The Templar's Penance

Chapter Seven

As the sun passed slowly across the sky, Doña Stefanía grew anxious. What was taking Joana so long? The place of the rendezvous had been chosen because it was almost in hail of the city walls, easy for both to get to, easy for both to escape from.

The bastard, making use of her shame in this way! It was disgraceful that a knight should act in such a manner, demanding cash in exchange for his silence. Not that it would necessarily be the end of the matter. Doña Stefanía was a woman who had lived in the real world all her life, even if nominally she was supposed to be cloistered now in her abbey. As a lady, before she took up the cloth, she had travelled widely, and she still did so at every opportunity. She was not naïve enough to believe that a blackmailer would make his demands once only and then forget her indiscretion. No. Any man who was foul enough to rob her in this manner, would try it more than once.

She was really worried now. It was growing late and there was no sign of her maid. What had happened to Joana? The meeting should have been over hours ago.

After some little while, she heard a rumour passing along the street and glanced up, wondering what the noise might portend.

It was a curious noise, almost hushed, as though the crowd was talking more, but less loudly, out of some form of respect, and she wondered for a moment or two whether this might be a religious procession; however she knew that there was no religious significance to the day or to the hour. In any case, a procession would emanate from the Cathedral itself, not from the Via Francigena. That way led only to the outside world.

It was as though that mere thought had suddenly sprung a hideous fear upon her. Overcome with dizziness, she sank back onto the bench from which she had risen, a hand going to her breast.

‘Doña?’

Looking up, she found herself gazing into the concerned eyes of Don Ruy.

‘My lady, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he said hurriedly, ‘only to ensure that you were well. You appear pale. Have you had a shock?’ And then he gave her a smile. ‘Would you like me to seek your maid?’

The twist to his mouth was ghastly. She was sure that he was implying something … that he was somehow threatening her. He must have had his money, damn him! Joana had been there – hadn’t he seen her? Was she still waiting there for him? She stared at the knight transfixed, but no words came.

It was as she was about to demand what he wanted of her, that the behaviour of the crowd caught her attention. All were staring towards a corner of the square on her left. She was struck by the sudden quietness. It was as though there was a cloud of trepidation engulfing the square from that end.

Standing again, and moving swiftly away from Don Ruy, she stared in that direction. Rolling slowly across the pavings was a cart, and behind it came many men, while in front of the donkey pulling it was a solitary cleric, hands joined together in prayer.

Doña Stefanía felt her heart begin to shrivel. She glanced at the knight again, a dreadful fear overwhelming her. ‘Where is she?’ she cried hoarsely. ‘What have you done with her? Where is my maid?’ Then, without waiting for his reply, ‘She told me she was seeing you,’ she went on wildly. ‘I know why, too, so don’t try to deny it.’

As the thoughts swirled in her mind, she grew aware that Don Ruy had moved a little closer to her, and then she made that fateful leap: if Joana wasn’t back yet, it was probably because she couldn’t come back. Don Ruy had stopped her.

‘You have killed her!’ she gasped, and before he could lunge and grab her, she spun around and, picking up the skirts of her tunic, hurried off through the crowds. The only thought in her mind was to get away from him before he could kill her too.

In front of her the crowds seemed to thin, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself pelting into the middle of an empty space. There stood the cart, and in front of it were four men – the cleric, one Galician and two foreigners, to judge from their dress – all watching while four others lifted a door from the back of the cart and laid it on a table.

From her vantage point, Doña Stefanía could see a pair of thighs lying on the door, and a face that was a horror of blood. A man rearranged the clothing to cover the corpse’s legs and render her decent before she was placed in plain view of so many men. It was, the Prioress thought, a kindly act, the sort of thing a father might do for another man’s dead daughter; protect her modesty. The body might have ceased breathing, but that was no reason to be callous. Someone somewhere must have loved her.

That was the last thought, that someone must have loved this woman, for clearly from the well-formed calf and shapely ankle, this was no man’s body, before she saw the hem of her old tunic and knew for certain that Joana had been murdered.

‘Doña?’

She turned to see that Frey Ramón stood a short way behind her, his ugly face twisted with anxiety. She felt as though the entire scene was being shown to her through a glass. It seemed to move, the colours altering, and swirls of mist rose up before her, while the regular lines of paving began to dance. And then they grew larger, and even as she heard a warning shout, the pavings seemed to leap right up towards her.

Baldwin heard the gasp and turned just in time to see a tall, elegant woman lean to one side, and then fall to the ground as though all sensation had been cut off instantly.

‘Simon!’ he called as he made his way towards her, but then he saw that another man was already there.

It was the brute Simon had noticed before, the Knight of Santiago. He knelt at the woman’s side and looked about like a man lost, staring around for assistance.

‘Friend,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘Let me help.’

The man looked Baldwin up and down, then shook his head and began shouting for, ‘Joana! Joana!’

