She was already dropping with exhaustion. The work was repetitive and dull, but at least washing clothes brought in a few dinheiros and still left her time to sit in the square.
Standing again, she closed her eyes as she drew herself upwards. The pile which was the result of her efforts overnight was a pathetic sight, and when she looked at it, she was close to tears. All this misery – all this shame, sadness and poverty – and all caused by the conjunction of some terrible events that were nothing to do with her. And as a result, she must sit here every night while her fingers ached, the skin cracked, and her eyes grew sore.
Now she was done. She would go to buy a little wine, something to put the feeling back into her fingers and toes. It would cost more than half the money she had earned tonight, she knew, and that made her choke back a sob.
The woman at the bar gave her a hard look as María walked from the place, as though she felt that the beggarwoman was enjoying herself too much and the rent should be put up. If she did so, there was nothing María could do about it. For now, the most important thing for her was to gain enough energy to be able to survive the remainder of the night.
She walked out into the roadway, past the small triangular patch of grass, pulling her hood up over her hair. It was while she was decorously trying to hitch the veil up that she saw a dark shadow pissing against a tree.
It was a perfectly normal sight in the evening, but something prompted María to hurry her steps, and as she did so, the man turned and saw her. She recognised him immediately, as he did her. Even with her hood and veil, there was no mistaking the form and size of María the beggar, and he hailed her with a sudden grin.
‘Where to, woman? May I buy you a cake and some wine?’
She hurried her steps, saying nothing, but she could hear his chuckle and his footsteps as he set off after her. The way took her down the side of the hill; she turned right along an alley, then left, hoping to lose him in the maze of smaller streets, but it was no good. She was clad in her heavy black skirts, while he wore hosen. While she kept feeling her bare feet getting tangled, he moved without impediment.
The pursuit ended when she tripped and fell headlong.
‘Come, María, why the panic? It’s not as if I’m a murderer, is it?’ he teased from above her. ‘And if you sleep with me again, I’ll pay you for a whole evening’s work as well as paying you.’
It was tempting to believe him. God! She could do with the money, and he was not unappealing like so many of the men she’d been forced to accept. But how could she trust a man like him? He was another so-called honourable knight, just like the ones who had taken her home away from her.
He saw her face hardening. ‘Please!’ he said, more quietly.
There was a curious expression of hurt in his eyes, as though he wished to have her company for its own sake. Perhaps he did, too. She was brighter, better educated than most wenches in the city. More companionable.
‘It will cost you more this time,’ she warned him.
‘I don’t care.’
‘The money now, then,’ she demanded, holding her hand out.
‘Come, you can trust me,’ he said.
‘You say I can trust you?’ she repeated cynically. ‘I can trust no men. One only who married me, and one who saved my life – but both are dead now. You, Don Ruy – you must pay. The money first, and then you can have me.’
While Baldwin awoke with a sore neck, glaring up at the grey sky and trying to imagine how long it would take to dry off his sodden clothing after being so effectively soaked by the dew, Simon was waking to a pot of warmed wine that had been watered and sweetened, with some aromatic herbs and spices added. To set it off, there was the fresh juice of an orange. It was tasty, refreshing and, in short, the ideal drink to wake a man from a deep slumber.
He stretched with only a slight feeling of stiffness in his lower back and one knee. That was an old wound, from a bad fall when he was a lad, and it was growing to be his most efficient means of predicting the weather. Whenever it was about to alter, his left knee twinged. Perhaps the weather would soon change, he thought. It was possible, but then again, it could merely be the last after-effect of his illness. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he was not going to tell his wife Meg about any of this.
The door opened just then, but with his eyes closed, he thought nothing of it. He murmured, ‘Meg, I adore you and miss you. God keep you for me and for me alone!’
Opening his eyes, he saw Munio’s wife, who stood silently with a plate on which was a flat lump of the local bread, some plain cheese and a little ham. She said nothing, but set the plate beside him, and walked from the room with an abstracted air.
Simon did not notice, for he was immersed in the sudden insight which had come to him last night: that the murder had been planned. The money had either been taken away from the town, perhaps by a pilgrim who had stolen it and now was a hundred miles away, or it had been stashed away for a rainy day. If so, Simon thought, it was an astonishingly restrained person who had committed the crimes.
He finished his meal and donned his tunic and hose, still pursuing the new direction of his thoughts. The more he pondered on it, the more sure he was that he was right. There was only one link missing now, and he was sure that he would soon discover that.
Pulling on his jack and binding his sword about his belly, he left his chamber and went to seek Munio.
The Pesquisidor was sitting at his table in his hall with a somewhat doleful expression on his face, and Simon could not help but notice it. ‘Is all well, Munio?’
‘Yes. Why – should it not be?’ he demanded.
Simon was surprised by his snappishness. ‘My apologies, friend. I did not mean to upset you.’
‘That is right. An English freeman would hardly insult his host, would he?’ Munio said.
Thinking to distract Munio from his strange mood, Simon said, ‘I think I can see what happened out at the ford that day when we found the body. Will you allow me to command some men? Perhaps you too could come with me?’
