The Templar

‘You clumsy little bastard!’ he roared. His big toe felt almost as though it had been broken, and he jumped to his feet while the boy squeaked in alarm. As Sir Charles grunted angrily, the lad was grabbed from behind and pulled away, and suddenly the knight saw that before him were three men with their bills in their hands. Behind him, he knew, were more. He had no idea how many, but Paul could deal with most of them. He had faith in his squire’s ability.

‘Anglais?’ the swarthy man said sweetly, and than spat at Sir Charles’s foot.

That was all it took. His rage rushed over him, and in the time it took for his face to flush, he had drawn his sword. It flashed wickedly in the enclosed room, catching in a low beam, and then he was running at them, stabbing, slashing and hacking. So fierce was his attack that one man stumbled over a stool and died where he lay; a second tried to get close, and lost his head in the attempt, leaving only the swarthy man. He appeared to shrink in size before Sir Charles’s assault, suddenly realising his mistake in spitting, but the knight knew no pity. His sword swept up, slicing open the Frenchman’s belly so that coils of purple-blue fell from him. The man had time to glance down in horror, before the blade reversed and removed his head.

Behind him, he heard Paul’s blade ringing against another, and he spun around. Paul had two men before him still, but when he saw that his master was alive and well, he pressed his own case, and in a moment both were dead, one making a loud noise as his boots hammered on the floor in his death throes. It was irritating, so Sir Charles knocked a table over them, silencing their staccato rhythm.

Only then did he realise that the innkeeper himself was nowhere to be seen. The grim-visaged man still sat at his table, chewing on a hunk of bread, but there was no sign of anyone else. Sir Charles felt a curious sense of foolishness, standing with his sword drawn and ready, surrounded by slaughter, while a few feet away from him, unaffected by the mayhem, sat this odd-looking fellow. He cleaned his blade on the shirt of one of the peasants, and sheathed it. Only then did he see a pair of bare feet sticking out near the wine barrels. Peering closer, he saw that it was the tavern-keeper, and in his back was a wicked-looking long-bladed knife.

‘He was going to brain you,’ Afonso said courteously, pointing to a large club, and then walking around Sir Charles and retrieving his dagger from the man’s back. He wiped it clean on the man’s shirt, then threw it up. It whirled glittering in the light, and he caught it by the tip of the point, then up it went again, and this time he caught it by the hilt, swiftly stowing it away in his sheath. He stood there gazing down at the keeper’s body for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have a knight attacked from behind. That is not honourable.’

Sir Charles commanded Paul to prepare their horses while he searched the place, hoping to find a stash of coins, but found only a few of low denomination. As he knew, all too often the trade in a place like this would depend upon a form of barter. There were some sausages drying in the chimney, and some bread on a table, and Sir Charles and Paul sat and ate, ignoring the stink and gore of death all around them, and both eyeing the stranger with slight suspicion.

‘My name is Afonso.’

Sir Charles introduced himself and his man, and then asked what Dom Afonso was doing in this place.

‘I thought to ride to find fame and fortune. Now I return home. I tried the joust, but,’ he shrugged emphatically, ‘I lost. So now I return to Portugal.’

Sir Charles nodded sympathetically. Those who lost a joust would often lose their armour and horses too, because a joust could develop into near-war; participants could get nasty and demand a ransom to release their prisoners.

‘The jousting can be difficult,’ he said.

‘Yes. But I had to leave my home to find a man.’

‘Ah. The gentleman has a name?’

‘He was called Matthew. I only knew him as Frey Matthew.’

‘Brother Matthew?’ Sir Charles repeated. ‘I have not met such a man.’

‘He was rumoured to be a great fighter with lance and spear, but,’ Afonso looked glum, ‘I failed to find him, and now I must return to my home. I have to find more money.’

‘We need money too,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You have far to ride?’

‘First I go to Galicia, to Compostela. There I shall pray to Saint James to let me find this man Matthew and kill him. He will understand why. I am avenging a terrible wrong. Brother Matthew is a traitor to his master, to his comrades, and to God.’

Sir Charles had never travelled so far before. To take leave for such a long period would have been troublesome to his master, but now he thought that the journey could be pleasing. The more he considered it, the more the idea had appealed to him. It would be good to join this man and visit the famous Cathedral of Santiago.

‘May we travel with you?’ he asked.