The Templar

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.