The Templar's Penance

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 one 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 cleric was approaching with the tall figure of Don Ruy at his side. ‘Perhaps we could share a jug of wine? This town, for all its gaudy baubles and trinkets to be sold to pilgrims, is surprisingly short of intelligent conversation.’

‘I should be happy to,’ Simon lied. He had no desire to speak to the miserable fellow. In his private opinion, Gregory spent too much time whining about his lot and not enough getting on with his life, but Simon was interested in speaking to Don Ruy.

‘Could you ask the knight,’ he said to Gregory when they were all seated on benches and each had a jug of wine before them, ‘whether he recalls that day when your ex-wife’s maid was murdered?’

Don Ruy looked a little startled on hearing the question and shot a look at Simon, but he nodded, then shook his head with apparent sadness.

‘A terrible waste,’ Gregory translated.

‘Certainly,’ Simon agreed. ‘Such a young life. And I understand you rather liked her?’

Gregory looked from one to the other as he translated. ‘He says she was a pleasant enough woman.’

‘With the legs and bosom to make her still more appealing,’ Simon said. ‘After all, Don Ruy was seen watching her closely as he followed her out of the city.’

‘He says he’s told you this already,’ Gregory said as Ruy affected an elaborate yawn.

‘Yes,’ Simon said, stifling his own yawn. He was feeling more than a little lethargic himself after so much wine so early in the afternoon. ‘But he said that he left the city for a ride and came straight back here again afterwards. He said that he didn’t follow the girl. But he saw her walking over on the other side of the ford with Ramón.’

‘Yes. That is right.’

‘He told us he saw another person there.’

‘There was no one.’

‘Come! There was a washerwoman at the ford.’

‘That is true.’

‘Who was she?’

‘He does not know.’

Simon chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘I wonder. The hostler at the stable told us Don Ruy was away most of the afternoon. Don Ruy said he was out for a short time. I had forgotten that until I started thinking about the sequence of events. And thinking about them, I remembered the washerwoman. What happened to her?’

‘He does not know.’

‘Let me prompt his memory! After all, anyone there could be suspected of Joana’s murder.’

‘Don Ruy says he has better things to be doing,’ Gregory said nervously as the knight stood, tapping at his sword hilt.

‘Tell him to wait. I want to ask him about María, the whore …’

With an incoherent roar, Don Ruy swept out his sword, and it sparkled in the bright sunshine.

Suddenly he shot forward, and the table went over, the edge striking Simon in the lower belly, its weight trapping his legs. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and then the table top was thrust at him again, and he felt himself toppling backwards, the full mass of the wood on top of him. With his mouth wide in alarm, he flailed with his arms, but there was nothing he could do, and he thumped backwards, his head taking an unpleasant knock on the stone flags.

Gregory had remained rooted to the spot as he saw Don Ruy explode into action, and he jerked back as the table went over, and Simon flew backwards, but then he saw Don Ruy grab for his sword, and he responded without thinking. He was standing now, and he had no weapon to hand. Simon’s own was sheathed and hidden beneath the table, out of reach. But behind him was a pilgrim who, footsore from having just arrived, sat massaging his bare, horny feet, a strong, iron-shod staff at his side. It was the work of a moment to snatch it up and take it in the quarter-staff hold, one quarter of its length held between his hands, three quarters projecting like a polearm.

Don Ruy was about to stab at Simon, but the staff jabbed hard forward, catching him under the breastbone. It was painful, but more than that, it was shocking, like being suddenly molested by a rabbit. Don Ruy fell back, his mouth working as he tried to accommodate the concept of the feeble cleric Gregory suddenly becoming a ferocious avenger, and then he leaped to the attack.

But Gregory had been an experienced fighter before being thrown from the Templars, and most Englishmen were raised with a staff from childhood. Using it as a half- or quarter-staff was second nature. Gregory easily knocked aside the knight’s first thrust, parried the second, and then automatically poked hard at Ruy’s face, the iron ferrule striking the man’s right temple. Withdrawing the point, Gregory realised that the knight was not immediately attacking again, and he struck once more, this time catching the back of Ruy’s hand.

