It was all the Bailiff could do to duck under the swinging knife; he felt no more than a slight grabbing at his shoulder as the knife caught at his jack. Luckily the quilting saved him from being scratched. Domingo couldn’t escape, for the door was blocked with the other men from the pursuit, so he turned again to face Simon. If he couldn’t get out, he could sure as hell take the foreigner hostage, keep him at knife-point until they paid him and released him.
Simon was feeling quite faint now – and that was his excuse later. He should have been able to disarm the Galician without killing him, but at the moment, all he could think of was that knife and stopping it from hurting him. His reactions were too slow; he still felt queasy after all the running, on top of his earlier fainting fit. As Domingo charged towards him again, he lifted his sword.
Domingo felt the steel slip into his breast with a sense of disbelief. There was no pain, just a curious slithering sensation, but when he looked down, he saw that the sword was buried in his chest. He opened his mouth, tottered, and then lifted his knife to dash Simon to the floor, pushing himself onwards, using the full force of his weight and malice to try to crush Simon.
All Simon could see was the insanely grinning features of Domingo advancing. It was a scene from hell, with the mad face approaching and the wet red knife held wickedly high overhead. Simon felt himself being pushed back, until there was nothing but the timbers of the garderobe behind him and beneath him; and then he heard a great cracking and wrenching, and felt himself freefall, that smiling face above him like a devil’s, pulling him down to hell.
‘How is he?’ Baldwin demanded as soon as Munio returned.
‘Not good. I think it is the heat. It can sometimes affect a man who is not used to our weather, yes? He was very exhausted.’
‘Exhausted!’ Baldwin repeated. All he could remember was that foul stench.
They were in Munio’s house, a long, low building with a garden that was planted with more plants than Baldwin could possibly name. The whole place seemed verdant, and filled with vibrant colours – rich purples, reds, yellows and everywhere green.
The house itself was white-painted with simple shutters on each window and a small stable for Munio’s two horses, to whom Baldwin had already introduced himself. The knight always liked to investigate the horseflesh wherever he went, but it was scarcely worth the bother in Munio’s household, he saw. One plain and rather old rounsey and a skittish young mare made up the total complement. Munio was not poor, but neither was he wealthy.
When Simon had set off after the felon, Baldwin had been helping to disarm one of Domingo’s men, and had not noticed his friend’s sudden disappearance. Later, when he and Munio wondered why Simon had not come to help interrogate the members of the band, Baldwin was only just in time to hear of the accident, and then he had bolted after the messenger to go and supervise Simon’s rescue.
It had been one of the most repulsive tasks Baldwin had ever witnessed. The two men had fallen through the floor of the garderobe, toppling together some fifteen feet into the relative softness of the heaped sewage underneath. It was fortunate that the toilet did not fall straight into a stream, as so many did, for then Simon must surely have drowned. As it was, he fell backwards into the muck, Domingo on top of him, embedding Simon’s sword deep within his torso. The robber was already dead when Baldwin arrived; the knight had thought Simon was as well.
It was a terrible shock. Baldwin had known many comrades die, and he would have said, had he been asked, that he was all but inured to loss. True, he would not have felt that way about his wife, nor his daughter, but he would have thought that losing the companionship of a man was something he had been long seasoned against fearing. The idea that a man’s death could bring him up so sharply had not occurred to him. Yet here it was. His hand grasped his sword hilt as though to keep his grip on reality, but all he could see was the terrible future, of returning to England without his best friend, of telling Simon’s wife and family that he was dead. He could imagine all too easily the appalled horror in Meg’s eyes.
He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for his life, to demand that God return him, to say that God had made an error, and that Simon should recover; he wanted to deny what he knew had happened. His best friend was dead.
Yes, he felt the odd emptiness in his throat, the heat at his eyeballs, the utter despair that hammered over his soul. Simon had been his first acquaintance on returning to Devon, his closest confidant. It was Simon who had recommended him for the new post of Keeper of the King’s Peace, who had involved him in his most interesting cases. And now all that was over.
