Time was moving on. She had to find her mount, the Prioress thought, patting her purse. Where on earth was that peasant with her horse? Gazing about her with a crease forming on her perfect, broad forehead, she felt a rising disquiet. Thefts from pilgrims were always a problem. Women were robbed, knocked on the head, raped, sometimes taken and kept imprisoned by uncultured villeins who sought better quality wives than the women of the villages in which they lived. Well, that was fine. Men were at risk too, she knew. Only the other day she had passed Lavamentula, and was told that it was a famous place for robberies, with pilgrims having all their clothes stolen while they bathed in the waters.
It would be no surprise if her mount had been stolen. Men had eyed it with interest in several towns as she passed through. The horse had cost her a small fortune. Ambleres were always hideously costly, and a popular target for thieves. Damn the lad, she wasn’t going to see it taken by a beardless boy!
Aha! Thank God. There he stood – over near the well, just where she’d told him to take her mount before she went up to the Cathedral. The thought was hardly in her mind before she was on her way over to him.
Seeing her mistress, Joana lifted her skirts to hurry over and join her.
‘Where is my horse?’ Doña Stefanía demanded as she reached the lad.
‘Your horse?’ he repeated, a faintly anxious expression rising to his face. He was a typically swarthy, unhealthy-looking serf, vacuous and incompetent – and right this minute as nervous as any felon caught filching a lord or lady’s purse.
‘Yes,’ she said tightly, ‘my horse. I left her with you while I went into the Cathedral. Perhaps you remember now?’
‘But the man …’
‘What man?’ she snorted. His manner was shifty; why she had left her mare with him, she didn’t know. Looking at him now, it seemed obvious he was a wastrel. He’d taken her mount and probably sold it already. ‘Where is my horse, you thief?’
‘My lady, please don’t shout!’ he begged, his hands up, but it was too late. There was whispering and now a space opened about them as the crowd became willing and eager witnesses. Among the voices, Doña Stefanía heard muttering as other pilgrims realised that this fellow had not just robbed any old pilgrim, he had taken a lady’s horse, and a lady of the cloth at that. There were many who would be ready to hang a man for that.
‘You have my horse? Good. Where is it?’ she said, her voice cold and relentless.
‘But you asked me to deliver the horse, and I did.’
‘What do you mean?’ she scoffed. ‘I told you to keep the horse for me and I would pay you when I had visited the Cathedral. Now you suggest I asked you to sell it and keep the money yourself, I suppose? You do know the penalties for those who rob pilgrims?’
Turning, she saw Joana behind her. She opened her mouth to command her maid to seek an official to arrest the peasant, but now the momentum of her speech was lost and the groom’s desperate voice was winning support from others in the crowd.
‘No, lady!’ he pleaded. ‘When you were going inside, your man came here and told me to give him the horse. He said he would take it to you because you felt faint and were going to ride to an inn. He paid me, too.’
‘What man, eh? I see no one! Joana? I want you …’
‘He took the horse and led it away.’
‘A likely story!’
Now a basket-seller spoke up. ‘It’s true. I was here when the man came up. The boy was reluctant to hand over the horse, but this man, he accused the boy of calling him a liar. What else could the lad do?’
‘What sort of man was this?’ asked a suspicious-looking fellow who stood with his thumbs in his broad belt.
‘Looked like a felon, but he had something about him, you know?’ the helpful basket-seller said when the boy plainly wasn’t going to reply; he was overawed and terrified that he could be accused and found guilty of theft. ‘He wasn’t tall, but hunched, and very broad about the shoulder, like one who’s used to work – but his hands weren’t dirty, so he was more like a knight than a peasant. Had a head that was sort of tilted to one side, like this, as if he had a pain in his neck.’
There was some sympathetic noise from the crowd. Clearly most felt that the lad had done his best, and any boy who was threatened had a right to protect himself.
‘That’s all very well, but how do I know you aren’t in league with this fellow yourself?’ demanded the Prioress.
‘Lady, I am only trying to help.’
