Just as Parceval was sitting down with Doña Stefanía, Baldwin and Simon were rising to leave the same place with Matthew.
‘Take a little of this, old friend,’ Baldwin said gently, holding out his hand.
‘No, Sir Baldwin. You keep it. You may have need of money on your travels. It is many leagues from England, as you will know. Many a weary mile to walk. How long did it take you?’
Baldwin held out the handful of coins for a moment longer, but seeing the proud expression in Matthew’s eyes, he shrugged. ‘We came by boat from Topsham. A merchant brought us in a matter of days. Sadly we were blown from our course, and ended up in Oviedo, so we had a walk of it from there.’
Matthew gave a smile that was all but a wince. ‘It is good to hear that you are successful, Sir Baldwin. I would not like to think that all my comrades were as unfortunate as me.’
‘I fear that many are,’ Baldwin said sadly.
‘Perhaps,’ Matthew said. ‘Some survived, though. In Portugal, some still hold positions of power and authority.’
‘I had heard that,’ Baldwin said. ‘In some of our old forts.’
‘Yes. In those which Dinis the King gave to the new Order of Christ, there are some men who were simply given the opportunity to change their title. All he did, when all is said and done, was take the words “And the Temple” from their name. Now they are “Soldiers of Christ”. A tiny change. Such a little thing, and the Pope will accept them. While men like me, honourable men who did all we could to support the Pope, are shunned and left to beg like lepers!’
Baldwin touched his shoulder as he spat the last words. Matthew’s jealous grief was all too apparent; like so many Templars, like Baldwin himself, he felt the prick of betrayal. Clement V had been their only ruler on earth, after the Grand Master himself. They had all been proud that they answered to the Vicar of Christ himself and no other man. It was partly that pride which had ruined them, Baldwin knew, because the jealousy it instilled in others helped to ensure their destruction.
‘But perhaps …’
Baldwin smiled encouragingly. ‘Yes?’
‘There could be former Templars in positions of authority in Portugal. If a man could find them and report them to the Pope, he might reward such loyalty …’
Baldwin felt his heart stop within him but when he spoke his voice was soft and kind. ‘I hope no one would ever consider such a wicked act. What would be the point of persecuting innocent men to the end of their lives? You might just as well say that men could hunt me down … or you, old friend.’
Matthew gazed up at him with a dreadful expression of loss on his face. ‘Oh Christ, what am I become!’ he wailed.
‘Please, do not upset yourself …’ Baldwin began, but Matthew cut him off with a dismissive gesture and a weakly smile.
‘Do not worry about me, Sir Baldwin. It has been good to see you again – very good – but I must be going now. If I remain with you, people will wonder what sort of man you are, and there will be little chance of your finding a room for the night. No innkeeper wants folk who mix with my sort. You could catch fleas and all sorts from me!’
He gave a brave, sad grin, and pulled his hood up over his head again, setting off along a narrow alleyway as though intending to avoid all other people.
A pathetic creature, was Simon’s thought, but he kept his silence. One look at his friend showed him that Baldwin was deeply affected by the chance encounter.
‘So many of us,’ Baldwin mumbled. ‘I wonder how many still wander the lands like him?’
‘Were there many? I thought all your comrades were installed in monasteries or got placed in the Hospitallers,’ Simon said hesitantly. He was unwilling to continue the conversation if it might trouble his companion, but he was intrigued. It was rare that Baldwin would discuss his experiences in the Templars. Even now, neither actually mentioned the name of the Order, not while they were in the open. If Baldwin had been discovered as a ‘renegade’, a Templar who had not been captured and who had never suffered a punishment nor been forced to submit to the Inquisition, he could be arrested here.
Baldwin gave him a troubled look. ‘Some escaped to monasteries, I think, although I do not know how many. There are so few whom I have met and spoken to, like Brother Matthew there. He is older than me. When his wife died, he joined the Templars and, being childless, gave all his possessions to the Order. I remember meeting him when I had only recently joined myself. He was a tall, powerful man then. My heavens! He has changed.’
‘What happened to those who weren’t …’ Simon didn’t know whether to say ‘executed’ or ‘burned’, but he wanted to spare Baldwin’s feelings.
‘Many had already died. There was one old man, I heard tell, who was tortured so badly, they roasted his feet over a brazier until his feet were gone. Can you imagine that, Simon? He had to be carried into the Inquisition with a sack in his hand, and when he was asked what was inside, he showed them: it was the charred bones of his own feet! How could a Christian do that to an old man whose sole offence was loving God, and being prepared to lay down his life for God?’
His voice was pained. Simon knew that Baldwin was tormented with the thought of his friends being forced to suffer.
