The Templar

It was only a dirt track, and Baldwin could see through the trees as they thinned, taking in the view of the lush green lands on all sides. The ground was hilly, but not in the same way as Devon, where it was impossible to see much more than the next two hills from another. Here, it was possible to see for many miles, to far-off hills coloured blue with the distance, each plainly visible in the rolling countryside because none was of any great height. It also made the sky seem much broader, like the skies Baldwin had known as a youngster, when he had spent time in the islands of the Mediterranean. There too the sky had appeared larger, bluer, and more wonderful. In England, it was ever grey, he considered.

He could feel his heart begin to beat faster as he wound upwards, and suddenly found that on his right was a great mound of rock, on top of which was a wall, the first part of the castle’s outer defences. Each block was massive; daunting in its size. It made Baldwin wonder how men could have moved, shaped and installed such huge lumps of stone.

But pondering on such things was merely a ploy to delay his arrival. He turned his horse resolutely to the front. To reach the entrance, he must walk about the base of this wall of rock to a final flat wall, in which was a large arched gateway. With hesitant feet, he undertook this journey, and then stopped.

It was rather anticlimactic to see that the gate was wide open and that men stood laughing and lounging in the sun.

Afonso clattered along the roadway. There, downriver, was the great castle, and he burned with excitement at the thought of actually arriving there at last.

‘It is a good location for a fort,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Astonishing place. Good height. Difficult for anyone to scale that hillside. Plentiful water at the foot, which should mean that there is enough to fill a well, and the countryside here looks marvellously fertile. The peasants must be well-ruled. They don’t seem so lazy as English ones.’

There was a sniff from Paul. ‘Perhaps they are happier with their lot,’ he commented.

‘Paul is sometimes prone to such cheerful comments,’ Sir Charles said to Afonso. ‘He agrees with me, by and large.’

Afonso nodded, but he was only half-listening. For the most part, his mind was focused on the castle and his reception there. He had longed for the day when he would reach this place, having achieved his goal, and yet now there was that strange feeling of relief. Both relief and joy at success; balanced with the recognition that he had not in truth achieved all he could.

That old man, Matthew. His face kept returning to Afonso, that last expression of happiness — at his death. That curious acceptance.

No matter. Afonso had done his duty, and now that he was done, he had one last act to perform — and that must be done here at the Castle of Tomar. He wondered how Charles would react when he heard what Afonso intended.

As Afonso knew, this was the place where the Templars had managed their affairs in Portugal. It was the centre and hub of their Portuguese operations. The place where a man who had sought to harm them would go.

Baldwin waited at the gate while a cheerful-looking lay Brother was sent to ask what they should do with the stranger at the door. Before many minutes had passed, a tall man strode around the side of the gate, and stood eyeing Baldwin closely, but without rudeness. He had the manner of one who was delighted to see that he must welcome an equal, but he was also convinced and confident in his power.

It was not only the set of his shoulders and the way that his hand rested on the hilt of the large sword that hung at his hip; Baldwin thought that the power resided in the slightly hawkish set of his face and the dark and intelligent eyes, perhaps also in his white tunic with the red cross, so reminiscent of the Templars’ own uniform. It made Baldwin’s heart feel as though it had missed a beat for a moment.

When he started to speak, welcoming Baldwin, the man’s voice was deep and sonorous, and although his Latin was slightly archaic, it was nonetheless easily comprehensible, and that was a relief after the last days of trying to make himself understood to a succession of ill-educated, or not educated at all, priests between Obidos and Tomar.

‘You look like a man who has travelled far, my friend.’

‘I have travelled from Santiago de Compostela in the last week and a day,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, from England.’

‘You have come a long way to see us here. But I should be reluctant to interrogate you without offering you a little wine. I am called Frey Joao, the claveiro. Please come with me.’