The Tale of the English Templar

Percy felt eyes upon him and looked up, startled. At the sight of Geoffrey, he set aside his work and stood up respectfully. Geoffrey gestured for him to sit down and sank onto the bench beside him, sweeping the skirts of his long robes between his knees as he sat. He turned closed eyes towards the sun and breathed in the warmth of the autumn sun, while Percy resumed cleaning his hauberk.

There would not be many more days like this, Geoffrey calculated. His thin blood felt the chill on the light breeze even through his loose, woollen sleeves. Already they had had the first of the autumn rains, and the mornings were moist and misty. Soon, there would be frost. In another month, the first snows would dust the peaks of the hills and then creep down the slopes to shroud the valleys. Geoffrey had never spent a winter at Chanac, but he knew it would be harsh. That was one reason he was trying to gather as many stores as he could, buying up as much wine, sugar and dried fruits, salt and spices as he could afford. He sighed unconsciously.

“Is there any way I can help you, my lord?” Percy enquired, glancing sidelong at the white-haired man beside him. He noted that Geoffrey’s skin was flecked with age marks, and it sagged around the creases of his face. Yet he still had all his teeth, and his hair was thick as a lion’s mane. He looked far less fragile than Father André despite being thirty years older.

“We need to talk, that’s all.” Geoffrey answered, opening his eyes. “The summer harvest is in — and we can be proud of it, but we must face the winter now.”

Percy’s hand stopped its scrubbing, and the shish-chick of the wire brush on chainmail was abruptly silenced. Geoffrey’s words seemed to announce the return of Persephone to the underworld. The chill that went up Percy’s spine was the dank, stale coolness of the dungeon. Out loud he remarked, “Thousands of my brothers are still chained in the darkness and have never seen the summer.” Percy tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It was Geoffrey who had given him the summer and Geoffrey who had persuaded him to help the others.

Geoffrey sighed. “I know.” He looked down at his gnarled hands with the age splotches stretching over the bony knuckles. He hated being old. “That is why we need to find some means of breaking into more dungeons — but not by force!” He was no less insistent than he had been the day before. “We have to break them open with gold.”

“Gold which we do not have,” Percy reminded him, a touch of exasperation colouring his voice. He did not want to argue with Geoffrey. He respected him far too much for that, but he was tired of this vicious circle. Geoffrey’s resources were depleted. But they were six fighting men — if you counted Sir Charles. That had proven enough this last time...

Percy resumed his scrubbing. His mind was far too good to let his heart deceive him for long. If he were honest with himself, he knew that they had been extremely lucky. Father André had been kept in a priory not a dungeon, and his guards had been unarmed monks totally unprepared for an attack. The moment they had been confronted by royal troops, they had been nearly overpowered. Four of the Templars were still suffering from the effects of their arrest and torture. Only Giles and himself had fought well — and now Giles was wounded. Oh, Christ, what good were six Templars against the might of the King of France? And their weapons, armour and horses all cost Geoffrey money. Percy’s hand went still, and he stared at the chainmail across his knees, wondering what was the point of fighting?

Geoffrey was watching him, enjoying the glint of sunlight on the mail where Percy had scrubbed it clean. He admired, too, the quiet competence of Percy’s hands as they worked. They were elegant, long-fingered hands, the hands of a nobleman or a scholar. Yet Father André had confided in Geoffrey what he had witnessed — the blows against two unarmed monks and the bloody clash with royal soldiers. Geoffrey’s eyes shifted to the cuff of Percy’s gambeson and saw the dark, hardened stains smearing the right sleeve.

Geoffrey did not share the priest’s horror at what Percy had done, but he was uneasy about the morality of shedding Christian blood. He was also uncomfortable with the thought of using the Baptist’s hand to knock monks unconscious. He was acutely aware that he was to blame for Percy having embarked upon this campaign to free captive Templars. He shared the blood guilt, Geoffrey concluded. Yet no guilt would be greater than if the blood that stained the gambeson were Percy’s own.