When he boarded, he had asked the master of the ship where they would dock, and he had told Baldwin that their course would take four days to reach the estuary that led up to the great city of Óbidos, which the Portuguese still called the ‘Wedding City’, since King Dinis had given it to his wife as a present when they married some forty years before.
‘Not long now, Dom Baldwin,’ the master called.
To port Baldwin saw a series of white beaches, and then there was a gap, a narrow space, filled with water, at which the master was pointing. Baldwin felt a slight anxiety to think that this was the place where he would leave the ship, which must continue on its way to Lisbon, where the master had material and leathers to sell. Baldwin himself would be set on land so that he could either sail to Óbidos, or perhaps hire a horse. That, he considered, glancing about him, looked unlikely. There might be a sturdy mule or two here, but he reckoned that a boat would best suit his purposes.
He climbed from the ship into a small fishing vessel, and that set him down safely on shore. Knowing little Portuguese, he felt daunted by the thought of explaining himself to the fishermen who stood idly watching him while their hands automatically moved wooden lumps through old nets as they threaded new string through holes. So this, he thought, is what Simon felt like in Galicia. It made Baldwin realise how disorientating a total inability to communicate could be.
By signs and regular repetition of the name ‘Óbidos!’ he managed, he thought, to make his wishes plain, and many of the men about the nets smiled contentedly, their sun-browned faces wrinkling, eyes all but hidden in the tanned flesh from long years of staring at the sun glinting off the sea. It was only when a black-robed priest appeared that he realised that they had understood not a word.
‘I wanted to sail to Óbidos,’ he explained in Latin.
The priest looked a little bemused and when he spoke, his accent was so strong, Baldwin found it very hard to understand. ‘Aha. The city is easy to reach.’
He had a fawning manner, which put Baldwin’s back up at first, but then he reflected that this man was probably unused to meeting strangers from over the seas, and knowing that Baldwin was heading for the great city, he might feel that respect was a suitable response.
There were no boats sailing that afternoon. Baldwin had to content himself with sitting outside a small, cheap inn on a sun-whitened bench and sipping at a rough local wine. Tomorrow he would be moving on. With luck, once at the city he would be able to buy or hire a horse. Tomar was some way beyond Óbidos, maybe another fifty miles, which meant at least two days of travelling in this heat. Perhaps he could make up time by riding at night, he thought, but that was dangerous without a guide. Munio had given him some gold to help him, arguing that Baldwin would need more than hope to carry him onwards, and as the murders were committed on Munio’s land, he had an interest in seeing to it that his colleague was successful. That was his argument, and Baldwin had little enough money with him, so he was in no position to refuse.
It would be a hard journey from Óbidos, he knew, and he must make it as quickly as he could. Perhaps he should hire a guide. It would make the expense much greater, but it would probably shorten the journey time.
Yes, when he reached the city, he would try to get a guide, he decided. But for now, all he was aware of was his sudden hunger as he caught a whiff of fresh sardines roasting on a charcoal brazier nearby. They smelled and, so he soon learned, tasted delicious.
The next morning, Baldwin was woken by an insistent pulling at his shoulder. A weather-beaten face peered down at him, dark eyes shielded by heavy lids, and he was glad at first that a man had come for him. Then the old woman cackled to see his dull, unaware expression, and he jerked upright, pulling the sheet back over his nakedness.
Last night the weather had been delicious, with balmy breezes wafting over his body out here on the bench by the door. The warmth and the gentle sound of waves slapping at the sand had made his sleep all the better, and he had not been disturbed by dreams but had merely sunk down into the deep slumber of the exhausted.
He dressed quickly, feeling more comfort, for once, in donning his hose and tunic than in slipping his sword belt on and tying it about his waist. The comforting mass of metal was one thing, but as he heard that loud crowing laughter and glanced about to see a group of women all pointing at him, the one who had woken him standing in their midst, he felt the blood rush to his face.