The tip had been fixed upon the staff more than five hundred miles earlier, when the pilgrim passed over the mountains near Roncesvalles. It had worn down progressively until now it was a thin sliver of metal that was as fine as a razor on one side.

It was this that had caught Ruy’s temple and hand, and as Gregory drew the pole away, he saw that there was a fine mist of blood pumping from Ruy’s head. The knight realised at the same time and, reaching to his skull, stared in disbelief at the blood that smeared his fingers. He turned to stare at Gregory, his face now devoid of any emotion but rage. Whirling his sword about his head, he swung it at Gregory, and although Gregory held the stout staff in its path, the blade thunked into the wood and tore out a massive chip. The blade came out, almost tearing the staff from Gregory’s grip, and whirled again, this time catching the wood a glancing blow and cracking a great splinter from it; and when it glinted in the sun and appeared to slice straight at Gregory’s head, he was sure he was about to die.

There was a ringing crash, an echoing, heroic sound like bells and trumpets and glory all together, and a second blade blocked it. Gregory was thrust aside, and he saw a flashing peacock-blue shimmering in the air before him, and then he was dancing away, the shattered remnants of the staff still gripped firmly in his hands, as Baldwin moved in.

It was as Don Ruy lifted the table that Baldwin had reached the square. All he could see was Don Ruy apparently attacking Gregory and he rushed forward to try to prevent bloodshed, but then he saw that there was another body on the floor, and even as he realised it was Simon, his anger was kindled. His sword flashed into his hand, and he leaped between Ruy and Gregory, his blade sparkling in the sun. His senses quickly became attuned to his opponent. Ruy gave way like a man who was hard-pressed from an unexpected attack, but then Baldwin saw his eyes narrow, and he had just enough time to prepare before Ruy darted to the left, then sprang forward. His sword made a sharp thrust toward Baldwin’s throat, but then slipped down and up again, and if Baldwin hadn’t been ready, it could have opened him like a chicken from gizzard to groin.

Baldwin slammed the blade away with his own, grasping his sword like a staff, his left hand on the blade, pushing down with both hands. Ruy, for all his strength, couldn’t control the full weight of Baldwin’s body over his own blade. He was already crouched in a difficult position trying to thrust, and Baldwin’s move unbalanced him. Falling, he could do nothing to protect himself, and he landed heavily on his right shoulder, forcing him to grunt, and then he gave a louder cry as Baldwin kicked him hard in the belly. Don Ruy was infuriated by that blow. It made him roll over to stab upwards with his sword, but before he could complete the manoeuvre, he felt the ferocious chill of a bright blue blade tingling at his throat.

‘Submit!’ Baldwin hissed through clenched teeth.

Don Ruy stared at him, his eyes glittering with resentment, but then the blue blade moved and he could feel the flesh begin to part. He cried, ‘I yield!’ and his sword clattered on the pavings.

Simon grumpily accepted that he had few grounds to object, but he still did, volubly, as the rather alarmed-looking men gathered together by Munio lifted him gently onto a door and carried him back to the Pesquisidor’s house.

‘You should not have taunted him,’ Munio said, gazing at him mournfully.

‘I only tried to get him to talk,’ Simon said indignantly. ‘How was I to know that the damned fool would jump on me for that?’

‘He said you accused him of rape and murder! What else would you expect him to do?’

‘I didn’t accuse him of that. I said he knew where the murderer was, and he does, I’d bet, from the way he went for me.’

‘Oh, I see. He attacked you because you didn’t accuse him?’ Munio said. ‘Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense!’

‘No! I accused him of knowing who the murderer was, and he was protecting her, more than likely. He’s a fool, that knight.’

‘I can at least agree with that,’ Baldwin said. He was walking on the other side of Simon’s makeshift bier, and he cast a look at Munio. ‘He went quite mad. Good thing he’s in gaol for the night.’

