The Templar's Penance

Chapter Fifteen

Doña Stefanía got up from her kneeling posture and made her way out of the chapel. This was her third visit here today, and she would spend as much time here as she could over the next days. She had to make sure that her decision was right.

It had been hard, deciding to steal the thing, but better that than seeing the priory collapse. That was her overriding concern, the survival of the priory. It was not a task made any easier by her nuns. Usually, a Prioress should be able to hope for the assistance of her Sisters, but in the convent of Vigo there were too many arguments as her nuns vied for power. It was frustrating, but there was little peace in her home. That was part of the reason why she had acquired this thing.

There was a tingling in her breast at the thought. She had borrowed the relic from Orthez to help her convent and it had worked, bringing in many people from about the lands. Vigo was some way south of Compostela, and had always suffered from a lack of pilgrims, but with rumours of the relic’s miracles carefully disseminated by Doña Stefanía, suddenly folk made the short journey from Compostela down to her convent. People who had never heard of the place before had suddenly started flocking there.

When the demand came for the relic to be returned, she hadn’t believed it at first. However, the request was confirmed by the Bishop of Compostela, and it was impossible to ignore. When she had asked to borrow the sacred relic, she had said she would want it for some years, and the church at Orthez had apparently had no objection. But now, after seeing how much profit Doña Stefanía had made from the relic, they had apparently changed their minds. One of the priests had passed by her convent, and when he saw how many travellers were stopping there, he obviously took back highly favourable reports about the success of her venture. After that, it took but a few days for the church authorities, especially that pathetic old cretin Sebastian, to decide to demand the return of their relic, Saint Peter’s finger bone.

They should have been more polite. As it was, they were rude and discourteous, and that got her goat immediately. She swore that she wouldn’t return the thing to them, no matter what they demanded. In fact, she screwed up the parchment and hurled it into the fire. Damn them and their legalistic rubbish! They had forgotten that Doña Stefanía was the daughter of a lord, once wife to an important knight, or they wouldn’t have dared write in so curt a manner.

She had been white-faced with fury, almost incoherent with rage when Joana had found her. Joana, the angel, had come in with a tray when Doña Stefanía had just consigned it to the flames, and soothed her with that calmness and calculation which were so much a part of her.

‘They demand the return of their relic? Then you must return it.’

‘I shall not! The thing was promised to us for years. Just because they can see that we’re better suited to attracting pilgrims, that doesn’t mean that they should have it back! It’s why the thing should stay with us in Vigo. It’s worth a fortune to us here.’

‘It is said that the Saint himself can decide where his relics stay,’ Joana said thoughtfully as she poured wine and passed the goblet to Doña Stefanía. ‘Perhaps the Saint would prefer to remain here with us, in the quieter atmosphere of the convent. That might be why he has favoured us with so many pilgrims when he did not treat Orthez with such generosity.’

Doña Stefanía felt her mouth drop open. Of course there were many stories of churches and cathedrals stealing each others’ relics, and then claiming that they possessed them by right of the Saint’s own wishes – for if the Saint did not wish to be there, he or she could miraculously move him- or herself to another location – but it hadn’t occurred to Doña Stefanía to use that argument. Now, though, as Joana crossed the floor and placed the jug on the cupboard, she considered the idea and began to see its merits.

‘They’ll soon beg for the Bishop to return it if we refuse.’

‘Oh, I think the best thing would be to go to Orthez and give them back their relic in their box,’ Joana said, ‘but then come back to Compostela and ask the Bishop what he would advise.’

‘That’s no good! If I deliver it to them, we’ll never get it back.’

Joana ignored her scathing tones. ‘They won’t have it back. You will give them the box, but with another small bone in it. We shall keep the original bone here, in our own little casket. We can have one made specially for it. Then, when you come home from Orthez, you can stop at the Bishop’s palace and ask him for his support. All you need do is point out that the Saint has made his will clear by showing you how to deceive the men of Orthez. Surely no Bishop would go against the plain will of the Saint himself? And then you can come back here to our little convent, and arrange a feast in honour of the Saint who has so honoured our little chapel.’

The scheme was breathtaking in its simple beauty – and in its purity of revenge against Orthez – but Doña Stefanía felt a certain irritation that the suggestion had come from her maid and not from herself.