‘Of course you are!’ she said sarcastically, and threw a look at Joana. The description was all too familiar – but why should Domingo take her horse? More probably, this ‘witness’ had seen Domingo with her earlier, and thought this was a good way to deflect attention from the kid. Except there was an indefinable tone of conviction in his voice.
‘The horse might be found,’ Joana said. ‘Shouldn’t we go and look? In which direction was it taken?’
Doña Stefanía could have stamped her foot in frustration. This was not how she had intended spending her afternoon. Glancing over the crowds, she wondered where that oaf Frey Ramón had gone, but it was too late and he had disappeared. He wasn’t here, and neither was her mare.
‘Ballocks!’ she said viciously in English, but the folk about her merely stared uncomprehendingly.
Joana alone understood, and she was waiting when her lady joined her and spoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘It was him took my horse, was it, your damned cousin? Why should he steal my horse?’
‘If he did,’ Joana said soothingly, ‘I assume it was because he saw it held by a stranger and sought to protect your property.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Doña Stefanía snorted. ‘He’s a thief and a leader of thieves. When he saw a horse waiting with a groom, he saw a profit to be made, and that’s all.’
‘Perhaps I can find him and ask …’
‘Ask him what?’ Doña Stefanía hissed with frustration. ‘There’s no time – look at the sun. No, there’s no choice: I’ll have to use your mount, Joana.’
‘Doña Stefanía, let me go instead.’
‘Why?’ the Prioress demanded with some surprise, and frowned with indecision. There were advantages to sending Joana: it was the hottest part of the day and as Joana knew, Doña Stefanía would always prefer to remain under shelter with a jug of chilled wine rather than gad about in the heat of the sun. And as for going and meeting this man … But it was she that he wanted, not Joana: it was her secret that he held. Besides, to stay away would be a tacit admission of fear, and Doña Stefanía had a hatred of being thought a coward. She was a noblewoman, after all.
‘It would be safer for you,’ Joana replied. ‘If there is only one of us, it could prove dangerous, but I don’t mind.’
‘Safer?’ Doña Stefanía stiffened and then pulled out her rosary, the cross dangling. ‘I fear no felon! I have God to protect me.’
‘I know, Doña, but think what a capture you would be to a man who had no scruples. If he was not prey to the fear of God, you would be a magnificent prize, wouldn’t you?’
The blackmailer, Joana told her, had asked for the contents of her purse, which surely meant solely the money. No one else knew what she carried, or so she hoped. Maybe Joana was right. There was no need to put herself into danger. She should at least keep her physical body from his clutches. There was little she could do to protect her good name now. Not even Saint James could save her reputation if that bastard got it into his head to ruin her, but that wasn’t the point. She had no desire to be raped, tortured or captured just to satisfy her stupid sense of duty and honour.
She nodded her agreement, spun on her heel, and found herself facing Gregory.
‘Oh, God! Not you again!’ she exclaimed dramatically, throwing both arms into the air, and then hurried past him before he could stop her.
It was one thing for her to be forced into the painful transaction of paying a man to keep a secret, but it would have been quite another, should her ex-
husband hear of her misbehaviour!
Chapter Four
They could smell the potent brew from several yards away and Baldwin eyed the cart with the barrel racked atop with a certain anxiety.
Simon saw his look. ‘I don’t care. It’s refreshing. Cider always is.’
‘Very well, but when we have finished, we must look for somewhere to stay the night. Rooms will be difficult to find.’
‘Rooms!’ Simon expostulated. ‘After last night in that hellhole of an inn, I’d prefer not to bother, thanks all the same! I’m covered in flea-bites and the lice are still squirming along my spine. No, let’s just find a pleasant, shady riverbank and stay there.’
‘I doubt whether the people of the town would be too pleased about vagrants sleeping out of doors,’ Baldwin pointed out.
‘You think someone would dare accuse me of being a vagrant?’ Simon growled. ‘I’d soon teach the miserable bugger to—’
‘Look!’ Baldwin said hastily. ‘There’s a place up there.’
‘It’s a bit rickety-looking,’ Simon said doubtfully.