‘Potty!’ was Simon’s conclusion. ‘He damn nearly broke my head, too.’

They had reached the house now, and the party turned into Munio’s entrance, the peasants carrying Simon carefully up the cobbled track. It was quite rank with weeds, and they must mind their step so as not to jolt Simon too badly. None of them wanted to risk Munio’s wrath, because he appeared to be in a particularly sour mood today.

Sir Charles and Paul had trailed behind them, hoping that a meal of some kind might be in the offing. Munio glanced at them bleakly, then motioned to them to enter as well.

As they sat about the table with a thick stew ladled into their bowls and plentiful supplies of coarse bread, Baldwin told them all he had learned about Matthew from Afonso. There was a strange feeling that, by telling this story, somehow his own sense of betrayal was diminished. Matthew was a weak man. There was no crime in that. He was as other men were – a human being. Fallible, he could be twisted by those who were more corrupt, ruthless, or simply more brutal than himself. And once he had agreed to lie to protect himself from torture, he was lost. There was no one who would support him. His former companions and friends would not look at him, either because they knew of his perjury and despised him for it, or because they too had committed the same crime, and avoided any man who might remind them of their evil deed, condemning all their friends in exchange for their own freedom from torture. The men with whom he had colluded thought him a coward and ignored him, while those who knew nothing, merely believed the accusations against the Templars and assumed that he was as foul as he had himself confessed. No man would have dealings with him. Thus he was forced to beg.

‘It’s sad to see people begging,’ Simon said meditatively. ‘There are many such here. Not because there are more poor folk here than in other towns, but because many people here will give alms. The beggars know that pilgrims are likely to have been sent here, or to have set off to come here, because they have committed some crime and will be willing to give money away to the poor. And beggars are faceless people, who are used to being ignored. It must be rare indeed for a beggar to be heard, watched or threatened.’

Baldwin glanced at him. ‘Matthew wasn’t threatened by Afonso, Simon. He would have been killed by Afonso – but Afonso found he was already dead.’

‘Yes. And we know who did it.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

Munio gazed from one to the other. ‘Who, then?’

It was Simon who responded. ‘Pour me a little more of that marvellous wine, and I think I can put in place a means by which we can show you.’

‘When?’ Munio demanded.

‘In the morning, I think,’ Simon said. ‘That will give that fool Don Ruy time to clear his head and calm himself. It will also make him appear more vulnerable. And should give us an extra little piece of incentive.’

The next morning was grey and cool, and when Baldwin threw open the shutters, he felt that the weather was suitable for the end of this grim little affair.

He had set off for this pilgrimage with a heart that was keen to purge itself of the hideous murder he had committed, and he had hoped that when he arrived, his soul would be lightened; instead he had found an old comrade, lost him, and finally learned of his perfidious behaviour. It was a sad man who stared out at the roadway before the house.

While the household stirred and readied themselves for food, he went out and walked away through the city until he reached the gates. He left Compostela and walked up along the river again until he came to the ford. There he sat on a rock and studied the ground once more. Simon had been mysterious all last night. He and Baldwin knew the culprit, but Baldwin had only guessed because of Matthew’s death. As to why, he thought he knew that as well, but Simon’s twinkling smile made Baldwin wonder whether he had got completely the wrong end of the stick.

He would not learn anything here, though. Walking quickly back to the city, he felt himself grow a little out of breath, and told himself sternly that today he must make time to practise with his weapons. It was his normal regime at home to play with them for at least as long as it took for his blood to heat sufficiently to make his muscles ache and burn, and the sweat to run.

At Munio’s, he was surprised to see a massive bowl set at the door ready for beggars. The norm was for one tenth of a household’s food to be given up to the poor, but this was almost enough for Munio’s entire staff and guests. Roasted fowls, pies, even a large cheese, were thrown in higgledy-piggledy, and Baldwin remembered that he had not yet eaten. He hurried into the house to see if there was any food left after the others had broken their fast.

