Michael Jecks - The Templar

‘I wish I could make sense of Matthew’s death. Why should this Afonso kill him?’ Baldwin fretted.

‘You are greatly exercised by the death of a single beggar.’

‘Even a beggar deserves justice,’ Baldwin said sanctimoniously.

‘Perhaps,’ Munio said, but without humour. ‘But so does a young woman, whose life has been cut short.’

‘I know. Both are equal in importance.’

‘Are they?’ Munio asked. ‘Forgive me, but you appear to have discounted the girl’s life already.’

‘Not at all,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘I am as keen as ever to catch her murderer — but with Ramon gone, I do not see how to proceed, whereas a witness gave us the name of Matthew’s killer.’

‘I keep thinking: but where is the money?’ Munio said.

‘Well, we now know that Domingo and his men were penniless. So that makes it less likely that they killed Joana,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘And this box and its contents is hardly the sort of thing that could be easily sold. Unless they intended selling it here to the Cathedral?’

‘If they had, it would have involved lengthy negotiations. The Church does not approve of buying back things which are Her own.’

‘The lack of money does not justify assuming that Ramon was the murderer,’ said Baldwin.

‘I do not like to accuse a Knight of Santiago. But he left the city, and no one here appears to have suddenly grown wealthy,’ Munio pointed out. ‘Surely the money could have been removed from the city. Where better, than to be taken out of Galicia itself, carried by a man who has declared himself to be so overwhelmed with grief that he must leave the country? Ramon was there, he saw Joana, he lied to you and he fled. Who else can I suspect?’

‘We know Ramon was there,’ Munio continued sombrely. ‘Domingo went up there later, but if Domingo took the cash, he’d have spent it or run. Yet he did neither.’

He stood, the casket still in his hand. ‘This man Ramon has many questions to answer.’

Simon came to feeling groggy and lethargic, and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. For some reason it was very dark, and he thought at first that he must have woken during the night, but then he saw the light in thin streams that reached across the floor. There were shutters here which were covering the window.

For a moment, he wondered where he was. He had woken expecting to see the rough thatch of his own home at Lydford, and he reached out an arm for his wife, but his hand encountered emptiness at the same time as he realised that the ceiling was not his own. The beams weren’t pale logs split into planks, but appeared to be blackened poles, all unsplit. That was odd, but when he turned his head to stare at where Meg should have lain, he saw that he was not lying on his own bed. This bed was too small for sharing, and that was no doubt why the woman was sitting on a chair. But this was terrible. As he lay and mused over this mystery, his overriding concern was that Meg might learn he had been here, sleeping in this woman’s bed. Who was she? She certainly looked very attractive, with her dark skin and black hair, but he could remember nothing about arriving here. It was very peculiar.

He moved to sit up, and as soon as he lifted his head from the mattress, he felt the nausea and weakness washing over him. With a groan he sank back and, hearing him, the woman awoke and walked to him, putting a cool hand upon his forehead.

‘Am I in heaven, or are the angels visiting the earth?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘You look much better,’ she said. He could see marks of exhaustion under her eyes. ‘Your high temperature is gone.’

‘I have been in a fever?’

‘For two days. I think it was the sun. It has been very hot here for a little while, and your friend told me that you were not used to it. You need to drink more.’

Simon was sure that he remembered her, but his mind seemed unable to focus. Then: ‘You’re Munio’s wife!’ he blurted out at last.

‘Of course,’ she said mildly, taking a cool cloth to his brow and wiping it. ‘I am Margarita.’

She brought over a pot of wine that had been diluted by water and held his head up to it. He drank greedily, and could feel the chill drink washing down his throat and into his belly. It felt wonderful, but it served to remind him just how weakened he was. ‘Where is Baldwin?’

‘He is out, but he will be back before long,’ she said, and her smile was gentle, but exhausted.

‘You have been looking after me for long?’ She was very beautiful, he thought. In the absence of his wife, Meg, he was fortunate to be nursed by such a kindly woman.

‘All the time that your friend was not here, I was,’ she nodded. ‘You were very unwell.’

‘I was fortunate to have so capable a nurse,’ he said with an attempt at gallantry, but in reality he was thinking of his own wife, struck by a pang of homesickness. He missed her and he wanted to return to her, away from this strange country with the people who spoke their odd language.

She laughed. ‘I think you are well enough now,’ she said, and left him with an order to call if he wanted more to drink.

As she was leaving, she heard him murmur, ‘God bless her, and keep my lovely Meg safe for me. I love her.’

Inside, as Simon relaxed, the investigation came back to him slowly, and he recalled the conversation at the tavern. They had captured Domingo, he recalled. The man had run at him, and it was all Simon could do to defend himself, he was so weak. That much came back to him — but if he had been lying here in a fever for two days, surely Baldwin must have discovered the meaning behind the girl’s murder. Perhaps he had also learned why the old beggar had died.

Baldwin arrived back much later in the afternoon. Simon heard his voice calling loudly, and then there were running steps and the door was thrown open as he strode inside. ‘It is true, then? You are all right again?’

‘I’m fine,’ Simon grunted peevishly. Not only had Baldwin left the door wide open, with windows in the passage behind him, but although Simon wouldn’t admit it, he had been dozing, and Baldwin’s sudden eruption into his room had made him leap from sleep to wakefulness in a moment. It was not good for his humour.

‘Good. Then you will be all right for the journey.’

Simon felt his belly lurch. ‘Journey? What journey?’

‘We sail for Portugal in the morning,’ Baldwin said with a flash of white teeth. Then he gave a bellow of laughter that made Simon wince. ‘Christ’s Blood, but it’ll be good to see the place again!’

In the large bed at the inn there was little privacy. The owner of the establishment was enormously proud of his massive mattress and the great wooden structure that supported it, and usually Parceval would not have been fussy about sharing, but when what he wanted was to cradle and cuddle Dona Stefania, he needed a bed with rather fewer witnesses than the six pilgrims who shared it with him.

The room that he had rented in preference was ruinously expensive, but as Parceval reflected, he could afford it now. He had won by his speculations and now he was floating on a tide of success. As he knew, death could meet a man at any time, and it was sensible to enjoy the good things while you could, before a knife or runaway horse put an end to your earthly worries.

In here, the warmth from their two bodies was all but unbearable, the general temperature was already so high. They had the shutters drawn, and reflected light was thrown up on the ceiling from the pool of water that stood outside, dancing and swirling in yellow-gold ripples. It was soporific to watch as he lay back, Dona Stefania beside him.

She wasn’t asleep. Her gentle breathing was not as shallow as when she dozed — he had seen her when she was exhausted, truly exhausted. Yet the memory of sex with her was not enough to make him grin. There was nothing really for either of them to smile about, he knew. His own story was miserable enough, a story of horror and shame, one which only a saint could forgive, and yet he had been granted no relief. There was nothing for him but death.