Michael Jecks - The Templar

He was there when he heard a sudden intake of breath, and looked down to see Dona Stefania. Dear God, he thought. Why was there always a serpent in Eden?

‘You again!’ he spat.

‘Where else, my once-husband?’ she said coldly.

It was lunchtime when Matthew glanced up at the sky and decided he needed a drink. That was the trouble with a place like this. The square was good for alms, for there were so many pilgrims passing through each day, but begging was hot, dusty work, and when the sun beamed down like this, it was unbearable. He felt as though he was melting in his black clothing.

Ever and again his mind took him back to the tavern last night, to the light playing gently over Sir Baldwin’s features as they chatted. It was the first time that Matthew had felt someone’s sympathy since the destruction of their Order. Usually all he felt was waves of revulsion when people saw him in the street.

He knew it was normal for ordinary people to loathe beggars — he would have done so himself. They were commonly the bone idle, incompetent and congenitally stupid — but surely people should see that he was different? He had the stamp of a warrior monk on him, he had been responsible for many lives, he had commanded men, and he had served his Pope with honour and distinction. His sole offence was to have been marked out for misfortune. He had not acted against the Lord God, he had not offended any of His commandments. All he had done, he had done in God’s name for God’s glory.

That was his firm belief. When he was younger, when he had served the Pope, things had seemed so simple and straightforward. There was good and evil, and the two were clearly delineated.

Matthew tramped over the square towards the alley that led north. A short way up here, he knew, was a small inn where folk like him were treated kindly. The owner was a decent woman who sought to support those who needed her aid. She had a soft spot for Matthew, he reckoned, for she always had a pot of wine and water for him, and sometimes there was a sausage to go with it or a slab of bacon.

Yet his mind was not on the blessed joy of a filled stomach. Rather, it was still fixed on Baldwin’s generosity of spirit. It seemed that the knight still adhered to the oaths he had taken so many years ago, and still felt comradeship for Matthew; it was as though he didn’t see the torn rags of a beggar, but smelled the purity of a clean soul beneath. At the memory of Baldwin’s expression, Matthew’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a thick, throat-blocking sense of guilt and foolishness at what he had done.

He couldn’t speak to Baldwin again, he decided. There was too much shame in doing so.

He walked along the narrow snickleway with the slow gait of a man made drowsy from the heat. Perhaps later he would leave the city, go back upriver again, and take a cool dip. Then he could lie on the bank and dream of the past, of his glories and honour during those great days when he lived in the Pope’s fortress at Avignon.

How vain are the dreams of man, he thought. None at Avignon would recall his face now, let alone his deeds. He was an historical embarrassment, that was all.

As he passed a tree, he thought he heard something behind him, but his mind was so fixed upon the idea of water and the delicious sensation of coolness, that he paid it little heed. Only when he heard a scream from a woman, and saw the man suddenly appear, did he realise that his end had come at last, and it was with a brief feeling of relief that he saw the blade of the dagger right before him.

He made no effort to defend himself. He had been a coward once: this time he could embrace his fate willingly. He actually smiled as he felt the point pierce his breast.

‘Christ’s cods, but it’s hot, isn’t it?’ Simon muttered as they passed along the alley leading to the gate.

Baldwin glanced at him. His friend was wiping at his brow with a sleeve, and his face appeared redder than usual. ‘Simon, we ought to get something to drink before we do anything else.’

‘Oh, in God’s name, I’m all right,’ Simon retorted. ‘You’re worse than Meg. My wife’s always telling me to take it easy when I have to go on a long journey or anything. Anyone would think I was a feeble cleric or something.’

Baldwin smiled, but he was not going to be refused. There was a well in a garden nearby, and Baldwin asked the man leaning against the wall there whether they might drink a little from it. He grunted his assent. Baldwin drank his fill, then insisted that Simon do the same. ‘You have never suffered from sunstroke — I have,’ he declared. ‘It is worse than you can imagine, and it can be dangerous. It is not worth taking the risk.’

‘Very well,’ Simon said. He was prepared to humour his friend, and to be fair, he was thirsty. Next to the well was a small sewer, and he availed himself of that too, turning his nose up at the smell of faeces in the hot, still air.

‘Right,’ he said when he was done. ‘Let’s summarise what we know so far. We have a dead maid. She was there at the river, we know or think, with her fiance, Frey Ramon. However, he denies this and says the last time he saw her was in the city.’

‘We only have Don Ruy’s word for Frey Ramon’s presence at the murder site.’

‘Yes — and he himself was sent here because of a rape.’

‘But with a parchment that declares he was innocent.’

Simon nodded. ‘ If it was real — and not a forgery!’

‘True,’ Sir Baldwin sighed. ‘We also have this mysterious matter of the blackmail. Remember, Ruy alleged that a known outlaw with a hunched head left the city that afternoon, too.’

‘So our chief suspects so far are Ruy himself, Ramon and this felon.’ Simon shrugged. ‘Where on earth could the Prioress’s money have gone?’

‘Find that and we find the murderer,’ said Baldwin.

‘Where are we going now?’ Simon asked as Baldwin set off again.

‘To look at some of the stables about here,’ Baldwin said. He was peering up the road, towards the unmistakable sound of neighing and snorting. ‘I want to make sure that the noble Don Ruy was telling the truth about hiring a horse. There can’t be that many stables here, and if he decided to hire a mount on the spur of the moment, surely he’d pick a place that lay on the way to the gate.’

‘Didn’t Munio say he had sent men to check the stables?’ Simon said, hurrying to keep up and panting a little.

‘No. Munio sent to learn where the maid’s horse was stabled, and whether she was followed. I want to see where Ruy found his mount. After all, he may have followed her after seeing her on her horse. There is nothing to say that he followed her to her stable. In any case, I think you and I can question stablemen more effectively. We have more facts about the murder at our disposal.’

‘You suspect him, don’t you?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘Did you see his face when he spoke of Joana? There was hurt there when he told how she’d tethered her horse with that other man’s. We heard that he was staring at Joana when they left the gate, according to the beggar; also, he admits he was chasing after her.’

‘Interesting. That all means he didn’t see Ramon on the way out, only her. So was Ramon already there and waiting at a prearranged rendezvous?’ Simon mused.

‘Perhaps. I do wonder about him. Could Ramon have killed her for the money?’ Baldwin thought aloud.

‘He looked to be utterly bereft at the scene yesterday.’

‘True.’ Baldwin stopped. ‘Let’s ask in here. Perhaps things are about to be clarified for us.’

The building had a large yard, railed to stop horses escaping, and a simple barn behind, set out with rings in the walls to enclose the horses. Inside, rounseys and cheaper pack beasts stood and chomped on their straw. The groom arrived in moments, happily took Baldwin’s proffered tip, but could not help them. He had not served any man yesterday, let alone a knight.