The Templar

His first impression was quite favourable. From the look of him, the man came from a wealthy family. His sword’s scabbard was richly decorated, and his clothes showed that he possessed money and delighted in spending it. Today, though, he was not enjoying the benefits of his position. It was plain that he was labouring under some great inner stress from the way that he breathed so heavily, his breast rising and falling like a man who had run some distance in the heat, and yet it was his face that attracted Baldwin’s interest.

He wore a hunted expression. When he heard Baldwin speak, he turned to the English knight with a startled mien, rather like a dog caught stealing meat from the table, as if he fully expected some form of punishment.

‘We have not met,’ Baldwin said.

Dona Stefania was recovering her poise. Now she lifted her chin haughtily as she introduced them. ‘This man is Don Ruy de Benavente — he says,’ she said in a voice which clearly declared that she herself doubted his word.

Baldwin introduced himself and Simon, who stood a short distance away, listening with complete incomprehension. He had been determined to make an effort to learn a little of this language on the ship coming over, but the sickness which assailed him had made that a hopeless venture, and since arriving in Compostela there had been little time for him to gain even a smattering of the language. All he could do was watch and listen, hoping to gain some sort of understanding of what was being said.

‘Did you travel here together?’ Baldwin asked politely.

‘No, Don Baldwin,’ Don Ruy said. He appeared to have recovered himself a little. ‘We met briefly on the journey, but did not travel together. My group was not in favour of feminine companionship on what was intended to be a penitential journey.’

‘Indeed? Then your companions must have been a very pious band,’ Baldwin said. Inwardly he condemned the man for his priggish attitude.

‘Perhaps. I think most of us sought to find some spiritual peace on our way.’

He stood like one who was waiting for an interloper to depart and leave him to continue his conversation, but Baldwin turned to Dona Stefania with a sympathetic smile. ‘So, my lady, did you sleep well? I trust that sadness did not unduly disturb your slumbers?’

‘I scarcely slept a wink,’ Dona Stefania snapped. ‘How could I? No maid to help me disrobe or see to my hair … it was appalling. And so sad that Joana should be murdered like that,’ she added with a wave of self-pity.

‘I can only express my deepest sympathy,’ Baldwin said.

‘And I too,’ Don Ruy said stiffly. He made as if to move nearer the lady, but she blanched noticeably and shifted herself farther up the bench. It was only a small movement, but Simon and Baldwin saw it, and Simon took a step to one side, so that he could threaten Don Ruy’s flank if he should think of attacking her.

Don Ruy glanced at him, and there was frank disbelief on his face as he realised what Simon’s aim was. He took a short pace back, turning to face Simon more directly but saying nothing. Glancing at Baldwin and then Dona Stefania, his expression looked accusing.

‘Simon, stay your hand,’ Baldwin said in English, before speaking to Dona Stefania. ‘My lady, it is clear that you are perturbed. Is there anything I can do which would help you?’

‘There is nothing,’ Don Ruy said. ‘A misunderstanding, that is all. Leave us. We must talk.’

Dona Stefania shuddered and looked appealingly at Baldwin. ‘Please, Sir Baldwin, don’t leave me with him. I …’ she swallowed heavily. ‘I fear he means to kill me.’

Frey Ramon felt exhausted. His knees ached, his eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and he tightened the girth on his mount like a man in a dream, although this dream was a nightmare. All he could think of was that poor, shattered body, now lying quietly at rest in her grave.

The horror of seeing her lying there on the trestle in the square would never leave him, he felt sure. It was terrible, the worst sight he had ever known. The woman to whom he was engaged, brutally slaughtered like that, left to water the soil with her own blood. He had felt a part of him die when he saw her.

This journey would be long and hard. He had surrendered his position in the Order by running away, but he couldn’t regret it. All he could do was go far away and try to find some peace. There were other Orders he could join. Perhaps he could make his way to the sister Order of Santiago, the Knights of Sao Thiago. They had broken away from Santiago a few years ago, but they still wore the same emblems and held to the same Rule.

‘Sao Thiago,’ he muttered. ‘Or the Order of Christ?’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing,’ he told the groom, an older man with the pinched features of one who lives in constant pain. ‘I was thinking aloud.’

‘They say that the Knights of Christ have taken over from the Templars,’ the groom said helpfully.

‘So they are rich and arrogant, then,’ Frey Ramon said.