‘You know, Simon, those men would never have submitted to any agony that the Moors could inflict on them. Any pain, any cruelty, would have been shrugged off. But these torturers were their own kind, they were all Christian – that was what made them give up. The Inquisition was composed of men like them, men who had taken the same vows to God and before God. That was what really destroyed them, the fact that it was the very same men whom they had fought to protect, who then betrayed them. Such brutality! Such dishonour!’
‘You think most were killed?’
‘No. Some, I heard, escaped the arrests and fled to Lettow, to join the Teutonic Order. Some, I believe, went to the Hospitallers for, to be fair to them, many Hospitallers were appalled at what was done to the Templars, just as so many Orders in Castile, Aragon, Navarre and Portugal were. It was so obvious that the accusations were false.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said, although he privately had his doubts. He could never tell this to Baldwin, but he believed that the allegations were quite possible. If the Pope could believe the stories, Simon was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, because the Pope had more advisers than he. ‘So two Orders accepted renegades?’
‘More than that. But in places like, oh, like Pombal or Soure, none of the old Order could be allowed to remain, because it might seem that the King was condoning the re-emergence of the Temple. He couldn’t afford to do that, so he evicted all the knights and their sergeants.’ And many, as Baldwin had heard, bitter at their dishonourable fate, had committed the all-but inconceivable crime of renouncing their religion and joining the Moors. Perhaps some had not actually given up their faith, but they had certainly gone to fight for the enemy. Baldwin could not blame them for that, not when their own religion had seen to their persecution.
‘So no Templars remain in their castles?’
Baldwin pulled a face. ‘I have heard that some places still have Templars. Many of the old ways continue in towns like Castro-Marim. Perhaps that means a few of my old friends survived the purges, just as Matthew himself did. I should like to go there to find out. Portugal is not so very far from here …’
His face was wistful. Simon saw his profile as Baldwin stared out southwards as though he could gaze through the walls of the buildings and far-distant hills and see a place he could remember from his youth. He looked so preoccupied, Simon was reluctant to break into his mood, but they had a pressing need.
‘Baldwin, we still have nowhere to sleep.’
‘You said we could sleep by the river.’
‘You said we shouldn’t.’
Baldwin chuckled drily and then gave himself a shake, as though he could shed his grim thoughts like a dog shaking itself free of water. ‘Very well. Let us see if we can find a loaf of bread, a cheese, and a skin of wine. Then we may take them out of the city for a short way and rest by a quiet river unobserved by any. If it is dangerous, so be it. Today has been too lovely to think that we could be harmed by people.’
Simon smiled and walked with Baldwin to the vendors in the square, but all the while he kept shooting little glances at his old friend. No matter what Baldwin said, his face did not express pleasure in a lovely day. Rather he looked pensive and melancholic.
It took her almost an hour to get rid of the fool. Parceval was persistent, of course – well, she knew that – but really, the great dunderwhelp should have been able to see that she had other things on her mind. But no, he sat there languidly, ordering wine and trying to make her drink her fill, as though he was determined to get her so maudlin drunk she’d submit to another fumbling prodding when it grew dark.
‘I am not thirsty, and I must soon go to the Cathedral to pray,’ she said briskly at last, when all her attempts at subtle rebuffs failed – for she might want his companionship again later.
Her bluntness made him blink, but then he gave a rueful grimace and stood. ‘I see I am not in your favour today, my lady. I am greatly sorrowed for that. My apologies. Perhaps you will permit me to see you again?’
‘I should be delighted,’ she said, unbending a little now that he was actually going to leave her. She gave him a warm smile. ‘I apologise, but I must have a little time to clear my head before praying.’
‘But of course.’
His mildly aloof manner told her in no uncertain terms just how he felt, like a young swain who was rejected on the first attempt at wooing. He would live. In the meantime, Doña Stefanía had other things to occupy her mind.
First among these, of course, was: how was Joana, and how had the rendezvous gone? She should know soon. Second, and a close second at that, was: where had the Fleming found his money? He was suddenly in possession of large amounts of gold, if the weight of the purse was anything to go by, yet when she had first met him out on the road, he had declared his absolute poverty. That was part of his attraction to her at the time. It was no smutty lust which had made her notice him, but the fact that he came from a different land, a completely different class and was therefore highly unlikely ever to meet her again; this meant that she could afford to take the plunge with the reasonable hope that she was safe from discovery. Only she and Joana had known that she had submitted to Parceval’s clumsy attempts at seduction, so far as she knew, until later, when the other man walked in, anyway: Señor Ruy.
