The Templar's Penance

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The only man who appeared shocked and unhappy was Don Ruy. ‘Don’t touch her! She is no murderer, but a victim of other men’s crimes.’

‘Perhaps in your case that could be true,’ Munio said. ‘For you have defiled her yourself, forcing her to accept you for money.’

‘I have done no such thing!’ Don Ruy said forcefully. ‘I have never taken a woman against her will, and this one has been paid handsomely.’

‘What of your wife?’ Baldwin asked.

‘He’s married?’ Caterina said, and stared at Don Ruy. ‘You said you–’

‘Enough!’ Munio commanded. ‘In the case against you for murder, I doubt that you need fear. We’ll keep you in custody until tomorrow when we can hold a court to debate the matter.’

Munio sat in his hall later that day as Guillem finished writing up the notes of the court’s events.

Doña Stefanía had left clutching her casket and money like a long-lost child, and the crowd had gone. Now only Guillem remained, and Munio. He wondered idly how a man like the cleric could enjoy life. No woman at his side day and night, no companionship other than that of men. It was a life upon which Guillem appeared to thrive, but Munio could not comprehend it. To live through the rest of his years without his Margarita was a terrible thought. A man needed his woman, and to live without her was a dreadful concept.

He was a fortunate fellow; he knew that. When he had met his wife for the first time, he felt as though he had found more than a companion. She was another part of him; they shared the same soul. Her kindness and generosity of spirit were a delight to him. Unfortunately, it was that which had caused them their troubles now, of course.

Margarita could no more see a man or woman in pain without helping, than she could have murdered a child. That was why she had tended to Simon so carefully through his two illnesses – because she was inherently kind.

He sighed. The trouble was, so often people thought that because a woman cared for them, necessarily she must love them. Oh, Munio had heard of it happening elsewhere, when nuns looked after the ill in their convents, and then the men who recovered found themselves deeply in love with the nuns. It was all too common. And now Simon had apparently fallen in love with Margarita. She had heard him praying that she would love him or something.

Munio stared out through the window, listening as he heard the footsteps approaching. They were the steps of two happy men. Simon’s gait was still a little slow, and there was a vague shuffle to his left leg, which had caught the brunt of the table at the tavern, while Baldwin’s was faster and lighter after all his travelling.

‘Guillem, I should prefer that you were gone,’ Munio grunted.

The cleric stopped and stared at his Pesquisidor. There was a strange note in Munio’s voice, he thought, a sad, lonely tone. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, and packed his remaining bits and pieces into his scrip before making for the door. He reached it just as it was thrown open by Simon and Baldwin, and the two entered, Baldwin grinning broadly.

The last Guillem saw of them was Simon marching up to Munio’s desk, and the Pesquisidor’s face assuming a smile of feigned pleasure. It was so close to being a mask of horror that Guillem felt his heart lurch in his breast.

Simon and Baldwin had no idea of Guillem’s insight as they crossed the floor to Munio. It was Simon who reached him first, thrusting out his hand. ‘I am so very grateful for all you have done for me, Munio. Especially your wife as well. I am sure I would have died if it were not for her careful ministrations.’

‘Perhaps so, but all she did was her duty to an unwell person,’ Munio said pointedly, but the two were not of a mood to pick up on subtle hints.

‘You expect me to believe that?’ Simon said with a laugh. ‘No woman could have treated a husband with more care and consideration than your wife did me.’

‘And it cannot have been easy for any person to look after so repellent a knave as this Bailiff,’ Baldwin said lightly. He was perched on the edge of Munio’s table now, and Munio looked away. He liked Baldwin. In fact, he liked them both, but his wife thought that she had heard Simon praying for her, asking God to keep her for him. That must mean that Simon wanted Munio dead. It was a terrible thing to do, to ask that a woman be widowed so that she might be taken.

‘Anyway, it will soon be time to go,’ Simon said. ‘I should like to say goodbye to you and your wife, and then we must leave Galicia and return to our own homes and wives.’

What about mine, then? Munio thought. Would you keep her in your house like a Moor with his harem?

Baldwin nodded. ‘Simon has a new home to find, down on the coast, and I must go back to my own home in Devonshire. We will both have much to do.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said with a noticeable lessening of his pleasure. ‘My wife doesn’t want to come and live with me in Dartmouth. Nor does my daughter. Poor Meg. She wants to remain in Lydford for the rest of her days.’

‘Meg?’ Munio asked. ‘Who is Meg?’

‘My wife,’ Simon explained. ‘Her name is Margaret, but I always call her Meg. She doesn’t want me to go so far from Lydford, but it is where my new job lies. The Abbot of Tavistock has asked that I go there, and there’s nothing I can do to refuse him. He is my master.’

