Michael Jecks - The Templar

Or was he just glad that the waiting was over?

The groom could help them no further, but the two men left the stable and set off with the certainty that they were following the right trail.

There were another three stables along this road.

‘Christ’s Blood!’ Simon said, wiping the sweat from his forehead again. ‘They have more horses per head here than any city I’ve known.’

Baldwin nodded absently. ‘Yes, it’s the same with all the big pilgrim centres. They have so many people arriving, and they have to cater for them all. It’s worse here, because Saint James brings in so many travellers for each week, but I think that at this time of year, getting close to his feast day on 25 July, the place must have at least double its normal population. Local businesses have to provide accommodation and food for all the men and women, and also for all the beasts which they bring.’

Two boys were playing with a ball. As it rolled down the road, Simon aimed a kick at it in passing, but he missed by some inches. That was odd, but he put it down to the weather. Never again would he complain about the sun when he was parched and riding over Dartmoor. This was a heat he could never have imagined, had he not come here. He must be hungry, too; his belly felt empty. ‘My gut thinks my throat’s been cut!’ he grumbled.

The next stable was where they found Don Ruy’s horse.

‘Yes, masters, he came here last afternoon, hired a horse and went for a ride. Was out almost until dark.’

The groom was leaning on his rails as he spoke, a happy, smiling man in his late fifties, from the look of him. He had a face like a walnut and, to Simon’s eye, appeared as wiry as a Dartmoor shepherd. Although he was leaning talking to the two, he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, because he suddenly broke off and roared, making Simon jump, although the Bailiff wasn’t as startled as the boy who was supposed to be mucking out a couple of stalls. The lad stopped eavesdropping and bent to his task again, while the old groom, who had not so much as turned his head, winked at Baldwin.

‘You have to keep them on their toes.’

Baldwin grinned. ‘I have a young servant who needs the same attention. Tell me, this man yesterday — how did he seem when he came back? Did he seem disturbed in any way?’

‘I’d say he was sad — you know, like a man who has learned that his dog’s just died.’

‘Which means we are a little farther forward,’ Baldwin said to Simon as they walked back later.

‘Perhaps. We may know where the Prioress’s mare has gone, and we know where Don Ruy and Frey Ramon’s horses were kept.’

‘And there is Joana’s mount, too,’ Baldwin said suddenly. They were near the first stable, and he saw the wrinkled little man inside. ‘Hola! One last question, senor. That mare — was there ever another mare with it?’

‘There was another, yes. A pretty little thing,’ the man said, walking out to them. He had some twine about his belly, and he stuck a thumb in it as he stared at them both consideringly. ‘A maid came in here for it, and took it out yesterday after lunch. Haven’t seen it or her since. Pretty maid, she was. Slim, tall, black hair. Lovely.’

‘And so,’ Baldwin smiled, ‘this is presumably where Joana’s own mount was left.’

Simon nodded moodily.

‘What is it, Simon?’

‘It seems quite a coincidence that the shifty fellow who took the Dona’s mare chose to store it here with the Dona’s maid’s horse, doesn’t it?’

It was later that evening that Baldwin heard of the death of his friend. At first, he disbelieved the story. It seemed so unreasonable that he could have found an old comrade only to lose him again almost immediately.

He and Simon were sitting in a tavern in a small court some short way from the square, and they had eaten their fill of good stew, soft-crusted bread, olives and a light, fresh wine. Afterwards they sat back, Simon belching softly. ‘Not bad wine, this. Better than the French stuff I sometimes buy in Lydford. This is on a par with the quality wines they sell in Exeter.’

Baldwin sipped and nodded. ‘I think they have more flavour here. Either that, or the drink which we normally buy has been adulterated.’

Simon grunted and stretched. ‘It’s strange. This Galician air seems to make you more tired. I could ride twenty or thirty miles at home and still feel ready for a few quarts of ale, but here I sit about all day and have a little wine, and suddenly I’m exhausted.’

‘The heat can do that to you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I did warn you.’

‘It doesn’t seem to hurt others.’

‘The people who live here grow accustomed to the temperature.’

‘No, I meant the other pilgrims.’

‘They walked or rode here, spending time to get used to the gradual increase in temperature. You and I arrived on a ship after a short journey. We are more likely to be affected.’

‘If you say so.’ Simon cast a knowing look at him. ‘You aren’t interested in this at all, are you? You are still thinking about that dead girl.’

‘I cannot help it.’

‘Nor can I,’ Simon said. ‘You know, those injuries worry me. Joana was recognised instantly by her mistress, Dona Stefania, and yet I wouldn’t be able to swear who on earth it was. It’s almost as though Dona Stefania had ordered her death. She recognised the girl because she knew who had been killed.’

‘She was the right height and wearing familiar clothes,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Clothes alone! Is that enough to make a reasonable identification? No!’

Baldwin leaned his forearms on the table before him and met Simon’s gaze. ‘I too feel oddly uneasy. It is as though I am forced to remain a spectator, when my soul is crying out that I should be there helping. You and I must have more experience in seeking out killers than any man in this city, yet we have no authority to do anything, while a murderer is loose somewhere near us.’

‘It doesn’t mean we can necessarily help. I doubt that I’d be much assistance to anyone; I can’t even understand the language!’

Baldwin watched him drain his cup. ‘Yet you can still see when a man is lying, can’t you? You are adept at hearing when someone is dissembling.’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’

‘It is often said that a blind man will hear more acutely. Some philosophers believe that when a man loses one faculty, his mind works more concentratedly with the others. Thus, a blind man may hear better with his ears and feel more with his fingers. It follows that you may be better attuned to hearing a man’s deceit when you have no understanding of his words.’

Simon gave him a pitying look. ‘You think so?’

‘What of that man Ruy?’

‘Sir Ruy? There’s a prime example. I have no idea whether he lied or not.’

‘Nor have I.’

‘There you are,’ Simon said, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘It’s a handicap, not being able to speak the language. If even you couldn’t see where he lied, he fooled you too. Perhaps you need to be fluent in a language to spot a man’s dishonesty.’

‘I am not so sure. My linguistic skills have to be scraped up from the recesses of my memory, which means I cannot listen with the ear of an inquisitor to the tones and inflexions of a man’s voice. Now: I believe Don Ruy could have lied to us.’

‘He could have, I suppose, but why? Do you mean he killed the girl? He has a record for rape, of course. But we both know that what he was accused of was really eloping, if he was telling the truth. His documents support him.’

‘ If he told us the truth,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Then we should consider whether he was not lying to us.’

‘That means the Prioress was lying, and I won’t have that.’