In fact, he felt better than he could have hoped. That terrible desolation had gone, replaced by a renewal of love, faith and hope. Gregory had thought his life was more or less ended, that there was nothing left for him. It seemed that God Himself had turned His face from him just when Gregory needed Him most.
But that was rubbish – he could see that now. When the others went streaming down the hill towards the city, only to be cut down by the outlaws, he realised that his survival was proof of God’s forgiveness. Why else should He have saved him? Obviously it was a sign that God still loved him.
That awareness was wonderful. Where he had felt horror at being divorced from God’s love, now he was once more closely united. All was well.
Slowly drifting with the crowd, he walked like a man in a dream. Incense didn’t so much waft as billow from the enormous censers swung by powerful-looking young novices, and he inhaled a lungful of the aromatic smoke by mistake, suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit. Pilgrims eyed him dubiously, either considering him to be an unhealthy specimen, or wondering whether this was a fit brought on by a demon. There were a few who watched with interest, hoping to be able to attempt to exorcise him, or witness another doing so, but unfortunately (for the witnesses) he soon recovered. He rested his back against the cool stone of a column and contemplated the great windows ahead.
He was there when he heard a sudden intake of breath, and looked down to see Doña Stefanía. Dear God, he thought. Why was there always a serpent in Eden?
‘You again!’ he spat.
‘Where else, my once-husband?’ she said coldly.
It was lunchtime when Matthew glanced up at the sky and decided he needed a drink. That was the trouble with a place like this. The square was good for alms, for there were so many pilgrims passing through each day, but begging was hot, dusty work, and when the sun beamed down like this, it was unbearable. He felt as though he was melting in his black clothing.
Ever and again his mind took him back to the tavern last night, to the light playing gently over Sir Baldwin’s features as they chatted. It was the first time that Matthew had felt someone’s sympathy since the destruction of their Order. Usually all he felt was waves of revulsion when people saw him in the street.
He knew it was normal for ordinary people to loathe beggars – he would have done so himself. They were commonly the bone idle, incompetent and congenitally stupid – but surely people should see that he was different? He had the stamp of a warrior monk on him, he had been responsible for many lives, he had commanded men, and he had served his Pope with honour and distinction. His sole offence was to have been marked out for misfortune. He had not acted against the Lord God, he had not offended any of His commandments. All he had done, he had done in God’s name for God’s glory.
That was his firm belief. When he was younger, when he had served the Pope, things had seemed so simple and straightforward. There was good and evil, and the two were clearly delineated.
Matthew tramped over the square towards the alley that led north. A short way up here, he knew, was a small inn where folk like him were treated kindly. The owner was a decent woman who sought to support those who needed her aid. She had a soft spot for Matthew, he reckoned, for she always had a pot of wine and water for him, and sometimes there was a sausage to go with it or a slab of bacon.
Yet his mind was not on the blessed joy of a filled stomach. Rather, it was still fixed on Baldwin’s generosity of spirit. It seemed that the knight still adhered to the oaths he had taken so many years ago, and still felt comradeship for Matthew; it was as though he didn’t see the torn rags of a beggar, but smelled the purity of a clean soul beneath. At the memory of Baldwin’s expression, Matthew’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a thick, throat-blocking sense of guilt and foolishness at what he had done.
He couldn’t speak to Baldwin again, he decided. There was too much shame in doing so.
He walked along the narrow snickleway with the slow gait of a man made drowsy from the heat. Perhaps later he would leave the city, go back upriver again, and take a cool dip. Then he could lie on the bank and dream of the past, of his glories and honour during those great days when he lived in the Pope’s fortress at Avignon.
How vain are the dreams of man, he thought. None at Avignon would recall his face now, let alone his deeds. He was an historical embarrassment, that was all.
