The Templar's Penance

Chapter Nineteen

Domingo stared with amazement. How could any piddling official dare to attack his band? He had never heard of such a thing in his life before. These fools had no right to start hacking away at him and his men!

But if they dared to attack, maybe that was because his men had been betrayed. And that could only mean one thing: the Prioress had informed on Domingo and his men. No one else could have had them all ambushed like this. It had to be her!

Almost before he knew what he would do, he felt his legs turning him as though of their own volition. She had caused the death of his son with her stupid demand that Domingo should attack the pilgrims, and now she’d betrayed them when their only crime was having obeyed her commands. They’d done what she’d wanted, and now she’d made up her mind to throw them to the law.

But Domingo wasn’t going to surrender without a fight, and if he could, he would kill her too. She deserved that much.

He shot a look over his shoulder, and took in the scene at a glance. There were the officers, there were his men, one being clubbed and kicked on the ground, and another guard holding a man slightly nearer. Domingo’s eye was drawn back to that last man, a tall, strong-looking fellow with a sword on his hip and a serious expression, grim with concentration, fixed upon Domingo.

The robbers’ leader turned and pelted away back towards the Cathedral. He would find Doña Stefanía, and by Christ, this time, he would make her pay.

Simon’s legs exploded into action; he raced off after Domingo as soon as he saw the man start running. Simon easily sidestepped the staff and then he moved as fast as he could, left hand gripping his sword’s hilt, right one pistoning back and forth as if it could make him catch up with the wiry Galician a little faster.

A dull ache started pounding in the back of his head, but he ignored it. It was just a hangover from his earlier illness, nothing more. He was fine, and he had a focus for all his energies now: the felon ahead of him. This was the man who had led the attack on the pilgrims. He was also implicated in the murder of Joana, and was probably involved in the attempted murder of Gregory as well.

There was something wrong about that last thought, but Simon didn’t have time to analyse it now. His mind and body and soul were all focused on catching Domingo. Nothing else mattered.

He saw the robber slam into a woman, who gave a short scream as she was hurled backwards into a wall, her head bouncing against it before she slumped to the ground. Domingo rebounded from her into a small cart, back to a wall, and then he was balanced and running again, leaping over a tray of foods, pounding onwards. Simon hurdled the woman’s body, bellowing hoarsely at the top of his voice to clear the path before him, then roaring again to persuade someone to catch Domingo, but he only knew the English words, and no one appeared to understand him.

‘Stop that man! Stop him! ‘Ware that man! Stop that murderer!’

His breath was a harsh pain now. It felt like pins and needles as he swallowed it, as though the air was filled with steel that scraped and scrubbed his throat with every breath. With the row of his feet slapping on the slabs, there was the thundering of the blood in his veins, all but deafening him, and when he reached a corner, he had to hold out his arms to stop himself from crashing bodily into the wall, shoving away as he carried on running, pushing himself in the new direction. Ahead of him, he could still see Domingo, and the robber was gaining speed now. Simon was slowing, but the Galician, raised in the hills south of Compostela where he had run throughout his youth, showed no signs of flagging. Simon felt his breath sob in his breast at the thought that he was going to lose his man, and then he was on again, teeth gritted in grim determination, fists clenched, while he concentrated on Domingo’s back, ignoring the pain in his own legs.

There was a bellow and he snapped a look over his shoulder, only to see, loping easily just behind him, his guard, the staff still gripped in his hand. He saw Simon’s look, gave a short nod, then overtook him.

Simon was dumbfounded. He had always been considered relatively swift over a longer distance, that he had stamina rather than the ability to sprint, but now he felt as though he might as well stop and stand still as try to compete. The Compostelan merely set his head down like a bull, and stampeded onwards. Simon hadn’t heard of the festivals in which the youths of the towns ran with the bulls, but if he had, he would have been hard pushed to say whether this man was more human than bull.

A pause for a heart’s beat, and then Simon’s second wind came; he chased off after the two men once more. He heard another shout, a scream, and then a third call, and this time it was taken up by other voices. Suddenly Simon was in the square again, and he stopped, leaning against a doorframe while his face suddenly flamed with heat, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he felt as though his mouth was too small to swallow as much breath as he needed. He had to grip the wall to support himself as he peered into the square.