The boat was waiting for him when he arrived in the estuary, a small, single-sailed craft with a crew of three. They appeared to be fishermen who had bought a cargo of fish from a sea-fisherman, and were transporting it up the estuary to Óbidos.
Baldwin was now feeling the itchiness of the traveller who wished to be on his way, and he climbed aboard the small vessel with a sense of relief. The master of the ship, a grizzled old man with a thick beard and skin the colour of a walnut, dressed in a long tunic like a dress, with the skirts tied up to a waist belt to leave his legs free to climb the ropes, appeared to be in less of a hurry, though, and the sun had climbed steadily before the craft finally slipped its moorings and set off at a leisurely pace up the great estuary.
The nearer he came to Tomar, the more convinced Baldwin became that he was on a fool’s errand. If Ramón had truly murdered Joana and taken the money, this was the last place he would come. He would want to enjoy his money.
That was the thought that gradually eroded his motivation. Afonso, yes – he could be sure of that man’s guilt on María’s testimony, but Ramón? All Baldwin knew was, he had seen his fiancée’s body and appeared genuinely distraught. Yet he had lied. Why was that? Simply to win himself a little peace?
Joana herself was probably deceitful. Baldwin had come to the conclusion that she had invented the blackmail to enrich herself, and then an accomplice had taken the money. Could it have been Don Ruy who stole the money and then killed the maid so brutally? Maybe Baldwin should have remained in Compostela and sought him out again …
The boat moved along at little more than a slow horse’s walk, the wind gentle, and Baldwin began to wonder if he would arrive faster if he were to walk, but although they did not appear to race, he was surprised, when he peered back over his shoulder, to see that they had already covered some miles. It was only two hours or so later that the master touched Baldwin’s shoulder and pointed ahead. They were rounding a broad hill, the river a calm, smooth blue that reflected all the clouds. Closer, it was a pellucid expanse, through which Baldwin could see weeds waving gently and fishes darting to and fro. Following the master’s finger, Baldwin found himself studying a hill that rose before them from the water like an island.
‘Óbidos.’
Simon woke to find that he was feeling much stronger. After breaking his fast, he walked out into the garden, sitting in the shade near the gate, where he could watch the people walking past.
‘So I find you well?’
‘I am very well, Munio, I thank you.’
Munio cast an eye over him, and nodded, pleased with what he saw. ‘You have recovered greatly.’
‘It is all because of your wife’s kindness. Without her nursing, I am sure that I would have been much slower to recover,’ Simon said.
‘I am sorry that I have left you to your own devices so much,’ Munio said, ‘but sadly there are many matters for a pesquisidor to look into.’
‘At least there have been no more murders,’ Simon said.
‘True enough,’ Munio said, and sighed. ‘But whatever happens with Baldwin when he questions Ramón, I should still like to know where on earth the relic came from.’
Simon nodded. He had seen the casket a few times when Munio had turned it over in his hands. ‘You still do not wish to give it to the Bishop?’
Munio smiled. He had already told Simon of his feelings for the Bishop and his men. ‘What would you do? If the Bishop had lost something like this, he would have told me immediately and demanded that I take the city apart stone by stone until I found
it. Yet if I go to him with it, he will be bound to state that it is his and demand that I give it to him.’
‘In truth, it is the Church’s,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t think of a better place to install it than in the Cathedral. It should be safe there.’
‘Yes. Except what if it was stolen from another church which needs the intervention of a saint more? No man can say that our Cathedral is deprived of the good offices of saints of all ages and crafts. This could be the sole relic owned by a small provincial church,’ Munio said with slow uncertainty. ‘I do not know what to do for the best.’
Simon was still musing over his words long after Munio had left to go and see Guillem. It was noon when Simon stirred himself and, bored, decided to find some food. He could have remained in Munio’s house, for Margarita had made it clear that he was very welcome, but even with her happy and cheerful presence, it was growing a little claustrophobic and he felt the need to leave the place and find some peace in the city itself, in among the throngs of pilgrims and traders. Just being out and with other people would be soothing to his soul.
