The Tale of the English Templar

By mid-morning the snowy main street of the village was already well-trodden and dirty from the villagers going about their business. Today was their feudal lord’s birthday, and there would be a meal for all the villagers in the great hall of the castle at noon, so they were anxious to get their chores finished early despite the weather. In the cottage near the eastern gate of the bastide, the laundress Raymonde was wringing out the laundry and hanging it out to dry on a line stretched from the corner of her cottage to the wall. Her hands were bright red and chapped, and her knuckles were already swelling with the arthritis that had plagued her mother and grandmother. The sudden arrival of armoured men cantering through the gate startled her, but only for an instant.

Registering their ecclesiastical livery, her lips turned down and she turned her back on them to continue hanging up the washing.

“You! Woman!” a loud, angry voice called out.

Raymonde calmly finished pinning a nightshirt to the line before turning around to face the Bishop of Albi’s sergeant.

“We’re looking for an escaped Templar! He has two broken legs. He can’t have gone far on his own. Someone must have helped him. Have you seen anything suspicious?”

Raymonde looked at the sergeant while she dried her hands on her worn apron. She had seen Sir Geoffrey ride out after dark and return with a heavy burden over his saddle. Sir Geoffrey had once been a Templar novice. Sir Geoffrey would undoubtedly help a brother Templar escape if he could. Raymonde nodded.

“What then, you stupid hag?” the sergeant prompted irritably. Ever since he had sobered up and realised that he was missing a prisoner, he had been in a frenzy. It wasn’t just his job at stake — it was his very neck. He had to find that damned eighth Templar or God knew what the Bishop of Albi would do to him.

Raymonde lifted her hand and gestured vaguely. “Just yesterday evening...” She started with the initial reticence of peasants in front of other classes.

“What?” the sergeant prompted impatiently.

“I had to go for more firewood, see?”

“No, I don’t see,” he told her angrily. He couldn’t stand the way these peasant women spoke in riddles.

“Then let me finish, young man!” Raymonde snapped indignantly.

“Christ, give me patience!” He rolled his eyes.

“Late yesterday afternoon, as the snow came on thicker, I realised I needed to get more firewood in. You wouldn’t have acted differently!” she scolded.

The sergeant rolled his eyes again, and Raymonde continued with native stubbornness, “I went out to collect firewood, see? We villagers were given the right to collect the wood by the Lady Eleanor’s father in the year that King —”

“I believe you, I believe you!” The sergeant didn’t give a damn if the old hag had been collecting wood legally or not. He had to find the missing Templar!

“Well, I went out not long before dusk, see, and I headed for the beech grove. You know, just before the turn-off for La Bruyere?” She gestured towards the south. She had seen both Felice and Hugh riding behind Sir Geoffrey and they, she reckoned, must have been coming from Poitiers, from the north.

“And?” the sergeant prompted.

“Well, I hadn’t got very far — maybe a mile or a mile and a half — when I was overtaken on the road by five men — horsemen. They nearly ran me down!” Raymonde’s tone was indignant. “But when I wanted to protest about such unchristian behaviour, well, my good man — these were the kind of men you can’t teach manners to!”

“Lords?”

“Good heavens! Whatever do you mean? These were the kind of men who would rather kill you than spit!”

“Mounted?” The sergeant sounded sceptical.

“Why not? There are always horses to be had for the right price.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

The sergeant had to concede that she was right. “Go on!” he urged, although he was beginning to doubt if what she considered “unusual” could have anything to do with the missing Templar.

“I almost turned back after that, but I needed the firewood, so I continued. Besides, following in their tracks made my going easier. That’s why I know that the tracks abruptly turned off the road and headed into the woods.” She stopped as if this were tremendously significant.

The annoyed sergeant shrugged. “And?” he prompted. “What does that have to do with the escaped prisoner?”

“But the tracks lead towards the old quarry!” she exclaimed as if this explained everything. “That’s where outlaws often hole up for weeks on end. Haven’t you heard?” she asked in disbelief. “There are whole squadrons of Templars who never fell into the King’s hands! God have mercy on us!” She crossed herself. “They roam the woods here about and in the Cevennes, of course, and by Clermont-Ferrand.” She gestured vaguely here and there. “They must have seized this man you’re talking about and spirited him away to the quarry!”

The sergeant felt a chill come over him and then a new pulse of hope. Almost against his will, he had to admit that she was making sense. Of course, some of the Templars had escaped arrest. Everyone knew that. If they had learned about the prisoner transport — and that wouldn’t have been hard — they might well have decided to try to intercept it. Then during the incident with the wagon they could have struck. Christ’s balls! The sergeant’s head still ached from the wine he’d drunk and today the widow’s charms seemed considerably less alluring than they had last night. But while they were all working to free the wagon it would certainly have been possible for these mysterious Templars to have swept down and freed the prisoner. It made sense. But why just the one? The others were chained, of course. Maybe they didn’t have the tools to cut through the chains. Or maybe the escaped prisoner was particularly important. What the hell! He was lucky that they had only seized the one. “Where is this quarry?” he demanded.

“Oh, it’s easy to find.” Raymonde led the little troop out of the gate and, standing there, gave such explicit directions that anyone would have got lost. The little troop swung their horses about and spurred away through the snow without giving her a sou or a second glance.

Raymonde returned contentedly to her laundry. It was going to be a good day! There really were robber bands in these woods, and they often used the old quarry for their camp. The Bishop of Albi’s men would find evidence of fires beneath the snow and would follow the false trail for God knew how long! It was years since she had been so pleased with herself and a day’s work.

It could only have been destiny that sent the Bishop of Albi’s men here! Albi! Where they had tortured and burned so many of her Relatives! Albi, which had given her faith its name, Albigensianism — and where that corrupt and foul body which called itself the Church of Rome had built a monument to its own oppression: a cathedral that looked more like a prison. Raymonde laughed. The Bishop of Albi’s men would spend all day in the cold and the snow, chasing after a man who was warmly tucked away in good Sir Geoffrey’s care at the castle. She glanced in the direction of Najac castle with satisfaction. That was a castle no half-dozen men could take! She laughed aloud in her delight. Let them search!