Baldwin could not help it. He covered his face in a hand and wept silently, while men hauled the revolting mess of Domingo’s corpse from Simon’s body. He wept while the men curled their lips, averting their heads; he wept while one fetched a bucket and threw it over Simon’s face; he wept while men reluctantly grabbed Simon’s clothing and dragged him from the wrecked box. He wept while Simon choked and spluttered as a second bucket of water was emptied over him. He was still weeping when his eyes opened, and he saw Simon weakly trying to flick away the ordure that had so besmottered his face and hands. Sir Baldwin was still weeping as he jumped forward, his joy leavened with a natural unwillingness to touch Simon in his present state.
If, for Baldwin, Simon’s recovery was a delight that was all but unhoped for, to Simon it was nothing more than a hideous nightmare, worse than his drifting off into insensibility beforehand. That had been terrifying, feeling the world, as it seemed, cracking about him as he was forced down, down, down by the demonically grinning Domingo. He had genuinely thought that the devil had captured his soul. That was one thing, but coming to, lying in a box filled to overflowing with sewage, was enough to make him freeze in a blind panic, his fingers clenching rigidly, all his muscles tensing as his mind refused to accept what his nostrils were telling him. He closed his eyes just before the second bucket hit him.
That was when he found his voice again, although he had no wish to open his mouth. He started mumbling and swearing, but revulsion soon made him shout to be pulled free. Baldwin berated the men standing around, kicking two to make them pull Simon out, but even then refused to hear of Simon standing. Simon was desperate to get up, as though movement itself could clean him of the filth in which he was smothered, but he was forced to lie back on the broken remains of an old door rescued from a building nearby. Once there, Simon passed out again, thankfully just before more men arrived and carried him to Munio’s house.
‘He will be well,’ Munio said.
Baldwin nodded, but he felt empty. Simon was his closest friend, probably the only man living who knew quite so much about Baldwin and his past, other than Edgar, Baldwin’s steward. Seeing him so weakened made Baldwin realise how vulnerable a man could be. Loneliness was a terrible thing, he realised. To live alone, with all one’s friends dead or gone, that must be the worst possible penalty God could impose.
It was the punishment which had been meted out to Matthew. The poor man was without any companions. Even the beggars in the streets were apart from him – although whether that was because they disdained him, or because he ignored them was a moot point. His pride would make it difficult for him to accept that he was a part of their fraternity.
A man like him, a noble knight, brought so low. And then to be murdered by some inconsequential peasant in an alleyway. Why should a common churl attack a beggar? It was inexplicable, or it was simple. Either a man had taken a sudden dislike to Matthew’s face – Baldwin had seen that before – or it was a long-held grudge.
‘I forgot to tell you before,’ Munio said. ‘I had Guillem ask at the house of the money men. Musciatto confirmed that they had given Parceval money. He is wealthy in his own right.’
‘So as one door opens, it is slammed in our face,’ Baldwin muttered.
‘So it would seem. So there is nothing to suggest that Parceval had anything to do with the murder. He didn’t get that
money from Joana’s purse. Now I have heard from the gatemen. The southern gatekeeper remembered this man Dom Afonso. He left the city yesterday, with an English knight and his squire.’
Baldwin nodded, but the news gave him no comfort. If anything, being reminded of Afonso simply added to his mental confusion. There was no motive for this strange man, this mercenary, to attack Matthew, as María had said. An older man, perhaps, who had a grudge against the Templars – that could have been comprehensible, but María had said that he was a younger man – quite a lot younger. So what could have been his motive? It made no sense. A richer man trying to rob someone with nothing; a man with position killing a man with none; a young man killing an old one at the end of his life. There was no logic to it. Baldwin had mused over it all through the night while sitting at Simon’s bedside, and all day today it had never been far from his mind.