‘What … what will you be doing there?’ Munio stammered.

‘The Abbot has just been made the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, and I am to be his representative.’

Munio took a deep breath. ‘Then we should celebrate your new position, Bailiff!’ He roared for a servant, and demanded that his wife be brought in, and Guillem too, so that all could share in Simon’s pleasure.

And his own. ‘I have a terrible murder resolved thanks to both of you,’ he said, and put his arm about his wife. ‘And let us drink to your wife, Meg,’ he added. ‘I hope she grows to love your new home as much as your old one!’

It was cold in her great church when Doña Stefanía arrived home again, and she closed the door quietly behind her as though to shut out the possibility of any of the other Sisters hearing her. Today she knew that she had to beg forgiveness for all her sins on the way back here, and she must also plead to be able to keep the relic.

‘Oh, God,’ she sighed as she knelt on the freezing flagstones immediately before the altar. ‘What else could I have done? That man could have tempted an angel from heaven with his honeyed tongue. I tried to disregard him, but it was impossible. And when I thought he had my money, it seemed only sensible to stay with him, so that I could try to take it back.’

That was not all, of course.

‘No. I didn’t have to stay with him when I realised it was in truth his own money. But by then, it would have been difficult to find somewhere else. And I thought that Joana was still alive, and if she was, I could have won back my money still, and perhaps even found my relic … Your relic, I mean! I thought that after Domingo took the casket from me, he perhaps gave it to Joana for safekeeping, because surely if she hadn’t died there at the river, he would know. That devil knew everything. And I thought that if Joana had lived, and that the whole of her death was staged, then Domingo must have been involved with her. They were related, after all. Cousins.’

She tugged the casket from her scrip and held it aloft. ‘And see! I did succeed. Not in the way I expected, but I did manage to bring it back to You, and here it is! Please accept it, and let us keep it here, for if you do, it will be greatly to the glory of Your Church!’

There was no answer. No thunder-roll, no fork of lightning, nothing. But if there was no heavenly choir singing her praises, nor, reflected Doña Stefanía, was there a bolt from the heavens to strike her down either.

Lowering her arms at last, which were now growing a little tired, she murmured a reverent paternoster before setting the little casket on the altar.

‘I shall announce that the relic is here, and people shall come from all over the world to sing Your glory, Lord. I shall have it mounted in a gold box, with rubies and pearls and emeralds and … and all manner of gems to show how highly we value Your generosity. Holy, holy, holy, Lord. Lord of all …’

On the morning they were due to leave, Munio was pleased to accept the decision of Sir Charles that he and his servant would leave with Baldwin and Simon.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he lied politely. It was best, he thought, always to be polite to men such as Sir Charles. He had the look of one who would be swift to take offence.

Sir Charles smiled as though he doubted the depth of Munio’s sorrow. ‘It is a shame, but there is nothing here but expense. You have no tournaments in Galicia or even in Portugal. What I need is an opportunity of fighting in the lists and winning wealth and renown, or a new lord whom I might serve, and a lord like that will be in England or France, not here. I shall have to return home and see what is happening in my country.’

‘Well, I wish you a happy voyage and Godspeed,’ Munio said.

‘We are thankful for all your kindness to us,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I especially thank you, Margarita, for your careful treatment of Simon while I was away. It must have been terrible to have the fear of his decease before my return.’

‘Let us not even think of such things,’ she said with a shudder.

‘No,’ Munio agreed. ‘Not when you are about to embark on another long journey. Godspeed to you all.’

Simon and Baldwin made their farewells, then Sir Charles; and the four men, Paul bringing up the rear, set off northwards, aiming for the coast and hoping to find a merchantman which would convey them back to Dartmouth or perhaps Topsham. There were many good, sizeable ports for them to strike for.

‘Let’s hope that the weather holds,’ Baldwin said with a glance up at the gathering clouds.

Simon had not forgotten his prostration on the way to Galicia. ‘Aye, let us hope so,’ he said with a frown.

‘It should be easier than the way here,’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘The weather looks hardly bad enough to ruffle the sea. I am sure we’ll have an easy time of it.’

‘Good,’ Simon said. He looked up again. There were storms gathering, he thought, but he relied on the knight’s greater knowledge of the sea and understanding of the weather in these parts. He had spent more time here than Simon.

Surely he must know better.

It was a few days after Baldwin and Simon had left that Munio stood with Guillem on the walls of the city near the eastern gate and watched the crowds entering the city.

‘Don’t you think she should have been executed?’ Guillem asked quietly.

Munio looked at him. ‘What useful purpose would it have served? I think that this way justice is seen to be done.’

