The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (3 page)

It wasn’t the boy’s fault. Gregory could hardly blame him for taking the lead. It was just his luck! If only the group hadn’t
collapsed last night when they had stopped for shelter. They were all exhausted after stamping through torrential rain for hours; the weather here was worse than Gregory’s worst memories. The refuge of a small barn had called to them, and then a cheerful woman had brought them a steaming dish of pottage. No, there was no possibility of their carrying on after that, which was why they didn’t arrive at the stream until this morning.

The sun was feeble today, but compared with the terrible rains of yesterday it felt wonderful. At least they could walk in the dry. The dust had been settled by the dampness, so they didn’t suffer the irritation of inhaling the stuff as their boots stirred it. Not like the South of France, where Gregory had coughed almost all the way, choking in the thickly laden air. Warmed and rested, the group had woken refreshed and ready for the last part of their pilgrimage. Some had only travelled a few tens of miles, but many had covered hundreds. Some, like Gregory, had walked perhaps more than a thousand to get here. God, but he’d needed to wash his feet!

This river, the Lavamentula, was enclosed in a small wood, and the warm, green-tinged light had a curious effect on them all. It was as though they all realised that they were entering a holy site. Light was sprinkled on the ground in pools of gold; the thin scattering of weedy plants beneath the trees looked somehow blessed as they were touched by it. In the clear morning’s sunshine even the dark, barren-looking soil was given a glowing aspect, as though new life was about to burst from it.

One of the first there, Gregory had eagerly stripped and washed with the rest of them. After the journey, all were gritty and rank. Even with the weather so cool, they had built up sweat from many days of travelling, and the pilgrims all needed to scrape themselves clean. Gregory himself felt the bathing to be almost a spiritual experience, a preliminary ritual so that he might arrive at the Saint’s altar cleansed. There was a curious silence as he rubbed vigorously at his armpits and groin, an
expectant stillness broken only by the sound of trickling water – and gasps as cold water shocked cringing flesh.

While he wiped himself dry, he watched the others. He was struck more by the differences between them than by the superficial similarity given to them by their broad hats and capes. Yes, they all wore the same basic clothes, many with the cockleshell symbol of Santiago, but their attitudes were clearly at odds with each other.

Some splashed enthusiastically like children, bawling loudly at the cold, spraying each other and laughing, while others stood silently contemplative, preparing themselves for the day, readying themselves for actually seeing the church, perhaps sad that the end of their journey was at hand, reluctant to consider that soon they must turn about and return to the mundanity of normal life, to bickering or scolding wives and squalling children. Some would no doubt be feeling the same emptiness as Gregory, realising that they would never know such a sense of purpose again. Perhaps there were some who were happier. Maybe there were some fortunate enough to be experiencing the inner peace that only a pilgrim who has dedicated and risked his or her life willingly can know, the calmness of one who has achieved a great ambition.

Not Don Ruy, though. Gregory reckoned that few groups of pilgrims would have had a knight like Don Ruy joining them on their travels. None of the knights he had ever known in his past had been aware of their failings. Yet this one, Gregory thought, sometimes seemed to radiate sadness, as though he was the victim of a great injustice. At those times he would break down, turning away from the other pilgrims as though he feared to pollute them with his mere presence. At least one knight was aware of the shameful state to which his arrogance had brought him. That must explain it – simple shame. Perhaps Don Ruy could recognise his soul’s needs. Not many knights could.

At this moment, Don Ruy’s attention was fixed upon the frolicking travellers like a man surveying a procession of dogs
before they were set upon a bear. Or perhaps, Gregory thought, he was like the bear itself, waiting while his tormentors paraded before him. There was something in Don Ruy’s eyes that reminded Gregory of a convicted felon awaiting his death – like so many of his own friends, the men with whom he had served in the Templars.

Others there were easier in their minds than Don Ruy, Gregory felt sure;
all
must be easier than Gregory himself. His own guilt was so overwhelming, he could never feel peace. He had made his oath, sworn it before witnesses, and then tried to renege. And then there was the second source of guilt: his act towards his wife. The act that had cost him his marriage.

It was why he had so desperately wanted to be the first to catch sight of the city, as though merely seeing it before anyone else could give his personal pilgrimage a particular sanctity and potency. He would never know now. The peasant boy was King, not him.