In the hall there was still a little wine, watered and flavoured with spices and oranges, and some bread. He took a large piece and a handful of olives, and stood chewing while servants arrived to clear the room. The tables were emptied, then their cloths removed while the tops were stacked against a wall and their trestles folded and put away. Soon there was only Munio’s own table standing on its dais, and before it a wide, clear space.

Sighing, Baldwin took his seat on a bench.

He did not have long to wait. Munio arrived soon after the last of the tables were removed, and shortly after him Guillem hurried in, carrying his pots and parchments. He sat down and began to prepare his tools, glancing about him enquiringly as he did so. Then the other interested parties filtered in.

Simon came in and looked about him, walking to Baldwin’s side. Sir Charles and his man arrived and stood at the back of the hall as though interesting themselves in the strange and obscure practices of a foreign court. After these came the spectators – the rowdy, the nosy and the plain silly, who could always be counted upon to witness another’s potential execution.

Munio had a small hammer with him, which he used to call order. ‘Bring in the man.’

To Simon’s delight, Don Ruy was a dishevelled figure after a night in the gaol. His beard blued his jaw, his hair was unkempt, and his clothes were marked with more recent stains. There was a tear in his sleeve which hadn’t been there the night before, Simon noticed, and he hoped that the madman was content with the result of his attack. The Bailiff was happy to forgive and forget an insult, but not a sword.

‘Don Ruy. You are here because last afternoon you attacked this man, Simon Puttock, and caused a disturbance which could have grown ugly. Do you confess?’

‘I don’t. He accused me of a crime. I was protecting my honour, as is the right of a knight.’

When Baldwin had translated, he had to put a hand on Simon’s wrist to stop him leaping up and accusing Ruy of lying. ‘It will not help matters.’

‘It’d make me feel a lot better,’ Simon said, but he was already cooling. Instead of watching Ruy, his attention was concentrated on the door at the rear of the hall. Occasionally he saw a black-clad figure arrive, but each time he shook his head, and the person was left alone.

‘That man accused me of murder,’ Ruy said, throwing out a hand towards Simon with justifiable anger. He was humiliated, standing here like a common felon, while the man who had dared to accuse him stood there with his honour intact. It was he, Don Ruy, who had been the injured party, not that smarmy, block-headed English Bailiff! ‘What would you expect a man of honour to do? I defended myself, as is my right!’

Simon was pleased to see that at last a proud, slender figure had appeared. He quickly lifted his brows and nodded his face towards her: Doña Stefanía de Villamor, and not a moment too soon, because only seconds later he saw the person entering anxiously behind her. That was when he smiled to himself, glanced at Baldwin and saw his brief nod of approval, not unmixed with confusion, and settled back in his chair with his chin on his chest. There was little more he could do for the moment.

‘You launched an unprovoked attack on the good Bailiff, and for that you must suffer the consequences.’ Just then, Munio caught sight of Baldwin’s glance and followed his look towards the back of the room. At this point he changed his speech.

‘But first, before we decide on the punishment, I should like to mention something else.’ He reached into his purse and brought out the little casket. ‘This was found recently. Does anyone recognise it, or claim it as their own?’

There was a sudden hush at this unexpected interruption to proceedings, and Ruy himself looked as though he might protest, but before he could do so, Doña Stefanía stepped forward eagerly.

‘It’s mine! It was stolen, but it’s mine!’

‘It was stolen, lady?’ Munio said heavily. ‘You realise that there is a law demanding that a theft must be reported? To whom did you report this crime? It was not to me, was it?’

‘I did not know that I had to report the theft. I thought that my loss was my own cost and should be put down to my own foolishness as a woman.’

‘Your humility does you credit,’ Munio said sarcastically. ‘Do you know where it was found?’

‘No.’

‘On the body of a dead man. A man who was in charge of a gang of thieves. Perhaps you have heard of him? His name was Domingo.’

‘Domingo?’ She brought her brows together. It was hard to feign ignorance, but she was determined to try.

‘Yes, Domingo. He led his men against a band of pilgrims on the day that they arrived. Afterwards, he was reported as having stolen your horse, I think?’