He needed more information. There was not enough to allow him to speculate. All he was convinced of was that Matthew had not died because he was a beggar. Beggars were sometimes killed, usually by drunks or arrogant fools who thought they were better than them, when the only difference between a knight and a man like Matthew was good or bad fortune.
There were men who believed that Templars were evil, but men who thought that way would not kill like an assassin in the street and run, they would usually confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the local court, expecting all other rational men to thank them for ridding the world of a foul parasite. Any man might execute a heretic, after all, and the Pope’s entourage had succeeded admirably in persuading the population of Europe that all Templars were little better than lackeys of the devil.
Munio was still toying with the little casket. When the men pulled Domingo away from Simon, this little box had been gripped tightly in his hand. Munio had cleaned it and opened it to reveal the bone; both he and Sir Baldwin were convinced that it must be something with religious significance, but there had been no reports of any missing relics. Maybe Domingo and his men had stolen it in France or further away.
‘I wish I could make sense of Matthew’s death. Why should this Afonso kill him?’ Baldwin fretted.
‘You are greatly exercised by the death of a single beggar.’
‘Even a beggar deserves justice,’ Baldwin said sanctimoniously.
‘Perhaps,’ Munio said, but without humour. ‘But so does a young woman, whose life has been cut short.’
‘I know. Both are equal in importance.’
‘Are they?’ Munio asked. ‘Forgive me, but you appear to have discounted the girl’s life already.’
‘Not at all,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘I am as keen as ever to catch her murderer – but with Ramón gone, I do not see how to proceed, whereas a witness gave us the name of Matthew’s killer.’
‘I keep thinking: but where is the money?’ Munio said.
‘Well, we now know that Domingo and his men were penniless. So that makes it less likely that they killed Joana,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘And this box and its contents is hardly the sort of thing that could be easily sold. Unless they intended selling it here to the Cathedral?’
‘If they had, it would have involved lengthy negotiations. The Church does not approve of buying back things which are Her own.’
‘The lack of money does not justify assuming that Ramón was the murderer,’ said Baldwin.
‘I do not like to accuse a Knight of Santiago. But he left the city, and no one here appears to have suddenly grown wealthy,’ Munio pointed out. ‘Surely the money could have been removed from the city. Where better, than to be taken out of Galicia itself, carried by a man who has declared himself to be so overwhelmed with grief that he must leave the country? Ramón was there, he saw Joana, he lied to you and he fled. Who else can I suspect?’
‘We know Ramón was there,’ Munio continued sombrely. ‘Domingo went up there later, but if Domingo took the cash, he’d have spent it or run. Yet he did neither.’
He stood, the casket still in his hand. ‘This man Ramón has many questions to answer.’
Chapter Twenty
Simon came to feeling groggy and lethargic, and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. For some reason it was very dark, and he thought at first that he must have woken during the night, but then he saw the light in thin streams that reached across the floor. There were shutters here which were covering the window.
For a moment, he wondered where he was. He had woken expecting to see the rough thatch of his own home at Lydford, and he reached out an arm for his wife, but his hand encountered emptiness at the same time as he realised that the ceiling was not his own. The beams weren’t pale logs split into planks, but appeared to be blackened poles, all unsplit. That was odd, but when he turned his head to stare at where Meg should have lain, he saw that he was not lying on his own bed. This bed was too small for sharing, and that was no doubt why the woman was sitting on a chair. But this was terrible. As he lay and mused over this mystery, his overriding concern was that Meg might learn he had been here, sleeping in this woman’s bed. Who was she? She certainly looked very attractive, with her dark skin and black hair, but he could remember nothing about arriving here. It was very peculiar.
He moved to sit up, and as soon as he lifted his head from the mattress, he felt the nausea and weakness washing over him. With a groan he sank back and, hearing him, the woman awoke and walked to him, putting a cool hand upon his forehead.
‘Am I in heaven, or are the angels visiting the earth?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘You look much better,’ she said. He could see marks of exhaustion under her eyes. ‘Your high temperature is gone.’