Gregory had thought that since he was first in the water, he’d be the first out and off up the hill; he’d be King. But no! The peasant lad scarcely washed himself; just a quick dip, in and out in a minute, and back into his clothing. Hardly clean; hardly pious.

He did not bother to dry himself. Gregory saw the boy throw on his shirt and tunic, snatch up his cloak, scrip and staff, and hare on ahead of them all through the trees. Others were moving off too, and Gregory realised, with a leaden sinking in his belly, that he was too late. He had missed his opportunity.

At the top of the hill now, he stared hungrily along the plain towards the great city of Compostela, but it didn’t arouse even a frisson of religious pleasure. Nothing. He felt a keen desolation, a dreadful sense of loss. His life for the last weeks had held meaning solely because of his focus, his ambition, to reach the city. Now that the end of his journey was literally in sight, it revealed the utter paucity of any other aspect of his life. He had lost his wife, his fortune, and now, he felt sure, his immortal soul.

While he stood there leaning on his staff, a hand over his face, his back bowed, the others were already streaming down the incline towards the city, a mass of joyous humanity. Only two remained at his side. One was Don Ruy, the knight who wore his pride like armour protecting him from the lesser folk about him. The other was Parceval Annesen, a weaselly-looking Fleming with a sallow complexion, thinning hair and bent shoulders. There was a great weight on that Fleming’s shoulders, Gregory thought. He looked like a man who’d been buffeted heavily by the gales of misfortune and had all but gone under. It took one to know one, Gregory thought bitterly. Parceval had been luckier than most, though. At least he didn’t suffer from loneliness. Apparently, one night he’d chatted up a woman pilgrim on the way here, and Don Ruy, so it was rumoured, had walked in on him while he was bulling her. Gregory hadn’t even
seen
her. Just his luck! He’d been asleep and minding his own business, like a real pilgrim should.

So far as he had seen, the knight and the scruffy Fleming had exchanged scarcely a word, but that was no surprise. A weedy type like Parceval would be scared stiff of someone like this knight, who could sweep your head off as soon as look at you. No, a scruffy little churl like Parceval would never dare engage a man like Don Ruy in conversation, and a great hulking knight like Don Ruy would not demean himself by addressing someone like Parceval – especially if he’d walked in on the tatty little man while he was stuffing a whore.

Gregory fixed his eyes on the stream of excited people rushing ahead, listening to their shouts and laughter, wishing he could be a part of their joyous throng. He was so tied up in his jealousy and self-pity that at first he didn’t realise there was anything wrong; didn’t hear the subtle change as first one, then another man screamed with fear.

‘Sweet Mother of Christ!’ Parceval hissed suddenly.

The foul exclamation made Gregory recoil with shock. That a man should speak thus within view of holy Compostela! He was about to command Parceval to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness,
when he caught sight of the man’s expression. That made him turn back and scrutinise the plain ahead.

There was nothing obvious at first. Not that he could see, anyway. It was just a crowd running down the hill delighted to be in sight of their destination. Nothing. Maybe someone had tripped, that was all. Then he saw a flash of something glinting in the sunlight between some trees. There was a creaking of leather and shriek of exultation, and there, cantering towards the left flank of the pilgrims, was a force of men-at-arms, a motley band, armed with swords and axes, one or two wearing a pair of greaves or a breastplate, some with simple helmets. There was no uniform to them, no single colour of tabard or tunic, only a general scruffiness that was in itself a proof of their nature. At their front rode an older man with a hunched aspect, kicking his horse onwards, his heels drumming against the flanks. He had a mad, grinning face, Gregory thought, and an odd way of holding his head, as though one side were too heavy.

‘
Malfechores!
’ Gregory heard Don Ruy hiss, and the knight unsheathed his sword.

The small bands of robbers and thieves had grown fearfully since the famine, especially here, because of the turbulent politics over the last few years. They did not fear God’s wrath and would happily attack even pilgrims. Gregory wanted to flee, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, there was another band behind them, three strong-looking men on great rounseys. ‘Lost! We’re lost!’ he groaned.