Baldwin stared in helpless appeal at Señor Munio, and was relieved to see the Pesquisidor nod and stroll towards them. He spoke rapidly as he came closer, and the knight snapped something back, but then seemed to regret his words and spoke again, hanging his head.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked after a few moments during which the Knight of Santiago grew conspicuously disturbed.

‘He says that this lady is always accompanied by her maid,’ Baldwin translated. ‘I think that this noble knight is betrothed to the maid, and he is concerned that she is not here.’

Baldwin glanced at Munio. ‘Do you think we should let him see her?’

Munio sighed but agreed. There was no joy in this work. He touched the knight softly on the shoulder. ‘Come, Frey Ramón. We have found a poor woman murdered. Please come and see her, in case you know who she might be.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Ramón demanded. ‘Leave me here with Doña Stefanía, and I shall protect her until my woman arrives. She will not be long. Can you hear anyone trying to break through the crowd? She cannot be far away.’

‘Come with me.’

Frey Ramón was irritated by his insistence. The man was a mere public official, after all. A hidalgo. He might be a low form of noble, but he still worked with the peasants in the fields. The knight was about to give him a curt refusal, for no Knight of Santiago need answer to a petty hidalgo, when he saw the expression on Munio’s face.

Slowly rising to his feet, Frey Ramón squared his shoulders. Ignoring Munio and Sir Baldwin, he marched past them to the table. There he stood motionless for a moment. The dead girl’s tunic was immediately recognisable and he felt as though someone had slammed a hammer into his breast. All the breath was knocked from him. Over the corpse’s head had been thrown a blanket, and Frey Ramón motioned to one of the men to remove it. What he saw beneath the material was so horrific, it was all he could do to ask the man to cover her up again. ‘Her face … She has no face,’ he gasped when he could speak again.

He became aware that Munio now stood at his side. Without turning his head, Frey Ramón said, ‘It is her. It is my fiancée Joana.’ He bent and collected up the body. ‘I shall take her to the Cathedral. Please look after Doña Stefanía. Now she has no maid, she will need to be protected.’

Munio muttered his sympathy as the warrior monk of Saint James strode away towards the Cathedral, the pathetic bundle carried so steadfastly in his arms – the arms that would once have held her as a lover, Munio thought to himself. He was struck with sadness at the sight of such restrained grief.

Then he clapped his hands together. ‘Come! What is everyone staring at?’ he shouted. ‘There has been a murder, but there’s no need to gawp. Any man who knows about this sad event should come to speak to me now. As for the rest of you, you can go about your business!’

At the Cathedral end of the square, Gregory was peering over the heads of the watching crowds as Frey Ramón strode past, his head high, but his eyes speaking of his appalling loss.

‘What has been happening here then, old friend?’

Gregory jerked in shock at the sound of Sir Charles’s voice. The man had a knack of springing up without warning. It was just Gregory’s luck that he should be looking away when Sir Charles appeared. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said, ‘I fear that some woman has been murdered.’

‘Ah. The sort of thing that happens all over the world,’ Sir Charles said with a sympathetic shake of his head as Frey Ramón passed them. The knight sighed as though meditating on the swift passage of a life, then said more brightly, ‘Hey ho! But life must go on! So, how are you this fine afternoon?’

‘I am well, sir. I thank you again for your assistance this morning.’

‘It was nothing,’ Sir Charles said quite sincerely. ‘It was no more than a fleeting action.’

Listening to him, Gregory stiffened in dislike. It was as though the other man was uninterested in the lives or deaths of the pilgrims, but had simply become involved because he had seen the opportunity for a battle. Some knights were that way, Gregory knew. He himself had once been equally selfish, with a disinterest in other men’s lives and works. Like other knights he had enjoyed his wine, chased the women, and sought only earthly delights. And there were few pleasures greater than slaying your enemies and seeing their comrades fleeing the field, leaving you and your fellow knights in sole occupation.

Yet he had changed. Since that terrible time when he had lost his wife, he had grown more philosophical, more open to other people. Certainly, he knew glancing at the fair-haired man at his side, he had never been so callous as Sir Charles.

‘Are you here on pilgrimage?’ he asked.

Sir Charles peered at him as though he had forgotten he was there. ‘No. I am on my way to see if I can help my friend Afonso. He wants to kill a man,’ he said blandly, smiled, and was gone.

Gregory puffed out his cheeks and slowly relaxed. Thank God the man was gone. He was an unsettling fellow. Surely even when Gregory himself had been at the height of his self-confidence, he had never been as arrogant as that. Sir Charles seemed to be content to go through life as though he was careless of any man’s feelings. That was no way to live. It was like being possessed of a deathwish.

Perhaps it was only his way of joking, Gregory wondered, but then he shook his head. The fellow had seemed perfectly serious.

