The Templar's Penance

Chapter Sixteen

Matthew’s corpse had been lodged in a room off at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was a mere rude shelter, and the next morning, when Simon and Baldwin arrived there with Munio, it was cool in the lee of the massive stone walls.

‘I keep bodies here until they can be buried,’ Munio explained as he fumbled with the lock. ‘You will understand that in the hot weather, we have to bury them quickly … and Matthew will need to be placed in his grave today.’

The room was bare. There was a set of shelves over on the left wall, all musty and cobwebbed, while the only light came from a small, high window. The right wall was composed of massive stone slabs, the unrendered wall of the Cathedral itself, and boxes were stacked along it, all with open lids. Some had shovels protruding, some axes, while in a far one stood some long polearms, an incongruous sight here in a church’s grounds.

Munio saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Where would you put them?’ he asked simply.

Simon grinned, but he saw that Baldwin didn’t hear their talk. The knight stood just inside the doorway, staring at the wreckage of his companion.

To Simon, the body was like a shrivelled husk of a man just as a raisin was a shrivelled husk of a grape. Other corpses struck him with real sadness, like that of the woman Joana, because in their death they had shown the ending of lives which were not yet fully ripened. There was so much that youngsters might have achieved. That was what had hurt him more than anything about the loss of his own first son. Peterkin had developed a fever, and that with the diarrhoea had made his end messily brutal. Worst of all, as he faded, his screams and whimpering had stabbed Simon like daggers of guilt, because he could do nothing to ease the lad’s suffering, and that had caused a terrible desire to have him silenced. It was almost a relief when at last his crying had faded to nothing and Simon realised that he would never again make a noise.

This death was different. Matthew was an old man. He had seen and done much in his sixty-odd years, and a life which had been fully enjoyed – or endured – had not been totally wasted.

Matthew lay untidily. No one had bothered to put his hands together or close his eyes. They probably thought there was no point, not with a beggar who wouldn’t be able to afford the simplest funeral. Simon could empathise with that view. There was no point in making too much effort for a man who, when all was said and done, wouldn’t be missed by many. Matthew had no wife, no daughter, no son, no mother; there was nobody to mourn him.

But when he glanced at Baldwin, Simon realised he was wrong: Baldwin mourned him. The knight was overcome with sadness. He had slept badly. Simon had heard him tossing and turning during the night, and more than once had thought that he should interrupt Baldwin’s thoughts and try to talk, but each time he had slipped away into slumber again. It was hard, but he was so tired with the heat during the day and wine at night, and he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open. He vaguely recalled waking and seeing Baldwin sitting at an open, unshuttered window staring out at the stars, but now he wasn’t certain that it wasn’t a dream. It had all the power of reality, certainly, but his dreams were often vivid.

The knight appeared reluctant to approach closer. For once, Simon felt that he was the calmer of the pair of them in the face of death. Rather than waiting, Simon stepped forward and stood over the corpse, staring down at the body. ‘Is the girl out here as well?’

‘She is buried. There was nothing to keep her from her grave.’

‘This man was wounded where?’

As he spoke, Simon was aware of Baldwin walking forward and standing at his side. The knight’s eyes looked moist, as though there were unshed tears held at bay, but then Simon saw him blink a few times, and when he glanced at his friend’s face again, he saw a kind of resolution there. Baldwin reached down to pull the clothing from Matthew’s body, and as he did so, he grew once again into the magnificent logician whom Simon so admired.

‘Only the one wound,’ Baldwin noted.

‘A stab in the breast,’ Munio agreed. With his expressive features cast in such a mournful mould, Simon thought he looked as miserable as a hound which has just seen its supper stolen by a cat.

Baldwin waved away a small collection of flies. In hours, he knew, that tiny wound would be heaving with maggots. The wound itself was only a mere half-inch long. It was a narrow blade which had done this. There was no tearing apparent, which tended to mean that the blade had been sharp all along its length, right to the hilt, or that it had not been thrust in with full force, but there were no hard and fast rules with wounds, as he knew. It was largely a case of supposition.

He pushed his little finger into it, and found resistance as his second joint slipped beneath the skin. Thus the wound was only some two inches deep. Either the murderer had used a very short blade, or he had failed to stab with any great effort. This was the sort of wound which could have been inflicted by accident – not that that was likely. There were simply no reasons for someone to want to rob a mere beggar, so this was a deliberate act: perhaps Matthew had insulted a man or his wife, or this was the execution of a renegade Templar. And Baldwin knew which of the two he believed.