Domingo was all but incoherent with rage. One fool he could have coped with, but this second man had prevented his escape, and now he was held at bay. There was a circle of stallholders and hawkers about him, all watching him with that measuring assessment that a man had in his eye when he gauged one dog’s strength against another’s in the ring. Three brandished good-sized sticks, while another had a blade out and ready. Then there was the thickset man who had pursued him. He stood gripping his staff as though wondering where to poke it to make Domingo collapse most speedily.

This was the man who was the most dangerous, Domingo knew. While Domingo’s legs were recovering speedily, the other’s legs were already relaxed, as though he had not just chased Domingo for over a half mile.

Domingo must crush this opponent or be vanquished himself, he knew. He retreated slightly. The man smiled grimly, tapped the staff against the palm of his hand, and then started to advance.

Instantly Domingo moved. He ran full tilt into the officer, head down.

Astonished, the man hesitated, and then it was too late. He tried to bring his staff down to block Domingo’s rush, but the weapon bounced off the robber chief’s broad back; Domingo’s head then thumped into his belly, and all the air whooshed from his lungs before the first of his assailant’s punches landed on his body. Bringing the staff down again, he tried to inflict some pain on Domingo, but the latter had the leverage to push him around, and then managed to pound his fist into his kidney. Overcome with agony, the man fell.

Domingo felt him collapse, and kicked once as the man curled into a ball at his feet. He glanced down with surprise at the bloody knife in his fist. He couldn’t remember grabbing it. It must have been the officer’s own weapon, for it wasn’t Domingo’s. Furious, frustrated, he kicked again, seeing the thick mist of blood that erupted from the dying man’s kidney.

He could see Simon still leaning on the wall. To his surprise, Simon pushed himself upright and began to walk towards him. ‘Who are you?’ Domingo shouted. ‘What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing to you!’

Simon understood none of his words. He approached steadily, drawing his sword as he came, watching Domingo’s hands, his feet, his eyes – the way that his body moved – for those were the indicators that showed a martial artist’s skill.

Oh God, there was that dizziness again, but he wasn’t going to surrender to it. He would arrest this felon if it killed him.

Domingo saw the steely determination in Simon’s eyes, cast a look about him, saw the reluctance of the others to come to his aid, lifted his blade and gave a shriek of defiance, and then ran at the youngest man there. The fellow gave a squeak, tripped and fell, and Domingo was already over him, and running on.

But this time he’d been forced away from the Cathedral. He wouldn’t be able to catch the damned Prioress, the woman responsible for all his woes; he wouldn’t be able to kill the vixen! There was a hill ahead, and he hurried up it. Behind him he could hear footsteps pounding after him; and every now and again a missile would hurtle past his head.

He came to a small open space with a couple of donkeys tearing at a patch of scrubby grass. He hurtled down an alley to the right, hoping to deflect some of the hunt. Forty yards or so into it lay another alley, and he ran up it. This ended in a wider space. An old barn stood in the middle; he slipped through the part-open door, hoping no one was close enough to see him, praying that they wouldn’t be able to hear the painful thudding of his heart in the still air.

Simon was convinced at first that the man must have darted down another alley. He wasn’t the first of the pursuers to reach what he thought of as a cross between a yard and a green, and there were already three or four men milling in confusion when he reached it. He had to stop, leaning against a low tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘Where is he?’ he gasped. ‘Did anyone see him?’

It was clear that no one understood a word he said, and beyond a couple of quizzical looks, he was ignored.

He couldn’t blame them. This area was roughly triangular, with their entrance in the middle of the longest side. From here, three main lanes ran away, and two smaller alleys as well. Domingo could have taken any of these and would be well out of sight by now. There was no means of telling where he could have gone.

Simon permitted himself to sink to his knees, the breath sobbing in his throat as he realised that they had lost the man responsible for so much pain and suffering, Simon had been determined to catch him and bring him to justice, but he had failed. Worse, he had led one of Munio’s men to his own death. In his mind’s eye, Simon saw that man’s body twisted with agony after Domingo had stabbed him, writhing as Domingo kicked him. Another death. Another victim.