‘I didn’t report him.’

‘Another theft that went unreported. Curious, because that theft apparently prevented you from going to meet someone.’

‘My maid was able to go instead.’

‘And she died in your place,’ Munio pointed out.

‘Yes,’ Doña Stefanía said, her eyes downcast.

‘And your money was stolen from your maid.’

‘Yes.’

Munio glanced at Baldwin, who nudged Simon. The Bailiff gave a beaming smile and flicked aside his coat. From beneath it he brought out the purse he had found at the ford.

‘Is this yours?’ Munio asked.

Her face was answer enough. ‘I had no idea … how did you …’

‘It was easy,’ Munio said, and motioned to Simon.

Simon stood now, and strolled to Munio’s table. While he spoke, Munio translated. ‘The money was never stolen. The attempt was made, of course. Your maid, Doña Stefanía, as you suspected, wanted to leave you and take a nice little nest egg with her. She had spoken to her lover, Don Ramón, about getting married, and he agreed. He was delighted; he loved her.

‘But first she must get her hands on the money. To do that, she told you that someone had heard or seen of your affair with another pilgrim, and that he had approached her, demanding to meet you and be paid off. You were enraged, of course. You thought that you had done nothing wrong …’

Munio’s tone was ironic, and a chuckle rippled through the hall. Simon smiled winningly and continued as the Doña’s head shot around to glare at the audience.

‘… so you told her you would go and pay the man. But when you went to fetch your horse, you learned that Domingo had taken it already. Perhaps he wanted to sell it for himself. So you had no horse. Instead, you told your maid to go.’

‘She wanted to go. She said it was safer than letting me go. If there was a felon there, he might have molested me – ransomed me, perhaps!’

‘Perhaps. You should be glad, whatever is true. It was easier for her merely to go in your place. She arrived there, and met her husband-to-be, Don Ramón. He was thrilled to see her. They went for a lovers’ walk – but then things went wrong. She produced your money, Doña, and presented it to him.

‘But she had not reckoned on Ramon’s integrity. No sooner had he heard how she came to have your money, than he threw it from him. He refused to listen to her blandishments, but left her, telling her that if she wanted to marry him, she must take the money back to you and confess. Then he mounted, and rode away.

‘He did not know that her plans were already set in train. One part of her plan was to have a woman arrive, someone who was similar in appearance to her, who was of the same build, the same shape. As Ramón rode away, she saw this person who was to take her identity. She was going to kill her and disappear with the money.’

Doña Stefanía nodded. ‘You are right in every respect, I believe. I have remained here in the city in order to find where my Joana has gone, but she has been in hiding.’

‘A beggar may walk the streets, but she can be found if she is unique. That is why the woman you sought has been hiding.’

Something in Munio’s voice made Doña Stefanía frown. Then her mouth fell open and she whipped round. There, near the door, she saw the tall beggar. ‘That’s Joana! Don’t let her get out!’

There was no need for her cry. The figure leaped for the door, but before she could reach it, two sturdy peasants moved before it, arms folded. Seeing their stolid figures, the beggar sagged, as though she realised that there was no escape.

‘Joana, you evil child!’ the Prioress raged. She forgot all about the other people in the room, and marched up to the beggar, slapping her across the face. ‘You would steal everything from me, would you?’

Then, to Baldwin’s amazement, she fell back.

The beggar’s veil had been knocked from its moorings, and Doña Stefanía could see that this was not Joana. ‘Who … who are you?’

It was María, but Baldwin now glanced with consternation at Simon. He had thought that María was merely Joana renamed. Apparently not.

Simon took up the story again. ‘However Joana was not able to kill her victim immediately, Doña. She was in hiding, about to spring, when a man rode up – a man of strong passions, who when he forms a desire, will have his way. This noble knight,’ Simon said drily, eyeing Don Ruy, ‘had seen you both on the pilgrimage here, and he had developed a fancy for your maid. When he rode past, seeing another woman of a similar build, walking by the river on her own, he offered her money to lie with him. Nothing loath to make a few dinheiros, she agreed, and the two lay together on the roadside. While they were coupling, Joana could not move even to retrieve the money. She was pinned there like a rabbit by an arrow.

