The Templar's Penance

Chapter Fourteen

Running away from the place, Afonso knew that his attack was mad, that he had been a fool, but he couldn’t help it. When that bastard son of a Moorish slave and a Venetian whore, that piece of hogshit, Matthew, had wandered away from the square looking so smug, Afonso had felt the strings of his gut and bowels start to tighten like he was about to be sick. He couldn’t help it. He’d chased off after him, running along the alley.

But he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and found himself in a dead end. He had to run back, then up the next connecting lane.

It was a grim place, stinking of piss and shit, and he’d slapped his sandals through pools of damp, trying not to think of the mess that fouled his feet, ankles and shins. The smell was enough to hint at what lay all about. He was relieved when, diving round the corner of one house, he found himself in a wider opening, and was able to look about him in the blindingly bright sunshine.

Left was a tavern with a single tree outside, a cobbled yard a little like one of his own, back in the village where he had been born – in Gradil, in Portugal. In the road next to his father’s olive farm, there had been a place much like this, a small building with a triangular court before it, and one solitary olive tree, he recalled. From there, on the side of the hill, you could look eastwards over the broad space of the land, with the olive trees and grapes ripening on the vines. It was always peaceful there, quiet and good. A man like his father could sit and gaze at the view with a jug of his best red wine beside him in the hot summer evening, while a few pieces of fish or meat cooked on his open fire.

For an instant Afonso felt his heart fold in upon itself. That was where he would still be now, if it weren’t for the Templars – and for Matthew in particular. It was as he turned that he saw, coming from the opposite direction, Matthew and some beggarwoman. Immediately he had drawn his dagger and rushed at the old sod.

Matthew was dead. That was the main thing, the only thing that mattered. Matthew, the murderer of his father, had died; although his passing was far too easy and gentle for Afonso’s taste. If the latter could have had his own way, he would have made the traitor suffer much more.

It was curious, that expression on his face, Afonso thought. Almost as though he was glad. Perhaps he had known that he was going to die like that someday. He had certainly guaranteed that he had enough enemies.

In the square, Afonso glanced about him before making off towards the lane that would take him back towards Sir Charles and Paul. Once there, he would pack and prepare to leave. There was no point in hanging around here for someone to find him. No, he would throw all his things into a bag, then make his way south, away from this city.

Sir Charles was sitting with his back to a tree, a large pilgrim’s hat with a cockleshell symbol pinning up the brim to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun, when Afonso arrived. The Portuguese stood a moment contemplating him, then cleared his throat loudly enough for Sir Charles to hear.

The knight merely smiled under his hat. He had heard Afonso’s feet approaching and had instantly come awake, just as he always did. He was too well attuned to the possibility that an enemy from long ago, or even from recent times might arrive to kill him. ‘You look tired, my friend.’

‘Si. I am a little,’ Afonso said. He looked along the lane, back the way he had come, but no one appeared to have followed him. ‘I think I have had enough of this place.’

‘Ah. You have seen your friend again. He will trouble you no more?’

‘He will trouble no man.’

Sir Charles looked approvingly at him. There was about Afonso no sign that he had just brought a man to swift or violent death, no blood on his tunic or sleeves, no mark on his hands. If he had been asked, Sir Charles would have said that this calm, collected man before him was guilty of nothing – but then he had seen Afonso kill before. With that dagger of his, he could draw, spin the blade up and catch it, and then hurl it so smoothly and quickly that it could penetrate a half-inch of solid hardwood. He had seen it. Just as he had seen Afonso’s knife kill the tavern-keeper who was going to brain him in that tavern in France. There had been no blood on Afonso then either. It was a very effective weapon, a knife thrown at speed.

‘So, are you ready to leave?’ he asked.

‘I have nothing more to do here,’ Afonso said. ‘I shall return to my home.’

‘Down to Portugal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Extraordinary!’ Sir Charles stood and dusted his backside. Glancing up at the sky, which now had thick, fleecy clouds moving slowly across it, he sniffed. He put a finger into his ear and delicately removed a little wax, inspecting it with curiosity. ‘There seems little of interest in this town to me. A pleasing altar, it’s true, but precious little else. There’s not even a decent brothel. I know … why don’t I join you?’

