Alan shouldn’t have been so sharp, he knew, but it was so tempting sometimes when Jordan whined on about things. His father was a waster – useless. Couldn’t even fix the fence when it fell two years before, and that was why they had lost their pig and later most of their chickens: a fox had got in, and all the time Edmund was snoring, drunk, on his bed. His wife could do nothing, nor could the two children, both were too young. So because he was lazy, Edmund had squandered all his family’s assets.
But it wasn’t Jordan’s fault, and Jordan was Alan’s only friend here. They were renegades – almost outlaws. They and young Herbert had wandered far over the surrounding countryside, playing at the bartons, hunting each other over the moors… That thought reminded him that now there were only the two of them, not three.
It still seemed only a short while ago that there had been four of them, including Tom, his brother. But, because of Herbert, Tom was dead, or so Alan’s mother said. Alan wasn’t greatly exercised by questions of responsibility – he knew that people died, whatever their age. Even during his short life Alan had seen friends and acquaintances starve, many of them dying because of the famine.
His mother blamed Herbert for Tom’s death. She was convinced that if only Herbert had called out, Tom could have been saved, but Alan couldn’t feel any resentment towards Herbert for that; Herbert was too young. And now he too was gone.
‘Alan, we could give them proof of what the priest’s like,’ Jordan said after a moment.
‘How can we do that?’ Alan wanted to know. ‘He’s a priest and everything – how can we show people what he’s really like?’
‘His shoe?’
Alan paused and his mouth fell open. ‘You think we…’
‘Why don’t we go back and see if his sandal is still up there?
If we can find it, people would have to believe us, wouldn’t they?‘
Baldwin stared in amazement as the monk stormed from the chapel. Stephen’s contempt was all too plain, and it could only be because he had guessed that Baldwin had been a Knight Templar. It was the only explanation. Stephen had obviously heard the accusations – the ridiculous, trumped-up accusations pressed by government officials on behalf of the French King: allegations that Templar brothers underwent obscene initiation rituals, that they ate Christian babies, that they committed the heinous act of sodomy with each other, even that they spat on the Cross!
The knight sat back weakly, his hands on his knees. If the monk were to spread this news, Baldwin’s position in the country would be hideously compromised. He had no protector, nor could he afford to buy off someone who threatened blackmail. If his career as a Templar monk should be bruited about, a priest or maybe even a bishop would hear, and they would be bound to try to have him arrested and put to the flames which he had escaped by so slight a margin before.
Baldwin forced himself to breathe slowly, to think rationally. He felt as if he had been punched in the guts, and there was a light dew of sweat on his brow as he feverishly recalled the monk’s expression. Then he stopped, and his frown gradually faded.
It was impossible for the monk to have made the fabulous leap to the conclusion that Baldwin had been a member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon from the few words the knight had given. Yet the brother had drawn back as if repelled, and suddenly Baldwin recalled how he had put the question. In his nervousness and hesitation, he had phrased the query hypothetically, and the priest had obviously assumed the knight was accusing him of breaking his own vows.
With the relief this cogitation gave him, Baldwin could have laughed aloud. When he heard footsteps outside the door again, so great was his revival, he smiled broadly. The monk walked in and Baldwin greeted him warmly.
‘Brother, my apologies! I fear I gave you entirely the wrong idea. I did not intend to imply that you had been guilty of anything. I am truly sorry if I alarmed you, but it was absolutely unintentional.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Stephen said coldly. Although Baldwin continued to offer fulsome apologies, the priest appeared only partly mollified, and it was only gradually that he allowed himself to be calmed. Eventually he sat down again, although not next to Baldwin this time, and closed his eyes as if exhausted. Opening them again, he gave Baldwin a keen look and settled himself. ‘Come, tell me what is troubling you.’
This time Baldwin was careful to make himself understood. ‘Brother, I once swore an oath, but the man in whom I put my trust proved faithless. He pursued me, without reason, and proved his own dishonour. Have I been right to recant my own vow?’
‘I would have to know more, but if you are saying that you swore your honour and allegiance to a man, and that man subsequently betrayed your trust, I would think that his betrayal would be the defining issue. What I mean is, his lack of honour would release you from your vows to him. How did you recant?’
‘I swore an oath to chastity, but now I have married.’
‘Well, if you made an oath before God to marry a woman, God wouldn’t punish you. Your wedding vows were holy, for God has instructed us to marry. Your vows to Him would carry precedence over any taken previously to a mere man.’
Baldwin thanked him, but frowned. The priest had said all he could to ease his mind, but it wasn’t enough. Baldwin had given his vows to God when he had joined the Templars. ‘Stephen, what would the position be with a monk who decided to give up his calling and take himself a wife? Would the oaths given at his wedding carry greater weight than that of chastity?’
‘Why should you wish to know such a thing?’ Stephen asked, and his voice had an angry edge to it once more. ‘Are you trying to spread rumours about my brethren who may have fallen from the high ideals they should have embraced?’
‘No, no, Brother. I am simply trying to clear the point in my mind.’
‘Well, clear your mind of the point. It doesn’t concern you.’
Baldwin could see that he had unwittingly overstepped the mark once more, and again he offered profuse apologies. Eventually the priest relented, and the small spots of anger on his cheeks faded.
Sitting quietly, Baldwin wasn’t fully convinced by Stephen’s argument. Absolute conviction could only come from explaining his difficulty in detail, ideally to a senior cleric, and that was impossible. The more important the man, the more likely he was to be ambitious, and the more likely he would be to inform the church hierarchy of a renegade Templar. That thought brought to mind other functionaries, and Baldwin found himself meditating once more on the steward of the house. ‘I must ask, Brother, are you aware of any reason why Daniel should hate the farmer in Throwleigh, the one called Edmund?’
‘Him? The tenant to be evicted?’ Stephen asked, but Baldwin was sure he saw a flicker in the priest’s eyes. ‘What could a steward have against a man like him?’
‘Nothing that I can understand,’ Baldwin said honestly. ‘Yet he appears to want to harry Edmund into an early grave. Was Daniel particularly fond of the young squire?’
The priest pursed his thin lips, as if debating whether to answer. When he spoke, it was with a certain caution, as if he was measuring his words with care. ‘I doubt whether Daniel was any more fond of the child than I myself, and I was not. No doubt it is unkind to state the fact so badly on the day of the child’s burial, but I could not find it in me to like Master Herbert. He was wilful, disobedient, and often deceitful. I was regularly forced to chastise him. On the very day his father died, he… Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say more.’
‘Please tell me,’ Baldwin said. ‘I fail to understand what could have happened.’