Michael Jecks - The Templar

It wasn’t only Joana who went to the beggars. Another group of pilgrims had just entered the square, and Dona Stefania saw a monk, two merchant-types and a tall woman in black all reaching into their purses. Fools. All they were doing was showing the beggars that there was money to be made.

‘Dona? Dona?’

She took one look at the grubby out-thrust hand and commanded, ‘Begone.’

‘Could you spare a coin for an old man?’

‘No. If you want alms, claim them from the Cathedral.’

He was frowning now, peering determinedly. ‘Dona Stefania?’ She turned and looked at the black-clad beggar, slowly taking him in, up and down. ‘What do you want? I have no money for you.’

‘I remember you. You were wife to Gregory.’

She drew in her breath. ‘I do not know you,’ she said. The insolent son of a Moorish slave!

‘I used to be a knight, Lady — Sir Matthew,’ he whined. ‘I knew your husband.’

This creature used to be a knight? It hardly bore thinking of. Some knights occasionally suffered loss, when their master died or they were thrown from their positions because of some real or imagined misdemeanour, such as trying to bed the master’s wife. That was the most common cause of a knight’s urgent separation from his place of bed and board. This fellow did not fit her picture of an adulterous servant, however. Nor did he look like a knight, even one who had lost his position and livelihood.

‘Go away, little man! I do not know you,’ she snapped.

Matthew stood unmoving for a long moment after the Dona had walked away with her nose in the air.

Only ten years ago he had been a man of honour. He was called to meetings with great lords, his opinion was sought by the rich and powerful, his support enlisted.

In that one decade, his entire life had been pulled apart; his position in the world had been whisked from beneath him and his status utterly eradicated. There was nothing he could do about it. There were no allies for a man who had been a Templar. Eleven or twelve years ago, he would have been able to report the behaviour of that vain Prioress to her Bishop and felt sure that she would have learned to regret her rudeness.

A couple of traders were watching him unsympathetically, he noted, as though they were preparing to evict him from the square. He turned and walked away between the stalls, until he reached a clearing, and there he almost stumbled into a pair of arguing women.

‘Caterina, look at the state of you! I’m shocked that you’ve sunk so low.’

‘What would you expect, Joana? My father won’t support me, therefore I am destitute. What else can I do?’

‘What of your husband’s master? You gave up everything for your man. Wouldn’t he look after you if he knew the depths into which you have sunk?’

‘Look after me! How many masters accept responsibility for their servants’ widows?’ Caterina said scathingly. ‘There is little enough chance of that.’

‘There may be a way for you to earn some money.’

‘How? From your mistress? I doubt it!’

‘Perhaps so,’ Joana said slyly. ‘I may be able to help you.’ She nodded as though with satisfaction, but then noticed a shadow gliding forwards. ‘Domingo? Is that you?’ she demanded.

‘Yes. I missed the bastard! He got away, but I’ll-’

‘Shut up about him,’ his cousin ordered. ‘We have more important things to worry about.’ She became aware of Matthew and demanded: ‘What do you want?’

‘Me? Only alms,’ Matthew said, trying to fit a suitably humble tone to his voice. It was hard, God, but it was hard.

Domingo moved towards him. ‘If you don’t disappear, old man, I’ll make you — got that?’

Matthew squared his shoulders. A flare of anger ran through his bones like quicksilver, making him recall his past, as though his youthful strength might return to him and give his muscles the power they once enjoyed. He clenched his belly and felt his shoulders drop, a leg slipping back into the approved position for defence. Yet even as his body flowed automatically into the posture, there was a twinge in his ankle and a stabbing pain in his thigh. If he were to try to fight this man, he would be killed within seconds.

That stark reality hurt. Even after the destruction of his Order, he had known that he could fight off an assailant: now even that was taken from him. His stomach was empty, not only from lack of food, but from the emptiness in his soul. He felt like a warrior who had been left on the field after a battle, watching with empty eyes as the scavengers arrived — the crows, foxes, rats and men and women, thieving what they wanted from the corpses. He was the last alive, the remaining member of his unit. And now he had been dishonoured by a felon whom he would have killed with one hand tied behind his back when he was a younger man.

His head hanging, he turned and stumbled away. At last he looked what he knew himself to be: an old, broken man.

Joana watched him shuffling away, then turned to her cousin again. ‘So, Caterina, you’d like to win my lady’s favour, would you? I think I might be able to help you there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never you mind for now. Later, when the sun is two hours past its highest, meet me again. There is a ford north of here where many women do their washing. I’ll tell you then. I promise it will be worth your while.’

Caterina held her gaze steadfastly. ‘Very well, but I beg of you, don’t make me hope for something which you can’t provide. Please, I am content now.’

‘ Content? Look at yourself! A stale widow, no use to anyone. No money, no property, nothing,’ Joana said with disdain. ‘If you want my help, do as I say. Otherwise, be damned! Now leave me.’

In the face of her cruelty, Caterina held her head high, but as she turned, she couldn’t help a shuddering sob from racking her frame. It was only with an effort, Joana noticed, that she kept herself from breaking down and weeping. The maid was somewhat disappointed not to hear evidence of Caterina’s grief as the beggarwoman passed in among the stalls and out of sight.

‘Poor bitch,’ Domingo muttered. He was still wiping his eyes, and now his voice sounded thick.

‘Oh, you’re not going to start weeping again, are you?’

‘I’m not weeping! I don’t weep! I seek the murderer of my son, and when I find him, I’ll make him regret ever trying to harm a hair on my Sancho’s head.’

‘Very brave, very commendable,’ Joana said. ‘Right — did you take the mare like I told you?’

‘Yes, and put her back in the stable.’

‘Good. Then go. I shall find Dona Stefania and comfort her, and then take her place.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ Domingo asked hesitantly. ‘It may be dangerous.’

‘Domingo,’ she returned impatiently, ‘you are a fool. You worry about yourself and leave my safety to me.’

And with a new sense of purpose, Joana strode off to seek her mistress.

Dona Stefania’s annoyance grew as she wondered where Joana had gone. The maid was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had made a tryst with Ramon, and had forgotten the time, or perhaps she had forgotten about Dona Stefania’s appointment. Either way, she was late, and that was intolerable, today of all days.

Time was moving on. She had to find her mount, the Prioress thought, patting her purse. Where on earth was that peasant with her horse? Gazing about her with a crease forming on her perfect, broad forehead, she felt a rising disquiet. Thefts from pilgrims were always a problem. Women were robbed, knocked on the head, raped, sometimes taken and kept imprisoned by uncultured villeins who sought better quality wives than the women of the villages in which they lived. Well, that was fine. Men were at risk too, she knew. Only the other day she had passed Lavamentula, and was told that it was a famous place for robberies, with pilgrims having all their clothes stolen while they bathed in the waters.