Then, through a veil of tears, Simon saw it: the faintest smudge of ochre. Hastily wiping his eyes, he stared. A half-moon of blood lay on the ground. Looking back the way he had come, he could see no sign of footprints of blood, but then he realised that here, emerging from the alleyway, Domingo would have had to alter his pattern of footsteps, slowing, then hurrying again. Perhaps as he came out into this yard, a different part of his shoe hit the ground, and that was why he had deposited blood here.

The mark pointed towards a narrow alley which headed up away from the Cathedral. Simon was about to take the men up that way, when he saw what looked like another print – except this one pointed to a barn door. The door looked slightly ajar, and Simon, looking up, thought he saw a flash, as though there was an eye in the gap, watching to see what the posse would do.

Simon looked along the alley again and nodded to himself. He stood, whistled, and, when he had the attention of all the men, he ran straight at the barn’s door, kicking at it with a foot.

Domingo saw Simon slump to the ground in defeat, and smiled to himself, but he wanted these men to leave. He didn’t want them idling away their time here, he wanted them to run off in a different direction. There was a group of three who were pointing away from the Cathedral, and he willed the others to take their advice. ‘Go on, go on!’

The whistle cut through his thoughts. It was as loud as a pig’s squeal and Domingo’s attention shot back to Simon. He saw the Bailiff look about him with satisfaction at all the other men, then he saw Simon’s gaze turn back towards him and the door, and realised. ‘No!’

He retreated as Simon began to run. In moments the door shivered to pieces and the whole barn filled with particles of rotten wood and dust. By then he was already partway to a screen at the back of the barn. He hoped that there was a room beyond, maybe with an exit to another building, thence to an alley where he could escape, but as he ran in, he realised that this was only a garderobe. His feet took him almost into the small chamber, and then he had to stop, before he got trapped.

Turning at bay, he felt his lips draw back from his teeth in a snarl of animal rage. He shouldn’t be in this position! He shouldn’t! Grabbing at his purse, he pulled out the relic, and muttered a prayer for protection to Saint Peter, but there was nothing; no reply. He grasped the box in his fist, shaking it furiously. The Saint could save him if he wanted, but he had no regard for Domingo, and the outlaw knew that even that last hope was gone. He uttered a curse against the Saint, his parents, and all his descendants just as the door cracked and fell, and Simon hurtled in.

It was all the Bailiff could do to duck under the swinging knife; he felt no more than a slight grabbing at his shoulder as the knife caught at his jack. Luckily the quilting saved him from being scratched. Domingo couldn’t escape, for the door was blocked with the other men from the pursuit, so he turned again to face Simon. If he couldn’t get out, he could sure as hell take the foreigner hostage, keep him at knife-point until they paid him and released him.

Simon was feeling quite faint now – and that was his excuse later. He should have been able to disarm the Galician without killing him, but at the moment, all he could think of was that knife and stopping it from hurting him. His reactions were too slow; he still felt queasy after all the running, on top of his earlier fainting fit. As Domingo charged towards him again, he lifted his sword.

Domingo felt the steel slip into his breast with a sense of disbelief. There was no pain, just a curious slithering sensation, but when he looked down, he saw that the sword was buried in his chest. He opened his mouth, tottered, and then lifted his knife to dash Simon to the floor, pushing himself onwards, using the full force of his weight and malice to try to crush Simon.

All Simon could see was the insanely grinning features of Domingo advancing. It was a scene from hell, with the mad face approaching and the wet red knife held wickedly high overhead. Simon felt himself being pushed back, until there was nothing but the timbers of the garderobe behind him and beneath him; and then he heard a great cracking and wrenching, and felt himself freefall, that smiling face above him like a devil’s, pulling him down to hell.

‘How is he?’ Baldwin demanded as soon as Munio returned.

‘Not good. I think it is the heat. It can sometimes affect a man who is not used to our weather, yes? He was very exhausted.’

‘Exhausted!’ Baldwin repeated. All he could remember was that foul stench.

They were in Munio’s house, a long, low building with a garden that was planted with more plants than Baldwin could possibly name. The whole place seemed verdant, and filled with vibrant colours – rich purples, reds, yellows and everywhere green.