There were plenty of precedents for such action, after all. There were stories of an English church which had lent a relic to a French one, but who then had demanded its return. The French sent back a relic, but later, when they were trying to tempt back more pilgrims, they let it be known that in fact they had sent back an imitation and had kept the original. The pilgrims dried up in the English church and began to drift towards the French church again, but then the whole story grew more confusing when the English declared that they had never sent the genuine relic in the first place. Knowing that their French brothers were unreliable in sending back loaned relics, the English had sent a copy themselves. The French had stolen a fake.

This could have been true. Certainly Doña Stefanía knew perfectly well that the French and English clergy were about as unfriendly as their secular lords; all were at daggers drawn over the English territories like Aquitaine, which the French King had confiscated only thirty years before. Since then there had been continual disputes in the English lands. French churches also vied with each other for possession of relics. Vezelay had the relics of Saint Marie Madeleine, but Aix-en-Provence claimed that these had been stolen from them.

Yes, it was a bold plan, Doña Stefanía acknowledged. More, if they could pull it off, the Bishop himself would have to approve. Otherwise, he was overruling the Saint, and that would never do.

In less than an hour, Doña Stefanía and Joana had sketched out the plan. It was much as Joana had originally suggested, but with some minor amendments. First, Doña Stefanía was not prepared to let the genuine relic out of her sight, so she had asked for this little box to be made, and now she carried it with her all the time; Joana had also suggested that there should be a small guard to protect the ‘relic’ which they would deliver to Orthez. That was why Domingo and his men had gone with them, travelling up through Castile and Navarre to Aragon and then over the passes. The smug, fat priests in Orthez had been slimily grateful, thanking her with such obvious contempt, that it had been difficult not to laugh at them. They were so obnoxious, with their clear disregard for her and her convent, and so delighted to have their bauble back, that she longed to tell them that she had exchanged their relic for an old piece of pig’s bone which she had found in the rushes on the floor of her refectory and left in manure for a week to stain it a rich, dark colour.

Joana and she had collapsed in tears when they left the town, but not for the reasons which the fat clerics would have expected or understood.

In Doña Stefania’s purse nestled the piece of the Saint’s finger still in its little casket. It was there now, and she pulled it out to look at it once more. The gold of the cross gleamed in the candlelight and she kissed it reverently. This was the saving of her convent.

It was late. She must return to her room, for she didn’t wish to tempt Providence by going abroad alone in the dark, unlit streets. The place was full of pilgrims, which meant that there were bound to be cutpurses and other vagabonds wandering about. Pilgrims were easy prey to the nightwalkers of a large city. Walking out through the great door, she went down a side street, and had just turned up towards the square when a low voice almost made her heart stop.

‘My lady.’

Her hand rose to her breast, and she felt suddenly light-headed with fear, but relief washed over her when she saw that it was only the grim figure of Domingo. He had been behind her, and now he overtook her.

‘I wondered who it was! Foolish fellow, leave me alone,’ she commanded. ‘I am going to my room.’

‘I lost my son for you, lady,’ Domingo snarled. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘I didn’t tell you to have him killed,’ she snapped. ‘If you were a better leader, he would be alive yet. Now leave me before someone sees us. I don’t want anyone to know that you are with me – understand?’

‘My men need food and drink but we haven’t any money.’

‘So?’

‘Lady, you brought us here. It’s your fault we starve. We need some money.’

‘What happened to the sum I paid you? I gave you plenty of gold before we left Vigo.’

‘That was enough for us to live on for a month, but we’ve been travelling for fifty days now. It took twenty-five days for us to get to Orthez, and another twenty-four to come here. What do you expect us to live on – grass?’

‘I don’t have any more cash with me now.’

‘You have a full purse there, lady.’

‘There is little in it,’ she shot out, a hand covering it.

Domingo was tired of her commands and penny-pinching. He had lost companions to Sir Charles and Dom Afonso, including his own poor lad, and now he needed food, and was desperate for wine. This woman, who had hired him and his men for the whole journey, hadn’t warned it would take so long, and now she was prepared to see them go hungry. With a quick sense of the injustice of her actions, he growled deep in his throat, then grabbed her sleeve and drew her to him. She gave an incoherent squeak of fear, and then his hand was on her purse.

It was impossible! He couldn’t! ‘No! Don’t touch that! There’s nothing in it!’ she said and flailed at him with her fists.