‘You think I have time to drop all of my official matters on some whim of yours?’ Munio grated, but then he took a deep breath. ‘My apologies, Master Puttock, but I have received some disturbing news today.’
‘But of course,’ Simon said mildly. ‘Shall I ride out alone, then?’
‘No, I shall find a man to help you,’ Munio said, eyeing the man who, so his wife said, desired her.
He was as good as his word. No sooner had he left the house to find Guillem, than two men arrived at Simon’s side. One spoke a form of English, and Simon was convinced that he could explain what he needed. They would walk while Simon rode, as he was still feeling weak. He borrowed Munio’s horse for himself, and the three set off as soon as they could.
Simon wore a small goatskin filled with weak cider about his neck, and as they left the city, he unplugged it and took a long gulp. This weather was peculiar. It was so hot, he wondered how people survived it for long. Surely most people must die young, withered away until they were nothing more than the dried-out husks of the folks they had been. Even Munio, he thought, had been affected. It couldn’t be healthy to live in so hot and inclement a climate. Not like his Dartmoor. There at least there was always abundant moisture. It kept the flesh full and elastic, healthy; not like these thin-skinned foreigners.
It took the trio less than half an hour to reach the ford. Simon sat on his horse, hands crossed over his mount’s cruppers, contemplating the land before him.
The body had been found up there on his left, but Don Ruy had said that Ramón and Joana had been walking over on the other side of the stream. Simon kicked his horse onwards. At the ford the river was only shallow, if broad, and the water came no higher than the men’s knees. Not that they cared. They stoically ploughed through it, without glancing at Simon on his horse.
Once on the other side, Simon began his search. The land here was separated into fields, with a footpath
of some sort. On the right-hand side was a ditch, which was a little damp in the very bottom. It looked as though it was used for some form of irrigation. Bushes and a few thin, tormented trees tried to grow here, and there was a thick thorny mess beneath them.
It was here, Simon guessed, that Ramón and his woman had walked, and he rode along at a gentle amble, explaining as simply as he could to the men with him what he expected to find.
Once they understood, the two men set to with a will, and began to shove plants and twigs aside in their search for Simon’s proof. He had hoped that from his vantage point on the horse, he would be the first to see it, but it was the man who understood a little of Simon’s language who suddenly gave a delighted crow-like cry, and pounced. Grinning widely, one hand bleeding with a slash from a vicious thorn, he held up a large leather purse, an expensive, soft, decorated purse filled with gold and silver coins.
‘Well, well, well,’ Simon said with a grin that threatened to separate his crown from his jaw. ‘So I am not so stupid as I feared!’
There was much more to be done, once Simon had proved that part of his theory. Now he was keen to check on other aspects.
Leaving the horse at Munio’s stable for the groom to see to, he walked with the purse into town. Once there, he found a tavern, and sat in full view of the Cathedral, the purse safely tucked inside his jack. He still had the skin about his neck, but set it down and bought a jug of wine. Soon, he began to feel comfortably somnolent in the warm sunshine, watching all the people in the square.
They were all hurrying, but slowly, he noticed. In England, everybody tended to look as though they were hastening everywhere, when they had little reason to; here everyone seemed to move in leisurely fashion and yet they covered the land faster than their Devonshire counterparts.
Simon soon spotted the person he had come to see. The Prioress walked about the place with an anxious expression on her face, turning this way and that, catching the eyes of many people, and as quickly looking away. Her manner was that of a woman who was looking for someone, although she appeared half-terrified that she might find the target of her searching. She caught sight of Simon and he smiled at her, beckoning, but she gave a graceless shake of her head and turned away, walking towards a small group of beggars.
‘You won’t find her there,’ Simon said, comfortable in the knowledge that his simple test had been proven. Now there was only one more trial that he need make. For that, he must have assistance.
If only, he thought, Baldwin was back. He could do with his friend’s help.
Had he but known it, his friend was already back at Munio’s house.
Baldwin, Sir Charles and Paul arrived back at the house a little after lunchtime, just as Simon was sitting at the tavern and waiting for any sign that his assumptions were correct. Baldwin went straight in to find his friend or Munio. Instead he found Margarita, in her hall with a steward, but looking very troubled.
‘My lady! I am so glad to be back and to be able to thank you for your great kindness to me and to my friend.’
‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to have been a friend to you.’
‘Where is Simon?’
‘He is gone out. I expect he is in the town.’
Baldwin nodded, but he was aware of a certain frigidity about her. ‘Lady, Simon is well?’
‘He was very ill with a fever, Sir Baldwin, but now, yes, he is fully recovered.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said heartily, and again, he thought that her manner was a little off. ‘Um. Should I go to find him in the town?’
‘Yes. That might be a very good idea,’ she said as though considering the matter carefully.
He nodded and gave her the best bow he could manage, but when he left the house, his brow was furrowed. There was something very odd in this, he felt sure. Had Simon offended Margarita in some way? Surely that was impossible. Simon was a polite, reasonable, trouble-free guest generally. Perhaps it was simply because he had been so ill. Some men could become pests when unwell, he knew, and yet he had seen Simon when his friend was close to death, and he had never been difficult. If anything, great illness made him more pliant and amenable. No, it was surely not that.