Gregory felt uneasy suddenly, standing with his back to wherever Sir Charles had gone. In preference, he moved forward through the crush. He had seen Frey Ramón carrying the body out of the square, and there had been a stillness in the crowds as though it was a rare, terrible event. Funny how foreigners could react, he reflected – not for the first time.

Folk were beginning to resume their normal activities now. Hawkers began to shout their wares again, men bawled for wine at the taverns, and Gregory found his way was easier. Soon he was up at the front of the crowd, staring with vague curiosity at the men gathered there. A cart was being led away by one peasant, and a cleric was standing talking to three men while a physician was bent over a figure lying in a dead faint on the ground. The physician straightened, then set about striking a spark from his knife and a stone, blowing onto tinder. Gregory suddenly felt a dim recognition stirring in him. The bare arm which he could see looked rather familiar.

From closer, it was a great deal more familiar. There was a birthmark near the wrist. Oh, surely it couldn’t be her – not his wife!

The physician had at last made the tinder catch, and now he blew on it. When he had a large enough flame, he lit a candle, shielding it from the occasional gusts in the square, then held it near the unconscious woman’s face and burned a few feathers.

As the reeking smoke entered her nostrils, Doña Stefanía retched, then coughed and moaned loudly. She pushed the noxious odour from her, and even as the physician smiled and tossed his feathers away, she winced and sat up. ‘What …’

She was assailed by sudden nausea, and had to close her eyes for a moment. ‘What is happening?’ she asked dully, and then she began to weep as she remembered the body of her maid, remembered that shattered remnant of a face.

Simon was saddened to see a noblewoman brought so low by circumstances, but he could easily understand her feelings. A pilgrim, many miles from her home, the only companion she would have had was her maid, and now the latter had been snatched away. It was a fearfully lonely life for a woman, no matter how well-filled her purse, if she were left alone. Bad enough to lose a husband, but in some ways Simon thought that for a woman, losing a maid or manservant was worse. The companionship was usually easier and more genuine between master and servant than that which prevailed between married partners.

No one could doubt the genuine sadness of the woman. She had collapsed at the sight of her maid, and now she wept uncontrollably. It was the sort of behaviour that no one of her station would normally indulge in. They wouldn’t want people to think they were so weakly as to become too closely attached to their staff. All too often people did, of course: the number of widows who married their husbands’ stewards was eloquent proof of that.

Rather than contemplate the wailing woman, Simon turned away. Nearby was a woman clad in black, wandering among the crowds. He watched her irritably, half aware of Baldwin arriving at his side.

‘Another ruddy beggar,’ he grouched. ‘There seem to be more of them than pilgrims.’

‘Do not be too harsh,’ Baldwin remonstrated gently. ‘Some are genuine enough.’

Simon winced. ‘I’m sorry, Baldwin. I didn’t mean to pass comment on your old companion. He’s obviously all right.’

‘Not many would agree with you,’ Baldwin said moodily, scuffing a boot on the paving and sending a pebble skittering over the slabs.

‘There is one thing that is beneficial about beggars, though,’ Simon said. ‘Come with me.’

Surprised, Baldwin obediently followed Simon to the edge of the crowds. The beggarwoman in black was moaning gently, a hand wrapped in filthy linen held out to any who passed within her range. There was a repellent odour about her, with a faint hint of lemons, as though she had slept beneath a grove of citrus. Simon caught sight of a pale face beneath her hood, but averted his eyes automatically. One didn’t meet their gaze, because that lent their begging legitimacy and let them feel that they could ask for more money.

‘You speak English?’ he demanded gruffly.

‘Si – a leetle, Señor.’

‘You walk about the crowds here. Did you see the woman with the blue tunic before, the woman who was killed?’

‘I saw her with the Doña there. She was maid to her, called Joana.’

Baldwin smiled as he understood Simon’s reason for questioning this beggar. A beggar could pass through a crowd unnoticed, ignored, as irrelevant as a cur, but might still notice others and make comment about them.

Simon saw his understanding dawn. ‘Today, did you see her leave the city?’

‘Si. She left by the Porta Francigena after lunch.’

‘Was she alone?’

There was a long pause, and then the woman spoke as if reluctantly. ‘I think she was with a man. Perhaps I am wrong, but he was behind her – a tall, dark knight. I have seen him. He is called Don Ruy, I think. A pilgrim to Compostela.’

‘You think he and she were going to a rendezvous?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I do not think she saw him, but he had eyes only for her.’

‘They were both walking?’

‘No. Both were on horseback.’

‘We may need you to speak to the Pesquisidor,’ Simon said sternly.

‘I am always here in the square,’ she said sadly, and her hand rose a little.

Simon grunted, but he reached into his purse and pulled out a coin. ‘Very well. What is your name?’

‘What need has a beggar of a name?’ she asked softly. ‘I have lost my husband, my home, my station. But I have been called María. My father called me that. You may, too. María of Venialbo.’

‘Very good,’ Simon said and dropped the coin into her palm.