The Templar

The knight merely smiled under his hat. He had heard Afonso’s feet approaching and had instantly come awake, just as he always did. He was too well attuned to the possibility that an enemy from long ago, or even from recent times might arrive to kill him. ‘You look tired, my friend.’

‘Si. I am a little,’ Afonso said. He looked along the lane, back the way he had come, but no one appeared to have followed him. ‘I think I have had enough of this place.’

‘Ah. You have seen your friend again. He will trouble you no more?’

‘He will trouble no man.’

Sir Charles looked approvingly at him. There was about Afonso no sign that he had just brought a man to swift or violent death, no blood on his tunic or sleeves, no mark on his hands. If he had been asked, Sir Charles would have said that this calm, collected man before him was guilty of nothing — but then he had seen Afonso kill before. With that dagger of his, he could draw, spin the blade up and catch it, and then hurl it so smoothly and quickly that it could penetrate a half-inch of solid hardwood. He had seen it. Just as he had seen Afonso’s knife kill the tavern-keeper who was going to brain him in that tavern in France. There had been no blood on Afonso then either. It was a very effective weapon, a knife thrown at speed.

‘So, are you ready to leave?’ he asked.

‘I have nothing more to do here,’ Afonso said. ‘I shall return to my home.’

‘Down to Portugal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Extraordinary!’ Sir Charles stood and dusted his backside. Glancing up at the sky, which now had thick, fleecy clouds moving slowly across it, he sniffed. He put a finger into his ear and delicately removed a little wax, inspecting it with curiosity. ‘There seems little of interest in this town to me. A pleasing altar, it’s true, but precious little else. There’s not even a decent brothel. I know … why don’t I join you?’

Afonso nodded calmly. Sir Charles was a dangerous man, but he had proved himself honourable enough. He and Afonso had been together for some months, and they had not exchanged a cross word. Both were slow to take offence with a companion. He had noticed before that there were fewer arguments and fights between men who were genuinely equals. ‘I would be grateful for your companionship,’ he said politely.

Sir Charles nodded, then shouted for Paul to prepare to pack and go. He smiled at Afonso and said, ‘Friend, you have the air of a man who has achieved something with his day. A weight has fallen from you.’

‘Yes,’ Afonso said. It was true. He had not been able to satisfy his lust for vengeance, but at least the man was dead. Now his father could rest in his grave at last.

Again the expression on the old man’s face came back to him. Gratitude for seeing that his debt was at last discharged? Relief that his grim existence as a beggar was about to be ended? Perhaps he had come to realise how foul his act had been, and welcomed the tardy arrival of justice.

Or was he just glad that the waiting was over?

The groom could help them no further, but the two men left the stable and set off with the certainty that they were following the right trail.

There were another three stables along this road.

‘Christ’s Blood!’ Simon said, wiping the sweat from his forehead again. ‘They have more horses per head here than any city I’ve known.’

Baldwin nodded absently. ‘Yes, it’s the same with all the big pilgrim centres. They have so many people arriving, and they have to cater for them all. It’s worse here, because Saint James brings in so many travellers for each week, but I think that at this time of year, getting close to his feast day on 25 July, the place must have at least double its normal population. Local businesses have to provide accommodation and food for all the men and women, and also for all the beasts which they bring.’

Two boys were playing with a ball. As it rolled down the road, Simon aimed a kick at it in passing, but he missed by some inches. That was odd, but he put it down to the weather. Never again would he complain about the sun when he was parched and riding over Dartmoor. This was a heat he could never have imagined, had he not come here. He must be hungry, too; his belly felt empty. ‘My gut thinks my throat’s been cut!’ he grumbled.

The next stable was where they found Don Ruy’s horse.

‘Yes, masters, he came here last afternoon, hired a horse and went for a ride. Was out almost until dark.’

The groom was leaning on his rails as he spoke, a happy, smiling man in his late fifties, from the look of him. He had a face like a walnut and, to Simon’s eye, appeared as wiry as a Dartmoor shepherd. Although he was leaning talking to the two, he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, because he suddenly broke off and roared, making Simon jump, although the Bailiff wasn’t as startled as the boy who was supposed to be mucking out a couple of stalls. The lad stopped eavesdropping and bent to his task again, while the old groom, who had not so much as turned his head, winked at Baldwin.