It was a large tavern, built into the side of a hill, so that on the ground level there was a cattle-shed, while the entrance to the place was on the next level. From the look of it, there was plenty of space inside, with a small chamber jutting out over the alleyway to provide toilet facilities.
‘You simply don’t like anything built by a foreigner,’ Baldwin said lightly, ‘but I’d rather a room in there than another night in the rain or being arrested as a vagrant.’
Simon grunted, but he couldn’t disagree. No one liked tramps sleeping rough, and he had no wish to be arrested.
They had reached the cart of the wine-seller, and at this moment their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a slim, short woman with black hair and gleaming eyes. She nodded encouragingly at them.
‘Cider,’ Simon said, holding up two fingers.
‘Simon,’ Baldwin remonstrated, ‘not all people here will speak English.’
‘Sí, señor,’ she nodded and was soon back with two large jugs.
‘See?’ Simon said triumphantly. ‘It’s easy to get what you need when you show a little understanding.’
Baldwin smiled. He knew that in a city like Compostela, many traders would be used to the curious languages spoken by pilgrims from all over the world. A moment later, before he could frame a reply, he became aware of a woman behind him. She was hunched over, dressed entirely in black, a hood thrown over her head, veil covering her face like all beggars, a palsied hand waving before her as she wailed and wept, bemoaning her fate, her bare feet dusty as she shuffled through the dirt. She approached the two, her crying increasing in volume.
A woman like that, Baldwin mused cynically, would be more of a challenge in communication. He was wrong.
‘Bugger off!’ Simon said unsympathetically, and without missing a note, she moved away like a ship turning across the wind, seeking a fresh target. ‘I hate being confronted by beggars. You know that most of them are professionals, trying to gull the innocent out of their hard-earned money, yet some will always help them.’
‘There is a motive – you have heard of charity?’
‘Yes. And I give a good tenth of all my income to support people like her,’ Simon said, ‘if she is genuine. But most beggars aren’t, as you well know. If only they’d take up work, they could get by. It’s people like her who prey on crowds, knowing that among all the people she only needs … what? One in every twenty or four and twenty? That would bring her plenty of money for herself and a family of eight squalling brats. If she was really that desperate, the Cathedral would look after her. I’m sure there are alms enough for her at the doors after each meal. The Almoner wouldn’t see her starve if she is needy.’
‘Perhaps. And yet I think that the famine here struck the peasants more cruelly even than in England.’
‘Baldwin, you are growing soft. No, we suffered badly enough. Remember cannibalism, God save my stomach! That occurred in places like Wales and Kent – and Devon,’ he added meaningfully.
‘I remember.’
‘There you are then.’
Baldwin grew aware of another dark, shambling figure standing a short distance from him, and groaned to himself. He disliked spurning genuine beggars, but was sure that Simon was correct and that the black- and grey-clad shapes that moved and moaned among the hordes in the square were opportunists and no more. He turned away and sipped at his cider, hoping that the fellow would be daunted by his back.
Then he felt a creeping chill like a snake slithering slowly down his spine as he heard the man speak. At first there was no recognition, but then something of the voice snagged on a memory, and Baldwin realised that he knew this man. There was a cough, and he heard a voice say gently, ‘Sir Baldwin, you wouldn’t ignore an old comrade, would you?’
Baldwin felt more comfortable when he was sitting with his back to a wall in a shaded room off the square.
The innkeeper had welcomed Simon and himself effusively when they approached, but his attitude altered as soon as he caught sight of the limping figure behind them. Holding out both arms, he made brushing motions at the beggar like a man waving away a fly, and Baldwin had to move between them, staring coldly at the innkeeper until he backed down and allowed them all inside.
It was a pleasant little spot. Not far from the Cathedral, so that they could see the great building looming over the roofs, it was sheltered from the heat of the sun, but even so Baldwin was relieved when a jug of water was deposited before them by the host. He glowered at the beggar as though he expected to be stabbed as he turned his back, then reluctantly set a second jug, this containing a harsh wine, before them all. Three cheap pottery cups joined the jugs, and the keeper turned from the party as though glad to leave them.