The house itself was white-painted with simple shutters on each window and a small stable for Munio’s two horses, to whom Baldwin had already introduced himself. The knight always liked to investigate the horseflesh wherever he went, but it was scarcely worth the bother in Munio’s household, he saw. One plain and rather old rounsey and a skittish young mare made up the total complement. Munio was not poor, but neither was he wealthy.

When Simon had set off after the felon, Baldwin had been helping to disarm one of Domingo’s men, and had not noticed his friend’s sudden disappearance. Later, when he and Munio wondered why Simon had not come to help interrogate the members of the band, Baldwin was only just in time to hear of the accident, and then he had bolted after the messenger to go and supervise Simon’s rescue.

It had been one of the most repulsive tasks Baldwin had ever witnessed. The two men had fallen through the floor of the garderobe, toppling together some fifteen feet into the relative softness of the heaped sewage underneath. It was fortunate that the toilet did not fall straight into a stream, as so many did, for then Simon must surely have drowned. As it was, he fell backwards into the muck, Domingo on top of him, embedding Simon’s sword deep within his torso. The robber was already dead when Baldwin arrived; the knight had thought Simon was as well.

It was a terrible shock. Baldwin had known many comrades die, and he would have said, had he been asked, that he was all but inured to loss. True, he would not have felt that way about his wife, nor his daughter, but he would have thought that losing the companionship of a man was something he had been long seasoned against fearing. The idea that a man’s death could bring him up so sharply had not occurred to him. Yet here it was. His hand grasped his sword hilt as though to keep his grip on reality, but all he could see was the terrible future, of returning to England without his best friend, of telling Simon’s wife and family that he was dead. He could imagine all too easily the appalled horror in Meg’s eyes.

He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for his life, to demand that God return him, to say that God had made an error, and that Simon should recover; he wanted to deny what he knew had happened. His best friend was dead.

Yes, he felt the odd emptiness in his throat, the heat at his eyeballs, the utter despair that hammered over his soul. Simon had been his first acquaintance on returning to Devon, his closest confidant. It was Simon who had recommended him for the new post of Keeper of the King’s Peace, who had involved him in his most interesting cases. And now all that was over.

Baldwin could not help it. He covered his face in a hand and wept silently, while men hauled the revolting mess of Domingo’s corpse from Simon’s body. He wept while the men curled their lips, averting their heads; he wept while one fetched a bucket and threw it over Simon’s face; he wept while men reluctantly grabbed Simon’s clothing and dragged him from the wrecked box. He wept while Simon choked and spluttered as a second bucket of water was emptied over him. He was still weeping when his eyes opened, and he saw Simon weakly trying to flick away the ordure that had so besmottered his face and hands. Sir Baldwin was still weeping as he jumped forward, his joy leavened with a natural unwillingness to touch Simon in his present state.

If, for Baldwin, Simon’s recovery was a delight that was all but unhoped for, to Simon it was nothing more than a hideous nightmare, worse than his drifting off into insensibility beforehand. That had been terrifying, feeling the world, as it seemed, cracking about him as he was forced down, down, down by the demonically grinning Domingo. He had genuinely thought that the devil had captured his soul. That was one thing, but coming to, lying in a box filled to overflowing with sewage, was enough to make him freeze in a blind panic, his fingers clenching rigidly, all his muscles tensing as his mind refused to accept what his nostrils were telling him. He closed his eyes just before the second bucket hit him.

That was when he found his voice again, although he had no wish to open his mouth. He started mumbling and swearing, but revulsion soon made him shout to be pulled free. Baldwin berated the men standing around, kicking two to make them pull Simon out, but even then refused to hear of Simon standing. Simon was desperate to get up, as though movement itself could clean him of the filth in which he was smothered, but he was forced to lie back on the broken remains of an old door rescued from a building nearby. Once there, Simon passed out again, thankfully just before more men arrived and carried him to Munio’s house.

‘He will be well,’ Munio said.

Baldwin nodded, but he felt empty. Simon was his closest friend, probably the only man living who knew quite so much about Baldwin and his past, other than Edgar, Baldwin’s steward. Seeing him so weakened made Baldwin realise how vulnerable a man could be. Loneliness was a terrible thing, he realised. To live alone, with all one’s friends dead or gone, that must be the worst possible penalty God could impose.

