Filled with eagerness, Domingo leaped lightly from his perch and hurtled along an adjacent alley until he came to an intersecting lane. Down this he went, his heart swelling, whether from the exertion or from the thrill of tracking down the man who had slaughtered his son, he didn’t know.
He felt the fury churning in his belly, begging for release. In front of his eyes, he had a picture of his son as young Sancho was slashed and stabbed, then toppled white-faced from his horse. The memory made him want to kill the fair man with his bare hands – pull out his entrails, rip out his beating heart from his breast, tear off his tarse and cods and stuff them in his mouth, before slowly slicing off his entire head, so that the man could feel every moment of his death. He wanted agony – true, all-encompassing agony – inflicted on the man who could murder his son.
At the end of the road, he stood with his back to the wall, unsheathing his knife, holding it in two hands as he tried to control his breathing, and then, as the hoofbeats approached, he licked his lips, said hoarsely, ‘For you, son,’ and stepped around the corner.
The horse reared and its rider, a red-faced Castilian with a yellow hat, let out an oath and Domingo’s rage left him. Still swearing, the man rode on, and Domingo slumped against the wall. He would kill the murderer, though. He would.
‘I swear it, my son,’ he vowed, and then sobbed drily.
Chapter Three
Doña Stefanía felt calm and soothed as she left the Cathedral, her head bowed in humility, her hands concealed in the sleeves of her habit. The little disappointments were fading from her memory, as was Domingo’s incompetence. She shouldn’t have trusted him to try and perform a simple task. A man with so many fighters behind him, and the lot of them were bested by a trio of mercenaries? Pathetic! Why did she have to put her faith in idiots? She should form her own retinue. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t afford it, she mused. She knew why she didn’t, though. It was simply that the cost of keeping a force of men would be prohibitive in the longer term, and all too often the men could become more trouble than they were worth. Especially in a convent like hers, in which there were too many attractive young women.
There must be no hint of impropriety about her place, she reminded herself, patting her purse gently. The Bishop would never allow her to remain there if he heard so much as a whisper of misbehaviour. That thought brought up the inevitable memory. It was, she thought, like a piece of dog’s excrement that she couldn’t scrape off her shoe, no matter how hard she tried. If only she hadn’t been so rash, so driven by her lusts. Then she wouldn’t have had to try to have the fool killed before he could spread tales of her salacious urges, and Domingo wouldn’t be sulking because of losing his damned son!
‘My lady.’
The voice made her heart lurch, and she was all but expecting to be told that she was to go with a guard to see the Bishop, when she realised who it was.
‘Señor,’ she said coldly, with a slight dip of her head in the direction of the knight in his tunic of Santiago. Frey Ramón, she groaned inwardly. So devoted – and so dull!
Spanish, she knew, was the most beautiful language, but this man’s Basque accent was so strong he sounded like a peasant from the mountains. In response her dialect reflected her nobility as she spoke with a deliberately pronounced Castilian clarity that sounded like small bells of crystal. ‘You are good to have waited.’
‘It is my pleasure,’ he said, and cast an anxious look at Joana, who stood a little behind Doña Stefanía.
He had the dim-witted devotion to Joana of an ape, the Prioress thought scornfully. And for some reason her maid gave every sign of reciprocating his feelings! It was a curious thing, she had often found, that women who were in every other way perfectly sensible and wise, could show in their choice of men a sad lack of commonsense. Joana was intelligent, she had beauty of a sort, and her appearance was fine, wearing as she did Doña Stefanía’s own cast-off dresses. Today she had on a magnificent blue tunic with bright yellow embroidery at neck, cuffs and hem. Most men seeing her would think her a lady in her own right, with her calm, brown eyes and olive complexion. Her mane of dark hair was decorously concealed beneath her spotless wimple, but there was just a slight hint of the long braids beneath, just as the length of the tunic showed how long were her legs, and the belt nipped in nicely to show off her hips, waist and the bulge of her bust. Yes, with her smiling oval face and full lips, any man would be pleased to have her at his side.
