The Tale of the English Templar

The sound of hooves chinking on the icy road dragged Percy back from the comfort of oblivion. His first thought was that the Bishop of Albi’s men had discovered his escape and were returning to arrest him. The thought made his heart race. Blood pumped to his almost numbed limbs, igniting intense pain in his broken legs, his scorched feet, the brandmark on his chest, and his mutilated jaw.

He wanted to flee or to die, but he was helpless. It had taken his last ounce of strength to roll off the back of the prisoner transport and crawl into the ditch by the side of the road. He was too weak to move. All he could do was open his eyes and stare fate in the face.

He levelled his gaze at the gap between the trees that marked the highway. It was easy to see because the blizzard had covered the road with snow. Large, thick snowflakes continued to fall lazily from the dark sky, and they melted cold and wet on his exposed face. Between the trees that flanked the road, two riders cloaked against the winter were approaching. Despite Percy’s semi-conscious state, he could tell that they were not men-at-arms. Their horses were too tall and willowy to easily carry a man in armour, and even in silhouette, it was clear that these riders wore no swords at their hips. Both were slight, hardly more than children. Percy could tell they were frightened because their nervousness had been transmitted to their horses, making them skittish.

Drawing rein abruptly, a young male voice cried out in high-pitched alarm: “Christ in heaven! Someone was murdered right here! Look! You can see blood on the snow and how they dragged the body off the road! Jesus! The corpse is still there!”

These words killed Percy’s fervent hope that he might go unnoticed. He closed his eyes in despair and tried to brace for the pain that would inevitably follow.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” The youth continued to wail in a high-pitched voice. “What if the cut-throats are still at hand? Jesus, what are we going to do?” With a grimace of distaste, Percy concluded that the young man was a cleric, probably a novice or student.

Then he heard a dull thud and opened his eyes again to see that the second rider had nimbly jumped down from his mount. The rider turned towards him, and Percy caught his breath in shock. The second rider was a girl. Clutching her skirts in one hand and leading her reluctant mare in the other, she advanced cautiously but calmly towards the ditch where Percy lay.

Behind her, her companion called out, “Felice! What are you doing? Are you mad?” But the girl ignored her companion and continued towards Percy.

Percy focused his entire consciousness on her, yet he saw neither her youth nor her beauty. He was oblivious to indications of wealth and station on her clothes and the trappings of her horse. He looked through and past all attributes of her mortal shell, seeking instead the immortal soul inside. His fate hung in her hands. If her soul was filled with hate or greed, she would turn him over to his tormentors. If, on the other hand, her soul were gentle, she might take pity on him and allow him to slide into oblivion.

Their eyes locked, and Percy felt a jolt go through his whole body. The soul that returned his gaze was neither evil nor weak. Filled with the Love of God, it possessed compassion, intelligence and courage. This soul wanted to help, and — more astonishingly — was brave enough to try. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Percy closed his eyes and surrendered to her.