The Templar

‘There is a motive — you have heard of charity?’

‘Yes. And I give a good tenth of all my income to support people like her,’ Simon said, ‘if she is genuine. But most beggars aren’t, as you well know. If only they’d take up work, they could get by. It’s people like her who prey on crowds, knowing that among all the people she only needs … what? One in every twenty or four and twenty? That would bring her plenty of money for herself and a family of eight squalling brats. If she was really that desperate, the Cathedral would look after her. I’m sure there are alms enough for her at the doors after each meal. The Almoner wouldn’t see her starve if she is needy.’

‘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.