‘Doña Stefanía,’ he breathed.
She was weeping uncontrollably, but there was no sign of blood. In his experience a man or woman would leak alarmingly from a slight scratch, whereas a serious wound, like the one he gave Hellin, might give rise to very little bleeding. That was worrying, for she might be about to die, and if she was, he didn’t want to be near her in case he got accused of her death. As these thoughts were running through his mind, and he glanced along the alley considering escape, she looked up, her face streaked with tears.
‘Oh, Parceval! He stole it from me!’
Her voice didn’t sound like that of a woman who was gasping her last, and Parceval felt relieved.
‘My dear, dear lady! How are you?’ he said. ‘I heard the fracas, and although I ran here as fast as I could, he escaped! Who was it, did you see? If I catch him, he’ll regret his actions! I’ll cut his throat for him, acting like this to a Lady of the Church! Has he no faith?’
‘Leave him,’ Doña Stefanía said urgently. ‘Don’t pursue him, he is deadly.’
‘You know him?’
‘I …’ she hesitated, but fear made her blurt out the truth. ‘Yes. He was my maid’s cousin. He and his men were protecting me on my way to Orthez, and back again.’
‘They were not with your party when you joined us,’ Parceval pointed out.
‘I told them to keep away, but to follow at a distance. I thought that such a disreputable group might make your companions refuse to let me join you.’
Parceval nodded. Clearly she feared attack or robbery by the man and his companions – not unreasonably, from what he had just witnessed. Well now, he thought, this is better than the other day when I saw her in the square. He was about to speak again, when she submitted to another bout of sobbing. ‘My lady, please. How can I serve you?’
‘I don’t know … Take me to a tavern, somewhere I can have a little wine. I am so unsettled … I feel terrible.’
He saw her hand pat at her side, as though feeling for something, and then he saw the thongs, obviously sliced through, and realised that her purse was gone. So now she was bankrupted. With nothing but the clothes she stood up in, she would be delighted for the comfort, and perhaps companionship, of a man. Especially a man of means. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Come, lady. Let me help you. But you shouldn’t go to a low tavern. Come with me and I shall see you well provided for.’
She accepted his hand, and when she stood, he was enormously relieved to see that opposite, a short way up a narrow little alley, there was a torch burning. He realised it had been the reflection of this which had made the attacker’s knife shine so alarmingly.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, content now that her answer would be negative.
‘No. Only my …’ She dissolved into tears, and this time he was in a better position to offer her comfort. He took her head in one hand and bent it to his shoulder, while with the other he encircled her waist. Then he stood still as she wailed and moaned quietly into his neck. ‘I trusted him! I’ve lost Joana, now him … who can I trust?’
Tonight he need not pay the exorbitant charges of the prostitutes, he reckoned. This woman was desperate, and he was sure that, from past experience with her, he could give her exactly the kind of solace she required.
He was rather glad he’d come along this alley. That figure had been very alarming, but things had turned out well. With that thought, he shot a look back in the direction the man had run off. If he appeared again, Parceval would ditch the woman and flee, he decided, but then he calmed himself. There was no sign of the fellow, and Parceval, if he played his dice aright, would have the opportunity of plenty of exercise without running!
That night, Simon woke with an intense griping sensation in his belly. ‘I’ll never get a decent night’s sleep in this blasted country,’ he grumbled as he picked his way over the slumbering bodies, tugging his blanket tighter about his naked shoulders on the way to the garderobe.
Squatting on the creaking wood, he brought his weight away from the moving timbers. It was partly to take his mind off the quality of the workmanship that he reminded himself of the investigation so far.
Baldwin, he knew, was shocked by the death of his friend Matthew the beggar. Learning that an old companion had been murdered had clearly stolen his concentration. Simon had a conviction that if either of them was to learn who had killed Joana, it would be him.
It was odd, the bond that service in the Order created between men, he thought. All the men he had met who had been in the Templars had seemed more intelligent than other knights, and Simon wondered fleetingly whether that was a sign of the recruitment policy of the Order, or a sign that they did enjoy some special training. He would probably never know. Even Matthew, who had sunk so low, still had a degree of cunning and intelligence that was higher than some knights Simon knew. Most knights, when it came down to it, would find it hard to locate their arses with both hands!
With that thought, there was a tortured squeak from the timbers and he hastily stopped chuckling.
Don Ruy had looked like an honourable knight, but he was flawed, if his Bishop was to be believed. But then, the Bishop might have been partial. If the girl’s father was politically important in Don Ruy’s town, the Bishop himself may have been influenced to punish the knight unreasonably. Politics mattered.
If Ruy was telling the truth, then it was possible that Ramón had walked with his fiancée, then killed her and stolen the money. Certainly Ramón had fled the town one day afterwards, which could be taken as an admission of guilt – although Simon himself could well understand that a man who had just buried his raped and murdered woman would want to flee the place which held such foul memories. Then again, surely a knight would want to find the culprit and kill him?