There was only the one reason why she wanted him, surely: his money. Frey Ramón might not be a great lord with huge estates, but there was one thing certain about a Knight of Santiago, and that was that such a man would never be forced to beg for his food. She could wed him, comfortable in the knowledge that she would have time to herself, that she would gain not only a husband but also servants and staff and that she would never have to work again. A fair enough exchange, Doña Stefanía thought.
It would be cruel to separate the two, judging from Frey Ramón’s languishing expression, but Doña Stefanía had no wish to throw them together either. She wanted to talk to Joana if she could, ask whether she was serious about this fellow.
‘I think,’ Doña Stefanía said, after a moment’s thought, ‘that it would be most pleasant to take a short ride now. You know where I am staying, Señor. Perhaps you could come and meet me there?’
‘Um …’ He threw a longing, confused glance at Joana, and Doña Stefanía sighed to herself. It was hard, when dealing with dolts. She would advise Joana to give him a tumble, if she desired, but really, when she had enjoyed herself with him, she would have to throw him over. Surely she must realise how dull-witted the fool was!
Frey Ramón mumbled his response like a carter’s boy, and it was all she could do to maintain her smile as he ducked his head in a deep reverence, before walking away backwards. No matter his birth and the colour of his tunic, he was still an unmannered oaf, like a serf. Any man could swear to poverty and obedience when he knew he could wed and enjoy the natural pleasures of a man and woman, and Frey Ramón, was a man like any other. Ramón of the hairy-arse, she thought of him. The idea of his embracing Joana made her shudder.
‘Are you seriously intending to leave my service to marry that imbecile?’ she hissed.
Joana’s eyes took on that heavy-lidded look of obstinacy which Doña Stefanía recognised so well.
‘You can look at me like that, if you want,’ she told her maid tartly, ‘but it won’t change anything. Look at you! You could have your choice of many fellows. You don’t have to stick to him! He’s so … so silly!’
‘And you think that you behave better?’
It was a slap in the face. The lady took a sharp breath, but then let it out gently. ‘Very well. I am no paragon of virtue, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean that you need throw yourself away on a fellow like him.’
‘He suits me. He would do anything I wanted,’ Joana said, ‘and that serves my purpose for now.’
‘For now maybe, but marriage is for a lifetime, not for a few moments of idleness.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Is that beggarwoman waving to you?’
Joana glanced up and along the way to where Doña Stefanía had seen the tall beggar. The sight seemed to surprise her, and then she gave a cold smile. Murmuring a word of apology, she left her lady, as though making for the beggarwoman, but turned away at the last moment when she saw Ramón and paused to talk with him instead.
Foolish, Doña Stefanía thought, her mind still locked on the riddle like a terrier fighting to get the marrow from a beef bone. Why couldn’t she have picked a fellow with a brain and looks? There were enough of them about. If Doña Stefanía herself decided to choose a man for her personal use, she would be sure to select one who was on her own level.
At the thought she gave a twisted grin. The last man with whom she had slept wasn’t at all the right sort. If she was honest, Parceval Annesen the Fleming was a scruffy peasant at whom she would not usually ha
ve glanced, but there was something about his persistence. It was just as though he had fallen in love with her, and that was enormously complimentary. He did at least have manners; he was extremely polite. And although Doña Stefanía wouldn’t usually have entertained any thought of sleeping with him in the normal course of events, while away from her priory, and with the thrill of his obvious infatuation, she succumbed and let him take her. At the time she had thought it could be dangerous: and now … Well, she had been proved right! She had no wish for a man to come and blackmail her – and yet that was exactly what had happened. It was unfair!
Perhaps, she thought, that dullard Ramón was not so unsuited for Joana, after all. At least he was devoted to her, from what Doña Stefanía could see. Watching the two of them now, she saw the little caress Joana gave him – a fleeting touch on the forearm, no more. There was no need. He was enraptured, smitten, hooked. Bowing to Joana, he walked away backwards for a few paces, as though intending to fix every aspect of her upon his mind, reluctant to leave her presence.