He was walking towards the small tavern where he had met Gregory, when he saw the fellow again. Gregory was sitting at a bench, chatting amicably with Don Ruy.
They made an odd-looking couple, the knight with his aquiline features and faintly supercilious manner, as though he was convinced that he was better than anybody else and had been punished only because the judge had been bribed or misled; and the priest with his hard done by appearance, but they appeared happy enough chatting together.
Simon was about to walk past them, seeking a quiet niche, when Gregory saw him and pointed him out.
Don Ruy eyed him unenthusiastically, but stood with a polite bow and invited Simon to join them. They were not eating, but if the Bailiff wished, they could ask for bread.
‘I was relieved to hear that you were unharmed after your fight with the felons,’ Don Ruy said, Gregory translating for him. ‘I heard that you had fought with the leader.’
‘Yes – the man you saw leaving the city as you returned,’ Simon said.
‘So at least that child Joana’s death is avenged,’ Don Ruy said.
Gregory stared as he explained to Simon, and then added, ‘Why does he say that?’
‘Her killer is dead,’ Don Ruy said, as though explaining to a fool.
‘Why should Domingo kill her?’
‘We are not sure that he did,’ Simon explained. ‘We know that Doña Stefanía slept with the Fleming, and we have heard that others got to know. Don Ruy here heard of it from Joana herself, which is why he believes Domingo killed her.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t.’
‘But why not?’ Gregory exclaimed.
‘Because someone arranged for Joana to go to that ford. He or she concealed your ex-wife’s horse so she couldn’t go, knowing that there was a blackmail attempt. Domingo did not get the money, though. The real killer must have done so.’
‘Unless the money was hidden by her.’
‘Or someone else,’ Simon agreed, his mind elsewhere.
Don Ruy’s voice rumbled again.
‘He says that he did not hear anything about any blackmail until later, when you spoke to him about the dead girl. Until then he had no idea,’ Gregory translated.
‘Yet someone must have known,’ Simon said. He was suddenly quiet as a fresh thought occurred to him. There were two others who definitely knew of the affair: Doña Stefanía and the Fleming.
‘The blackmail stood to damage the Doña’s reputation,’ he mused. ‘And she lost all her money.’
‘I understand that she has nothing left,’ Gregory said. ‘She is living on the alms of the Cathedral – and the Fleming,’ he added with a hint of vitriol.
The Fleming, Parceval, Simon thought. He had Munio’s confirmation that he had collected money, and afterwards he was with Doña Stefanía: she had confirmed that herself. Yet Simon felt there was something not right about the man – and the Prioress herself. She had arranged to have a band of pilgrims killed, if Gregory was right, just to avenge herself on her husband, but now she was living with Parceval more or less openly.
Gregory looked distressed. ‘I still don’t understand why my wife should have told her man to kill me. Twice she did so. Once when she set the whole gang on our band of pilgrims, and then secondly when she had him strike me down in the city. Why should she want to do that to me?’
‘A good question,’ Simon responded noncommittally.
‘Just goes to show my luck,’ Gregory said dismally. ‘Who else would be so unlucky as to marry a woman who could seek her own man’s murder?’
‘Strange that Domingo didn’t actually manage to kill you,’ Simon observed. ‘He was very practised at murder.’
‘It was odd,’ Gregory agreed. ‘It is hard for me to remember much about the attack, as my head was exploding. But I remember him warning me off my wife. Ha! He called me a “bloody bastard”! Can you believe that?’
‘In Galician?’ Simon asked.
‘No. Now you mention it, I think it was in English. I didn’t think a peasant like Domingo would speak English.’
‘No. I wouldn’t have thought he could,’ Simon agreed pensively.
That night, Simon felt the shaking and nervousness in his body again, as though his bones had developed a cold. He felt oddly sick, his appetite completely gone, and the rumbling in his belly boded ill. As soon as he could, he took to his bedchamber and closed his eyes, wishing away this malady before it could take hold.