‘Did you know me, Sir Baldwin, did you – after so many years?’
Simon was gazing at the man with an expression of mingled doubt and distaste, and Baldwin could understand why. ‘Brother Matthew,’ he said gently. ‘How could I forget you?’
‘Easily, I’d imagine,’ the man said sadly, looking down at himself. ‘Not many would want to associate with such as me now.’
‘You are no less honourable now than you ever were,’ Baldwin said.
‘No. I am far less honourable,’ Matthew corrected, remembering the terrible desolation he had felt when he realised he dared not defend himself against the bully in the square. ‘I used to be a knight, and now I can’t even protect myself from attack. I am a beggar, pleading for my daily bread and water. I am that which I myself used to spurn. God knows how to bring down the mightiest, doesn’t He?’
Baldwin put a hand out and touched the beggar’s wrist. ‘Those of us who were fortunate enough to serve God as we did will be honoured when we die, Matthew. All the crimes committed against us during our lives will only serve to increase our favour in the eyes of God.’
‘I hope you are right!’
Simon looked away. The man’s hood had fallen back now, and the tears were falling unchecked. It was somehow not merely sad. There was something Simon instinctively disliked about this Matthew.
He wasn’t as repulsive as so many beggars were. There was no sign of physical disability about his face and limbs, which was a relief. Simon cordially detested the sight of the lepers and cripples who populated so many cities. Even here in Compostela, or perhaps especially here because so many would come to beg the Saint’s aid, there were unnumbered men and women, hooded and concealed so as not to scare away those from whom they begged their alms. Fortunately this Matthew also appeared to bathe regularly, for there was about him none of the sour stench which Simon tended to associate with mendicants; nevertheless, for all that there was some aura about him which showed the depths into which his spirits had sunk. He was surprised that Baldwin couldn’t himself feel the horrible emanation. It was like a miasma about the man.
Matthew had once probably been tall, but it was hard to tell
now. He was hunched over, his head held so low that his unshaven chin all but touched his chest; however his face was still quite comely, marred only by age. His hair was that curious silvery yellow which showed that once he had been fair, but his features were burned as brown as an ancient oaken timber by the sun, and his skin looked about as soft. Simon thought that his eyes might once have been a bright cornflower blue, not that it was easy to gauge. Matthew was so used to peering into the bright sunshine that his eyes were habitually narrowed in a squint. That he could see perfectly clearly, Simon guessed, because his attention was forever moving, glancing at the table and picking at a crumb of bread, then going up to gaze at people in the crowds outside, back to the innkeeper, and then across to Baldwin or Simon.
He had suffered, though. Simon could recall all too clearly just how impressed he had been with Baldwin’s appearance when they had first met, and now he was struck in the same way by this Matthew. There were deep tracks at either side of his mouth as though a carpenter had gouged them with his chisels. His tall brow was lined with proofs of care and fear, and his square jaw was clenched in rest as though there was no peace to be had for a man who had been so cruelly betrayed.
Yet there was something about him that grated on Simon’s nerves: a faint whining tone to his voice, as though he was now so thoroughly habituated to his role as a beggar that he couldn’t stop himself from trying to plead for money. Simon looked forward to getting away from Matthew. The man was twisted and ruined by his experiences.
‘You did not try to find a new Order?’ Baldwin asked now.
‘I was in our preceptory at Pombal in Portugal,’ Matthew said with a writhing movement as though the bench was uncomfortable. ‘When the arrests were made in France, like so many of our brethren, I couldn’t believe the accusations, but then we were arrested as well.’
‘They took you into custody – but they did not torture you?’ Baldwin asked gently.
‘No. We were fortunate. King Dinis held us and set his own officials in the castles and towns, but he didn’t misuse us. When our Father the Pope ordered that there should be an enquiry, King Dinis set up his own special court which found us innocent. But behind the scenes, he had agreed with the Kings of Aragon and Castile that they would all adopt a common policy. When the Pope commanded the Order to be suppressed, the three Kings had a special case. The Hospitallers didn’t get the Templars’ lands – they went to new Orders.’
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 7