Not as bad as the arrests, though. When he had been taken, during his time in the preceptory at Montesa, it was typical of his bad fortune. His wife had left and divorced him, he was a laughing stock at home in England, and he had only joined the Templars to escape, thinking that by joining the richest Order, he could have an enjoyable life of moderate luxury. He had not realised that by joining the Order and being sent to Montesa, he would be going to the only blasted place in the Christian world where there were more Moors than anywhere else in Castile or Aragon. It was a sick joke. Still worse, that he should have been arrested and threatened with torture. How could they have threatened a man like him? He’d done nothing except try to join the most religious of all the Orders, and for that he was to be arrested and persecuted, if the Pope had his way.
At least Gregory was saved from that, because he was taken in by the Kingdom of Aragon and, as such, was safe from the depredations of the Pope’s torturers. At the earliest opportunity, he left the place where he had been held, and travelled back to his home country, England. But although he certainly didn’t feel like a Castilian or an Aragonese, nor did he feel truly English any more. He had lived away for too long. Gregory had been tempted to join another Order, perhaps one of the friars, for he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in a big religious house again. A large monastery or preceptory would feel too much like a prison, after his past experiences of living in what seemed to be a condemned cell.
He bowed and genuflected, then turned to make his way outside, but the press was too great coming in and he was forced like a small eddy when the tide comes in, to retreat to the safety of a pillar, and while he stood there, he saw her again.
The bitch. God, how he loved her! That was why he had helped lay out Joana’s body. It almost felt as though it brought him nearer to his ex-wife. Yes, he adored and detested her simultaneously. His ambivalence was fired by her affairs, rather than diminished. He knew what she was like. She had loathed him while they were married, saying that he was too cold, too distant, too religious – yet then, when he finally cracked and said that he hated her, wanting in that moment of drunken fury to tear her apart – when at that precise instant he swore before them all that he would take up the cloth, he saw that terrible delight in her face. The triumph of a woman who has seen her horse win in a race, knowing that her bets will make her rich. She knew that she had won, that she had conquered and eradicated her opposition.
He was the enemy to her. Always had been, ever since the day of their marriage, as though she had decided from the start that she wouldn’t make him a good wife and would win her freedom and independence as soon as possible. The marriage arranged by her father had been merely a thorn in her flesh.
Therefore, when he declared his desire to join a convent, she had immediately agreed and stated that it was her aim too. All this before witnesses. Christ Jesus! He must have been bloody mad!
Being English, he couldn’t comprehend at first that his rash drunken statement could be in any way binding. As soon as he awoke the following morning, his head pounding like a drum, his belly sick and roiling until he vomited noisily outside the door of their manor, he sought out his wife. His surprise when she visibly recoiled from him was overwhelming. Her maid quickly explained that on the previous night, after hearing him say that he would join the Order of Santiago rather than bed a frigid bitch, on his honour and on his belief in the Gospels, Doña Stefanía had duly stated that she would join the Order herself. Since she apparently couldn’t serve her husband to his satisfaction, she hoped that she would be able to serve God better.
‘Ah, my dear wife, that is all forgotten,’ he said with as much affection as he could muster. ‘We had a row. Even the King and Queen of Castile argue on occasion, I am sure. Let us forget our dispute. Come, won’t you give me a kiss?’
‘Sir, you may forget your oath before God, but before God, I do not,’ she said haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘I have chosen my course. I will not kiss you! What, do you think He would forgive us?’
He was enraged – that was his excuse. Perhaps he should have attempted mastery of her before, because it was always said that a woman needed whipping to keep her controlled, but he hadn’t … he had not wanted to. It seemed a harsh way to treat a wife. Today, though, he was furious. She had not wished to sleep with him for the last year, submitting only when he demanded his rights, and then lying like a piece of marble without moving. He had his headache and his belly was rumbling like distant thunder, and he was a little light-headed from the wine of the night before.