It was the punishment which had been meted out to Matthew. The poor man was without any companions. Even the beggars in the streets were apart from him – although whether that was because they disdained him, or because he ignored them was a moot point. His pride would make it difficult for him to accept that he was a part of their fraternity.

A man like him, a noble knight, brought so low. And then to be murdered by some inconsequential peasant in an alleyway. Why should a common churl attack a beggar? It was inexplicable, or it was simple. Either a man had taken a sudden dislike to Matthew’s face – Baldwin had seen that before – or it was a long-held grudge.

‘I forgot to tell you before,’ Munio said. ‘I had Guillem ask at the house of the money men. Musciatto confirmed that they had given Parceval money. He is wealthy in his own right.’

‘So as one door opens, it is slammed in our face,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘So it would seem. So there is nothing to suggest that Parceval had anything to do with the murder. He didn’t get that money from Joana’s purse. Now I have heard from the gatemen. The southern gatekeeper remembered this man Dom Afonso. He left the city yesterday, with an English knight and his squire.’

Baldwin nodded, but the news gave him no comfort. If anything, being reminded of Afonso simply added to his mental confusion. There was no motive for this strange man, this mercenary, to attack Matthew, as María had said. An older man, perhaps, who had a grudge against the Templars – that could have been comprehensible, but María had said that he was a younger man – quite a lot younger. So what could have been his motive? It made no sense. A richer man trying to rob someone with nothing; a man with position killing a man with none; a young man killing an old one at the end of his life. There was no logic to it. Baldwin had mused over it all through the night while sitting at Simon’s bedside, and all day today it had never been far from his mind.

He needed more information. There was not enough to allow him to speculate. All he was convinced of was that Matthew had not died because he was a beggar. Beggars were sometimes killed, usually by drunks or arrogant fools who thought they were better than them, when the only difference between a knight and a man like Matthew was good or bad fortune.

There were men who believed that Templars were evil, but men who thought that way would not kill like an assassin in the street and run, they would usually confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the local court, expecting all other rational men to thank them for ridding the world of a foul parasite. Any man might execute a heretic, after all, and the Pope’s entourage had succeeded admirably in persuading the population of Europe that all Templars were little better than lackeys of the devil.

Munio was still toying with the little casket. When the men pulled Domingo away from Simon, this little box had been gripped tightly in his hand. Munio had cleaned it and opened it to reveal the bone; both he and Sir Baldwin were convinced that it must be something with religious significance, but there had been no reports of any missing relics. Maybe Domingo and his men had stolen it in France or further away.

‘I wish I could make sense of Matthew’s death. Why should this Afonso kill him?’ Baldwin fretted.

‘You are greatly exercised by the death of a single beggar.’

‘Even a beggar deserves justice,’ Baldwin said sanctimoniously.

‘Perhaps,’ Munio said, but without humour. ‘But so does a young woman, whose life has been cut short.’

‘I know. Both are equal in importance.’

‘Are they?’ Munio asked. ‘Forgive me, but you appear to have discounted the girl’s life already.’

‘Not at all,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘I am as keen as ever to catch her murderer – but with Ramón gone, I do not see how to proceed, whereas a witness gave us the name of Matthew’s killer.’

‘I keep thinking: but where is the money?’ Munio said.

‘Well, we now know that Domingo and his men were penniless. So that makes it less likely that they killed Joana,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘And this box and its contents is hardly the sort of thing that could be easily sold. Unless they intended selling it here to the Cathedral?’

‘If they had, it would have involved lengthy negotiations. The Church does not approve of buying back things which are Her own.’

‘The lack of money does not justify assuming that Ramón was the murderer,’ said Baldwin.

‘I do not like to accuse a Knight of Santiago. But he left the city, and no one here appears to have suddenly grown wealthy,’ Munio pointed out. ‘Surely the money could have been removed from the city. Where better, than to be taken out of Galicia itself, carried by a man who has declared himself to be so overwhelmed with grief that he must leave the country? Ramón was there, he saw Joana, he lied to you and he fled. Who else can I suspect?’

‘We know Ramón was there,’ Munio continued sombrely. ‘Domingo went up there later, but if Domingo took the cash, he’d have spent it or run. Yet he did neither.’

He stood, the casket still in his hand. ‘This man Ramón has many questions to answer.’