scruffy little urchin.

It was he who precipitated the fight. The young lad stumbled and fell with his full weight on Sir Charles’s foot.

‘You clumsy little bastard!’ he roared. His big toe felt almost as though it had been broken, and he jumped to his feet while the boy squeaked in alarm. As Sir Charles grunted angrily, the lad was grabbed from behind and pulled away, and suddenly the knight saw that before him were three men with their bills in their hands. Behind him, he knew, were more. He had no idea how many, but Paul could deal with most of them. He had faith in his squire’s ability.

‘Anglais?’ the swarthy man said sweetly, and than spat at Sir Charles’s foot.

That was all it took. His rage rushed over him, and in the time it took for his face to flush, he had drawn his sword. It flashed wickedly in the enclosed room, catching in a low beam, and then he was running at them, stabbing, slashing and hacking. So fierce was his attack that one man stumbled over a stool and died where he lay; a second tried to get close, and lost his head in the attempt, leaving only the swarthy man. He appeared to shrink in size before Sir Charles’s assault, suddenly realising his mistake in spitting, but the knight knew no pity. His sword swept up, slicing open the Frenchman’s belly so that coils of purple-blue fell from him. The man had time to glance down in horror, before the blade reversed and removed his head.

Behind him, he heard Paul’s blade ringing against another, and he spun around. Paul had two men before him still, but when he saw that his master was alive and well, he pressed his own case, and in a moment both were dead, one making a loud noise as his boots hammered on the floor in his death throes. It was irritating, so Sir Charles knocked a table over them, silencing their staccato rhythm.

Only then did he realise that the innkeeper himself was nowhere to be seen. The grim-visaged man still sat at his table, chewing on a hunk of bread, but there was no sign of anyone else. Sir Charles felt a curious sense of foolishness, standing with his sword drawn and ready, surrounded by slaughter, while a few feet away from him, unaffected by the mayhem, sat this odd-looking fellow. He cleaned his blade on the shirt of one of the peasants, and sheathed it. Only then did he see a pair of bare feet sticking out near the wine barrels. Peering closer, he saw that it was the tavern-keeper, and in his back was a wicked-looking long-bladed knife.

‘He was going to brain you,’ Afonso said courteously, pointing to a large club, and then walking around Sir Charles and retrieving his dagger from the man’s back. He wiped it clean on the man’s shirt, then threw it up. It whirled glittering in the light, and he caught it by the tip of the point, then up it went again, and this time he caught it by the hilt, swiftly stowing it away in his sheath. He stood there gazing down at the keeper’s body for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have a knight attacked from behind. That is not honourable.’

Sir Charles commanded Paul to prepare their horses while he searched the place, hoping to find a stash of coins, but found only a few of low denomination. As he knew, all too often the trade in a place like this would depend upon a form of barter. There were some sausages drying in the chimney, and some bread on a table, and Sir Charles and Paul sat and ate, ignoring the stink and gore of death all around them, and both eyeing the stranger with slight suspicion.

‘My name is Afonso.’

Sir Charles introduced himself and his man, and then asked what Dom Afonso was doing in this place.

‘I thought to ride to find fame and fortune. Now I return home. I tried the joust, but,’ he shrugged emphatically, ‘I lost. So now I return to Portugal.’

Sir Charles nodded sympathetically. Those who lost a joust would often lose their armour and horses too, because a joust could develop into near-war; participants could get nasty and demand a ransom to release their prisoners.

‘The jousting can be difficult,’ he said.

‘Yes. But I had to leave my home to find a man.’

‘Ah. The gentleman has a name?’

‘He was called Matthew. I only knew him as Frey Matthew.’

‘Brother Matthew?’ Sir Charles repeated. ‘I have not met such a man.’

‘He was rumoured to be a great fighter with lance and spear, but,’ Afonso looked glum, ‘I failed to find him, and now I must return to my home. I have to find more money.’

‘We need money too,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You have far to ride?’

‘First I go to Galicia, to Compostela. There I shall pray to Saint James to let me find this man Matthew and kill him. He will understand why. I am avenging a terrible wrong. Brother Matthew is a traitor to his master, to his comrades, and to God.’

Sir Charles had never travelled so far before. To take leave for such a long period would have been troublesome to his master, but now he thought that the journey could be pleasing. The more he considered it, the more the idea had appealed to him. It would be good to join this man and visit the famous Cathedral of Santiago.

‘May we travel with you?’ he asked.

