The Templar

Matthew had once probably been tall, but it was hard to tell now. He was hunched over, his head held so low that his unshaven chin all but touched his chest; however his face was still quite comely, marred only by age. His hair was that curious silvery yellow which showed that once he had been fair, but his features were burned as brown as an ancient oaken timber by the sun, and his skin looked about as soft. Simon thought that his eyes might once have been a bright cornflower blue, not that it was easy to gauge. Matthew was so used to peering into the bright sunshine that his eyes were habitually narrowed in a squint. That he could see perfectly clearly, Simon guessed, because his attention was forever moving, glancing at the table and picking at a crumb of bread, then going up to gaze at people in the crowds outside, back to the innkeeper, and then across to Baldwin or Simon.

He had suffered, though. Simon could recall all too clearly just how impressed he had been with Baldwin’s appearance when they had first met, and now he was struck in the same way by this Matthew. There were deep tracks at either side of his mouth as though a carpenter had gouged them with his chisels. His tall brow was lined with proofs of care and fear, and his square jaw was clenched in rest as though there was no peace to be had for a man who had been so cruelly betrayed.

Yet there was something about him that grated on Simon’s nerves: a faint whining tone to his voice, as though he was now so thoroughly habituated to his role as a beggar that he couldn’t stop himself from trying to plead for money. Simon looked forward to getting away from Matthew. The man was twisted and ruined by his experiences.

‘You did not try to find a new Order?’ Baldwin asked now.

‘I was in our preceptory at Pombal in Portugal,’ Matthew said with a writhing movement as though the bench was uncomfortable. ‘When the arrests were made in France, like so many of our brethren, I couldn’t believe the accusations, but then we were arrested as well.’

‘They took you into custody — but they did not torture you?’ Baldwin asked gently.

‘No. We were fortunate. King Dinis held us and set his own officials in the castles and towns, but he didn’t misuse us. When our Father the Pope ordered that there should be an enquiry, King Dinis set up his own special court which found us innocent. But behind the scenes, he had agreed with the Kings of Aragon and Castile that they would all adopt a common policy. When the Pope commanded the Order to be suppressed, the three Kings had a special case. The Hospitallers didn’t get the Templars’ lands — they went to new Orders.’

‘This King Dinis created a new Order,’ Baldwin observed.

‘He called it the Order of Christ,’ Matthew agreed. ‘It’s based in Castro-Marim near the mouth of the Guadiana, to protect the Algarve. It was Dinis’s father who won that back from the Moors only fifty-odd years ago with the help of the Temple, and Dinis always feared losing it to a fresh attack.’ He stared down at the table before him. ‘He took all the Templar castles and towns and gave them to his new Order. Castelo Branco, Tomar — all of them. Some he kept for himself, like Pombal and Soure. I suppose he was scared that there might be another power rising in the land if he let the Knights of Christ take all the Templars’ lands.’

‘Like the Hospitallers,’ Baldwin muttered to himself.

‘I was lucky. I was released when it was decided that I was innocent, but since then I have wandered as you see me now, penniless, destitute. I had no horse, no master … all I had once possessed I gave up in order to join the Templars, holding to my vow of poverty, so when I was thrown from my home, I was utterly bereft.’

His eyes had been dry for some little while, but now they filled once more and a single tear fell from his right eye, shooting down the darkened cheek and splashing on the table.

‘Many were less fortunate,’ Baldwin observed sympathetically.

‘Many were more fortunate,’ he countered. ‘They died.’

Dona Stefania watched Joana ride off towards the Porta Francigena and made her way back though the crush towards an inn. She had to hold her annoyance in check as she passed through the crowds, trying to preserve her dignity as best she might. Hawkers shouted, beggars pleaded and wept, urchins scampered, one stepping heavily upon her sandalled foot and crushing her big toe, but she kept her lips pursed and made no comment.