‘She murdered the beggar Matthew.’

‘Only because he threatened her. If he had not demanded money, saying that if she didn’t pay him, he’d tell the Prioress who she was, she wouldn’t have been panicked into killing him. That is the point, I think. She was forced into killing him by his actions, that evil fool!’

‘A Templar,’ Guillem said, crossing himself. He shook his head. ‘I can understand how the Pope felt that they deserved destruction if they were all formed in the same mould.’

Munio remembered Baldwin and was silent a moment. He did not know, but he suspected Baldwin’s background. ‘No group can be entirely evil, Guillem. Even if there was one like Matthew, there were others who joined the Templars because they wanted to do good, protect pilgrims and serve God. Just think: those men, Sir Charles and Dom Afonso, both served no man, but when they saw pilgrims being attacked, they leaped in to defend them. They would be looked down upon by most people because they are lordless and landless, but they still did what they could to protect the pious.’

‘And no doubt rob them.’

‘That is not kind, Guillem.’

‘No. But realistic.’

Parceval sniffed and then tipped the rest of the pot of wine into his mouth and savoured it as he swilled it about. He had to sniff as he finished the drink. The tears were never far from his eyes now.

It was hard to lose a lover. He knew the Doña wasn’t really in love with him, but that didn’t matter because he could lie to himself. She had shared his bed for a while, she was an enthusiastic lover, and while she was with him, he could tell himself that she was there because she wanted to be with him, not because she was desperate without any money and wanted only to take his own purse.

He had loved her, he told himself again.

When his daughter died – he couldn’t bring himself to recall how – his wife had gone. She heard what had happened, and that same day she left, taking his son with her. There was no love there when the assumed rape of his own daughter became common knowledge. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate for the love of another woman. Maybe it was just that he was mad for someone to comfort him and give him the solace he craved: companionship and sympathy. Not that the Doña had given him much of that. She had been too self-obsessed. And yet even when she was completely focused on herself, there was something there: he had felt it. Perhaps it was simply the fact that both were lonely people. Their mutual despair made them companionable.

She had gone, though. And all there was for Parceval now was the long, blank road of the future.

He had wealth, it was true, but what use was his money, when his wife was gone and his son with her? All the time he lived in his house, he would be forced to confront that terrible picture in his mind. He had tried to forget it by coming here. The court at Ypres had sent him, but he had not demurred. There had been a hope in his mind that perhaps by coming here, he would be able to forget that scene, his daughter’s wide, screaming mouth.

‘My God!’ he muttered, and waved for another jug of wine. It helped him to forget, and that was all he wanted: to forget the loss of his family, and now the loss of his woman.

Perhaps he should think of her as ‘his last woman’. She was surely the last. He couldn’t possibly find another. He was too old, and even with his money, he obviously wasn’t the most attractive of men. No, in future all he could count on were whores.

He poured and drank steadily.

The woman was right; she had gone back to her church. She could do good there, whereas with him, what sort of future would she have? There was the possibility of finding a new life, he supposed, but more likely the Church would send people to recapture her. The Church did not easily give up its nuns and monks. They were sworn to God, and that oath would last for ever.

What sort of life could he offer a woman? He could go home to Ypres, live again in his house, pretend his wife didn’t exist, but all the time he’d be looking over his shoulder, expecting to hear the steps that heralded the assassin, the man hired by Hellin van Coye’s family to avenge his death. For surely that man would come. Parceval’s danger would start from the moment he arrived home again. He would never be able to relax. Even if he had the good fortune to find another woman, he couldn’t live normally. It was impossible.

He stared at the cup in his hand. It was empty. So was the jug. The third jug. He felt overwhelmed with the thought that he could never know peace. There was nothing here for him. Nothing. Nothing here, nothing at Ypres. Where could he go? Where could he live?

Standing, he stumbled, and had to lean on the table. What was the point of struggling when all was stacked against him? Better to take away the success from his enemies. He would steal their thunder.

Steal their thunder, he thought, slipping and toppling against a wall. That was it. He would take his own life. Prevent the bloody bastards from killing him. Yes! He’d stop their fun. He’d hang himself. Here. Tonight!

He belched. No one could stop him. It was his life. He was nearly at his chamber. Leaning against the wall, he tried to focus on the door handle, but it was terribly hard. His hand refused to coordinate with his eyes, and it was some time before he could lift the latch. As soon as he did so, the door flew wide open, crashing against the wall. He staggered inside, and his hand went to his belt. Pulling it free, he heard his knife fall and make a cracking noise as the bone handle struck the packed earth of the floor. His purse rattled loudly as the coins struck. For a moment he stared down at them, but his misery made him shrug. There was no point in picking them up. Better that he should …

‘Señor?’

