The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (47 page)

Gregory had remained rooted to the spot as he saw Don Ruy explode into action, and he jerked back as the table went over, and Simon flew backwards, but then he saw Don Ruy grab for his sword, and he responded without thinking. He was standing now, and he had no weapon to hand. Simon’s own was sheathed and hidden beneath the table, out of reach. But behind him was a pilgrim who, footsore from having just arrived, sat massaging his bare, horny feet, a strong, iron-shod staff at his side. It was the work of a moment to snatch it up and take it in the quarter-staff hold, one quarter of its length held between his hands, three quarters projecting like a polearm.

Don Ruy was about to stab at Simon, but the staff jabbed hard forward, catching him under the breastbone. It was painful, but more than that, it was shocking, like being suddenly molested by a rabbit. Don Ruy fell back, his mouth working as he tried to accommodate the concept of the feeble cleric Gregory suddenly becoming a ferocious avenger, and then he leaped to the attack.

But Gregory had been an experienced fighter before being thrown from the Templars, and most Englishmen were raised
with a staff from childhood. Using it as a half- or quarter-staff was second nature. Gregory easily knocked aside the knight’s first thrust, parried the second, and then automatically poked hard at Ruy’s face, the iron ferrule striking the man’s right temple. Withdrawing the point, Gregory realised that the knight was not immediately attacking again, and he struck once more, this time catching the back of Ruy’s hand.

The tip had been fixed upon the staff more than five hundred miles earlier, when the pilgrim passed over the mountains near Roncesvalles. It had worn down progressively until now it was a thin sliver of metal that was as fine as a razor on one side.

It was this that had caught Ruy’s temple and hand, and as Gregory drew the pole away, he saw that there was a fine mist of blood pumping from Ruy’s head. The knight realised at the same time and, reaching to his skull, stared in disbelief at the blood that smeared his fingers. He turned to stare at Gregory, his face now devoid of any emotion but rage. Whirling his sword about his head, he swung it at Gregory, and although Gregory held the stout staff in its path, the blade thunked into the wood and tore out a massive chip. The blade came out, almost tearing the staff from Gregory’s grip, and whirled again, this time catching the wood a glancing blow and cracking a great splinter from it; and when it glinted in the sun and appeared to slice straight at Gregory’s head, he was sure he was about to die.

There was a ringing crash, an echoing, heroic sound like bells and trumpets and glory all together, and a second blade blocked it. Gregory was thrust aside, and he saw a flashing peacock-blue shimmering in the air before him, and then he was dancing away, the shattered remnants of the staff still gripped firmly in his hands, as Baldwin moved in.

It was as Don Ruy lifted the table that Baldwin had reached the square. All he could see was Don Ruy apparently attacking Gregory and he rushed forward to try to prevent bloodshed, but then he saw that there was another body on the floor, and even as he realised it was Simon, his anger was kindled. His sword flashed into his hand, and he leaped between Ruy and Gregory,
his blade sparkling in the sun. His senses quickly became attuned to his opponent. Ruy gave way like a man who was hard-pressed from an unexpected attack, but then Baldwin saw his eyes narrow, and he had just enough time to prepare before Ruy darted to the left, then sprang forward. His sword made a sharp thrust toward Baldwin’s throat, but then slipped down and up again, and if Baldwin hadn’t been ready, it could have opened him like a chicken from gizzard to groin.

Baldwin slammed the blade away with his own, grasping his sword like a staff, his left hand on the blade, pushing down with both hands. Ruy, for all his strength, couldn’t control the full weight of Baldwin’s body over his own blade. He was already crouched in a difficult position trying to thrust, and Baldwin’s move unbalanced him. Falling, he could do nothing to protect himself, and he landed heavily on his right shoulder, forcing him to grunt, and then he gave a louder cry as Baldwin kicked him hard in the belly. Don Ruy was infuriated by that blow. It made him roll over to stab upwards with his sword, but before he could complete the manoeuvre, he felt the ferocious chill of a bright blue blade tingling at his throat.