‘Do you really think I’m that stupid that I don’t know what you carry about in your purse?’ he sneered. ‘I know what you took out and stared at each night, Doña Stefanía. Me and my men, we guarded you all the way up here, even though you treated us like shit! If you want to have our protection still, you can pay for it.’

‘There is only the relic, you fool,’ she hissed. ‘Touch that, try to steal that, and the Saint will see you die in the most foul and degrading manner!’

He stared at her a moment, and she was sure she’d won. Her argument carried the authority of the Church, and she rose to her full height. Clearly the threat of a Saint’s enmity was enough to cow even the dimmest churl. ‘Now leave me, you idiot. I shall be returning to Vigo soon, and I want you and your men to be ready to come with me.’

‘You want us to come too?’

‘Of course.’

‘I see. You call me a fool, Doña, but you stand there like a stuffed tunic talking about us coming to guard you on the way back to Vigo, but you’re prepared to see us suffer until you’re ready to go? Think again. You have enough in that purse to buy us all food and drink for a year, don’t you?’

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ she said, but then she realised that he had drawn his little knife from his belt, and she saw the wicked gleam of steel before her eyes. She slumped with terror. Never before had anyone drawn a dagger on her. It was terrible. She herself had hired this felon, and now she was suffering the consequences; he would kill her! Her mouth fell open but she couldn’t even scream, her terror was so complete.

‘Shut up, bitch!’ Domingo hissed. The blade moved, she snapped her eyes shut, and felt the hideous dragging at her belly. Then he released her. Drained, her legs collapsed beneath her and she fell to the floor.

‘Christ’s Bones!’ Parceval muttered as he saw the lady slump down. A dark shape stood over her – a large, threatening figure – and as Parceval shouted and began to run towards her, he saw the evil glint of a blade. He immediately slowed his pace.

In the past he had killed, yes, but he wasn’t a very competent fighter. When he killed Hellin van Coye, he hadn’t worried about Hellin’s ability to strike back; he’d made sure of that by knifing him in the back when the man was walking away. Not the most honourable assault, perhaps, but Parceval wanted revenge, not a tribute for courage and honour.

This man looked big and Parceval didn’t want to be brought before God quite yet. There was too much to enjoy on earth before that. He shouted again, moving his arms threateningly, but not moving forward. To his relief he saw the thief bolt, and when he was sure that he was safe, Parceval went on to the body.

‘Doña Stefanía,’ he breathed.

She was weeping uncontrollably, but there was no sign of blood. In his experience a man or woman would leak alarmingly from a slight scratch, whereas a serious wound, like the one he gave Hellin, might give rise to very little bleeding. That was worrying, for she might be about to die, and if she was, he didn’t want to be near her in case he got accused of her death. As these thoughts were running through his mind, and he glanced along the alley considering escape, she looked up, her face streaked with tears.

‘Oh, Parceval! He stole it from me!’

Her voice didn’t sound like that of a woman who was gasping her last, and Parceval felt relieved.

‘My dear, dear lady! How are you?’ he said. ‘I heard the fracas, and although I ran here as fast as I could, he escaped! Who was it, did you see? If I catch him, he’ll regret his actions! I’ll cut his throat for him, acting like this to a Lady of the Church! Has he no faith?’

‘Leave him,’ Doña Stefanía said urgently. ‘Don’t pursue him, he is deadly.’

‘You know him?’

‘I …’ she hesitated, but fear made her blurt out the truth. ‘Yes. He was my maid’s cousin. He and his men were protecting me on my way to Orthez, and back again.’

‘They were not with your party when you joined us,’ Parceval pointed out.

‘I told them to keep away, but to follow at a distance. I thought that such a disreputable group might make your companions refuse to let me join you.’

Parceval nodded. Clearly she feared attack or robbery by the man and his companions – not unreasonably, from what he had just witnessed. Well now, he thought, this is better than the other day when I saw her in the square. He was about to speak again, when she submitted to another bout of sobbing. ‘My lady, please. How can I serve you?’

‘I don’t know … Take me to a tavern, somewhere I can have a little wine. I am so unsettled … I feel terrible.’

He saw her hand pat at her side, as though feeling for something, and then he saw the thongs, obviously sliced through, and realised that her purse was gone. So now she was bankrupted. With nothing but the clothes she stood up in, she would be delighted for the comfort, and perhaps companionship, of a man. Especially a man of means. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Come, lady. Let me help you. But you shouldn’t go to a low tavern. Come with me and I shall see you well provided for.’