Doña Stefanía pursed her lips. What an idiot. He was just like a lovesick youth. Yet he made Joana happy, and that was good.
Joana was talking to the beggarwoman now, a tall woman who looked much like Joana herself, apart from the heavy black material of her habit and veil. There was no hunching to her shoulders, no palsied hand shaking beneath the noses of passers-by; in fact, she had the carriage of a noblewoman. Doña Stefanía thought she could herself have been a lady.
It was annoying that Joana would still go and talk to people who were below her station. It was always a mistake, Doña Stefanía thought sourly. It made those to whom she talked feel as though they had some importance, which was entirely spurious. Better by far to leave them to their own kind.
There she went again, laughing with the beggar. Joana would always have a word with even the lowliest. For many people who knew her, it was a part of her charm; for Doña Stefanía, this ability to talk to any person, whether a whore, a beggar, or a queen, was a sign of the girl’s foolishness. One should always remember from whence one came, and stick to one’s equals while serving one’s superiors. That was the whole basis of society. If peasants started to think they were equal to lords and ladies, there would be rioting. Better that the peasants should know their place. Better for everyone. Peasants didn’t enjoy being treated like equals, they preferred certainty. But a person’s station in life mattered less to a woman like Joana, the Doña assumed. After all, she was born a peasant herself, so there was less stigma for her, talking to the dregs of society. The Doña herself would have found it very difficult to talk to some of the folks that Joana sought out – like those beggars. Nasty, befouled people that they were. Most of them were perfectly healthy, too. They only begged because they were lazy.
It wasn’t only Joana who went to the beggars. Another group of pilgrims had just entered the square, and Doña Stefanía saw a monk, two merchant-types and a tall woman in black all reaching into their purses. Fools. All they were doing was showing the beggars that there was money to be made.
‘Doña? Doña?’
She took one look at the grubby out-thrust hand and commanded, ‘Begone.’
‘Could you spare a coin for an old man?’
‘No. If you want alms, claim them from the Cathedral.’
He was frowning now, peering determinedly. ‘Doña Stefanía?’ She turned and looked at the black-clad beggar, slowly taking him in, up and down. ‘What do you want? I have no money for you.’
‘I remember you. You were wife to Gregory.’
She drew in her breath. ‘I do not know you,’ she said. The insolent son of a Moorish slave!
‘I used to be a knight, Lady – Sir Matthew,’ he whined. ‘I knew your husband.’
This creature used to be a knight? It hardly bore thinking of. Some knights occasionally suffered loss, when their master died or they were thrown from their positions because of some real or imagined misdemeanour, such as trying to bed the master’s wife. That was the most common cause of a knight’s urgent separation from his place of bed and board. This fellow did not fit her picture of an adulterous servant, however. Nor did he look like a knight, even one who had lost his position and livelihood.
‘Go away, little man! I do not know you,’ she snapped.
Matthew stood unmoving for a long moment after the Doña had walked away with her nose in the air.
Only ten years ago he had been a man of honour. He was called to meetings with great lords, his opinion was sought by the rich and powerful, his support enlisted.
In that one decade, his entire life had been pulled apart; his position in the world had been whisked from beneath him and his status utterly eradicated. There was nothing he could do about it. There were no allies for a man who had been a Templar. Eleven or twelve years ago, he would have been able to report the behaviour of that vain Prioress to her Bishop and felt sure that she would have learned to regret her rudeness.
A couple of traders were watching him unsympathetically, he noted, as though they were preparing to evict him from the square. He turned and walked away between the stalls, until he reached a clearing, and there he almost stumbled into a pair of arguing women.
‘Caterina, look at the state of you! I’m shocked that you’ve sunk so low.’
‘What would you expect, Joana? My father won’t support me, therefore I am destitute. What else can I do?’
‘What of your husband’s master? You gave up everything for your man. Wouldn’t he look after you if he knew the depths into which you have sunk?’
