The Templar

‘Yes,’ Simon said, stifling his own yawn. He was feeling more than a little lethargic himself after so much wine so early in the afternoon. ‘But he said that he left the city for a ride and came straight back here again afterwards. He said that he didn’t follow the girl. But he saw her walking over on the other side of the ford with Ramon.’

‘Yes. That is right.’

‘He told us he saw another person there.’

‘There was no one.’

‘Come! There was a washerwoman at the ford.’

‘That is true.’

‘Who was she?’

‘He does not know.’

Simon chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘I wonder. The hostler at the stable told us Don Ruy was away most of the afternoon. Don Ruy said he was out for a short time. I had forgotten that until I started thinking about the sequence of events. And thinking about them, I remembered the washerwoman. What happened to her?’

‘He does not know.’

‘Let me prompt his memory! After all, anyone there could be suspected of Joana’s murder.’

‘Don Ruy says he has better things to be doing,’ Gregory said nervously as the knight stood, tapping at his sword hilt.

‘Tell him to wait. I want to ask him about Maria, the whore …’

With an incoherent roar, Don Ruy swept out his sword, and it sparkled in the bright sunshine.

Suddenly he shot forward, and the table went over, the edge striking Simon in the lower belly, its weight trapping his legs. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and then the table top was thrust at him again, and he felt himself toppling backwards, the full mass of the wood on top of him. With his mouth wide in alarm, he flailed with his arms, but there was nothing he could do, and he thumped backwards, his head taking an unpleasant knock on the stone flags.

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.