Michael Jecks - The Templar

‘It does not necessarily follow, Simon. There is a third possibility: that neither did.’

Simon considered. ‘She said that he saw her, which he admitted; she said that he blackmailed her, which he denied. Either he did, or he did not. Simple.’

‘But she did not say that he went to her directly. That was the point of my questions to him. She said that her maid was told. Now, perhaps her maid did not actually meet Don Ruy face to face, but instead spoke to a third party who pretended he was speaking on behalf of Ruy but was in reality acting on his own cognizance. When the maid told her mistress, she would naturally speak of the Don, not some servant. Thus the Prioress was assured that it was him, Don Ruy, who was blackmailing her, when in reality it was nothing to do with him. Therefore, neither lied to us, and both were telling us the truth.’

‘So who could this mystery man have been?’

‘The peasant, Parceval — he knew Ruy had walked in. Look, he could even have dreamed up this blackmail story with Joana herself. She helped him invent it in order to rob her mistress — but then her partner killed her to take the full amount rather than share it with her.’

‘You believe that?’ Simon asked doubtfully.

‘Not really, but it is a possible explanation, along with others, like Ramon killing her and fleeing with the money, Ruy’s lustful rape and subsequent murder, or a felon’s robbery and murder of her.’

‘I cannot get away from the fact of Ramon’s fleeing the city, and Ruy saying Ramon was there with her.’

‘Really?’ said Baldwin. ‘I cannot myself get away from the hunchbacked felon. He took Dona Stefania’s horse back to the stable, which is why Joana had to go to the ford — and die. And Ruy saw a man who looked just like that, attack his companions and then leave the city in time to kill the girl.’

‘I should like to speak to the peasant Parceval to see where he was when Joana died,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps we should find Munio and tell him what we have discovered?’

‘We tried that this afternoon, remember?’ Baldwin said drily. He was a little put out by the Pesquisidor because he and Simon had sent a boy to find Munio to tell him what they had learned from the Don and Dona, but Munio had sent the lad back to say that he was too busy to see them right at that moment. ‘His reply bordered on the insulting.’

‘Maybe he was merely very busy,’ Simon said soothingly. ‘I expect he has many calls on his time in a city as lively as this.’ He languidly beckoned to the daughter of the innkeeper and asked her if she knew where Munio lived.

Fortunately, she knew a little English from the pilgrims who flocked to the city, and could answer. ‘Yes, he lives only a short way.’

‘Would you send a boy to ask him to come and join us?’ Simon said.

When she had gone, calling for her brother, Baldwin gave a twisted grin. ‘I hope you are right. Perhaps he will come here now. Or maybe he will decide again that he has better things to do than come to meet with us, a busy man like him!’

His doubts were soon to be dispelled. After a few minutes, there was a cough behind him, and a voice said, ‘So. You wanted to speak to me, gentles?’

‘ Pesquisidor , I am glad to see you,’ Simon said effusively, standing and indicating a seat near him.

Baldwin saw why when he himself stood. Behind Munio stood a beautiful woman. She was taller than Munio, with dark skin and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Her face was long and fine, with high cheekbones and a straight nose leading down to a thinnish mouth, but any solemnity that it gave her face was given the lie by her large, luminous eyes, which were filled with kindness.

‘This is my wife, Margarita,’ Munio said. ‘We were walking when your messenger found us.’

‘Please be seated,’ Baldwin said, bringing a seat up for Margarita and then motioning to the serving-girl.

‘You said you had something to talk about,’ Munio enquired.

Baldwin thought he looked very tired, as though the events of the last day had worn him down, and he felt a fleeting guilt that he had considered the man to be too lazy to bother to visit him when he asked. Munio’s face had a drawn appearance, like one who had slept little and thought too much.

It was Simon who spoke. ‘It is this murder. We wondered whether we should trouble you, but it seemed only fair to tell you.’

Munio jerked upright. ‘You know about the beggar?’

Baldwin smiled. ‘No, what beggar?’

‘Only an old man. He was killed today not far from the square. Poor old devil. He was a loner in life and died the same way.’

‘A shame,’ Baldwin said.

‘He was so noble-looking, too.’

A chill hand seemed to settle over Baldwin’s heart. ‘You can’t mean Matthew?’

‘You knew him?’

‘An older man with a grey beard? Narrow features, pale-grey eyes, had been fair-haired once, and had a deeply lined face with dark, sunburned skin?’

‘There was only the one man begging called Matthew that I know of.’

Baldwin felt strange and a little dizzy. It had been many years since he had last encountered a brother Templar, and to have met Matthew only yesterday and learn today that he was dead, was a terrible shock, outrageous: it could have been torn from a Greek tragedy. It was as though the very last bond with his past had been sliced through and he must now sail on an uncharted sea without any aid to navigate. In a way, he felt he could glimpse the mournful loss that Matthew himself must have experienced over these last few years. Baldwin felt so bereft that even the memories of his wife and daughter failed to touch him.

Simon could see Baldwin’s distress, and quickly broke in to change the subject. ‘One thing I never asked you, senor, is how long you lived in Oxford? You speak English so very well.’

Munio set his head to one side deprecatingly. ‘I spent seven years in Oxford, when my father sought to have me educated as a philosopher, but then he lost his money and I had to make my own way in the world. I persuaded a merchant in the city to let me learn how he plied his trade, and some while later I managed to set myself up as a merchant in my own right. I came back here with my wife because it was the city I grew up in. I have always loved it.’

‘Your wife is not from here?’ Simon asked.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I come from Oxford.’

Simon was astonished. To find a man who spoke English was pleasing in a foreign land, even if they had first met while the man held some suspicions of him, but then to learn that this beautiful woman was also English was a delight. ‘I can understand how you speak my language so well, having so charming a tutor,’ he said to Munio.

Munio gave a grin. ‘When a man has a wife nagging at him, he learns her language soon enough.’

‘I don’t nag,’ she scolded, but with a trickle of laughter in her tone, and she glanced gratefully at Simon.

Baldwin had recovered sufficiently to pour the wine that had arrived at last. ‘This Matthew — how did he die?’

‘It was murder,’ Munio said, and his eyes lost the humour which had flared in them for a moment. ‘A youth heard a scream and turned to see him fall. A beggarwoman was a little way behind him and must have witnessed the incident, but I haven’t met her yet. The youth saw a man run at Matthew, pause, and then run off. When he reached the beggar, he was dead, a wound in his breast. It must have punctured his heart.’

‘It takes only an inch or so of steel to stop the heart,’ Baldwin said inconsequentially. ‘Did he see the man who stabbed Matthew?’

‘No. The man was facing away the whole time. The lad said it could have been anyone. There are so many pilgrims, and they are changing every day, so it would have been a miracle if he had recognised the man.’