Afonso nodded calmly. Sir Charles was a dangerous man, but he had proved himself honourable enough. He and Afonso had been together for some months, and they had not exchanged a cross word. Both were slow to take offence with a companion. He had noticed before that there were fewer arguments and fights between men who were genuinely equals. ‘I would be grateful for your companionship,’ he said politely.

Sir Charles nodded, then shouted for Paul to prepare to pack and go. He smiled at Afonso and said, ‘Friend, you have the air of a man who has achieved something with his day. A weight has fallen from you.’

‘Yes,’ Afonso said. It was true. He had not been able to satisfy his lust for vengeance, but at least the man was dead. Now his father could rest in his grave at last.

Again the expression on the old man’s face came back to him. Gratitude for seeing that his debt was at last discharged? Relief that his grim existence as a beggar was about to be ended? Perhaps he had come to realise how foul his act had been, and welcomed the tardy arrival of justice.

Or was he just glad that the waiting was over?

The groom could help them no further, but the two men left the stable and set off with the certainty that they were following the right trail.

There were another three stables along this road.

‘Christ’s Blood!’ Simon said, wiping the sweat from his forehead again. ‘They have more horses per head here than any city I’ve known.’

Baldwin nodded absently. ‘Yes, it’s the same with all the big pilgrim centres. They have so many people arriving, and they have to cater for them all. It’s worse here, because Saint James brings in so many travellers for each week, but I think that at this time of year, getting close to his feast day on 25 July, the place must have at least double its normal population. Local businesses have to provide accommodation and food for all the men and women, and also for all the beasts which they bring.’

Two boys were playing with a ball. As it rolled down the road, Simon aimed a kick at it in passing, but he missed by some inches. That was odd, but he put it down to the weather. Never again would he complain about the sun when he was parched and riding over Dartmoor. This was a heat he could never have imagined, had he not come here. He must be hungry, too; his belly felt empty. ‘My gut thinks my throat’s been cut!’ he grumbled.

The next stable was where they found Don Ruy’s horse.

‘Yes, masters, he came here last afternoon, hired a horse and went for a ride. Was out almost until dark.’

The groom was leaning on his rails as he spoke, a happy, smiling man in his late fifties, from the look of him. He had a face like a walnut and, to Simon’s eye, appeared as wiry as a Dartmoor shepherd. Although he was leaning talking to the two, he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, because he suddenly broke off and roared, making Simon jump, although the Bailiff wasn’t as startled as the boy who was supposed to be mucking out a couple of stalls. The lad stopped eavesdropping and bent to his task again, while the old groom, who had not so much as turned his head, winked at Baldwin.

‘You have to keep them on their toes.’

Baldwin grinned. ‘I have a young servant who needs the same attention. Tell me, this man yesterday – how did he seem when he came back? Did he seem disturbed in any way?’

‘I’d say he was sad – you know, like a man who has learned that his dog’s just died.’

‘Which means we are a little farther forward,’ Baldwin said to Simon as they walked back later.

‘Perhaps. We may know where the Prioress’s mare has gone, and we know where Don Ruy and Frey Ramon’s horses were kept.’

‘And there is Joana’s mount, too,’ Baldwin said suddenly. They were near the first stable, and he saw the wrinkled little man inside. ‘Hola! One last question, señor. That mare – was there ever another mare with it?’

‘There was another, yes. A pretty little thing,’ the man said, walking out to them. He had some twine about his belly, and he stuck a thumb in it as he stared at them both consideringly. ‘A maid came in here for it, and took it out yesterday after lunch. Haven’t seen it or her since. Pretty maid, she was. Slim, tall, black hair. Lovely.’

‘And so,’ Baldwin smiled, ‘this is presumably where Joana’s own mount was left.’

Simon nodded moodily.

‘What is it, Simon?’

