The Templar

‘I was,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘Which carries the double pain for me of a wasted journey and the knowledge that I could have remained in Compostela seeking the real murderer there. I have no idea who was responsible. There is still this rape, murder and theft.’

‘Perhaps a means of finding the murderer will come to you when you return to the town.’

‘I can pray.’

‘I shall pray for you.’

‘I wonder … It would mean much to me to be able to pray in your oratory to ask for guidance. Would it be possible …?’

‘No, not with the Brothers, of course. But you could join in a service in the chapel with the lay Brothers.’

‘I should be very grateful. It would ease my mind.’

‘Yes,’ Joao said, and then, although he was not sure why, he said, ‘Would you prefer to pray with me here, alone?’

Baldwin looked at him, and nodded. ‘I would be very glad.’

It was afternoon when he and the claveiro left the chapel and wandered down from the little cloister around the church.

‘My heart is full,’ Baldwin said simply. ‘I feel renewed.’

‘I am pleased for you,’ Joao said. He looked at Baldwin. ‘You speak Latin very well, my friend.’

‘I was fortunate to be educated.’

‘And you say the paternoster fluently.’

‘My brain has always been retentive,’ Baldwin said defensively.

‘Many men are fortunate to have good minds,’ Joao said comfortably. ‘Especially those who have lived in places like this for a while.’

Baldwin could not meet his gaze. There was a terrible silence between them. It was a gulf into which all noise was swallowed, as though if either were to speak, it could only result in death and disaster. Baldwin waited. He was convinced that Joao would call for men to capture him, that he was going to be thrown into a gaol and held. His worst fears were about to come true.

Then Joao idly kicked a stone from the path. ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘that those who served here were not evil: they were heroes and martyrs. If they had been evil, do you not think that the demons they had summoned would have frequented these places? No, if the Templars were guilty of anything, it was of arrogance. And who, living in a place like this, wouldn’t be prone to that sin?’

Baldwin was unable to speak. They had reached the level area before the circular church. A young child was running past, and Baldwin watched him speed over the ground, laughing as another boy chased him. ‘I am sure you are right, claveiro,’ he said huskily.

‘I believe so. I find it painful to think of all the violence inflicted on men whose only crime was trying to obey God.’

They had reached a small gate in a wall, and Joao motioned to it. ‘I wondered … it is a pleasing little area. I must leave you, but if you wish, you may enter and rest for a while.’

‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A graveyard.’ Joao looked about him sadly. ‘It is where the monks who used to live here were buried. Wait here, and meditate quietly. Leave your sword sheathed, and you might learn something useful.’

Afonso climbed up the roadway with Sir Charles. The English knight stood at the gateway peering out over the view, while Afonso entered the castle’s gates and walked into the courtyard.

The place was enormously loud, with men shouting at each other, the beating of hammers and chisels, bellows making the flames roar, and over all the sonorous tolling of the massive bell in the church. Afonso gazed at it with wonder. It was nothing like a church as he knew it. Instead, it looked like a citadel, a castle’s keep. It was a tower that dwarfed every other tower in Tomar.

The place he wanted to go was near the church, and he entered it quietly by the small gate. Immediately, the noise died to a background hubbub, and he found himself in a small cloister with a pleasing area of lawn. There were no seats apart from some stone-carved benches, and he walked to one and sat, staring at the grass.

There was another man in there with him, he saw, a man in a white tunic, and at first he wondered if it might be a Knight of Christ, but then he thought that they must all be in the church for a service, for the bell had ceased its clanging invitation.

Afonso was not worried. He bent his head and clasped his hands and began to pray as he had been shown by his father all those years ago. At once he felt the calmness return and envelop him. All the frustrations and worries of the last ten years began to disappear. It was as though he was able to tell his father what had happened, as if he could talk to his father properly again. Not that it was possible, of course. He had died many years ago. But simply confiding in him would, he hoped, make his father’s soul happy.

When he was done, he sat back. After a few minutes, he heard footsteps approaching. A man sat on a bench nearby.

Baldwin cleared his throat. ‘I came here to try to find you.’

‘You have succeeded.’

‘May I speak to you?’

‘Not here.’