The dour-faced Portuguese glanced at the bodies on the floor. There was a humming sound as blowflies sought out the blood and started to crawl over them. Then he held out his hand and nodded.

They had packed the remaining sausages and a loaf of bread each, filled some jugs with wine, and then made their way out to their horses. Excusing himself for a moment, Paul re-entered the inn when he had loaded their prizes on the packhorse, muttering and tutting to himself, and while Afonso and Charles waited, they heard a short shriek which ended abruptly.

‘Nearly forgot the little sod who hurt your foot, Sir Charles,’ he said when he came out again, wiping his blade clean on a piece of rag.

The recollection made Sir Charles smile. Paul always remembered any unfinished business. Ever efficient, he was the man who went about the dead of battlefields first, always on the lookout for better shirts or boots. ‘You can’t afford to wait until the rooks have landed,’ was his favourite phrase after a fight. Crows he admired. Like him, they went alone or in pairs; rooks were those from nearby vills, who invariably sprang up afterwards in great numbers, massing and robbing wholesale when they had done nothing to share in the profit.

He was drawn back to the present, to his seat beneath a great vine in Compostela, by Paul saying, ‘So now we’ve got here, where do we go next Sir Charles?’

‘You find this city boring?’

‘No. It’s got wine and women. That’s enough for me while there’s a little cash in my pocket. But the money we have won’t last long.’

‘True enough. We need a chance of making some more,’ Sir Charles said.

It was the eternal problem. In the days when they had been kept by Earl Thomas, life had been a great deal easier. Now, acquiring funds had become their chief occupation.

‘If we don’t get some money soon, we’ll have to think of selling the packhorse.’

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘That would be as stupid as throwing away my armour. Without our mounts and our weapons, we’re no better than mercenaries. At least while we have these, we can call ourselves chivalrous.’

‘In that case, we’d best find someone rich who doesn’t mind sharing his wealth,’ Paul said.

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Yes. And if he does mind, we’ll have to persuade him otherwise,’ he grinned.

Just then he caught sight of Afonso appearing through the crowds, moving with his usual rolling gait, a little like a sailor. Sir Charles somehow felt that the Portuguese man had suffered more than he, but Afonso had volunteered nothing more about his past, and he was not the sort of man to blab confidences willy-nilly. He was rather like Sir Charles – self-sufficient, calm and satisfied with his own company. While Sir Charles and Paul were with him, he was content to be their companion, but if they were to leave today, he would not care.

That was his usual demeanour, but today something had upset him, Sir Charles could see. His face was set, and he shouldered a man from his path in an unwarranted display of anger. The man opened his mouth to remonstrate, but then closed it again when he took in the broad back and worn sword of the knight.

‘My friend, what is the matter?’ Sir Charles asked mildly.

‘It is nothing. I saw a man I had not expected, that is all,’ Afonso said.

‘I see,’ Sir Charles said. ‘When we first met, you mentioned someone whom you wished to find. Is this him?’

‘Yes!’ Afonso swore and spat out, ‘Matthew!’

‘Would you like me to come with you and see him again?’

The offer of his assistance in attacking this man, who must surely be an enemy of Afonso’s, did not produce the result which Sir Charles had expected. Instead of giving thanks, Afonso rounded on him, eyes glittering.

‘No. You leave him to me! He is the cause of me being here, and I’ll kill him myself!’

Doña Stefanía sat back, her heart pounding as she studied the now-pale knight. ‘You didn’t think I would be able to muster the courage to accuse, did you? Well, I have. I accuse you, Sir Knight, and I hope you will be forced to pay for your vicious crime!’

‘I have done nothing, woman!’ Don Ruy snarled, but Simon was sure that this was not the reaction of the discovered felon, rather the furious denial of a man repudiating his accuser.

‘You killed her!’ she shouted, and there was a kind of delight in saying so, she discovered. It was as though she had found some form of comfort in being able to declare her maid’s murderer’s guilt.

Don Ruy did not retreat or cower, though the other two men closed in subtly. It was the knight called Baldwin who spoke.

‘You have been accused, and you deny the charge, but you give us no explanation of why you are wrongly accused. Will you not explain how someone could think that they saw you, when you say you did not leave the city?’

That’s it! Doña Stefanía thought gleefully. Let him wriggle out of that!

‘I did leave the city for a short while,’ Don Ruy said stiffly. ‘I hired a mount from a stable and rode out for exercise. I hadn’t thought it would matter – but then I didn’t expect to be accused of murder for talking to the good Doña Stefanía either,’ he added with a bow to her.

He was impressive, she admitted. Suave and calm, even when accused of such a dreadful crime.