In the yard, he surrendered himself to the fact that he did not know what was wrong and could not, until he had spoken to Simon himself. Perhaps he could throw some light on the matter?
First, of course, he must find Simon.
‘What now, Sir Baldwin?’ Sir Charles asked.
‘Well, after enjoying your companionship for the last four days on board ship, may I repay the compliment by buying you both a meal? My friend is in the town, I believe. We could do worse than go to see him.’
‘We could indeed,’ Sir Charles said with a smile. He was starving hungry. Almost the last coin he possessed had gone on the passage from Portugal to here, and now he was famished.
‘So long as he has a joint of beef and a slab or two of bread,’ Paul muttered, but Baldwin didn’t hear him and Sir Charles chose to ignore the comment.
Simon stood and glanced about the square. Doña Stefanía was standing near another group of beggars, casting her eyes over them all, the kneeling man, the stooped and wailing woman, the girl on crutches, but Simon could see that the one she wanted was not there. No, he thought, she’s hiding still, isn’t she? Can you blame her?
He felt quite relaxed. The whole picture had at last fitted into place, like a mosaic seen from a distance: he could see the individual hints at the overall picture, the tiny chips of stone, but now he could see the totality of the scene as well. Each clue was fitted into its own logical place, each related to the next, each pointed to the overall solution. Nothing was difficult, once you had the basic idea, he knew. No, it was quite simple when the theme was at last divulged. It made the solution laughably obvious, as so many mysteries were, when you had the key that opened them.
It would be good, he thought, to explain to Baldwin how he had come to this conclusion, although he knew that it would upset his friend. Still, it was important to know the truth, and Baldwin would appreciate it. It would set his mind at ease to hear what really happened, even if the facts were painful.
As he was about to leave the tavern, he saw Doña Stefanía again. She was walking about the edge of the group of beggars, and she caught a glimpse of him just as he looked her way. Her face was pale and drawn, a picture of sadness, and he wished he could ease her torment. ‘But I can’t ruddy help you unless you let me, can I? If you won’t let me speak to you, I can’t do a thing,’ he muttered irritably.
He drained his cup and sat back. Until Baldwin returned, Simon felt unwilling to expose the facts, just in case his assessment was wrong. If he was right, Doña Stefanía was going nowhere until she had found what she sought – and she couldn’t find that now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Doña Stefanía could feel his eyes upon her. It was infuriating! The shabby fellow with the bright eyes and unhealthy white skin was staring like a man ogling his first woman. If she could, she would have run to the nearest Cathedral official and demanded that the impudent churl be punished for his lack of respect.
She couldn’t, though. There was no official in the Cathedral to whom she could turn. She shouldn’t have remained here. Oh, if only she had gone back to the Priory …
It was mostly due to Parceval. Doña Stefanía was confused. Without Joana, she felt as lost as an unmasted cog on the open sea. Worse was when the foul monster Domingo had demanded her relic. Losing that was a disaster! But so was the loss of her companions. She was all alone, with only Parceval. He was her sole friend here.
Parceval had money, but she no longer suspected him. No, he couldn’t have robbed, raped and murdered Joana and returned to meet herself in the tavern. He would have taken longer. Anyway, he had satisfied Munio. No, Parceval was innocent. Someone else had stolen her money and done those terrible things to her poor young maid.
Doña Stefanía felt the beginnings of panic. There was no on
e to whom she could turn. Of course, when that devil Domingo had robbed her of her only valuable, the Saint’s relic, she had submitted to Parceval’s generosity. She joined him in his own room, an offer she had felt forced to accept. At the time, she had believed that he had stolen her money. She meant to take it back – except there had never been the opportunity. Every time she had tried to reach out and search his belongings, she became aware that he was awake. It was as though he needed no sleep, damn him!
She wanted her relic back, but Domingo must have sold it or just thrown it away. At that thought, ice entered her bowels. The idea that a saint’s holy remains should be cast away, perhaps into the river, or even into a midden near the town – that didn’t bear thinking of. Her religious soul quailed at the thought that her innocent theft of the relic could have led to it being discarded by a heathen like him. It would mean that she herself would be considered as guilty as Domingo, should the Bishop ever learn of her trick.
So she had to wait here. And then she had learned that the Fleming was not a liar, and he wasn’t a thief. The money wasn’t taken by him. She went with him and saw how the house of Musciatto treated him, like a deeply honoured client. This was no common churl, but a wealthy merchant who had chosen to dress like a peasant. That was up to him. It at least made her feel a little better. A man’s breeding would out, she considered. She hadn’t fallen for a bit of rough serfdom, but a rich man. It was some consolation.
What was not in any way consoling was the fact that although now she thought she had guessed the truth, she still couldn’t find her relic, her money or her maid.
Because Doña Stefanía was sure that her maid had not died. Joana was still alive, and in possession of her money, and Doña Stefanía wanted it back.
‘Wait a moment, Bailiff.’
Simon had stood as the Prioress disappeared around the side of a wall, and yawned. There was no point hanging around here, he thought, and he was about to make his way back to Munio’s house, when he heard Gregory’s call.
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 34