That damned knight had appeared at the chamber’s doorway and had stood there stock-still as though shocked; she had seen him. Her view had necessarily been confused, being upside-down at the time, but she had recognised him. Parceval continued bulling like an ox on his cow all the while, hoarse grunts bursting from his throat at every thrust, oblivious to any interruption – to be fair, she herself hadn’t stopped encouraging him at the gallop – and Señor Ruy stood there staring, drinking in the sight and sounds of their lovemaking. In a curious way, his silent presence stimulated her still more. It gave the Doña an especial thrill to think that she was exciting the knight while helping her lover to a climax. She had felt safe in the dark of the room, thinking that the man couldn’t recognise her. All he would know was that a couple had been rutting.
Then he turned and marched away, just as Parceval gave a loud groan, called upon God in his guttural voice, erupted, and collapsed panting sweatily on top of her.
In reality, she hadn’t cared much about the knight at the time, and soon after Señor Ruy left, Parceval recovered enough to tease her to a fresh bout and she found herself responding enthusiastically. That was then; now she was worried.
The next day she saw Señor Ruy talking to another pilgrim out in the yard of the place, and realised with a jolt of horror that the man to whom he spoke was Gregory, curse his cods – the man she’d divorced; the man who knew she was a nun. Hardly the sort of fellow she wanted to hear about her nocturnal escapades. Just then Parceval appeared and saw her, all but shouting out to her, his face beaming, and she had hurriedly ducked away from him before Gregory could notice her. The little man had given her enormous sexual pleasure, true, but he was a scruffy churl, penniless and clad in worn clothing that would have shamed a mudéjar.
It was immediately obvious that she must flee the group as soon as possible, and it was her good fortune that the others decided to remain at that village, to rest and visit a local shrine. All that day, Doña Stefanía had kept herself away from the others and the next morning, she, Joana and Domingo and his men all rode off long before dawn, their destination: Santiago de Compostela.
In a way it was lucky that she had seen Gregory before he had seen her. Perhaps by now, Gregory had heard of Parceval’s nocturnal exercises – the two men might even have talked together! The Prioress cringed at the thought. She had concealed her real name to Parceval, but if she were to stay with the band of pilgrims, she would have been pointed out, and it would only have been a matter of time before Gregory heard the gossip. She knew enough about men to predict that Parceval would enjoy boasting about his conquest. The eager little fellow! she thought with some affection.
Then that disquieting thought resurfaced: Parceval had been poor then. How had he suddenly managed to find so much money? Where had it sprung from? It was curious that he was suddenly in funds, just as she was losing her own.
Joana – where was Joana?
Joana had indeed reached the place chosen for the rendezvous, but at first there was no sign of anyone there.
It was a pleasing spot, a quiet glade a little distance from the roadway, near to the river, and for a while she just stood on the bank watching the water drift past. Laughter came to her from upstream and she stood back, shadowed by the branches of a tree until she could see the source: some young women were approaching with baskets of laundry propped against their hips, probably heading for their favourite spot. Soon they had passed and Joana could relax again. She didn’t want anyone else to see her here. That could only lead to embarrassment.
The bag in her hand was heavy and she stared at it wondering how he could carry it away without it being noticed. But then she reflected that he would have his own leather satchels to transfer the money to. A man who was used to travelling, he was bound to be accustomed to concealing money so that others wouldn’t notice it. Anyway, he was a knight. He must be used to fighting and protecting what was his. Heaven help the footpad who tried to pick his pocket!
Joana took a deep breath and sighed. Her heart was pounding. Strange to tell, she was petrified. This was a new experience for her. After all, he wasn’t going to hurt her; she had the money, and that was a guarantee of her future. Yet she still felt nervous, in case her confederate, when he arrived, would be enraged.
Doña Stefanía would be on tenterhooks by now. She would have drunk at least her first cup of wine, if not more. Suddenly Joana wished she was there, with her mistress. She could have killed for a taste of good wine, for a crust or two of bread dipped in olive oil. Her belly felt empty, as though she hadn’t eaten for a week, and yet she was well enough. Still, when she looked at her hand, she could see it was shaking.
‘So, my lady!’
The hand on her shoulder made her squeak in alarm, but then the hand gripped her hair roughly, and she felt her head being pulled back and upwards until she was staring into his face, saw the fiercely smouldering eyes gazing down into hers.
That was when she knew she was lost.
Simon was first to hear the scream.
It exploded into his mind and shattered his dream of lying in bed with Meg, his wife. He wasn’t in his bed, he was lying in the shade on a grassy riverbank in a foreign country. Shocked into full wakefulness, he shot upwards like a startled lark and stared about him.
Baldwin stirred beside him, and Simon prodded him with an ungentle foot as he listened, utterly absorbed. Flies hummed near, a large black one aiming for his face, and he waved it away, frowning with concentration, his other hand hovering near his sword.