‘Look after me! How many masters accept responsibility for their servants’ widows?’ Caterina said scathingly. ‘There is little enough chance of that.’
‘There may be a way for you to earn some money.’
‘How? From your mistress? I doubt it!’
‘Perhaps so,’ Joana said slyly. ‘I may be able to help you.’ She nodded as though with satisfaction, but then noticed a shadow gliding forwards. ‘Domingo? Is that you?’ she demanded.
‘Yes. I missed the bastard! He got away, but I’ll—’
‘Shut up about him,’ his cousin ordered. ‘We have more important things to worry about.’ She became aware of Matthew and demanded: ‘What do you want?’
‘Me? Only alms,’ Matthew said, trying to fit a suitably humble tone to his voice. It was hard, God, but it was hard.
Domingo moved towards him. ‘If you don’t disappear, old man, I’ll make you – got that?’
Matthew squared his shoulders. A flare of anger ran through his bones like quicksilver, making him recall his past, as though his youthful strength might return to him and give his muscles the power they once enjoyed. He clenched his belly and felt his shoulders drop, a leg slipping back into the approved position for defence. Yet even as his body flowed automatically into the posture, there was a twinge in his ankle and a stabbing pain in his thigh. If he were to try to fight this man, he would be killed within seconds.
That stark reality hurt. Even after the destruction of his Order, he had known that he could fight off an assailant: now even that was taken from him. His stomach was empty, not only from lack of food, but from the emptiness in his soul. He felt like a warrior who had been left on the field after a battle, watching with empty eyes as the scavengers arrived – the crows, foxes, rats and men and women, thieving what they wanted from the corpses. He was the last alive, the remaining member of his unit. And now he had been dishonoured by a felon whom he would have killed with one hand tied behind his back when he was a younger man.
His head hanging, he turned and stumbled away. At last he looked what he knew himself to be: an old, broken man.
Joana watched him shuffling away, then turned to her cousin again. ‘So, Caterina, you’d like to win my lady’s favour, would you? I think I might be able to help you there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never you mind for now. Later, when the sun is two hours past its highest, me
et me again. There is a ford north of here where many women do their washing. I’ll tell you then. I promise it will be worth your while.’
Caterina held her gaze steadfastly. ‘Very well, but I beg of you, don’t make me hope for something which you can’t provide. Please, I am content now.’
‘Content? Look at yourself! A stale widow, no use to anyone. No money, no property, nothing,’ Joana said with disdain. ‘If you want my help, do as I say. Otherwise, be damned! Now leave me.’
In the face of her cruelty, Caterina held her head high, but as she turned, she couldn’t help a shuddering sob from racking her frame. It was only with an effort, Joana noticed, that she kept herself from breaking down and weeping. The maid was somewhat disappointed not to hear evidence of Caterina’s grief as the beggarwoman passed in among the stalls and out of sight.
‘Poor bitch,’ Domingo muttered. He was still wiping his eyes, and now his voice sounded thick.
‘Oh, you’re not going to start weeping again, are you?’
‘I’m not weeping! I don’t weep! I seek the murderer of my son, and when I find him, I’ll make him regret ever trying to harm a hair on my Sancho’s head.’
‘Very brave, very commendable,’ Joana said. ‘Right – did you take the mare like I told you?’
‘Yes, and put her back in the stable.’
‘Good. Then go. I shall find Doña Stefanía and comfort her, and then take her place.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ Domingo asked hesitantly. ‘It may be dangerous.’
‘Domingo,’ she returned impatiently, ‘you are a fool. You worry about yourself and leave my safety to me.’
And with a new sense of purpose, Joana strode off to seek her mistress.
Doña Stefanía’s annoyance grew as she wondered where Joana had gone. The maid was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had made a tryst with Ramón, and had forgotten the time, or perhaps she had forgotten about Doña Stefanía’s appointment. Either way, she was late, and that was intolerable, today of all days.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 6