Michael Jecks - The Templar

Matthew, Munio thought to himself. He had seen the man often enough, as had everyone who lived in the city. His stumbling gait was well known to all, as was his independence. He always stood apart, as though he was too proud to accept his lowly position. Munio was not the only man who had wondered about Matthew’s past. Odd. He was the one beggar who remained unbending and unsociable, yet he was the one whom all knew best. He was a loner, but that made him significant. It made him seem important.

There were other differences between Joana’s corpse and his. She had died as the result of a maddened attack, whereas Matthew had been disposed of in a simple, direct manner. A single stab wound, and that was that.

Munio considered that contrast as he sat back on his heels. Perhaps Joana had not merely cast off a past lover; maybe she had taken another woman’s man, and the spurned mistress had taken her revenge? In contrast, this beggar Matthew may have been cut down because he had known something, or seen something.

Whatever the reason for his death, Munio was not sanguine about finding his murderer. The sad fact was, that when there was no killer caught at the time, it was unlikely that anyone would be found later.

Was there a chance that the two deaths were in some way linked?

Munio stared down at the body. It was not very likely. The methods of death were so different, the means too, and any connection between an old man and a young, fresh woman was all but inconceivable.

‘So you heard her scream, saw him fall, and then the murderer went to him? Very well. Now we should seek the woman.’

A woman who was terrified for her own life, since she was a witness to a murder. Munio sighed to himself. Someone who was that scared would be hard to find.

Running away from the place, Afonso knew that his attack was mad, that he had been a fool, but he couldn’t help it. When that bastard son of a Moorish slave and a Venetian whore, that piece of hogshit, Matthew, had wandered away from the square looking so smug, Afonso had felt the strings of his gut and bowels start to tighten like he was about to be sick. He couldn’t help it. He’d chased off after him, running along the alley.

But he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and found himself in a dead end. He had to run back, then up the next connecting lane.

It was a grim place, stinking of piss and shit, and he’d slapped his sandals through pools of damp, trying not to think of the mess that fouled his feet, ankles and shins. The smell was enough to hint at what lay all about. He was relieved when, diving round the corner of one house, he found himself in a wider opening, and was able to look about him in the blindingly bright sunshine.

Left was a tavern with a single tree outside, a cobbled yard a little like one of his own, back in the village where he had been born — in Gradil, in Portugal. In the road next to his father’s olive farm, there had been a place much like this, a small building with a triangular court before it, and one solitary olive tree, he recalled. From there, on the side of the hill, you could look eastwards over the broad space of the land, with the olive trees and grapes ripening on the vines. It was always peaceful there, quiet and good. A man like his father could sit and gaze at the view with a jug of his best red wine beside him in the hot summer evening, while a few pieces of fish or meat cooked on his open fire.

For an instant Afonso felt his heart fold in upon itself. That was where he would still be now, if it weren’t for the Templars — and for Matthew in particular. It was as he turned that he saw, coming from the opposite direction, Matthew and some beggarwoman. Immediately he had drawn his dagger and rushed at the old sod.

Matthew was dead. That was the main thing, the only thing that mattered. Matthew, the murderer of his father, had died; although his passing was far too easy and gentle for Afonso’s taste. If the latter could have had his own way, he would have made the traitor suffer much more.

It was curious, that expression on his face, Afonso thought. Almost as though he was glad. Perhaps he had known that he was going to die like that someday. He had certainly guaranteed that he had enough enemies.

In the square, Afonso glanced about him before making off towards the lane that would take him back towards Sir Charles and Paul. Once there, he would pack and prepare to leave. There was no point in hanging around here for someone to find him. No, he would throw all his things into a bag, then make his way south, away from this city.

Sir Charles was sitting with his back to a tree, a large pilgrim’s hat with a cockleshell symbol pinning up the brim to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun, when Afonso arrived. The Portuguese stood a moment contemplating him, then cleared his throat loudly enough for Sir Charles to hear.

The knight merely smiled under his hat. He had heard Afonso’s feet approaching and had instantly come awake, just as he always did. He was too well attuned to the possibility that an enemy from long ago, or even from recent times might arrive to kill him. ‘You look tired, my friend.’

‘Si. I am a little,’ Afonso said. He looked along the lane, back the way he had come, but no one appeared to have followed him. ‘I think I have had enough of this place.’

‘Ah. You have seen your friend again. He will trouble you no more?’

‘He will trouble no man.’

Sir Charles looked approvingly at him. There was about Afonso no sign that he had just brought a man to swift or violent death, no blood on his tunic or sleeves, no mark on his hands. If he had been asked, Sir Charles would have said that this calm, collected man before him was guilty of nothing — but then he had seen Afonso kill before. With that dagger of his, he could draw, spin the blade up and catch it, and then hurl it so smoothly and quickly that it could penetrate a half-inch of solid hardwood. He had seen it. Just as he had seen Afonso’s knife kill the tavern-keeper who was going to brain him in that tavern in France. There had been no blood on Afonso then either. It was a very effective weapon, a knife thrown at speed.

‘So, are you ready to leave?’ he asked.

‘I have nothing more to do here,’ Afonso said. ‘I shall return to my home.’

‘Down to Portugal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Extraordinary!’ Sir Charles stood and dusted his backside. Glancing up at the sky, which now had thick, fleecy clouds moving slowly across it, he sniffed. He put a finger into his ear and delicately removed a little wax, inspecting it with curiosity. ‘There seems little of interest in this town to me. A pleasing altar, it’s true, but precious little else. There’s not even a decent brothel. I know … why don’t I join you?’

Afonso nodded calmly. Sir Charles was a dangerous man, but he had proved himself honourable enough. He and Afonso had been together for some months, and they had not exchanged a cross word. Both were slow to take offence with a companion. He had noticed before that there were fewer arguments and fights between men who were genuinely equals. ‘I would be grateful for your companionship,’ he said politely.

Sir Charles nodded, then shouted for Paul to prepare to pack and go. He smiled at Afonso and said, ‘Friend, you have the air of a man who has achieved something with his day. A weight has fallen from you.’

‘Yes,’ Afonso said. It was true. He had not been able to satisfy his lust for vengeance, but at least the man was dead. Now his father could rest in his grave at last.

Again the expression on the old man’s face came back to him. Gratitude for seeing that his debt was at last discharged? Relief that his grim existence as a beggar was about to be ended? Perhaps he had come to realise how foul his act had been, and welcomed the tardy arrival of justice.