‘After he was done, the man left the woman. She rose, and found herself being berated by Joana. She was reluctant to stand and listen to this, but Joana set upon her to kill her, and she must defend herself.’

‘No. Joana waited until her cousin was there, her Cousin Domingo. He was to have half the money for himself,’ María spoke up. ‘I knew nothing about this. Domingo did not realise at the time that I was to be her victim. She thought he would think nothing of killing me because I was nothing to her. Although I was her cousin, she saw me only as a useful thing to be destroyed for her profit. But Domingo! She thought he would kill me because I was no longer part of his family.’

‘You were related to him, weren’t you?’ Simon pressed her.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, her head downcast.

‘And you use a different name to save your family from shame, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your real name is Caterina. María is solely a trade name for begging and … other activities.’

‘Yes.’

‘What relation was he to you?’

‘I was his sister, but our father dispossessed me and refused to acknowledge me when I married,’ she said with a firm pride. ‘I married a mudéjar, you see. None of my family would help me from that day onwards.’

‘But Domingo drew the line at killing you?’

‘Yes. Joana tried to beat me to death, but her first blow missed its mark and only served to hurt. I saw she had a rock, and she started shouting to Domingo to hold me, to knock me down, so she could kill me, but he reached around me and beat at her with his rock, crushing her head, then her face, and beating all to a mess. It was horrible!’

‘It must have been,’ Simon agreed. ‘Especially when Domingo deliberately made the corpse look as though it had been mutilated after a rape.’

‘Yes.’ Caterina lowered her head with revulsion. ‘He said he had to make it look like a rape so that people wouldn’t realise anything else had happened. He wanted to hide the truth as far as he could.’

‘Why?’ Munio asked.

Simon answered, ‘I think because he knew that the Prioress would leave no stone unturned to find her money. If Joana’s body was found and she appeared to have been murdered during a robbery, Domingo knew he’d be suspected. A rape would make him, as Joana’s cousin, less suspicious in the Prioress’s eyes. Joana could have had a chance encounter with a rapist before she ever met the blackmailer, or the blackmailer himself could have raped her …’

The Prioress spoke. ‘He knew that I’d seen Don Ruy staring at Joana while we travelled here. He intended me to think Don Ruy was the guilty man.’

‘So, to continue,’ Simon said, ‘after this, Caterina left. She had no idea about the money. Domingo didn’t think that his cousin would have thrown it into the bushes, and didn’t know where she and Ramón had lain, even if he had guessed, so he could not find it. He searched about the horses, I expect, but then grew worried that he might be seen, so he rode back to the town, probably thinking Ramón had taken it. The body remained where he’d left it.

‘If all this is correct, then of course Caterina is innocent of any crime so far,’ Simon went on. ‘And so she would have been, but she grew worried. Someone else knew that she was there, I think – another beggar. Someone who happened to hear Joana and her talking about meeting. Perhaps this beggar put two and two together. He heard about the money which Joana had carried, and he demanded some of it for himself. Caterina knew nothing about any money and refused. In which case, he said, he would tell his very good friend, an investigator, and see her arrested …’

‘No!’

‘I saw this person go and talk to Caterina only a few minutes after we told him that a sum of money had been stolen from Joana. We helped to ensure his greed got the better of him. What else would a beggar do?’

He looked over to Baldwin now, and he could see the realisation dawning on his friend’s face. Baldwin’s eyes were glistening, and he blinked quickly, sniffing. Beyond that there was nothing. He had already come to terms with the sort of man that his comrade Matthew had become.

Simon shrugged. ‘Caterina followed after Matthew the beggar, or perhaps she simply waited at a place where she knew she would find him. And when he arrived, she thrust once with a sharp little knife. The death of Joana was undoubtedly self-defence, Munio. But Matthew? That was simple murder, nothing more.’