‘Submit!’ Baldwin hissed through clenched teeth.

Don Ruy stared at him, his eyes glittering with resentment, but then the blue blade moved and he could feel the flesh begin to part. He cried, ‘I yield!’ and his sword clattered on the pavings.

Simon grumpily accepted that he had few grounds to object, but he still did, volubly, as the rather alarmed-looking men gathered together by Munio lifted him gently onto a door and carried him back to the
Pesquisidor
’s house.

‘You should not have taunted him,’ Munio said, gazing at him mournfully.

‘I only tried to get him to talk,’ Simon said indignantly. ‘How was I to know that the damned fool would jump on me for that?’

‘He said you accused him of rape and murder! What else would you expect him to do?’

‘I
didn’t
accuse him of that. I said he knew where the murderer was, and he does, I’d bet, from the way he went for me.’

‘Oh, I see. He attacked you because you
didn’t
accuse him?’ Munio said. ‘Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense!’

‘No! I accused him of knowing who the murderer was, and he was protecting her, more than likely. He’s a fool, that knight.’

‘I can at least agree with that,’ Baldwin said. He was walking on the other side of Simon’s makeshift bier, and he cast a look at Munio. ‘He went quite mad. Good thing he’s in gaol for the night.’

‘Potty!’ was Simon’s conclusion. ‘He damn nearly broke my head, too.’

They had reached the house now, and the party turned into Munio’s entrance, the peasants carrying Simon carefully up the cobbled track. It was quite rank with weeds, and they must mind their step so as not to jolt Simon too badly. None of them wanted to risk Munio’s wrath, because he appeared to be in a particularly sour mood today.

Sir Charles and Paul had trailed behind them, hoping that a meal of some kind might be in the offing. Munio glanced at them bleakly, then motioned to them to enter as well.

As they sat about the table with a thick stew ladled into their bowls and plentiful supplies of coarse bread, Baldwin told them all he had learned about Matthew from Afonso. There was a strange feeling that, by telling this story, somehow his own sense of betrayal was diminished. Matthew was a weak man. There was no crime in that. He was as other men were – a human being. Fallible, he could be twisted by those who were more corrupt, ruthless, or simply more brutal than himself. And once he had agreed to lie to protect himself from torture, he was lost. There was no one who would support him. His former companions and friends would not look at him, either because they knew of his perjury and despised him for it, or because they too had committed the same crime, and avoided any man who might remind them of their evil deed, condemning all their friends in exchange for their own freedom from torture. The men with
whom he had colluded thought him a coward and ignored him, while those who knew nothing, merely believed the accusations against the Templars and assumed that he was as foul as he had himself confessed. No man would have dealings with him. Thus he was forced to beg.

‘It’s sad to see people begging,’ Simon said meditatively. ‘There are many such here. Not because there are more poor folk here than in other towns, but because many people here will give alms. The beggars know that pilgrims are likely to have been sent here, or to have set off to come here, because they have committed some crime and will be willing to give money away to the poor. And beggars are faceless people, who are used to being ignored. It must be rare indeed for a beggar to be heard, watched or threatened.’

Baldwin glanced at him. ‘Matthew wasn’t threatened by Afonso, Simon. He would have been killed by Afonso – but Afonso found he was already dead.’

‘Yes. And we know who did it.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

Munio gazed from one to the other. ‘Who, then?’

It was Simon who responded. ‘Pour me a little more of that marvellous wine, and I think I can put in place a means by which we can show you.’

‘When?’ Munio demanded.

‘In the morning, I think,’ Simon said. ‘That will give that fool Don Ruy time to clear his head and calm himself. It will also make him appear more vulnerable. And should give us an extra little piece of incentive.’

The next morning was grey and cool, and when Baldwin threw open the shutters, he felt that the weather was suitable for the end of this grim little affair.

He had set off for this pilgrimage with a heart that was keen to purge itself of the hideous murder he had committed, and he had hoped that when he arrived, his soul would be lightened; instead he had found an old comrade, lost him, and finally
learned of his perfidious behaviour. It was a sad man who stared out at the roadway before the house.