‘I have been in a fever?’
‘For two days. I think it was the sun. It has been very hot here for a little while, and your friend told me that you were not used to it. You need to drink more.’
Simon was sure that he remembered her, but his mind seemed unable to focus. Then: ‘You’re Munio’s wife!’ he blurted out at last.
‘Of course,’ she said mildly, taking a cool cloth to his brow and wiping it. ‘I am Margarita.’
She brought over a pot of wine that had been diluted by water and held his head up to it. He drank greedily, and could feel the chill drink washing down his throat and into his belly. It felt wonderful, but it served to remind him just how weakened he was. ‘Where is Baldwin?’
‘He is out, but he will be back before long,’ she said, and her smile was gentle, but exhausted.
‘You have been looking after me for long?’ She was very beautiful, he thought. In the absence of his wife, Meg, he was fortunate to be nursed by such a kindly woman.
‘All the time that your friend was not here, I was,’ she nodded. ‘You were very unwell.’
‘I was fortunate to have so capable a nurse,’ he said with an attempt at gallantry, but in reality he was thinking of his own wife, struck by a pang of homesickness. He missed her and he wanted to return to her, away from this strange country with the people who spoke their odd language.
She laughed. ‘I think you are well enough now,’ she said, and left him with an order to call if he wanted more to drink.
As she was leaving, she heard him murmur, ‘God bless her, and keep my lovely Meg safe for me. I love her.’
Inside, as Simon relaxed, the investigation came back to him slowly, and he recalled the conversation at the tavern. They had captured Domingo, he recalled. The man had run at him, and it was all Simon could do to defend himself, he was so weak. That much came back to him – but if he had been lying here in a fever for two days, surely Baldwin must have discovered the meaning behind the girl’s murder. Perhaps he had also learned why the old beggar had died.
Baldwin arrived back much later in the afternoon. Simon heard his voice calling loudly, and then there were running steps and the door was thrown open as he strode inside. ‘It is true, then? You are all right again?’
‘I’m fine,’ Simon grunted peevishly. Not only had Baldwin left the door wide open, with
windows in the passage behind him, but although Simon wouldn’t admit it, he had been dozing, and Baldwin’s sudden eruption into his room had made him leap from sleep to wakefulness in a moment. It was not good for his humour.
‘Good. Then you will be all right for the journey.’
Simon felt his belly lurch. ‘Journey? What journey?’
‘We sail for Portugal in the morning,’ Baldwin said with a flash of white teeth. Then he gave a bellow of laughter that made Simon wince. ‘Christ’s Blood, but it’ll be good to see the place again!’
In the large bed at the inn there was little privacy. The owner of the establishment was enormously proud of his massive mattress and the great wooden structure that supported it, and usually Parceval would not have been fussy about sharing, but when what he wanted was to cradle and cuddle Doña Stefanía, he needed a bed with rather fewer witnesses than the six pilgrims who shared it with him.
The room that he had rented in preference was ruinously expensive, but as Parceval reflected, he could afford it now. He had won by his speculations and now he was floating on a tide of success. As he knew, death could meet a man at any time, and it was sensible to enjoy the good things while you could, before a knife or runaway horse put an end to your earthly worries.
In here, the warmth from their two bodies was all but unbearable, the general temperature was already so high. They had the shutters drawn, and reflected light was thrown up on the ceiling from the pool of water that stood outside, dancing and swirling in yellow-gold ripples. It was soporific to watch as he lay back, Doña Stefanía beside him.
She wasn’t asleep. Her gentle breathing was not as shallow as when she dozed – he had seen her when she was exhausted, truly exhausted. Yet the memory of sex with her was not enough to make him grin. There was nothing really for either of them to smile about, he knew. His own story was miserable enough, a story of horror and shame, one which only a saint could forgive, and yet he had been granted no relief. There was nothing for him but death.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 26