Michael Jecks - The Templar

‘There’s a man hurrying here.’

Simon saw him, a large ox-like man with a square head and thick neck. He was running straight towards them. ‘I don’t recognise him.’

Nor did Baldwin, but soon the man was talking to the tavern-keeper, and the two men came to Simon and Baldwin and indicated that they were wanted.

‘By whom?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Munio.’

Gregory came to gradually, like an old dog stirring from a deep sleep.

The first thing he became aware of was that his cheek was sore. There was a solid lump under it, and he tried to move his head to a more comfortable position. That was when he realised that not only was the lump hard, his head was very painful too.

‘Christ alive!’ he muttered.

‘You should be careful of your language in a god fearing town like this one.’

Gregory opened one eye and stared at Munio. ‘Ah, senor, I …’ he began, but Munio waved a hand.

‘I can speak English as well as Castilian or Basque. Perhaps it would be safer to stick to that.’

‘Safer?’ Gregory became aware that a small crowd was milling about them, and from the muttering, people were not happy to have found him there. ‘What happened?’ he asked thickly.

‘I was hoping you could tell me that,’ Munio said.

‘But I was … walking. Oh yes, I was on my way to-’ He suddenly lifted his head. The pain was like a swift thrust from a dagger, straight in at the back of his skull. ‘Christ Jesus!’ he moaned, and began retching.

Baldwin and Simon arrived as he ejected a stream of yellowish bile onto the slabs, and Baldwin muttered to Munio, who sent their messenger to a nearby wine-seller. He was soon back with a skin of wine, and Munio passed it to Gregory without comment.

The injured man’s mouth tasted foul, as though he had woken from a night’s carousing, and the strong wine was a relief. He swilled some and spat it out, then drank a goodly mouthful and swallowed with gratitude. ‘That’s better.’

‘What happened?’ Munio asked.

Simon stared at the cleric without comprehending why they had been called here. ‘Is this someone else who’s been attacked?’

‘Yes,’ Munio answered. ‘Fortunately this one wasn’t killed, although he could have been, had he been hit a little harder.’

‘Is there anything to connect this attack with either of the others?’ Baldwin asked.

Munio nodded to Gregory.

‘I was going to see my lady,’ the man explained, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I was married to her once, but she left me and took the vows.’

Baldwin said, ‘You are Gregory?’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Because we were looking for you,’ Baldwin said, smiling at Munio. ‘You must have heard that there have been some murders here. A man was killed yesterday, only an old beggar, but-’

‘And a woman the day before,’ Munio interrupted. ‘Now we find you here, beaten over the head, just like the first corpse — the woman. Yet you are alive.’ The Pesquisidor was clearly angry that Baldwin appeared to have forgotten all about poor Joana, and was concentrating all his efforts on the murder of Matthew.

To his credit, Baldwin heard the rough note of anger in Munio’s voice and looked abashed. He nodded hurriedly. ‘Yes. The woman was beaten to death, and although you have not suffered so much damage as she did, perhaps there is some connection between the attacks.’

‘Connection?’ Gregory echoed dully, but then his head jerked up. ‘Yes! I was going to talk to my wife. She tried to hurt me before, I think — and this must have been her again! Christ, but my head hurts! I saw her man, you see, and I thought that she was trying to punish me for … well, for a past misdemeanour.’ His voice trailed away.

‘What misdemeanour was this?’ Baldwin demanded curtly. He had other things to check up on.

‘Sir, you are English. I can speak freely in front of you. My wife and I had not enjoyed a happy marriage. She decided to join a convent, and when I was in my cups, she had me agree to dissolve our marriage so that she could take up the vows. In jest I said that I would do so too, and thought little more of it. Next morning, she refused to see me, saying that our union was no more, that she was a Bride of Christ, and I a Brother. I found this infuriating, and sought to make up with her as a husband and wife should, with the result that she accused me of rape and locked her door to me. That day she left my house.’

‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘She has not forgiven me. On the day I arrived here, she learned somehow which party I was with, and set her men to attack it with the aim of killing me. I just heard them discussing their attack! By a miracle there was a second party, this of honourable knights …’ A vision of Sir Charles’s face came to his mind, but he pushed the memory away. ‘Well, they rescued us. Drove off the others and saved us from death.’

‘You were with Don Ruy?’ Simon asked.

‘How did you know that?’ Gregory asked. His head was hurting abominably, and he wanted to thrust it into some cold water to try to cool it. When he felt the back of his skull, he found a lump the size of a cobblestone. Merely touching it made his breath hiss with pain. ‘He almost killed me! It’s just my luck she should get a servant with a strong arm!’

‘Who is the man whom you accuse of doing this?’ Munio demanded.

‘My wife’s servant. He’s called Domingo — he’s a hunchback and he hangs his head like this …’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look, then stared at Munio.

The Pesquisidor nodded. ‘Yes, it sounds like the fellow whom Don Ruy said went out through the gate after he saw Ramon and Joana: the felon who led the malfechores . Do you know where we can find this man?’

Domingo watched over his men in a surly mood. There were two fewer men now, he saw. Two had left during the day, leaving his group to find better work or pay.

He stood and walked out to the wall behind the tavern, pulled open his cods and pissed. There was a small pebble on the ground, and he turned, aiming and rolling it end over end a few times, chuckling without amusement. A moment later he was smothered beneath the torment of grief.

Sancho was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring his boy back. It was wrong that people should be happy, when this tragedy had happened. The whole world should have grieved with him.

He reset his clothing and started back to the tavern, a hand touching his purse. There were no coins left to buy drinks. All he had was the little box with its valuable contents, but he daren’t try to sell it in Compostela. He needed money, and that meant the Prioress. No one else he knew could help him. Perhaps if he went to see her and suggested an exchange — money for the Saint’s relic? The bitch couldn’t refuse that, could she? She’d hurry to the nearest moneylender to get her precious box back. Perhaps she could pawn her rosary or something. Domingo wasn’t very strong on the sort of belongings a Prioress would have; all he knew was that she was wealthier than his own wildest dreams. He should know that — he who had grown up in the shadow of the Priory at Vigo.

This journey had begun with such optimism, he and his men setting off with the Prioress and his cousin Joana, travelling all the way east to the Basque regions, visiting the church, Domingo and his men trying not to appear too overwhelmed by the people, the money, the buildings, the rich clothes, the shops selling everything … everything imaginable! Domingo and his men had gazed in utter awe at the stalls in the town. Only later, when they had gone to the church to give thanks for their safe arrival, had Domingo seen the little casket which Dona Stefania handed to the Bishop with a grimace.