The Templar's Penance

Chapter One

On arrival in Compostela, Baldwin knew immediately that coming here on pilgrimage had been the right thing to do.

Just the weather was balm to his soul. The sky was larger here in Spain. He had noticed it before – it wasn’t as immense as Portugal’s, but definitely vaster than poor England’s. The plants looked greener here, the trees more robust, the buildings more comfortable. It was all because of the climate, which was warm and reliable. In the summer there was sun, in the winter there was cool. Rain fell in season – but it was always warm rain. In Devonshire, Baldwin knew that the rain was always chill, being blown in off the sea.

He snuffed the air like a dog. There were the scents of rosemary, thyme and other herbs from the markets; the warm fug of many people crammed together in the heat, the smell of roasting stonework and heated timbers. Good God, he said to himself, how could I have lived without all this for so long? It was good to have returned to his old clothing. Today he was clad in white again, with a fine linen material that accentuated his body underneath. After the horror of the mad monk at Gidleigh, during which episode he had been forced to kill one man in order to defend another, he felt as though he needed every little bit of assistance that he could win, because he felt dirty. There was a deep, ingrained stain on his soul, because the man he had defended was more guilty than the attacker could ever have been.

A nasty matter, that one. Bitter and devastating. He craved forgiveness, some solace for his unwitting homicide, and hoped that here in Santiago’s great Cathedral he might find it.

The massive entranceway, the Portico de la Gloria, was enough to distract him and he looked up at it in awe. It was magnificent – daunting. Over a hundred years old now, it had been carved between 1168 and 1188, and the stonework was richly decorated with figures of prophets and apostles, each of them welcoming the pilgrims. Saint James himself was placed sitting prominently above the central column as though watching over all the poor folk as they reached this, his memorial.

‘A bit ornate,’ muttered his companion.

‘Different, that is all,’ Baldwin said, refusing to argue. In his opinion there was a grandeur about this entrance that showed how well men could honour God when they put their minds to it.

Simon Puttock glanced up and his face twisted doubtfully. This experience was wholly new to him, and he wasn’t sure that he was enjoying it. He had been keen to come here at first, because it seemed a great adventure. Simon had never travelled abroad before. True, he was well travelled compared with almost everyone he knew, but this was the first time he had been somewhere where all the people spoke a different language. It made him feel very exposed, as though he stood out wherever he was. Like a pilgrim, perhaps, but as he told himself, he felt more like a blasted target, walking about on a field waiting for the archers to loose their arrows. It was as though everyone was pointing at him, gauging the distance before firing, and it made him jumpy and unsettled.

Seeing Simon jerk his head to one side, staring suspiciously at a pilgrim jostling him, Baldwin had to laugh for sheer joy. It was hard not to feel delight here, among so many people thronging the church. Their joint pleasure and relief on reaching their goal was enough to make the tiredness fall away from Baldwin like a man shedding a mantle.

Not so his friend, he knew. Simon, a tall man in his middle thirties, had the ruddy complexion of one who spent many hours a week on horseback in all weathers, but now he looked pinched with nervousness. Riding had given him his solid strength, the strong muscles in his legs and at his throat, but good food and a liking for good ale had fattened his belly and made his jowls grow over the years. The extensive travel of the last days had reduced his paunch, although it had not improved his temperament. That had grown more fiery with the weather as they had approached this southern city.

Baldwin was sure that Simon’s moodiness stemmed from his feeling out of his depth. For the first time, Simon Puttock, Bailiff of Lydford, was aware of his own impotence. Here his voice would not summon officers to do his bidding; he had no power. Instead, almost anyone who understood the local language was better off than he, and this made him fretful, as though it reflected upon his lack of education. But he had been educated by the Canons of Crediton Church in Devon; he could speak, read and write Latin, and could understand much French, but he could make nothing of the language here in Galicia in the far northwest part of the Kingdom of Castile.

His dark-grey eyes still held a measure of the stolid commonsense and piercing intelligence that Baldwin had noticed when they had first met all those years ago in 1316, but here the sparkle was dimmed, because Simon felt lost. Baldwin could easily comprehend his friend’s state of mind. He himself had been aware of that curious sense of ‘otherness’ which afflicts the traveller on occasion.

Not today, though. Today Baldwin was determined to know only pleasure. He had never before been to the great city of Saint James, and wished to make the most of his visit. More than that, he also wanted Simon to enjoy himself.

‘Look at all these people! Hundreds of them,’ Simon muttered.

‘Yes. This is a popular place for pilgrims like us.’

‘And for knights.’

Baldwin followed his gaze and saw several men who must surely be knights. One, wearing a light cloth tunic of slightly faded crimson, was clearly a secular man-at-arms. His shock of fair hair shone brightly in the sunshine and he met Simon’s gaze with reciprocal interest, as though he was gauging Simon’s ability as a fighter. A short distance away, stood another man wearing a clean white tunic with a red cross on his shoulder. It was at him that Simon stared.

‘He is a Knight of Santiago,’ Baldwin informed him. ‘A religious Order devoted to protecting pilgrims.’

‘The cross looks odd,’ Simon noted, then looked up to see that the shoulder’s owner was glaring at him, as though affronted that a mere pilgrim should dare peer so insultingly. He was a strong, heavy-set brute to Simon’s mind, with prognathous features and swarthy skin.

‘It’s made to look like a cross above, but the lower limb is a sword’s blade,’ Baldwin explained. ‘They call it the espada.’

‘They don’t like people staring at them,’ Simon noted.

‘Knight freiles, that is, “Brothers”, are as arrogant as you would expect, when you bear in mind that they are a cross between chivalric, honourably born knights and clerics. They feel that they have all right and might on their side. You know the motto of the Knights of Santiago? It is: Rubet ensis sanguine Arabum – may the sword be red with the blood of Arabs.’

‘That miserable bugger looks as if he’d not mind any man’s blood on his sword,’ Simon said, adding thoughtfully, ‘although perhaps that’s because of his guilt.’

‘Guilt? Why do you say that?’

‘Look at him. He’s with those women. One’s a nun, from the look of her, but the other is too bawdily dressed for that. I wouldn’t mind betting …’ Then Simon recalled where he was, glanced up at Saint James’s welcoming features high above him and cleared his throat.

Baldwin, seeing his brief confusion, chuckled. ‘She may be his wife.’

‘What? He’s a Knight Brother!’

‘The Order of Saint James allows their freiles to be married,’ Baldwin said, but with a note of disapproval in his voice. He personally believed that religious Orders should all conform to the same principles of poverty, obedience and chastity.

‘At least I can admire his taste,’ Simon mused. ‘That young woman is a delight to the eyes.’

‘And I think the good knight has noted your admiration,’ Baldwin warned.

They both turned away. To cause anger in a strange city was foolish, and anyone who did so by upsetting a man protecting his woman was a fool.

‘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 Coruna, 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 Porta 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 experience 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 elite, 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 Stefania’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.