realised that his friend, who was then a very recent acquaintance, had proposed him to fill the post. At the time Baldwin was effectively a newcomer to the district. Beforehand he had been a loyal member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, until the arrest of the Order on 13 October 1307.
For a long while after that date he had not believed that his friends and comrades would be sent to the stakes. All through the hideous testing of the men, while they were tortured, many to death, threatened, and some summarily executed, Baldwin had believed that the Pope must rescue them. The Pope had to recognise their innocence and proclaim that their arrest was all a hideous mistake. When it didn’t happen, he wondered whether there was some vestige of truth in the allegations, and it was only when his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, denounced his executioners and declared his innocence and the innocence of the Order, that Baldwin realised the truth: the whole matter had been staged in order that the French King and the Pope could grasp the wealth of the Knights Templar for their own advantage. The most noble Order of Knights had been destroyed, the most devout Christians murdered, in order that two implacably avaricious men should satisfy their lust for wealth.
It was that, so Simon had once said, which had forged Baldwin’s suitability for the task of weighing men’s innocence or guilt. Baldwin had seen how Justice could fail. He had lost faith in the Pope and secular rulers, for if the greatest Christian King and the Pope himself could be corrupt, how could a man trust those who worked beneath them?
The injustice and horror of it all had left Baldwin a cynical and caustic man in the years immediately following the destruction of his Order, but that aspect of his character had mellowed; indeed, these days it was all but gone. He still bore the same wrinkles and marks of pain which had grown to decorate his features during that lengthy period of rough living when his life was in perpetual danger, but now they simply looked like the honourable marks of a man who was older than middle age. Since he had been fortunate enough to find and marry Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, his figure had filled out, and the expression in his eyes had lost some of the introspection of 1315. Today he was as likely to smile and laugh as to snarl.
Not that Sir Baldwin himself would admit that he had changed. If asked, he would have declared that he was the same man who had set sail in 1290 to join the defenders of Acre against the hordes of pagan Saracens. Yet he secretly knew it wasn’t the case. He felt the same, held some of the same opinions and beliefs, but in the same way that his body would occasionally let him down with sharp aches and pains or grumbling muscles when he had taken too much exercise, his attitude to life had changed. He was cooler, calmer, and more fiercely protective of this land of his.
It was probably the effect of the parlous state of the realm itself, the mutterings of dissatisfaction with the King, the open contempt for Edward’s two most trusted advisers, the Despensers, and of course the terrible disaster of the campaign against the Scots. There were certainly enough matters to cause an informed, intelligent man to pause and consider. Men muttered that it would be better to have open war and destroy the Despensers. That avaricious and murderous family ignored the law and robbed and imprisoned people without trial, purely to ransom them for whatever the Despensers wanted.
One man had even suggested, in Baldwin’s hearing, that an assassin should be hired to kill the Despensers. There Baldwin drew the line. When he had lived in Acre, and afterwards on Cyprus, he had heard of the dreaded
Hashishim
of the Old Man of the Mountain. He was a terrifying mercenary who would point his drugged adherents at any man if he was paid enough, and his crazed killers invariably succeeded in
For a long while after that date he had not believed that his friends and comrades would be sent to the stakes. All through the hideous testing of the men, while they were tortured, many to death, threatened, and some summarily executed, Baldwin had believed that the Pope must rescue them. The Pope had to recognise their innocence and proclaim that their arrest was all a hideous mistake. When it didn’t happen, he wondered whether there was some vestige of truth in the allegations, and it was only when his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, denounced his executioners and declared his innocence and the innocence of the Order, that Baldwin realised the truth: the whole matter had been staged in order that the French King and the Pope could grasp the wealth of the Knights Templar for their own advantage. The most noble Order of Knights had been destroyed, the most devout Christians murdered, in order that two implacably avaricious men should satisfy their lust for wealth.
It was that, so Simon had once said, which had forged Baldwin’s suitability for the task of weighing men’s innocence or guilt. Baldwin had seen how Justice could fail. He had lost faith in the Pope and secular rulers, for if the greatest Christian King and the Pope himself could be corrupt, how could a man trust those who worked beneath them?
The injustice and horror of it all had left Baldwin a cynical and caustic man in the years immediately following the destruction of his Order, but that aspect of his character had mellowed; indeed, these days it was all but gone. He still bore the same wrinkles and marks of pain which had grown to decorate his features during that lengthy period of rough living when his life was in perpetual danger, but now they simply looked like the honourable marks of a man who was older than middle age. Since he had been fortunate enough to find and marry Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, his figure had filled out, and the expression in his eyes had lost some of the introspection of 1315. Today he was as likely to smile and laugh as to snarl.
Not that Sir Baldwin himself would admit that he had changed. If asked, he would have declared that he was the same man who had set sail in 1290 to join the defenders of Acre against the hordes of pagan Saracens. Yet he secretly knew it wasn’t the case. He felt the same, held some of the same opinions and beliefs, but in the same way that his body would occasionally let him down with sharp aches and pains or grumbling muscles when he had taken too much exercise, his attitude to life had changed. He was cooler, calmer, and more fiercely protective of this land of his.
It was probably the effect of the parlous state of the realm itself, the mutterings of dissatisfaction with the King, the open contempt for Edward’s two most trusted advisers, the Despensers, and of course the terrible disaster of the campaign against the Scots. There were certainly enough matters to cause an informed, intelligent man to pause and consider. Men muttered that it would be better to have open war and destroy the Despensers. That avaricious and murderous family ignored the law and robbed and imprisoned people without trial, purely to ransom them for whatever the Despensers wanted.
One man had even suggested, in Baldwin’s hearing, that an assassin should be hired to kill the Despensers. There Baldwin drew the line. When he had lived in Acre, and afterwards on Cyprus, he had heard of the dreaded
Hashishim
of the Old Man of the Mountain. He was a terrifying mercenary who would point his drugged adherents at any man if he was paid enough, and his crazed killers invariably succeeded in
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