There was the other man: the felon who had been involved in the attack on the pilgrims, and who took the horse to the stable. How could that tie into Joana’s death? There were plenty of attacks on pilgrims, after all. Robberies and rapes were common enough.
Simon wondered whether the man had actually left Compostela to go and find the girl Joana. If he had, he might have come across her after Ramón had seen her; after which he killed and robbed her. Perhaps he had led an attack against the pilgrims because he wanted to kill her before, or to kill the Prioress, and he killed Joana when the Prioress didn’t appear? The two women had joined this group of pilgrims, Simon remembered, if only for a few short days. Could the man have intended to kill one or both of them, and that was why he attacked them outside Compostela? It was possible – but again, why? What motive was there for the attack?
‘I don’t know enough yet,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I need more information.’
That wasn’t all. He also needed his sleep. He cleaned himself as best he could and slowly made his way, yawning widely, to his bed. Once there, with his blanket spread over him, he closed his eyes, and imagined in front of him the face of Don Ruy, gazing at him sternly, one hand on his sword. Then Ruy moved aside, and he found himself facing Ramón, who stood sadly shaking his head. Behind him appeared first Matthew, then a woman whom he assumed was Joana.
But finally, as he began to drift into sleep, he grew aware of another figure behind them all – the squat figure of a man dressed in leather and cheap cloth, an ugly man with a head set to one side, a man whose hands were covered in blood.
Chapter Sixteen
Matthew’s corpse had been lodged in a room off at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was a mere rude shelter, and the next morning, when Simon and Baldwin arrived there with Munio, it was cool in the lee of the massive stone walls.
‘I keep bodies here until they can be buried,’ Munio explained as he fumbled with the lock. ‘You will understand that in the hot weather, we have to bury them quickly … and Matthew will need to be placed in his grave today.’
The room was bare. There was a set of shelves over on the left wall, all musty and cobwebbed, while the only light came from a small
, high window. The right wall was composed of massive stone slabs, the unrendered wall of the Cathedral itself, and boxes were stacked along it, all with open lids. Some had shovels protruding, some axes, while in a far one stood some long polearms, an incongruous sight here in a church’s grounds.
Munio saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Where would you put them?’ he asked simply.
Simon grinned, but he saw that Baldwin didn’t hear their talk. The knight stood just inside the doorway, staring at the wreckage of his companion.
To Simon, the body was like a shrivelled husk of a man just as a raisin was a shrivelled husk of a grape. Other corpses struck him with real sadness, like that of the woman Joana, because in their death they had shown the ending of lives which were not yet fully ripened. There was so much that youngsters might have achieved. That was what had hurt him more than anything about the loss of his own first son. Peterkin had developed a fever, and that with the diarrhoea had made his end messily brutal. Worst of all, as he faded, his screams and whimpering had stabbed Simon like daggers of guilt, because he could do nothing to ease the lad’s suffering, and that had caused a terrible desire to have him silenced. It was almost a relief when at last his crying had faded to nothing and Simon realised that he would never again make a noise.
This death was different. Matthew was an old man. He had seen and done much in his sixty-odd years, and a life which had been fully enjoyed – or endured – had not been totally wasted.
Matthew lay untidily. No one had bothered to put his hands together or close his eyes. They probably thought there was no point, not with a beggar who wouldn’t be able to afford the simplest funeral. Simon could empathise with that view. There was no point in making too much effort for a man who, when all was said and done, wouldn’t be missed by many. Matthew had no wife, no daughter, no son, no mother; there was nobody to mourn him.
But when he glanced at Baldwin, Simon realised he was wrong: Baldwin mourned him. The knight was overcome with sadness. He had slept badly. Simon had heard him tossing and turning during the night, and more than once had thought that he should interrupt Baldwin’s thoughts and try to talk, but each time he had slipped away into slumber again. It was hard, but he was so tired with the heat during the day and wine at night, and he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open. He vaguely recalled waking and seeing Baldwin sitting at an open, unshuttered window staring out at the stars, but now he wasn’t certain that it wasn’t a dream. It had all the power of reality, certainly, but his dreams were often vivid.
The knight appeared reluctant to approach closer. For once, Simon felt that he was the calmer of the pair of them in the face of death. Rather than waiting, Simon stepped forward and stood over the corpse, staring down at the body. ‘Is the girl out here as well?’
‘She is buried. There was nothing to keep her from her grave.’
‘This man was wounded where?’
As he spoke, Simon was aware of Baldwin walking forward and standing at his side. The knight’s eyes looked moist, as though there were unshed tears held at bay, but then Simon saw him blink a few times, and when he glanced at his friend’s face again, he saw a kind of resolution there. Baldwin reached down to pull the clothing from Matthew’s body, and as he did so, he grew once again into the magnificent logician whom Simon so admired.
‘Only the one wound,’ Baldwin noted.
‘A stab in the breast,’ Munio agreed. With his expressive features cast in such a mournful mould, Simon thought he looked as miserable as a hound which has just seen its supper stolen by a cat.