While the household stirred and readied themselves for food, he went out and walked away through the city until he reached the gates. He left Compostela and walked up along the river again until he came to the ford. There he sat on a rock and studied the ground once more. Simon had been mysterious all last night. He and Baldwin knew the culprit, but Baldwin had only guessed because of Matthew’s death. As to why, he thought he knew that as well, but Simon’s twinkling smile made Baldwin wonder whether he had got completely the wrong end of the stick.

He would not learn anything here, though. Walking quickly back to the city, he felt himself grow a little out of breath, and told himself sternly that today he must make time to practise with his weapons. It was his normal regime at home to play with them for at least as long as it took for his blood to heat sufficiently to make his muscles ache and burn, and the sweat to run.

At Munio’s, he was surprised to see a massive bowl set at the door ready for beggars. The norm was for one tenth of a household’s food to be given up to the poor, but this was almost enough for Munio’s entire staff and guests. Roasted fowls, pies, even a large cheese, were thrown in higgledy-piggledy, and Baldwin remembered that he had not yet eaten. He hurried into the house to see if there was any food left after the others had broken their fast.

In the hall there was still a little wine, watered and flavoured with spices and oranges, and some bread. He took a large piece and a handful of olives, and stood chewing while servants arrived to clear the room. The tables were emptied, then their cloths removed while the tops were stacked against a wall and their trestles folded and put away. Soon there was only Munio’s own table standing on its dais, and before it a wide, clear space.

Sighing, Baldwin took his seat on a bench.

He did not have long to wait. Munio arrived soon after the last of the tables were removed, and shortly after him Guillem
hurried in, carrying his pots and parchments. He sat down and began to prepare his tools, glancing about him enquiringly as he did so. Then the other interested parties filtered in.

Simon came in and looked about him, walking to Baldwin’s side. Sir Charles and his man arrived and stood at the back of the hall as though interesting themselves in the strange and obscure practices of a foreign court. After these came the spectators – the rowdy, the nosy and the plain silly, who could always be counted upon to witness another’s potential execution.

Munio had a small hammer with him, which he used to call order. ‘Bring in the man.’

To Simon’s delight, Don Ruy was a dishevelled figure after a night in the gaol. His beard blued his jaw, his hair was unkempt, and his clothes were marked with more recent stains. There was a tear in his sleeve which hadn’t been there the night before, Simon noticed, and he hoped that the madman was content with the result of his attack. The Bailiff was happy to forgive and forget an insult, but not a sword.

‘Don Ruy. You are here because last afternoon you attacked this man, Simon Puttock, and caused a disturbance which could have grown ugly. Do you confess?’

‘I don’t. He accused me of a crime. I was protecting my honour, as is the right of a knight.’

When Baldwin had translated, he had to put a hand on Simon’s wrist to stop him leaping up and accusing Ruy of lying. ‘It will not help matters.’

‘It’d make me feel a lot better,’ Simon said, but he was already cooling. Instead of watching Ruy, his attention was concentrated on the door at the rear of the hall. Occasionally he saw a black-clad figure arrive, but each time he shook his head, and the person was left alone.

‘That man accused me of murder,’ Ruy said, throwing out a hand towards Simon with justifiable anger. He was humiliated, standing here like a common felon, while the man who had dared to accuse him stood there with his honour intact. It was he, Don Ruy, who had been the injured party, not that smarmy,
block-headed English Bailiff! ‘What would you expect a man of honour to do? I defended myself, as is my right!’

Simon was pleased to see that at last a proud, slender figure had appeared. He quickly lifted his brows and nodded his face towards her: Doña Stefanía de Villamor, and not a moment too soon, because only seconds later he saw the person entering anxiously behind her. That was when he smiled to himself, glanced at Baldwin and saw his brief nod of approval, not unmixed with confusion, and settled back in his chair with his chin on his chest. There was little more he could do for the moment.