As he passed a tree, he thought he heard something behind him, but his mind was so fixed upon the idea of water and the delicious sensation of coolness, that he paid it little heed. Only when he heard a scream from a woman, and saw the man suddenly appear, did he realise that his end had come at last, and it was with a brief feeling of relief that he saw the blade of the dagger right before him.
He made no effort to defend himself. He had been a coward once: this time he could embrace his fate willingly. He actually smiled as he felt the point pierce his breast.
‘Christ’s cods, but it’s hot, isn’t it?’ Simon muttered as they passed along the alley leading to the gate.
Baldwin glanced at him. His friend was wiping at his brow with a sleeve, and his face appeared redder than usual. ‘Simon, we ought to get something to drink before we do anything else.’
‘Oh, in God’s name, I’m all right,’ Simon retorted. ‘You’re worse than Meg. My wife’s always telling me to take it easy when I have to go on a long journey or anything. Anyone would think I was a feeble cleric or something.’
Baldwin smiled, but he was not going to be refused. There was a well in a garden nearby, and Baldwin asked the man leaning against the wall there whether they might drink a little from it. He grunted his assent. Baldwin drank his fill, then insisted that Simon do the same. ‘You have never suffered from sunstroke – I have,’ he declared. ‘It is worse than you can imagine, and it can be dangerous. It is not worth taking the risk.’
‘Very well,’ Simon said. He was prepared to humour his friend, and to be fair, he was thirsty. Next to the well was a small sewer, and he availed himself of that too, turning his nose up at the smell of faeces in the hot, still air.
‘Right,’ he said when he was done. ‘Let’s summarise what we know so far. We have a dead maid. She was there at the river, we know or think, with her fiancé, Frey Ramón. However, he denies this and says the last time he saw her was in the city.’
‘We only have Don Ruy’s word for Frey Ramón’s presence at the murder site.’
‘Yes – and he himself was sent here because of a rape.’
‘But with a parchment that declares he was innocent.’
Simon nodded. ‘If it was real – and not a forgery!’
‘True,’ Sir Baldwin sighed. ‘We also have this mysterious matter of the blackmail. Remember, Ruy alleged that a known outlaw with a hunched head left the city that afternoon, too.’
‘So our chief suspects so far are Ruy himself, Ramón and this felon.’ Simon shrugged. ‘Where on earth could the Prioress’s money have gone?’
‘Find that and we find the murderer,’ said Baldwin.
‘Where are we going now?’ Simon asked as Baldwin set off again.
‘To look at some of the stables about here,’ Baldwin said. He was peering up the road, towards the unmistakable sound of neighing and snorting. ‘I want to make sure that the noble Don Ruy was telling the truth about hiring a horse. There can’t be that many stables here, and if he decided to hire a mount on the spur of the moment, surely he’d pick a place that lay on the way to the gate.’
‘Didn’t Munio say he had sent men to check the stables?’ Simon said, hurrying to keep up and panting a little.
‘No. Munio sent to learn where the maid’s horse was stabled, and whether she was followed. I want to see where Ruy found his mount. After all, he may have followed her after seeing her on her horse. There is nothing to say that he followed her to her stable. In any case, I think you and I can question stablemen more effectively. We have more facts about the murder at our disposal.’
�
��You suspect him, don’t you?’
Baldwin looked at him. ‘Did you see his face when he spoke of Joana? There was hurt there when he told how she’d tethered her horse with that other man’s. We heard that he was staring at Joana when they left the gate, according to the beggar; also, he admits he was chasing after her.’
‘Interesting. That all means he didn’t see Ramón on the way out, only her. So was Ramón already there and waiting at a prearranged rendezvous?’ Simon mused.
‘Perhaps. I do wonder about him. Could Ramón have killed her for the money?’ Baldwin thought aloud.
‘He looked to be utterly bereft at the scene yesterday.’
‘True.’ Baldwin stopped. ‘Let’s ask in here. Perhaps things are about to be clarified for us.’
