The Templar

Domingo pulled the box from his purse again and stared at it, weighing it in his hand. It felt like nothing, and yet he knew it was worth large sums to any number of churches. The trouble was, he couldn’t walk into the Cathedral here and offer it for sale. If they believed for one moment that the box contained a genuine relic, they would arrest him and torture him to learn when and how he had acquired it. He could make sure that the Prioress was punished for taking it, he supposed, and that would bring her down off her high horse, but he didn’t care about that so much as having a pocketful of money to purchase wine to deaden the hurt of Sancho’s death.

Perhaps she would see reason, he considered. She might agree to find money in exchange for the thing. Simply to be rid of it would be a relief. He felt as though it was watching him all the time. There was a strong superstitious streak in him, and he felt that it was bad luck to have a part of a saint on your person when engaged upon less than honourable exploits.

Yes, he would go and see her — right now, before their lack of funds was noticed by the tavern-keeper.

Domingo walked out into the street, and made his way by the larger thoroughfares to the main square. There he saw a large body of men gathering, but thought little of it. Instead, he turned down the road towards the small chapel where he had last seen Dona Stefania. He entered, looking for the Prioress, but saw no sign of her. Undaunted, he left and turned towards the next. She was bound to be in one of the chapels.

As he reached the door, he heard a sudden roar in the distance, and stood for a moment, his head cocked, listening. It sounded like a fight. He hesitated, but his instincts took over, and he started trotting back the way he had come, towards the battle.

Baldwin was not willing to allow Simon to take part in the actual fight. While Gregory tottered unsteadily towards the tavern, Munio and another man helping him, Baldwin told Simon about all the tortures he would have to endure, should Simon’s wife Meg ever get to hear that Baldwin had allowed her husband to go and fight when he was recovering from heat exhaustion.

‘And then, I think she’d have me skinned. The death would be entirely unpleasant,’ Baldwin finished cheerily.

‘Come on! I have to help catch this bastard,’ Simon said urgently. The big man wasn’t used to being mollycoddled.

‘No. Not a chance. I’d prefer to die myself than have to explain to Meg how I let you in there,’ Baldwin said lightly, but then he shot Simon a look. ‘I mean it. I won’t allow you in there.’

‘There are several men there.’

‘And I won’t have you killed by a single one of them,’ Baldwin said patiently. ‘You can stay out here in the roadway and stop anyone from escaping, if you like.’

‘This is bloody ridiculous!’

‘Ridiculous or not, it is what will be,’ Baldwin said, and gabbled to Munio. The Pesquisidor nodded, glanced at Simon, and then muttered something to one of the men from his posse. This man, a short but powerful-looking fellow with a grim expression and wary watchfulness in his brown eyes, had the appearance of one who was capable of stopping even a determined Bailiff. The staff that he gripped in his large hands underlined the message.

Simon sulkily subsided as Baldwin and Munio moved forward with Gregory until they were nearer the tavern. There they paused; Baldwin moved stealthily around a wall and stood in the shadow of a large tree from where he could see the tavern’s open yard. A short while later, Gregory came back again as Munio hissed an instruction, and more men moved up to join him.

‘What’s happening?’ Simon demanded.

‘The leader isn’t there. They’re just waiting a while in case he’s gone out for a leak,’ Gregory said. His eyes were gleaming in the twilight, a flaming torch lending his face an unwholesome yellow and orange colour. ‘No! They’re going to attack now!’

Simon turned back to see that the mass of men were streaming ahead. Just to the left, he saw movement — then there was a flash, like a burst of lightning, and he knew it was Baldwin’s peacock-blue blade. He saw it whirl in the air, over the heads of the men running into the tavern’s yard, and then there was a great roar, and the men burst like a torrent into the tavern itself.

The noise now was a mixture of screams, growls, and an occasional short shriek, accompanied by the ringing, clattering and crashing of swords, axes and knives.

‘I have to see what’s happening,’ Gregory said with a most unclerical enthusiasm. He was very pale, but his hopping from one leg to another showed his eagerness.

‘If I can’t, I don’t see why you should.’ Simon grumbled, but he was talking to the empty evening air, for Gregory had already darted up and into the tavern. Simon started to move after him, but as soon as he took the first pace forward, the staff swung down in front of him. Resting his hand on it, Simon said bad-temperedly, ‘I could shove this up your arse if I wanted.’