Stepping forward he grabbed her, then threw her upon her bed. ‘I won’t have you deny me again!’
She lay absolutely still. ‘If you rape me,’ she said, speaking up at the ceiling and pointedly not looking at him, ‘I shall declare your rape to the priest. You are raping a Bride of Christ, and you shall be excommunicated!’
‘Damn you!’ he roared, and he leaped upon her.
That was his sin. He had raped her. Yes, she had been his wife, but the woman he raped had formally declared her intention of withdrawing from the world the night before, just as he had declared that to be his own intention.
Earlier he had forgotten it, but seeing her again had brought it all back. He cast a look once more at the cross on the altar, and for some reason felt a curious elation, as though he had confessed; as though he was in fact forgiven. It was a sensation which started in his head, but then moved down to his spine, and he felt it enwrap itself around his lower chest, like a warmth that was spreading itself about his ribs and engulfing him with … well, it felt like it was engulfing him with love.
He gasped. The feeling was like an embrace from God, a cradling as though God was putting His arms about Gregory, and then, as he closed his eyes in gratitude and turned his face upwards, Gregory felt the hair on his scalp move as though God’s breath had stirred it. He was so stunned, he couldn’t move, but merely stood there, basking in the knowledge of God’s love.
It was an age before he could collect himself enough to go out, and when he did the sun was unbearable. He stood for a moment at the top of the steps, dizzy and drunk with love. Drunk with delight, too, for he knew that he was renewed, that God had forgiven him, against every expectation.
The heat was like a hammer beating at his senses, and he knew that he must find a shaded place to sit and collect himself. He wanted to dance and sing and praise God, but his legs couldn’t possibly support him. They were too shaky still. There was a place selling cider a little way off, and he made for it, hoping to grab a chair and collapse in the shade for a while.
Arriving at the tavern, he drew up a stool and sat back in the shade. Soon there was a young serving girl, who smiled at his accent but fetched him some good cider in a jug, which she set at his side. Light, cool and tasty, it was perfect for this kind of weather. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, a beatific smile fixed to his face. This was not contentment, this was ecstasy.
It was some while later that he could open his eyes again and survey the world. He yawned, then glanced about him as he picked up his cup again, and that was when he saw him: the felon who had led the attack on the pilgrims. Aghast, he nearly fell from his stool, but his shock hadn’t been noticed. Domingo had no time to watch others; the hulking fellow was too busy sitting and frowning at the little box in his hands. The surviving members of his robber band sat around him, obviously the worse for wear.
Gregory’s first inclination was to bolt, but instead of making himself conspicuous by running, he pulled his hat over his eyes and got slowly to his feet, preparing to wander off.
Even as he took up his staff again and felt the sun’s radiance through his cloak, he heard a man saying, ‘What now then, Dom? Will she call the city against us?’
‘If you want to talk to me, fool, you call me Domingo! Right?’
Gregory heard the slap of a fist, the sound of a body falling, but dared not glance round. As he made his way out, he co
uldn’t help but hear the next words.
‘I told you: she ordered us to attack those pilgrims on the way here. She can’t report me for taking her precious box because she knows I’ll tell everyone what she did. That stuck-up bitch of a Prioress wanted all those poor bastards dead.’
As he walked out into the road, those words still rang in Gregory’s ears. That his ex-wife could have done such a wicked thing sickened him – and then he began to wonder why …
Baldwin and Simon waited while Munio stopped and locked the door again.
‘It hardly seems worth the effort,’ he commented. ‘No one is going to go in there to disturb him.’
‘There is surely no need,’ Simon agreed. ‘He had few enough possessions and no money.’
‘That is why it is so odd that he should have been killed,’ Munio said mournfully. ‘I have never heard that he was abusive to people, and why else should someone decide to attack a poor man like him? It couldn’t be for his money.’
‘Perhaps he died because of something he had done in his past,’ Baldwin murmured. Enough people had believed the Pope’s propaganda about the Templars after all.