They had been here for at least an hour, from the look of the sun’s shadows, sitting and eating their bread and cheese in quiet contemplation, drinking wine chilled by the river, the skin left dangling by a thong in the waters. Once they were done, both men lay back and chatted desultorily until they submitted to the warmth of the afternoon sun and fell fast asleep.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin grumbled.
Simon was almost sure that the scream had come from farther upriver. ‘A cry – up there somewhere.’
‘Nothing now,’ Baldwin yawned.
‘Wait!’
Shrill and terrified, the cry came again and again, shuddering on the still air like the call of a strange bird.
Baldwin was on his feet, hand on his sword, already sprinting towards the sound.
Simon hurried along behind him, his sword out, the blade flashing as it caught the sun. The blade had been so well-used over so many years, that there was nothing left of the high polish which it had once possessed, in stark contrast to Baldwin’s newer one. That flashed with a wicked intensity whenever the sun caught it, the carefully tempered, peacock-blue metal glinting like a well-cut and polished jewel.
Their path took them through lank, straggling grasses, wild flowers of white and yellow, under great trees and through drying puddles, and although it was not a great distance, Simon soon found his heart was pounding more vigorously than he had ever known it do before. He put it down to the strength of the wine, and perhaps the fact that he had eaten too much cheese, but he was sweltering in his rough tunic and cloak and would have felt no damper had he thrown himself into the river.
But all thoughts of his comfort disappeared as they ran through a small grove, past a donkey braying wildly, and some skinny chickens which fled, squawking, and found the two girls.
Neither was more than fourteen, Simon guessed as he leaned down, both fists on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. Both were plainly petrified, but as Simon began to find his wind, he realised that a large part of their terror might stem from the fact that two foreigners had suddenly burst through the trees and materialised in front of them with drawn swords. He tried a soothing smile, but was rewarded with a fresh screech of panic.
It was Baldwin who calmed matters. He carefully thrust his sword back into its scabbard, motioning to Simon to copy his example, and then stared about him, ignoring the two girls. After a moment, they pointed and, to Simon’s mind, jabbered incomprehensibly. Baldwin appeared to understand, and strode off in the direction which they had indicated.
The place was apparently the spot where some of the local women would come to wash their clothes. There was a broad sweep of the river in a loop, and because it was upstream from Compostela itself, the waters were clean and not befouled by the ordure thrown in by the thousands of inhabitants and pilgrims. The well-trodden path led down a grassy little bank to the water’s edge. There, some large flat grey rocks provided scrubbing boards while the branches overhanging the place gave drying facilities. From the look of the shards of pottery, many women came here, did their laundry and then supped wine while they waited for their washing to dry overhead. It must have been one of the few relaxing times of the day for them, Baldwin thought to himself.
All this he took in with one glance, but then he smelled the foul odour of death. There was a loud buzzing, and he saw a small cloud of flies. He only had to go a short distance, a matter of ten yards. There he stood among some longer rushes and grasses, and Simon saw him stop and stare sadly down at his feet. For once, he didn’t instantly crouch and touch the body. This time he stood stock still before silently beckoning Simon to join him.
Reluctantly, knowing from Baldwin’s stillness as much as from the obvious fear of the two girls that this must be a murder victim, Simon went to join him. He never could understand the knight’s objective approach to bodies. Baldwin was always, so he said, keen to learn as much as he could from a corpse, and after his experiences during a siege when he was a mere youth, he had picked up much about human bodies when sudden violent death was visited upon them. He had told Simon before that if an intelligent man could observe a body correctly, that body could speak of the murderer. There was more to be learned from a corpse than the mere number of wounds or their depth.
When Simon reached his side, he saw that Baldwin was contemplating the body of a young woman with the figure of a Madonna lying at his feet, head nearest him, body pointing to the river. From her hands and trim figure, she had been well-born. Certainly her hands had not seen much hard work. The flesh was clean and pale olive, like a wealthy lady’s, with few calluses. Her dress was a blue tunic, very well cut, with expensive-looking embroidery at the neck, wrists and hem, but blood had soaked into it, turning it into a reeking, blackened mass.
She lay in some long grasses a short way from the river itself. Her arms were at her side; the back of her right hand was scraped, as though it had been rasped with a rock. A nail was torn away. Her head was turned towards the right shoulder, and a thick puddle of blood surrounded her dark hair, in which the first strands of white showed at the temples even through the thick gobbets of gore. Her legs were spread in the unmistakable posture of lovemaking, the skirts thrown up and over her belly revealing the dark triangle at the junction of her thighs. Simon glanced down and saw the marks of blood on the soft inner flesh. He swallowed hard.
This poor woman had not merely been raped; she had been bludgeoned to death, as though her attacker was enraged by her, as though he wanted to remove every sign of her. Her shoulders, hands and face were a mass of ruined flesh, as though the killer wanted to destroy her utterly.