‘It seems quite a coincidence that the shifty fellow who took the Doña’s mare chose to store it here with the Doña’s maid’s horse, doesn’t it?’

It was later that evening that Baldwin heard of the death of his friend. At first, he disbelieved the story. It seemed so unreasonable that he could have found an old comrade only to lose him again almost immediately.

He and Simon were sitting in a tavern in a small court some short way from the square, and they had eaten their fill of good stew, soft-crusted bread, olives and a light, fresh wine. Afterwards they sat back, Simon belching softly. ‘Not bad wine, this. Better than the French stuff I sometimes buy in Lydford. This is on a par with the quality wines they sell in Exeter.’

Baldwin sipped and nodded. ‘I think they have more flavour here. Either that, or the drink which we normally buy has been adulterated.’

Simon grunted and stretched. ‘It’s strange. This Galician air seems to make you more tired. I could ride twenty or thirty miles at home and still feel ready for a few quarts of ale, but here I sit about all day and have a little wine, and suddenly I’m exhausted.’

‘The heat can do that to you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I did warn you.’

‘It doesn’t seem to hurt others.’

‘The people who live here grow accustomed to the temperature.’

‘No, I meant the other pilgrims.’

‘They walked or rode here, spending time to get used to the gradual increase in temperature. You and I arrived on a ship after a short journey. We are more likely to be affected.’

‘If you say so.’ Simon cast a knowing look at him. ‘You aren’t interested in this at all, are you? You are still thinking about that dead girl.’

‘I cannot help it.’

‘Nor can I,’ Simon said. ‘You know, those injuries worry me. Joana was recognised instantly by her mistress, Doña Stefanía, and yet I wouldn’t be able to swear who on earth it was. It’s almost as though Doña Stefanía had ordered her death. She recognised the girl because she knew who had been killed.’

‘She was the right height and wearing familiar clothes,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Clothes alone! Is that enough to make a reasonable identification? No!’

Baldwin leaned his forearms on the table before him and met Simon’s gaze. ‘I too feel oddly uneasy. It is as though I am forced to remain a spectator, when my soul is crying out that I should be there helping. You and I must have more experience in seeking out killers than any man in this city, yet we have no authority to do anything, while a murderer is loose somewhere near us.’

‘It doesn’t mean we can necessarily help. I doubt that I’d be much assistance to anyone; I can’t even understand the language!’

Baldwin watched him drain his cup. ‘Yet you can still see when a man is lying, can’t you? You are adept at hearing when someone is dissembling.’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’

‘It is often said that a blind man will hear more acutely. Some philosophers believe that when a man loses one faculty, his mind works more concentratedly with the others. Thus, a blind man may hear better with his ears and feel more with his fingers. It follows that you may be better attuned to hearing a man’s deceit when you have no understanding of his words.’

Simon gave him a pitying look. ‘You think so?’

‘What of that man Ruy?’

‘Sir Ruy? There’s a prime example. I have no idea whether he lied or not.’

‘Nor have I.’

‘There you are,’ Simon said, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘It’s a handicap, not being able to speak the language. If even you couldn’t see where he lied, he fooled you too. Perhaps you need to be fluent in a language to spot a man’s dishonesty.’

‘I am not so sure. My linguistic skills have to be scraped up from the recesses of my memory, which means I cannot listen with the ear of an inquisitor to the tones and inflexions of a man’s voice. Now: I believe Don Ruy could have lied to us.’

‘He could have, I suppose, but why? Do you mean he killed the girl? He has a record for rape, of course. But we both know that what he was accused of was really eloping, if he was telling the truth. His documents support him.’

‘If he told us the truth,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Then we should consider whether he was not lying to us.’

‘That means the Prioress was lying, and I won’t have that.’

‘It does not necessarily follow, Simon. There is a third possibility: that neither did.’

Simon considered. ‘She said that he saw her, which he admitted; she said that he blackmailed her, which he denied. Either he did, or he did not. Simple.’