‘What sort of thing could he have done to make a man wish to murder him?’
Baldwin did not answer, and Munio stood observing him for a moment or two in silence. ‘I think you know more than you say.’
‘I have no idea why any man should want to harm the old beggar,’ Baldwin stated, ‘and I do not know who did it. But I have to speculate about his death. I should like to meet the other beggar again, the woman who witnessed the attack.’
‘So would I,’ Munio agreed glumly. ‘It is not a pleasing matter for me, having two murders one after the other.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘And I have other work to see to,’ he said with resignation. ‘I should return to my hall. Guillem will be expecting me.’
‘You can leave us here,’ Baldwin said smoothly.
‘Yes, I thought you would say that,’ Munio said with a faint grin. ‘So that you can be left alone to get on with your own investigations.’
Baldwin smiled but said nothing.
‘So long as you tell me what you learn, Sir Baldwin,’ Munio said with a certain firmness. ‘You are not in your own land now. This is my city, and I need to learn all I can about the young woman’s death. You understand me?’
Chapter Seventeen
Baldwin led the way straight to the tavern near which Matthew’s body had been found. ‘The thing is, you’ll sometimes find the odd innkeeper who is kindly disposed towards a beggar. Perhaps Matthew came here occasionally and we can learn something useful from the serving staff.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘Why do you think Munio was so insistent that he wanted to know about the girl’s death?’
‘I cannot imagine.’
Simon looked at him. ‘Was it because he thought that you’d run off and find out all you could about Matthew’s death and not bother with Joana’s?’
‘Perhaps. What of it? I am not responsible for what the good Pesquisidor thinks.’
‘Aren’t you? And what if we could find out something about the girl’s death?’
‘Then we should of course tell Munio. But right now, I want to see what I can learn about Matthew.’
‘Very well, Baldwin,’ Simon said, sure now that Munio was right, and that Baldwin was more interested in nailing his old friend’s killer than tracking down Joana’s murderer. From Simon’s perspective, this was all wrong, and he would continue to bend all his efforts to solving that crime.
The inn was a pleasant enough place, but the man at the bar could not help them. Yes, he had recognised the beggar, it was María. He knew her well – a sad girl, widowed when she was young. Where was she now? Couldn’t say. Hadn’t been up for food since Matt’s death, poor old devil.
Baldwin and Simon stood out in the shade of a chestnut tree and chatted for a few moments, Baldwin scowling up at the building, while Simon gazed back along the alleyway towards the Cathedral.
He had a vague feeling of inadequacy. If he was back at home, at his own home in Dartmoor, he would know lots of people who could help with his enquiries. It was curious that Munio himself couldn’t tell them where to look for the beggarwoman, he thought. The other man had allowed them to come up here, almost as though he expected them to find out something.
‘Seems a bit odd that this man has no idea where she might be,’ Simon mused.
‘Why should you say that? I wouldn’t expect a tavern-keeper in Crediton to know where all the beggars are,’ Baldwin said curtly.
‘Even the tavern-keepers who feed and look after them?’ Simon asked.
Baldwin eyed his friend with a renewed respect. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I think we should go back inside and point out to mine host there that we are acting on behalf of Munio – and that the beggarwoman must be found before her life is endangered. If he still refuses to help, I think that we should sit down inside and make a nuisance of ourselves.’
Baldwin gave a humourless grin, and strolled back inside.
The man to whom they had spoken originally, a runty type with a skimpy moustache and a cast in one eye, looked up unwelcomingly as they re-entered, leaning on a large cask and reaching under his apron to scratch at his groin. It was a big, cool room, with a packed earthen floor wearing a thin scattering of hay. There were some unglazed windows with their shutters wide open down the right side of the place, while at the back, behind the serving man, stood a doorway covered with a large motheaten blanket. There were only two tables in there, for most visitors made use of the floor to rest their drinks on.