The building had a large yard, railed to stop horses escaping, and a simple barn behind, set out with rings in the walls to enclose the horses. Inside, rounseys and cheaper pack beasts stood and chomped on their straw. The groom arrived in moments, happily took Baldwin’s proffered tip, but could not help them. He had not served any man yesterday, let alone a knight.
They left and walked farther up the lane. The next two stables were no more helpful than the first, but when they reached the fourth one, the little, pinched-faced man took Baldwin’s money with a suspicious glower. Simon thought it made him look less like a human and more like a deeply unhappy goblin, similar to the ones being carved on Exeter’s new Cathedral.
Baldwin asked whether a knight had called in yesterday afternoon, and the man nodded suspiciously. ‘What of it?’
‘We wanted to ask about his horse. He had it for much of the afternoon?’
‘If he’s the man you mean, he took it out in the early afternoon. I told him to be careful, because of the heat, and he said he was going up along the river so the horse could drink and get shade when it wanted.’
‘I see. And which horse did he take?’ Baldwin asked glancing along the lines of mounts.
‘His own. A dark one, with a splash of white on its shoulder and neck. Why?’
Baldwin tried to control his excitement. ‘This man, he came back later? Where is the horse now?’
‘He’s taken it with him – off to Portugal, I think. Probably to Tomar. That was where he was talking about going, anyway.’
Baldwin rapped out some more questions, then turned at last to Simon. ‘He says that the man’s name was Ramón.’
‘He’s bolted! He’s taken the money and gone!’
‘Slow down, Simon. He could merely have been so distraught at his fiancée’s death that he decided to flee the city. It is, after all, in Compostela, where his dreams came to nought.’
‘Did he say he would return?’ Simon enquired.
‘No. He has gone to Portugal, this man thinks.’
Simon licked his lips. ‘Ask about other travellers who have come in here recently and stabled their horses with him.’
After much talk, the groom admitted to some others. One in particular was a handsome mare which had arrived the day before. A man with a badly hunched back had brought it in, and left it. He hadn’t said when he was going to want it. It was just down the second aisle.
The groom led the way between massive rumps of horseflesh to a pretty little amblere, which stood sedately cropping at a bundle of hay, eyeing the men curiously.
‘Very pretty,’ Baldwin said with a smile, patting her backside.
‘She’d be a lovely beast for a lady,’ the groom said innocently.
‘I am sure you are right,’ Baldwin agreed affably. ‘Tell me more about this man who brought it in to you.’
Munio was in his hall with his clerical secretary when the call came to him, and he sighed as the priest packed up his scrip and some parchments with the air of a man who had seen it all before and knew he would see many more deaths before his own.
Every year, five or six men were elected to the post of Enquirer in Compostela, but Munio would be happy when his own period of office was complete. Usually, he spent his time in arranging sales of the strong local wines, for he was a merchant of some repute, but this last year had been difficult because he had been busy with investigations.
It was a dolorous task, observing the results of crimes, enquiring of the victims what they had seen, how they had been treated. All too often they would be shaking, scared, injured, with blood seeping from filthy rags bound about knocked heads, or over the stumps of fingers where they had tried to deflect a blade. And all too often they were dead, like the poor girl yesterday.
Death was the most depressing part of it all. It was not unnatural to be upset by the death of a young woman, but Munio felt the same sadness whether it was a child, a youth or an old person. His mournfulness had increased greatly since he became Pesquisidor. There was no sense in the early death of a fellow before his time. Or her time.
All were used to the misery of loss. No one could have escaped it, especially after the dreadful famines which affected the whole of Castile in the years from 1301. He had heard that other places had suffered too, especially since 1316, but the loss of so many in his own town was enough woe for him. There was only so much sadness a man could cope with.
There had been good times, it was true. He had fallen in love, he had married, fathered a pair of boys who were even now apprenticed to a friend who would teach them discipline and the rudiments of business, and his wife Margarita was a loyal, sensible, contented woman, who was a source of delight to him, and a continual relief. Without her, he would never have been able to cope with the stress of the last few months looking into so many crimes.