‘But she did not say that he went to her directly. That was the point of my questions to him. She said that her maid was told. Now, perhaps her maid did not actually meet Don Ruy face to face, but instead spoke to a third party who pretended he was speaking on behalf of Ruy but was in reality acting on his own cognizance. When the maid told her mistress, she would naturally speak of the Don, not some servant. Thus the Prioress was assured that it was him, Don Ruy, who was blackmailing her, when in reality it was nothing to do with him. Therefore, neither lied to us, and both were telling us the truth.’

‘So who could this mystery man have been?’

‘The peasant, Parceval – he knew Ruy had walked in. Look, he could even have dreamed up this blackmail story with Joana herself. She helped him invent it in order to rob her mistress – but then her partner killed her to take the full amount rather than share it with her.’

‘You believe that?’ Simon asked doubtfully.

‘Not really, but it is a possible explanation, along with others, like Ramón killing her and fleeing with the money, Ruy’s lustful rape and subsequent murder, or a felon’s robbery and murder of her.’

‘I cannot get away from the fact of Ramon’s fleeing the city, and Ruy saying Ramón was there with her.’

‘Really?’ said Baldwin. ‘I cannot myself get away from the hunchbacked felon. He took Doña Stefania’s horse back to the stable, which is why Joana had to go to the ford – and die. And Ruy saw a man who looked just like that, attack his companions and then leave the city in time to kill the girl.’

‘I should like to speak to the peasant Parceval to see where he was when Joana died,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps we should find Munio and tell him what we have discovered?’

‘We tried that this afternoon, remember?’ Baldwin said drily. He was a little put out by the Pesquisidor because he and Simon had sent a boy to find Munio to tell him what they had learned from the Don and Doña, but Munio had sent the lad back to say that he was too busy to see them right at that moment. ‘His reply bordered on the insulting.’

‘Maybe he was merely very busy,’ Simon said soothingly. ‘I expect he has many calls on his time in a city as lively as this.’ He languidly beckoned to the daughter of the innkeeper and asked her if she knew where Munio lived.

Fortunately, she knew a little English from the pilgrims who flocked to the city, and could answer. ‘Yes, he lives only a short way.’

‘Would you send a boy to ask him to come and join us?’ Simon said.

When she had gone, calling for her brother, Baldwin gave a twisted grin. ‘I hope you are right. Perhaps he will come here now. Or maybe he will decide again that he has better things to do than come to meet with us, a busy man like him!’

His doubts were soon to be dispelled. After a few minutes, there was a cough behind him, and a voice said, ‘So. You wanted to speak to me, gentles?’

‘Pesquisidor, I am glad to see you,’ Simon said effusively, standing and indicating a seat near him.

Baldwin saw why when he himself stood. Behind Munio stood a beautiful woman. She was taller than Munio, with dark skin and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Her face was long and fine, with high cheekbones and a straight nose leading down to a thinnish mouth, but any solemnity that it gave her face was given the lie by her large, luminous eyes, which were filled with kindness.

‘This is my wife, Margarita,’ Munio said. ‘We were walking when your messenger found us.’

‘Please be seated,’ Baldwin said, bringing a seat up for Margarita and then motioning to the serving-girl.

‘You said you had something to talk about,’ Munio enquired.

Baldwin thought he looked very tired, as though the events of the last day had worn him down, and he felt a fleeting guilt that he had considered the man to be too lazy to bother to visit him when he asked. Munio’s face had a drawn appearance, like one who had slept little and thought too much.

It was Simon who spoke. ‘It is this murder. We wondered whether we should trouble you, but it seemed only fair to tell you.’

Munio jerked upright. ‘You know about the beggar?’

Baldwin smiled. ‘No, what beggar?’

‘Only an old man. He was killed today not far from the square. Poor old devil. He was a loner in life and died the same way.’

‘A shame,’ Baldwin said.

‘He was so noble-looking, too.’

A chill hand seemed to settle over Baldwin’s heart. ‘You can’t mean Matthew?’

‘You knew him?’