There were so many people who might have wanted to kill a Templar, had they learned of Matthew’s past. A beggar who insulted a woman in the road might earn himself a knock or worse from her husband, but that would be an instantaneous reward for a real or imagined slight. This, if the witness was right, was a sudden attack without any hint of conversation or words beforehand.

‘No sign of robbery or theft from the body?’ he asked.

Munio looked at him. ‘If a man was desperate enough to steal, would he seek out such a victim?’

‘The witness, this other beggar who saw it all happen – have you tracked her down?’ Simon asked.

‘No. I am afraid she has disappeared too. I wonder …’

‘You think she too has been killed?’ Baldwin shot out.

‘No, but perhaps she was so fearful of the killer, she ran from the city. She was not well known here. I have seen her a little recently, but she wasn’t a local woman. Perhaps she saw a murder and feared he might track her down as a witness and kill her too?’

‘It is possible,’ Baldwin mused, staring down at the terrible figure of his dead friend.

It was Simon who asked, ‘What was her name?’

‘María from Venialbo.’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon commented, ‘It’s odd that she was able to help us with first Joana’s death and now Matthew’s death too.’

Baldwin said, ‘Have you asked the gatekeepers whether they have seen her leave the city?’

‘Yes, but none of them say they have.’

‘So we have lost the only witness?’

‘She may return, but yes, I think we have lost her.’

Simon touched Baldwin’s arm. ‘Come. We ought to leave Munio to his work.’

‘Yes, of course. We are grateful for your time and your help, señor.’

‘It is fine. Of course, you would tell me if you learned anything that could be useful?’

‘Yes. As soon as I can, I will tell you what I may,’ Baldwin said, but he knew that he couldn’t tell Munio anything. It would be too dangerous. Especially if there was a man in the city who was prepared to kill any Templars he met.

Gregory was disgruntled. That stupid cow of an ex-wife of his had the brain of an ox. Dull-witted and only ever thinking of herself. She had ruined his day. Just his luck that he should meet her here when he was feeling so good. Well – she’d wrecked all his sense of well-being.

He was back in the nave of the Cathedral, praying as well as he could over the din of the newest batch of pilgrims, who were gawping up at the ceiling and telling each other just how magnificent it all was at the top of their voices. They had to talk loudly, because with everyone speaking at the same time, it was impossible to hear anything. Thus it was that Gregory’s concentration on the service being conducted forty feet away was regularly being shattered. The priest kept an expression of unconcern fitted to his face, as though this was perfectly normal and that speaking in the sure and certain knowledge that nobody more than two rows away from you could hear was natural, but Gregory was convinced that every so often there was a faint crack in his benign façade whenever a particularly pushy pilgrim braying about the decoration broke into his prayers. Curious, wasn’t it, Gregory thought, that so many people who could have declared their religious convictions with absolute sincerity, could behave with such brash insensitivity towards so many others who were trying to participate in the devotions.

To Gregory it seemed sacrilegious, but he knew that it was normal human behaviour. Even in his own home town, people shouted at each other as the service went on. In the Cathedral at Canterbury, the public conducted their business in the nave because it was a warmer, drier place than the market square outside, but here it was infinitely worse. Some of the folks here had travelled hundreds of miles in order to come and have their prayers heard. To have the words of the priest drowned out was a great annoyance, especially to Gregory, when he desperately needed to hear something soothing today.

He was feeling very raw after meeting his wife again. Stefanía would keep popping up. What she wanted with a pilgrimage, he didn’t know. Since she had legally divorced him, there was little he could do about it, of course. He couldn’t even demand to know what she was here for; as she had haughtily pointed out to him, that was none of his business now. When she set her head back like that, peering at him like some slug she had found munching at her vegetables, he wanted to clout her, the disrespectful baggage. Her tone, when she coldly informed him that, as they weren’t married any more, she need not show him respect, merely added oil to the flames of his anger. It didn’t help – as she knew too well! It was typical of his luck that he should have chosen her for his wife.

At the end of the service, he stood and bowed his head. So far as he was concerned, his task here was over and done with; all he need do was return home now. Somehow he had to try to recover from this journey.

If he had not joined the Templars, his life would have been better, surely. He had gone there less from a feeling of conviction or devotion, much more because he wanted to get back at her for what she’d done. The cow! She’d even ended their marriage in a way that did most harm to him. It was – what? – a month after he joined them that the Order was swept away. One month, one miserable month, sleeping in clothing already foul, the new beard itching at his jaw, the sleepless nights as he was woken at some unearthly hour to go and pray. Good God! It was awful.

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 couldn’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?’