Michael Jecks - The Templar

Don Ruy was dubious. ‘He could have stolen it there and then.’

‘If he had, she would have known who had robbed her. It would have been easy to see to his capture,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘She might have been unwilling to accuse him after a night of passion, but he couldn’t bank on that. Also Joana could herself have been the cause of her own death. She told others about her mistress’s affair — you yourself say you learned the woman’s identity because you overheard Joana mention it to someone. To whom was she talking, incidentally?’

‘I do not know. The two were in a chamber and I was outside. I heard the comment and a guffaw of laughter, but then I left. I do not like acting the spy on private conversations.’

‘A shame,’ Baldwin said unrepentantly, continuing in English for Simon’s benefit. ‘Perhaps someone else was told by this Parceval and saw a chance of making money; he threatened to blackmail Dona Stefania about her peccadillo.’

‘I am troubled by Joana’s part though,’ Simon said thoughtfully.

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Someone presumably spoke to her to warn of the blackmail, but who? And why should she assume it was Don Ruy, unless he went to her himself? If he had a servant, I should suspect him , but Don Ruy travelled here alone.’

‘Unless Joana did intend to rob her own mistress and invented Don Ruy’s blackmail attempt,’ Baldwin said.

‘Then there is the nature of her death,’ Simon continued. ‘This was a strange attack. It might have been committed by a berserker.’ He looked over the crowds of people. He saw Matthew, and was about to wave, but it would have been an incongruous action. In any case, Matthew was joining with other beggars for once. He was sitting next to a large woman, Maria de Venialbo.

‘Or someone like the Fleming,’ Baldwin nodded, speaking for him, ‘who was unused to killing. They wanted to stop her blabbing about the blackmail, but they panicked at the sight of blood and went into a frenzy.’

‘Aye. Unless it was just someone who hated the girl and sought to murder her.’

Baldwin looked up suddenly. ‘No. The Dona said that she had been intending to go, but her maid advised against it, and went in her place. If the motive was hatred, the culprit was someone who detested Dona Stefania herself, not Joana, and sought to kill her .’

‘Bugger!’ Simon exclaimed. ‘That means she could still be in danger.’

‘No, Simon, it means she is still in danger.’ Baldwin scrutinised the people crowding the square. Where yesterday he had seen only happy, satisfied pilgrims and contented hawkers, now he saw a seething mass of humanity, a mix of hatreds and motives to kill, and in there amongst them all, was a murderer. Someone who could bring themselves to slaughter a Prioress.

Baldwin gave a long, puzzled sigh. Just then, he saw Don Ruy, who had left them and was now engaged in earnest conversation with the beggarwoman Maria across the square. After a short discussion, Maria took a coin from the knight and resignedly followed him when he strode away.

Dona Stefania bowed her head in the small lady chapel of the church and before she could frame her words, she felt her shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably.

Her sin was appalling. Yesterday she hadn’t been able to worry herself about it, because she was too tied up in the fact of Joana’s murder, but now she realised the enormity of her act. She had given away the life of her maid to save the little box in her purse.

How curious that she should have realised what she had done because of a stray word by that evil felon, Don Ruy. He had said it before the two Englishmen, commenting that he hadn’t tried to win the contents of her purse. An odd way of putting it, that. He hadn’t said he’d not tried to take her money, but the contents of her purse . Somehow, he had divined what she carried.

She couldn’t pray like this. Instead, with shaking hands, she reached into her purse and pulled out the little box. Perhaps the sight of it would calm her. A prayer to him might also help.

From the outside, the box was perfectly ordinary, a shining pewter cube, with only one piece of ornamentation to show its importance — a cross carved into the lid, its outline filled with gold. At the centre, where the cross’s arms met, there was a large ruby. The gold and the ruby together showed the value of the contents. Dona Stefania allowed her tears to moisten the metal, and then, with fumbling fingers, she unclipped the clasp and opened it, staring inside.

As usual, she was overcome with excitement at the sight. Inside was a small piece of bone, maybe a half-inch long, discoloured from its long burial. She took it out reverently and kissed it, then put it back. It made her entire body tingle, just like sex with Parceval. She felt slightly faint, as though she had taken a drug which enhanced the senses; it was always the same, whenever she was this close to the relic.

‘Saint Peter, I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I had no idea. I thought all he wanted was money, nothing more. It never occurred to me that he might want this as well — your own finger.’

She heard a step and hurriedly snapped the lid shut again, dropping the box into her purse. If someone was prepared to kill Joana, might they not come and find her as well? Perhaps it was this that they wanted, not the money which Joana had carried to her death?

If only she hadn’t been tempted to rut with that peasant, she would not have feared the blackmail. And the blackmail itself had led to this: to Joana’s murder and Dona Stefania’s trepidation.

All because of the finger of Saint Peter. Her priory’s most precious — its only — relic.

Gregory was content. He had spent much of the morning in the Cathedral’s square, and the result was, he was happier than he had been in many long years.

There was a wonderful sense of fulfilment here in the sunlight. Pilgrims who had travelled for hundreds of miles were arriving and giving thanks for being able to see this marvellous building, giving praise to God for allowing them to achieve their goals. As he watched them, his spirit was renewed.

The only thing that smudged the scene was the curious glimpse he’d had of that fellow Parceval. He remembered the churl from the journey here. He couldn’t very well forget the man, since Parceval had survived that terrible attack, just like him. Strange, but he’d found himself disliking the Fleming on sight, and from the way that Parceval ducked behind a tree when he spotted Gregory, he felt the same.

Still, he wouldn’t allow one idiot to ruin his day. He was having far too much fun. Especially once he left the square and entered the Cathedral again.

This place was magnificent. Gold gleamed everywhere, and the rich crimsons set it off perfectly. In a place like this, it was easy to imagine oneself that little bit nearer to God.

In fact, he felt better than he could have hoped. That terrible desolation had gone, replaced by a renewal of love, faith and hope. Gregory had thought his life was more or less ended, that there was nothing left for him. It seemed that God Himself had turned His face from him just when Gregory needed Him most.

But that was rubbish — he could see that now. When the others went streaming down the hill towards the city, only to be cut down by the outlaws, he realised that his survival was proof of God’s forgiveness. Why else should He have saved him? Obviously it was a sign that God still loved him.

That awareness was wonderful. Where he had felt horror at being divorced from God’s love, now he was once more closely united. All was well.

Slowly drifting with the crowd, he walked like a man in a dream. Incense didn’t so much waft as billow from the enormous censers swung by powerful-looking young novices, and he inhaled a lungful of the aromatic smoke by mistake, suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit. Pilgrims eyed him dubiously, either considering him to be an unhealthy specimen, or wondering whether this was a fit brought on by a demon. There were a few who watched with interest, hoping to be able to attempt to exorcise him, or witness another doing so, but unfortunately (for the witnesses) he soon recovered. He rested his back against the cool stone of a column and contemplated the great windows ahead.