‘An older man with a grey beard? Narrow features, pale-grey eyes, had been fair-haired once, and had a deeply lined face with dark, sunburned skin?’

‘There was only the one man begging called Matthew that I know of.’

Baldwin felt strange and a little dizzy. It had been many years since he had last encountered a brother Templar, and to have met Matthew only yesterday and learn today that he was dead, was a terrible shock, outrageous: it could have been torn from a Greek tragedy. It was as though the very last bond with his past had been sliced through and he must now sail on an uncharted sea without any aid to navigate. In a way, he felt he could glimpse the mournful loss that Matthew himself must have experienced over these last few years. Baldwin felt so bereft that even the memories of his wife and daughter failed to touch him.

Simon could see Baldwin’s distress, and quickly broke in to change the subject. ‘One thing I never asked you, señor, is how long you lived in Oxford? You speak English so very well.’

Munio set his head to one side deprecatingly. ‘I spent seven years in Oxford, when my father sought to have me educated as a philosopher, but then he lost his money and I had to make my own way in the world. I persuaded a merchant in the city to let me learn how he plied his trade, and some while later I managed to set myself up as a merchant in my own right. I came back here with my wife because it was the city I grew up in. I have always loved it.’

‘Your wife is not from here?’ Simon asked.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I come from Oxford.’

Simon was astonished. To find a man who spoke English was pleasing in a foreign land, even if they had first met while the man held some suspicions of him, but then to learn that this beautiful woman was also English was a delight. ‘I can understand how you speak my language so well, having so charming a tutor,’ he said to Munio.

Munio gave a grin. ‘When a man has a wife nagging at him, he learns her language soon enough.’

‘I don’t nag,’ she scolded, but with a trickle of laughter in her tone, and she glanced gratefully at Simon.

Baldwin had recovered sufficiently to pour the wine that had arrived at last. ‘This Matthew – how did he die?’

‘It was murder,’ Munio said, and his eyes lost the humour which had flared in them for a moment. ‘A youth heard a scream and turned to see him fall. A beggarwoman was a little way behind him and must have witnessed the incident, but I haven’t met her yet. The youth saw a man run at Matthew, pause, and then run off. When he reached the beggar, he was dead, a wound in his breast. It must have punctured his heart.’

‘It takes only an inch or so of steel to stop the heart,’ Baldwin said inconsequentially. ‘Did he see the man who stabbed Matthew?’

‘No. The man was facing away the whole time. The lad said it could have been anyone. There are so many pilgrims, and they are changing every day, so it would have been a miracle if he had recognised the man.’

‘What of the beggarwoman? Did she recognise him?’

‘I haven’t spoken to her yet. I was seeking her when your messenger told me you wanted to talk. I was very busy. My apologies. I didn’t intend to be rude, but I think my response might have seemed so.’

Baldwin gave a flick of the hand as though discarding any possible upset. ‘You had much to deal with.’

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

Simon saw that Baldwin wasn’t quite recovered from his shock on hearing of Matthew’s death, so he began to tell Munio of their conversation with Doña Stefanía and Don Ruy.

‘So there are two other men from Don Ruy’s band of pilgrims with whom we should speak,’ Munio summarised. ‘This peasant who ravished the Prioress, and the priestly man, Frey Ramón, wherever he might be.’

‘There is a third man, of course,’ Simon pointed out. ‘The felon. We know Don Ruy saw him. Perhaps he had something to do with all this! It is too much of a coincidence that he should take back the horse and then be seen leaving the city. He made sure Joana went to pay the blackmailer, and then followed her.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, trying to set his mind to the problem again. It was hard. All he could see was the careworn face of Matthew as he had seen him yesterday. It was only one day ago, and that made it so much more difficult to believe that the man was truly dead. There was an emptiness in his soul. It had been fine to learn that his old friend was alive, to see a comrade from the days of his youth, and now that last friend was dead. ‘I shall find him,’ he growled.

‘Who?’ Simon asked, but then he looked at Baldwin’s face and understood.

‘Munio, could I see Matthew’s body? I wish to say farewell to an old friend.’