As though denial might prevent anything worse than a temporary affliction, he had not mentioned his concerns to Margarita or to Munio, but they had noticed his lack of appetite. When he was woken in the middle of the night with terrible cramping pains in his belly, and vomited over the floor while sitting on his bedpot, he scarcely noticed his hostess and servants cleaning him and gently helping him back on to the clean sheets, but when he later fell asleep, he was enormously relieved to feel a woman’s cool hands calming him.
‘I love you, Meg,’ was all he said, and Margarita blinked in surprise, but said nothing when she saw he was already asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was two days after leaving Óbidos that Baldwin at last rode up into the town of Tomar, feeling bone-weary and filthy after riding or walking throughout the hours of daylight.
Óbidos had been useful. It took him little time to find a horse, although he regretted buying this one in particular, and while it was being saddled, he had bought two loaves and a little dried meat, which had tided him over the journey. A friendly priest had given him a blessing for his journey and rough directions, and Baldwin had covered several miles before nightfall.
His horse was, however, a skittish, evil-minded nag, a pony which had been broken-winded, and whose nostrils had been slit with a knife for several inches to improve its breathing, an operation which had not improved its temper in the least.
So far as Baldwin was concerned, the thing deserved to be killed for dogmeat. Especially when they arrived. Out of kindness, before going to the fortress, Baldwin rode to the river, the Rio Nabão, to let the beast drink. There was a ford here, and he rode halfway over to let the animal cool down, but once there the froward beast began dancing, and he was forced to cling on for dear life.
In some ways he couldn’t blame it. Sitting in the saddle in the middle of the river, Baldwin looked up at the great square lines of the walls and the central block tower, wondering whether he would be recognised, whether he could be arrested. Perhaps the horse had merely picked up a little of his own nervousness. There was something particularly unsettling about this place, a great fortress in which once he would have been welcomed with open arms by all the warriors living within, but where now, with the destruction of his own Order and its replacement by the Order of Christ, he was unsure how he might be greeted. All he could be sure of was that if there were a priest in the place, the man would want Baldwin arrested.
There wa
s a tavern at the riverside, and he bound his horse to a post, then sat outside with a jug of wine and some bread, dipping the bread in olive oil, and eating shavings of strong-flavoured, dried ham. The wine was delicious, just as he remembered it – pale, cool and thirst-quenching. When he had finished his meal, he felt invigorated and ready for the horse again.
Baldwin could see its eyes rolling wildly as he approached. He had to spend time calming the thing before he could release it, and even then he had to mount it in one smooth movement before it could make its protests felt.
Soon he was walking it up the roadway towards the fortress. The town’s streets were all narrow, but bright under the high sun. There were few clouds, and the breeze, although welcome, was still hot. Baldwin knew full well that his friend Simon would have found this atmosphere all but unbearable, judging by the way he had responded to the warmth of Compostela, but for Baldwin this was marvellous. He could feel the heat seeping into his body, and he felt as though, having absorbed this warmth for the last few days, he had stored up a resource of heat that could keep him through any number of cold, snowy, wind-swept Devonshire winters.
He looked up at the hill. From here, the castle was only visible as a massy square tower up on the right, with a wall that reached around the top of the hill, following a concave sweep. Baldwin’s mood darkened. It felt almost as though he was slowly approaching his own doom, and that on top of this hill, he would find himself accused and held as a renegade Templar, a man to be treated as a heretic, to be arrested, tortured, and burned to death. And all, perhaps, for a pointless mission.
With that thought, he stopped and dismounted, wondering why he had thought that coming here might solve anything. This castle was no longer a Templar site, it was a fortress for a new Order, and nothing to do with him. If there were people here who felt pious, it would be their duty to arrest Baldwin and hold him until the authorities could deal with him. He had travelled here remembering his old Order as though he could return to his youth, or recover some of the happiness he had known as a young man – as though mere proximity to a Templar site could ease his soul and undo some of the foul injustices of the last decade. Yet how could it? This place was nothing more than a series of blocks of stone. It had no soul, no life. All it was was a place in which men lived and worked. It was no better nor worse than the men who lived in it.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 29