‘Where exactly did you ride?’

‘I rode out along the river northwards.’

‘Did you come to a clearing?’

Don Ruy considered. ‘The ground was flat, and I don’t recall one in particular. There was a stretch which looked a little like a ford. I passed by a place where women were washing their clothes.’

‘A ford,’ Baldwin repeated in English for Simon. ‘He says he passed a place that was a ford, where women were washing their clothing.’

‘So?’

‘I hadn’t noticed that it was a crossing place.’ Returning to Don Ruy, he said, ‘The ford – did you see anyone near there?’

‘I saw two horses tied to a tree.’

‘Was there a man there, or a woman?’

‘Over on the opposite side of the river, walking together, away from me. I didn’t see their faces. I don’t know who they were.’

‘Come, Don Ruy! You must remember the girl at least. She wore a blue tunic, with embroidery at the neck and hem.’

‘Very well. Yes. It was the beautiful dark-haired servant of Doña Stefanía here,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Yes, it was because of her that I rode up that way. I noticed her at the city gate, and from interest, I trailed after her up the roadway. She went on ahead at speed, but I slowed because my mount had a stone in its hoof. At first I thought that it was a miserable creature that had been foisted on me, but when I had it out, the beast rode all right. Still, when I got to the ford she had gone already.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Over the river, like I said. One of the horses was hers – I recognised it. It was hot, and what should be more natural than that she should cross the river in bare feet to cool them, before walking with her man?’

‘Which man?’

‘She was with Frey Ramón when I saw her.’

Doña Stefanía felt the world tottering about her. ‘No! This is ludicrous! How can that be? Don, how do you know the good Brother Ramón? Do you know him?’

‘I know him well enough, and his horse,’ snapped Don Ruy irritably, and turned to face Baldwin. ‘Our bands of pilgrims were together at Tours until four days ago. His horse is black, with a white flash on the left shoulder that extends up the neck almost to the head. He has a grey ankle on the right rear leg, too. It was his horse, all right. And he was there, too, walking with Joana over on the other bank of the river. I knew her from the journey here to the city. She was with Doña Stefanía. It was her I overheard telling of the Doña’s … indiscretion.’

‘What were they doing there?’ Doña Stefanía said, ignoring his last words. ‘They were supposed to meet back here.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin interrupted her, ‘we should wait until we have an opportunity to ask the good Frey Ramón.’

‘Joana promised she was going straight to meet this Ruy,’ the Prioress persisted. ‘What was she doing with Ramón? If Ruy saw Ramón, he might have thought that she had brought a guard or a witness, and left her there. He might not have negotiated. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I did not ask to see her, I didn’t ask for money, and I didn’t go there to haggle!’ Don Ruy said firmly, reddening. ‘Look, they were obviously lovers, with their own little rendezvous on the other side of the river, away from the road, where they could take their ease in privacy. Where is the mystery in that?’

‘What then? Did you ride on?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No. I turned back immediately and made for the city. Then, because I was not tired, I cantered about the walls for some exercise. A little later, when I returned to the gate, I saw one man leaving.’ Don Ruy frowned. ‘I don’t know if you had heard, but my group were attacked on the way here by a set of felons who drew weapons and hurled themselves at us. Luckily there were three men-at-arms who happened upon us as the attack was underway. They charged the malfechores and put them to flight, killing several of them. The man I saw leaving the city was one of our attackers, I think. A hunched man with his head held at an odd angle. He didn’t see me, and rode off along the road, the same way that I had taken.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I came here to a tavern, sat and drank off some wine. I was hot by then. The weather was most warm.’

‘Did you not bludgeon her to death?’ Doña Stefanía burst out. ‘You wanted her, you waited until Frey Ramón was gone, and then you killed her, poor child, so you could rob her!’

‘I have told you, Doña, that I returned to Compostela, put the horse in the stable, paid the groom, and came here for a drink. I was only gone for a short time.’

‘You say that the two of them were there together, but why should that be?’ the Prioress repeated – but then realised what she had said. Suddenly the thoughts crowded in upon her thick and fast. ‘Joana could have made up the whole blackmail story in order to feather her own nest,’ she said wildly. ‘She might have spun the whole story to me just to make me give her my money, which she would then share with her man. But now she’s dead – and where’s the money? My God! Her man! Ramón, where is he? Perhaps he killed her and took all the money!’

She leaped to her feet, and although Baldwin tried to calm her and persuade her to sit, she refused, but instead bolted off towards the Cathedral.