It was hard to believe that so many people who were only here to show their religious convictions or to beg forgiveness for a crime could cause so much mayhem, but that was the case.
And now there had been another murder.
He followed the young man who had found the corpse, and stood over the bundle of filthy clothes, his nose twitching at the metallic smell of blood. It repelled him as ever.
‘Who would want to kill an old chap like him?’ he wondered aloud.
‘There was another beggar here. She screamed when he fell,’ the lad said. He was a short fellow, with the crooked leg that spoke of rickets when he had been a child. His pale, shocked features were pox-marked and scrawny, as though he hadn’t had a filling meal in weeks.
‘Where is she?’ Munio asked.
‘Dunno. I heard her scream, and saw this man fall, and then she ran off. The murderer must have stabbed the old sod and then bolted back down that way,’ he said, pointing back towards the square.
‘Did you see who the beggarwoman was?’
‘I’ve seen her, yes, but I don’t know her name.’
‘Oh, good!’ Munio sighed with weary acceptance. In his experience, people who thought that they recognised someone near a crime, whether it was a witness or the perpetrator, were invariably wrong. In the heat of the moment, they always seemed to impose their own bigotries or hatreds on the scene and, in short, saw what they expected to see. It was rare that he had learned much of any use from ‘witnesses’ to a crime – except where the criminal was caught red-handed.
Usually, of course, that was what happened, he reflected as he hunkered down beside Matthew’s body. The man who killed was there, tripped over or grabbed by passers-by, and held until the Pesquisidor arrived. Normally, there was the smell of old wine on the man’s breath and he confessed bitterly, his motive some imagined slight or insult in a tavern, or some ancient feud reignited by alcohol.
This was not that kind of death, surely. ‘You say she screamed when this man fell, and then the killer approached him?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he was already on the ground before the man reached him?’ Munio said, brows raised. ‘The killer saw him fall to the ground, and then stabbed him?’
That he had been stabbed was not in question. There was a sharply cut section of material in the front of his breast, a little to the side of the breastbone. The kni
fe must have been thrust in forcefully and it had penetrated the heart instantly so far as Munio could see, because there was little blood. When he lifted the robes and pulled the shirt aside, there were no other stab wounds that he could see. The old man’s thin ribcage stood out plainly, the ghastly slit where the blade had penetrated showing as a dark cut with a dribble of blood.
It was a miserable figure, this corpse. At least the woman yesterday had been fully fleshed. This man was skinny, each bone defined. His chin was covered in a grey stubble as though he hadn’t been shaved in a week or more, although he was proud enough not to want to remain unshaved. Most beggars accepted their status and grew long beards. Not this fellow.
Matthew, Munio thought to himself. He had seen the man often enough, as had everyone who lived in the city. His stumbling gait was well known to all, as was his independence. He always stood apart, as though he was too proud to accept his lowly position. Munio was not the only man who had wondered about Matthew’s past. Odd. He was the one beggar who remained unbending and unsociable, yet he was the one whom all knew best. He was a loner, but that made him significant. It made him seem important.
There were other differences between Joana’s corpse and his. She had died as the result of a maddened attack, whereas Matthew had been disposed of in a simple, direct manner. A single stab wound, and that was that.
Munio considered that contrast as he sat back on his heels. Perhaps Joana had not merely cast off a past lover; maybe she had taken another woman’s man, and the spurned mistress had taken her revenge? In contrast, this beggar Matthew may have been cut down because he had known something, or seen something.
Whatever the reason for his death, Munio was not sanguine about finding his murderer. The sad fact was, that when there was no killer caught at the time, it was unlikely that anyone would be found later.
Was there a chance that the two deaths were in some way linked?
Munio stared down at the body. It was not very likely. The methods of death were so different, the means too, and any connection between an old man and a young, fresh woman was all but inconceivable.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 18