Even as Gregory fell to his knees, overwhelmed with defeat, he saw the knight’s teeth gleam. Don Ruy planted his feet firmly apart and gripped his sword-hilt with both hands, the point aiming at the three men. Parceval was at his side, his staff gripped tightly in his fists, his face showing his anxiety, but yet fixed and intent. It was the sight of the miserable little churl sturdily challenging their foe that made Gregory realise how weak and pathetic he had become. The reflection stiffened his spirit. He stood, taking up his own staff and holding it as he had once been taught. It was a polearm, a weapon, and a man
who could use it offensively was safe from most attackers. That was what he had been taught, anyway, and right now, just the feel of the thing in his hand was enough to give him some confidence. He saw Don Ruy flick a glance at him in which surprise vied with amusement, but he didn’t care; he had been a knight himself once.

However, the three horsemen took little notice of the group. The first was a heavyset man with a badly pocked, square face. As if to conceal his scars, he wore a thin dark stubble, which only served to make him look more intimidating. His brow was low and simian, and his eyes gleamed with what Gregory recognised as fanatical rage as he stared at the carnage on the plain. Pockface was clad in clothes that looked as though they had been expensive, but that was some years ago. His tunic was faded, his cloak threadbare, and his hose were holed in both knees; his mount looked strong and well-cared for, but the harness and fittings were dull and marked from sweat and scratches, showing that they too were old and well-used.

Behind him was another man, slighter of build and calmer in appearance. He had the long, regular face, fair hair and blue eyes of a northerner, and he peered ahead with less rage, more calculation. His clothing was newer than his companion’s, and the horse he rode looked to be of better quality.

The third man was plainly not a knight. Short and plump, this fellow snorted and spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the ground at his horse’s hoof. His hair was black with white feathers at his temples, and he had the quizzical look of one who has seen enough fighting and death in his time. Behind him he led two packhorses, both heavily laden. He shifted in his seat, squinting ahead and resting a hand on the blade that sat in the rough, undecorated scabbard at his thigh. He glanced in Gregory’s direction and the latter saw his eyes narrow as he took in Don Ruy, but then his fierce, dark eyes met Gregory’s as he addressed his two companions in a light Scots accent.

‘Aye. Well, are we goin’ to join in or just sit and watch all the long day?’

With that, the fair man gave a high, giggling laugh, and then suddenly he drew his sword, whirled it about his head a few times, and slapped it sharply on his horse’s rump. In an instant he was off, racing down the hill, his sword flashing in the sunshine like a torch in the wind, hair streaming behind him. The man-at-arms clicked his tongue, but he had already dropped the reins of the packhorses, and his rounsey was moving to follow the fair-haired knight.

The warrior with the pockmarked face muttered a curse under his breath, spat, and then raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks. Before the other two could get far, he was level with them, his mount straining at the gallop, and Gregory could hear his hoarse roar even over the thundering of hooves.

By now, the band of
malfechores
had scattered the pilgrims, and two had stopped to take up bundles where they had been dropped. As Gregory watched, he saw a sudden gout of blood, and saw the ‘King’ spinning, a rider raising his sword for a second hack. Suddenly a great slab of the King’s head seemed to separate from the rest of his body, a third of his face and skull falling away to lie on his shoulder, exposing the pink and grey horror of his brain. There was a fine, pumping mist of red, and then he fell, thrashing, to the ground. His attacker lifted his sword in triumph, but then the three were on them.

First was the madly shrieking fairhead, who galloped full tilt at a group of four who were circling a pilgrim and taunting him. With a sharp sweep of his blade, he took the head and a shoulder entire from one man, rammed the horse of a second, bludgeoning the rider from his seat, and then stabbed a third through the throat; the dour man-at-arms came a little way after him, ducking below an ill-judged thrust like a tumbler, and stabbing viciously once, upwards beneath his opponent’s chin, so that his sword appeared through the top of his victim’s skull, then withdrawing it swiftly lest it become snagged as the corpse slumped and toppled from the saddle. Finally there was the apelike warrior, who gave a bull-like bellow like a
berserker
of old, and charged straight at the thickest mass of
malfechores
with a sword in one
hand and a long-handled knife in his other. He rode with his reins dangling, gripping his mount with his thighs alone, guiding the horse by sheer force of will, apparently, or so Gregory thought, as his two blades flashed wildly, already red with the blood of his enemies. Gregory saw one man stabbed and bludgeoned from his horse, only to be trampled. Unconsciously, he had clenched his right fist, and was following the blows when he realised what he was doing and shamefacedly unfurled his fingers.