Baldwin fell back in his seat, and he felt a hideous crawling sensation over his flesh, as though tiny demons were enjoying his discomfiture. Suddenly the remoteness of Matthew, the ‘otherness’ of his behaviour, made sense. It was why he had never been tortured; he had no need of torture. He had willingly given evidence against his own brethren. ‘No!’
‘My father heard of the courts being held in France and travelled with others to give evidence in support of the Templars. Many were listened to, but because of Matthew, my father was captured. In 1310, he was burned to death with fifty others outside Paris, in a meadow near the Convent of Saint Antoine.’
Baldwin knew that place. Saint Antoine des Champs, on the road to Meaux, was a huge fortified precinct, entirely walled and moated. The Templars had been taken there to break the spirits of those who still denied guilt, and had been led there on wagons, shouting their innocence still. Chained and manacled, they could not escape when the King’s men slipped the horses from their harnesses and set fire to the wagons, not even giving the men the dignity of a stake.
‘I knew Matthew … are you sure he was guilty?’
‘My uncle saw the records.’
‘Your uncle?’
‘The claveiro here. He came here willingly to restore the castle and convent to its previous glory,’ Afonso said. ‘After the shame brought upon the convent and my father by Matthew, he felt the need to do all he could to put matters right again. As did I in my own way.’
‘So you killed Matthew.’
Afonso looked at him again, and there was a sadness in his eyes. It was enough to stay Baldwin’s hand. He remembered this fellow picking up the child in the courtyard and helping him so carefully and kindly. Then he remembered Matthew. Conflicting emotions rose in his breast, but if Afonso was right, and Matthew had indeed survived the ordeals of the Templars by confessing to crimes and accusing his own brethren, then Afonso was justified in his revenge. And Baldwin would be merely perpetuating an injustice by killing him.
‘I think you know I am speaking the truth,’ Afonso said.
‘I believe so.’
‘Aha, that is good news!’ a strange voice broke in. ‘I would hate to have to harm an Englishman so far from home.’
Baldwin felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense. Slowly he turned and faced Sir Charles, who stood there smiling happily. ‘So you aren’t going to kill my friend, then, Sir Baldwin? That, I think, is an astonishingly good idea. Why don’t we have a chat over some wine instead?’
‘I should be glad of it at some point,’ Baldwin said. ‘But first I should like to finish this conversation.’
‘Please do so. My friend here is leaving my companionship now, which I feel is very sad, but no matter. I shall be in our tavern, Afonso, if you change your mind.’
He turned and walked away, whistling, down the lane towards the town, and Baldwin raised a questioning eyebrow at Afonso.
‘My task is done. I have decided to come here and join the Order. Many men from the Templars are still here. King Dinis did not believe the allegations, and he has merely changed the name, but the Order remains. My uncle will see that it remains pious and Christian. I shall join the Order, and then go to Castro-Marim. There I shall be able to kill Moors, and fulfil my father’s aim.’
‘If you thought Matthew was responsible for your father’s death, then your killing him was understandable.’
‘It would have been.’
Baldwin felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘What do you mean: would have been?’
‘I didn’t kill him.’ Afonso shrugged. ‘Someone else got to him first. I merely reached him as he fell to the ground. And the thing that surprised me was that he looked glad. He was grateful for his life to be ended. I found that hard to imagine.’
Baldwin stared at him for a short while, then turned away and gazed out over the low lands beyond the river again. It was speculation, but Baldwin knew enough about how the Inquisition had gathered their evidence against Templars to be able to piece together the story.
‘He had lived with his shame for such a long time,’ he said slowly. ‘All his life had been spent as a Templar, and he was as committed and honourable a Templar knight as any – until the arrests. I expect he was captured with others in France. He lost his courage while in the gaol. The Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, and the leading members of the Order were held murus strictus, with small walls, which meant that they were held alone and manacled for years, but the others were held murus largus, in large cells with many men together. That is where Matthew would have been held. And when the torturers did their work, they did it in the same large cells, so that all the other Templars could see what would soon be done to them. One at a time, they were taken and scorched, whipped, broken … Is it any surprise that a man like Matthew, proud, haughty and handsome, should find his will breaking as he saw all his comrades being tortured? He agreed to give evidence against them, and he was released. Except now he had no one to call friend. All his friends were dead, or they despised him. He had no profession, no livelihood. His past career was closed to him for he had betrayed his companions. Ah! Poor Matthew! So he sank and became the lowest creature whom he himself would have disdained. A beggar.’
Baldwin sighed deeply and turned to the younger man. ‘Yes, Afonso, I think he would have been very glad to have been killed. Whoever was responsible saved him from ever having to look himself in the face again.’
Munio’s head was uncommonly heavy. He had sat through three days of court deliberations in the city and after all that, he was more than a little exhausted, although not so tired as poor Margarita. That was why he was sitting beside the sick man tonight, leaving his wife to go to bed early. After sitting up for the past three nights, Margarita was close to collapse, and Munio was worried about her. At last she had submitted to his insistence, and went to her bed a short time after eating a light supper, but it meant that in her place Munio must watch over their guest.
Simon’s breathing was a little improved, Munio noted with a feeling of hope. It was not much, but Simon had been so close to death, from what he had seen, that any faint sign of improvement was a source of joy. Munio dreaded the thought of telling Sir Baldwin that his friend was dead.
Munio was not scared of Baldwin, even though most men would have known fear of a greater or lesser extent when harbouring the best friend of a knight. Knights were so dangerous, generally. They were prone, so Munio thought, to acquiring the same attributes as their favourite clothing: steel. In place of flexible thinking, such as a man like Munio himself might develop after wearing soft clothing all his life, the average knight was incapable of the limited pliancy even of a shirt of mail. Most knights understood only one response to any stimulus: drawing a sword. There were many indeed, Munio knew, who would, on hearing that a companion had died of a disease in another’s house, immediately rush at the poor man who had only done his best to protect a guest. True, there were some who would happily speed a man’s death just for the coins in his purse, but that was rare enough. Most Christians were kindly behaved towards their own.
In any case, Baldwin was not one of that type. Munio was sure that the knight would be more likely to berate himself, were Simon to die, rather than blame others. For Baldwin, Simon’s death would be a cause of shame, because as Munio knew, there had been no real need for him to leave Compostela at this time. He could easily have demanded that Munio send another man to question Ramón and the other fellow, the one whom Baldwin thought might have killed the beggar.
‘Come on, Simon!’ he muttered. ‘You have to get better. How else am I going to find out who killed poor Joana? I need your help.’