Simon crossed his arms and leaned against a large, rough pillar that propped up the roof while Baldwin walked forward and sat on a table, eyeing the man with ill-concealed distaste. ‘I want to speak with you again.’
The man looked from him to Simon. Then he shrugged and turned his back.
‘If I have to,’ Baldwin went on, ‘I shall have you arrested by Munio and we’ll question you in his hall.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say. I told you all I know.’
All of a sudden, some words he had heard came back to Simon. Someone had said that the innkeeper here was a woman, not a man. It was a woman whom Munio had said was kindly disposed towards the beggars of the city. A woman who protected them.
Pushing himself away from the post, he crossed the floor and, as he was about to pass through to the back, the man suddenly flicked aside his apron to pull at a knife in a scabbard underneath. The first Simon knew of it was when there was a harsh rasp of steel; he whipped round to see Baldwin’s bright blue sword blade resting on the man’s throat. While the latter swallowed nervously, Baldwin reached over with his left hand and took the dagger from him; Simon stared a moment at the man before turning and pushing his way out to the back.
He found himself in a small room, filled with the stench of sour wine and rotten meat. On the floor near a water jug lay the rank carcass of a cat. An open doorway revealed a small garden beyond, filled with vegetables. Two women were inside the room – one short and truculent with a narrow, rat-like face; the other a black-clad beggar who sat at a bucket, sleeves rolled up while she beat clothes clean.
There was a clumping clattering noise, and Baldwin burst in with the servant. ‘Aha! Hello, María,’ he said. ‘We should like to speak with you for a while.’
‘Yes, I was there,’ she said.
They were sitting out in the yard area, the early sun gradually warming them. Baldwin had demanded some wine, but when it arrived, he found it impossible to drink and asked the man to fetch a skin of good quality wine from another tavern not far away. The woman who owned the place grudgingly agreed, and Baldwin was now sipping a strong red wine which he found more palatable.
For once, Simon had little taste for wine. His head was aching, making him feel a bit woolly, and he demanded a pot of fresh, cold water from the well, watching the innkeeper as she went to d
raw a jug for him.
He was somewhat surprised by his second meeting with María. With her veil removed, she was a striking-looking woman, with an oval face that, if it had been cleaner, would have been attractive. Her face was lined with grief, and he remembered with a pang of guilt that she had mentioned losing her family. She looked as though she had suffered greatly.
For Baldwin, though, there was no time for kindness. ‘Why did you choose to hide?’
‘What would you have done? Waited out in the open for someone to kill you?’
‘Why should anyone kill you?’
‘I saw him. I was there. No murderer wants to leave a witness behind.’
‘You honestly believe your life is in danger?’ Baldwin said.
She looked at him, and let him see the full extent of her fear. Lifting her hands, she took up her hood and let it fall on her shoulders.
Without the protection of veil or hood, the two men could see her for what she really was. Dressed in her beggar’s clothing, she appeared a large, middle-aged woman who could have been any age. Without the camouflage of clothes, she was revealed as a slim, haunted-looking woman in her mid-twenties. Her great doe-shaped eyes were luminous with sadness, and there were bruises beneath them from tears. She had a delicate face, but where her complexion should have been a dark olive colour, she was wan, almost yellow. On her left brow there was an ugly brown and mauve bruise. ‘Look at me and tell me I don’t fear,’ she said hollowly. ‘I have suffered everything. I have lost my husband and my children, and now a man seeks my death in order to hide his guilt. I fear every footstep!’
‘The man who killed Matthew – have you seen him since?’ Baldwin asked.
‘If I had, I should have run away!’
‘Do you know who he was?’
She stared out over the garden. There was a curse, and the servant dropped a pot, the thing exploding on the hard floor. The sound made María duck with utter terror, a look so petrified on her face that Baldwin half-rose and put his hand on hers. ‘Don’t fear – it was a clumsy potman, nothing more. You are safe with us here.’
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 22