Blearily, he turned his gaze onto the woman who owned this place. She stood anxiously, a small figure in her fifties, with sagging, greying flesh. He thought she looked little better than a corpse.

But then his interest quickened, for behind her was another woman. She was slim, elegant, fair-haired, and younger. Parceval gaped foolishly, and then ridiculously tried to stand a little more straight, to look a little less inebriated. ‘My lady, I am going to kill myself.’

‘Oh! Not here, señor!’

The other smiled. She had been looking at the floor, at the heavy purse, but now she turned her eyes upon him. ‘Is there really no other way? Perhaps the señor would reconsider. There is always something to make life worthwhile.’

And Parceval, drinking in the sight of her, reflected that perhaps she was right.

The wind blew like a demon, howling in the rigging, whipping into shreds the sail above their heads, and Baldwin stood staring out to sea with the feeling that the whole of his pilgrimage had been a disaster.

He had gone to Compostela in order to pay for his murder, but the journey had been a failure from the first. Surely he could have gone on a simple journey to Our Lady of Norfolk, or Canterbury. It would have been easier, and safer – although he wondered whether he would have felt that same sensation of release and forgiveness. There had been an unmistakable feeling of love and warmth as he stood in that Cathedral. Perhaps the journey was worth that. As was the chance of seeing Tomar.

But the pleasures were offset by the sadness of Matthew’s death, and by the grim reality of his descent into poverty and dishonour. It was terrible to hear how a man had sunk so low that he was finally killed for his attempts at blackmail.

As if that were not bad enough, Baldwin had the guilt of what he had put his friend Simon through. The Bailiff had willingly joined him here, but when Baldwin left him, he had almost died of his fever. True, the careful nursing of Munio’s wife had protected him from death, but it had been close, and there was always the possibility that the next few days would put an end to all of them.

He glanced up as a wild cry came from the master, and suddenly he heard an awful snapping noise, as the mainsail over his head tore from top to bottom. He was almost shoved from the ship by crew members as they ran up the ratlines and battled with the sails against the wind, desperately trying to rescue what they could.

Baldwin pulled himself hand over hand to the little cabin at the rear of the deck, and hoisted himself into the reeking interior. Vomit puddled all over the floor, and the three men inside were a uniform green colour, Simon lying on the floor near the stern, Sir Charles and Paul looking faintly better because they were at least vertical, both sitting with their backs to the curved wall.

‘Has the devil come to claim his own yet?’ Sir Charles asked pathetically.

‘He would not have to cast his net far, would he?’ Baldwin said, and would have essayed a chuckle, but then as the boat lurched, Simon spewed, and Baldwin fled for the open deck again.

And while Baldwin and Simon prayed for salvation amidst the howling horror of an angry sea, while Parceval sat in a tavern with a new lady, and while Doña Stefanía sat at the side of her altar and watched with greedy pleasure as the first of the queue of pilgrims entered her little church and walked to the relic to give thanks and pray to Saint Peter, hundreds of miles away to the north and east, in the great church of Orthez, the priest sighed as he picked up the casket containing the relic.

It was cool here, down in the undercroft, a good place to preserve things. He knew that perfectly well, for after all, it was where the hams and sausages were hung until they were wanted, deep in this cool, dry interior. Perfect.

The box was beautiful. He held it reverently in both hands, then walked with it to a slanting shaft of light. In it, the box gleamed. There was a fingerprint on the cross, and he wiped it with care on his sleeve, and breathed on it to polish it. Then he made his way up the stairs to the main body of the church itself. There, he bowed to the altar, and moved along the choir to where his Bishop stood. The Bishop held out his hand.

‘You have it?’

‘Yes, my Lord Bishop.’

He passed it over and bowed again while the Bishop tentatively opened it a crack and peered inside. ‘Wonderful to think that so little can be so marvellously efficacious.’

‘It was a Saint.’

‘Yes.’

The Bishop picked up the box which Doña Stefanía had returned to them. ‘You can burn this,’ he said as he reverently laid down the other casket in its place. ‘As if we’d have let that poisonous mare have the real relic! She must have tried to thieve it at the outset.’

‘She has told the Bishop of Compostela that she has the relic, and she is already winning many pilgrims.’

‘I know,’ said the Bishop with a chuckle. ‘She says that she swapped over the bones because the Saint wanted to remain at her church.’

‘When will you tell her that we only sent her a bit of the tailbone of a hog?’

‘Later,’ the Bishop said with satisfaction, kneeling before the casket. ‘There’s no hurry. Later.’