She accepted his hand, and when she stood, he was enormously relieved to see that opposite, a short way up a narrow little alley, there was a torch burning. He realised it had been the reflection of this which had made the attacker’s knife shine so alarmingly.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, content now that her answer would be negative.

‘No. Only my …’ She dissolved into tears, and this time he was in a better position to offer her comfort. He took her head in one hand and bent it to his shoulder, while with the other he encircled her waist. Then he stood still as she wailed and moaned quietly into his neck. ‘I trusted him! I’ve lost Joana, now him … who can I trust?’

Tonight he need not pay the exorbitant charges of the prostitutes, he reckoned. This woman was desperate, and he was sure that, from past experience with her, he could give her exactly the kind of solace she required.

He was rather glad he’d come along this alley. That figure had been very alarming, but things had turned out well. With that thought, he shot a look back in the direction the man had run off. If he appeared again, Parceval would ditch the woman and flee, he decided, but then he calmed himself. There was no sign of the fellow, and Parceval, if he played his dice aright, would have the opportunity of plenty of exercise without running!

That night, Simon woke with an intense griping sensation in his belly. ‘I’ll never get a decent night’s sleep in this blasted country,’ he grumbled as he picked his way over the slumbering bodies, tugging his blanket tighter about his naked shoulders on the way to the garderobe.

Squatting on the creaking wood, he brought his weight away from the moving timbers. It was partly to take his mind off the quality of the workmanship that he reminded himself of the investigation so far.

Baldwin, he knew, was shocked by the death of his friend Matthew the beggar. Learning that an old companion had been murdered had clearly stolen his concentration. Simon had a conviction that if either of them was to learn who had killed Joana, it would be him.

It was odd, the bond that service in the Order created between men, he thought. All the men he had met who had been in the Templars had seemed more intelligent than other knights, and Simon wondered fleetingly whether that was a sign of the recruitment policy of the Order, or a sign that they did enjoy some special training. He would probably never know. Even Matthew, who had sunk so low, still had a degree of cunning and intelligence that was higher than some knights Simon knew. Most knights, when it came down to it, would find it hard to locate their arses with both hands!

With that thought, there was a tortured squeak from the timbers and he hastily stopped chuckling.

Don Ruy had looked like an honourable knight, but he was flawed, if his Bishop was to be believed. But then, the Bishop might have been partial. If the girl’s father was politically important in Don Ruy’s town, the Bishop himself may have been influenced to punish the knight unreasonably. Politics mattered.

If Ruy was telling the truth, then it was possible that Ramón had walked with his fiancée, then killed her and stolen the money. Certainly Ramón had fled the town one day afterwards, which could be taken as an admission of guilt – although Simon himself could well understand that a man who had just buried his raped and murdered woman would want to flee the place which held such foul memories. Then again, surely a knight would want to find the culprit and kill him?

There was the other man: the felon who had been involved in the attack on the pilgrims, and who took the horse to the stable. How could that tie into Joana’s death? There were plenty of attacks on pilgrims, after all. Robberies and rapes were common enough.

Simon wondered whether the man had actually left Compostela to go and find the girl Joana. If he had, he might have come across her after Ramón had seen her; after which he killed and robbed her. Perhaps he had led an attack against the pilgrims because he wanted to kill her before, or to kill the Prioress, and he killed Joana when the Prioress didn’t appear? The two women had joined this group of pilgrims, Simon remembered, if only for a few short days. Could the man have intended to kill one or both of them, and that was why he attacked them outside Compostela? It was possible – but again, why? What motive was there for the attack?

‘I don’t know enough yet,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I need more information.’

That wasn’t all. He also needed his sleep. He cleaned himself as best he could and slowly made his way, yawning widely, to his bed. Once there, with his blanket spread over him, he closed his eyes, and imagined in front of him the face of Don Ruy, gazing at him sternly, one hand on his sword. Then Ruy moved aside, and he found himself facing Ramón, who stood sadly shaking his head. Behind him appeared first Matthew, then a woman whom he assumed was Joana.

But finally, as he began to drift into sleep, he grew aware of another figure behind them all – the squat figure of a man dressed in leather and cheap cloth, an ugly man with a head set to one side, a man whose hands were covered in blood.