Baldwin waved away a small collection of flies. In hours, he knew, that tiny wound would be heaving with maggots. The wound itself was only a mere half-inch long. It was a narrow blade which had done this. There was no tearing apparent, which tended to mean that the blade had been sharp all along its length, right to the hilt, or that it had not been thrust in with full force, but there were no hard and fast rules with wounds, as he knew. It was largely a case of supposition.
He pushed his little finger into it, and found resistance as his second joint slipped beneath the skin. Thus the wound was only some two inches deep. Either the murderer had used a very short blade, or he had failed to stab with any great effort. This was the sort of wound which could have been inflicted by accident – not that that was likely. There were simply no reasons for someone to want to rob a mere beggar, so this was a deliberate act: perhaps Matthew had insulted a man or his wife, or this was the execution of a renegade Templar. And Baldwin knew which of the two he believed.
There were so many people who might have wanted to kill a Templar, had they learned of Matthew’s past. A beggar who insulted a woman in the road might earn himself a knock or worse from her husband, but that would be an instantaneous reward for a real or imagined slight. This, if the witness was right, was a sudden attack without any hint of conversation or words beforehand.
‘No sign of robbery or theft from the body?’ he asked.
Munio looked at him. ‘If a man was desperate enough to steal, would he seek out such a victim?’
‘The witness, this other beggar who saw it all happen – have you tracked her down?’ Simon asked.
‘No. I am afraid she has disappeared too. I wonder …’
‘You think she too has been killed?’ Baldwin shot out.
‘No, but perhaps she was so fearful of the killer, she ran from the city. She was not well known here. I have seen her a little recently, but she wasn’t a local woman. Perhaps she saw a murder and feared he might track her down as a witness and kill her too?’
‘It is possible,’ Baldwin mused, staring down at the terrible figure of his dead friend.
It was Simon who asked, ‘What was her name?’
‘María from Venialbo.’
Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon commented, ‘It’s odd that she was able to help us with first Joana’s death and now Matthew’s death too.’
Baldwin said, ‘Have you asked the gatekeepers whether they have seen her leave the city?’
‘Yes, but none of them say they have.’
‘So we have lost the only witness?’
‘She may return, but yes, I think we have lost her.’
Simon touched Baldwin’s arm. ‘Come. We ought to leave Munio to his work.’
‘Yes, of course. We are grateful for your time and your help, señor.’
‘It is fine. Of course, you would tell me if you learned anything that could be useful?’
‘Yes. As soon as I can, I will tell you what I may,’ Baldwin said, but he knew that he couldn’t tell Munio anything. It would be too dangerous. Especially if there was a man in the city who was prepared to kill any Templars he met.
Gregory was disgruntled. That stupid cow of an ex-wife of his had the brain of an ox. Dull-witted and only ever thinking of herself. She had ruined his day. Just his luck that he should meet her here when he was feeling so good. Well – she’d wrecked all his sense of well-being.
He was back in the nave of the Cathedral, praying as well as he could over the din of the newest batch of pilgrims, who were gawping up at the ceiling and telling each other just how magnificent it all was at the top of their voices. They had to talk loudly, because with everyone speaking at the same time, it was impossible to hear anything. Thus it was that Gregory’s concentration on the service being conducted forty feet away was regularly being shattered. The priest kept an expression of unconcern fitted to his face, as though this was perfectly normal and that speaking in the sure and certain knowledge that nobody more than two rows away from you could hear was natural, but Gregory was convinced that every so often there was a faint crack in his benign facade whenever a particularly pushy pilgrim braying about the decoration broke into his prayers. Curious, wasn’t it, Gregory thought, that so many people who could have declared their religious convictions with absolute sincerity, could behave with such brash insensitivity towards so many others who were trying to participate in the devotions.
He was feeling very raw after meeting his wife again. Stefanía would keep popping up. What she wanted with a pilgrimage, he didn’t know. Since she had legally divorced him, there was little he could do about it, of course. He couldn’t even demand to know what she was here for; as she had haughtily pointed out to him, that was none of his business now. When she set her head back like that, peering at him like some slug she had found munching at her vegetables, he wanted to clout her, the disrespectful baggage. Her tone, when she coldly informed him that, as they weren’t married any more, she need not show him respect, merely added oil to the flames of his anger. It didn’t help – as she knew too well! It was typical of his luck that he should have chosen her for his wife.
At the end of the service, he stood and bowed his head. So far as he was concerned, his task here was over and done with; all he need do was return home now. Somehow he had to try to recover from this journey.
If he had not joined the Templars, his life would have been better, surely. He had gone there less from a feeling of conviction or devotion, much more because he wanted to get back at her for what she’d done. The cow! She’d even ended their marriage in a way that did most harm to him. It was – what? – a month after he joined them that the Order was swept away. One month, one miserable month, sleeping in clothing already foul, the new beard itching at his jaw, the sleepless nights as he was woken at some unearthly hour to go and pray. Good God! It was awful.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 21