The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (10 page)

‘Perhaps. And yet I think that the famine here struck the peasants more cruelly even than in England.’

‘Baldwin, you are growing soft. No, we suffered badly enough. Remember cannibalism, God save my stomach! That occurred in places like Wales and Kent – and Devon,’ he added meaningfully.

‘I remember.’

‘There you are then.’

Baldwin grew aware of another dark, shambling figure standing a short distance from him, and groaned to himself. He disliked spurning genuine beggars, but was sure that Simon was correct and that the black- and grey-clad shapes that moved and moaned among the hordes in the square were opportunists and no more. He turned away and sipped at his cider, hoping that the fellow would be daunted by his back.

Then he felt a creeping chill like a snake slithering slowly down his spine as he heard the man speak. At first there was no recognition, but then something of the voice snagged on a memory, and Baldwin realised that he knew this man. There was a cough, and he heard a voice say gently, ‘Sir Baldwin, you wouldn’t ignore an old comrade, would you?’

Baldwin felt more comfortable when he was sitting with his back to a wall in a shaded room off the square.

The innkeeper had welcomed Simon and himself effusively when they approached, but his attitude altered as soon as he caught sight of the limping figure behind them. Holding out both arms, he made brushing motions at the beggar like a man waving away a fly, and Baldwin had to move between them, staring coldly at the innkeeper until he backed down and allowed them all inside.

It was a pleasant little spot. Not far from the Cathedral, so that they could see the great building looming over the roofs, it
was sheltered from the heat of the sun, but even so Baldwin was relieved when a jug of water was deposited before them by the host. He glowered at the beggar as though he expected to be stabbed as he turned his back, then reluctantly set a second jug, this containing a harsh wine, before them all. Three cheap pottery cups joined the jugs, and the keeper turned from the party as though glad to leave them.

‘Did you know me, Sir Baldwin, did you – after so many years?’

Simon was gazing at the man with an expression of mingled doubt and distaste, and Baldwin could understand why. ‘Brother Matthew,’ he said gently. ‘How could I forget you?’

‘Easily, I’d imagine,’ the man said sadly, looking down at himself. ‘Not many would want to associate with such as me now.’

‘You are no less honourable now than you ever were,’ Baldwin said.

‘No. I am far less honourable,’ Matthew corrected, remembering the terrible desolation he had felt when he realised he dared not defend himself against the bully in the square. ‘I used to be a knight, and now I can’t even protect myself from attack. I am a beggar, pleading for my daily bread and water. I am that which I myself used to spurn. God knows how to bring down the mightiest, doesn’t He?’

Baldwin put a hand out and touched the beggar’s wrist. ‘Those of us who were fortunate enough to serve God as we did will be honoured when we die, Matthew. All the crimes committed against us during our lives will only serve to increase our favour in the eyes of God.’

‘I hope you are right!’

Simon looked away. The man’s hood had fallen back now, and the tears were falling unchecked. It was somehow not merely sad. There was something Simon instinctively disliked about this Matthew.

He wasn’t as repulsive as so many beggars were. There was no sign of physical disability about his face and limbs, which
was a relief. Simon cordially detested the sight of the lepers and cripples who populated so many cities. Even here in Compostela, or perhaps especially here because so many would come to beg the Saint’s aid, there were unnumbered men and women, hooded and concealed so as not to scare away those from whom they begged their alms. Fortunately this Matthew also appeared to bathe regularly, for there was about him none of the sour stench which Simon tended to associate with mendicants; nevertheless, for all that there was some aura about him which showed the depths into which his spirits had sunk. He was surprised that Baldwin couldn’t himself feel the horrible emanation. It was like a miasma about the man.

Matthew had once probably been tall, but it was hard to tell now. He was hunched over, his head held so low that his unshaven chin all but touched his chest; however his face was still quite comely, marred only by age. His hair was that curious silvery yellow which showed that once he had been fair, but his features were burned as brown as an ancient oaken timber by the sun, and his skin looked about as soft. Simon thought that his eyes might once have been a bright cornflower blue, not that it was easy to gauge. Matthew was so used to peering into the bright sunshine that his eyes were habitually narrowed in a squint. That he could see perfectly clearly, Simon guessed, because his attention was forever moving, glancing at the table and picking at a crumb of bread, then going up to gaze at people in the crowds outside, back to the innkeeper, and then across to Baldwin or Simon.

He had suffered, though. Simon could recall all too clearly just how impressed he had been with Baldwin’s appearance when they had first met, and now he was struck in the same way by this Matthew. There were deep tracks at either side of his mouth as though a carpenter had gouged them with his chisels. His tall brow was lined with proofs of care and fear, and his square jaw was clenched in rest as though there was no peace to be had for a man who had been so cruelly betrayed.

Yet there was something about him that grated on Simon’s nerves: a faint whining tone to his voice, as though he was now
so thoroughly habituated to his role as a beggar that he couldn’t stop himself from trying to plead for money. Simon looked forward to getting away from Matthew. The man was twisted and ruined by his experiences.

‘You did not try to find a new Order?’ Baldwin asked now.

‘I was in our preceptory at Pombal in Portugal,’ Matthew said with a writhing movement as though the bench was uncomfortable. ‘When the arrests were made in France, like so many of our brethren, I couldn’t believe the accusations, but then we were arrested as well.’

‘They took you into custody – but they did not torture you?’ Baldwin asked gently.

‘No. We were fortunate. King Dinis held us and set his own officials in the castles and towns, but he didn’t misuse us. When our Father the Pope ordered that there should be an enquiry, King Dinis set up his own special court which found us innocent. But behind the scenes, he had agreed with the Kings of Aragon and Castile that they would all adopt a common policy. When the Pope commanded the Order to be suppressed, the three Kings had a special case. The Hospitallers didn’t get the Templars’ lands – they went to new Orders.’

‘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.