Michael Jecks - The Templar

It would be a hard journey from Obidos, he knew, and he must make it as quickly as he could. Perhaps he should hire a guide. It would make the expense much greater, but it would probably shorten the journey time.

Yes, when he reached the city, he would try to get a guide, he decided. But for now, all he was aware of was his sudden hunger as he caught a whiff of fresh sardines roasting on a charcoal brazier nearby. They smelled and, so he soon learned, tasted delicious.

The next morning, Baldwin was woken by an insistent pulling at his shoulder. A weather-beaten face peered down at him, dark eyes shielded by heavy lids, and he was glad at first that a man had come for him. Then the old woman cackled to see his dull, unaware expression, and he jerked upright, pulling the sheet back over his nakedness.

Last night the weather had been delicious, with balmy breezes wafting over his body out here on the bench by the door. The warmth and the gentle sound of waves slapping at the sand had made his sleep all the better, and he had not been disturbed by dreams but had merely sunk down into the deep slumber of the exhausted.

He dressed quickly, feeling more comfort, for once, in donning his hose and tunic than in slipping his sword belt on and tying it about his waist. The comforting mass of metal was one thing, but as he heard that loud crowing laughter and glanced about to see a group of women all pointing at him, the one who had woken him standing in their midst, he felt the blood rush to his face.

The boat was waiting for him when he arrived in the estuary, a small, single-sailed craft with a crew of three. They appeared to be fishermen who had bought a cargo of fish from a sea-fisherman, and were transporting it up the estuary to Obidos.

Baldwin was now feeling the itchiness of the traveller who wished to be on his way, and he climbed aboard the small vessel with a sense of relief. The master of the ship, a grizzled old man with a thick beard and skin the colour of a walnut, dressed in a long tunic like a dress, with the skirts tied up to a waist belt to leave his legs free to climb the ropes, appeared to be in less of a hurry, though, and the sun had climbed steadily before the craft finally slipped its moorings and set off at a leisurely pace up the great estuary.

The nearer he came to Tomar, the more convinced Baldwin became that he was on a fool’s errand. If Ramon had truly murdered Joana and taken the money, this was the last place he would come. He would want to enjoy his money.

That was the thought that gradually eroded his motivation. Afonso, yes — he could be sure of that man’s guilt on Maria’s testimony, but Ramon? All Baldwin knew was, he had seen his fiancee’s body and appeared genuinely distraught. Yet he had lied. Why was that? Simply to win himself a little peace?

Joana herself was probably deceitful. Baldwin had come to the conclusion that she had invented the blackmail to enrich herself, and then an accomplice had taken the money. Could it have been Don Ruy who stole the money and then killed the maid so brutally? Maybe Baldwin should have remained in Compostela and sought him out again …

The boat moved along at little more than a slow horse’s walk, the wind gentle, and Baldwin began to wonder if he would arrive faster if he were to walk, but although they did not appear to race, he was surprised, when he peered back over his shoulder, to see that they had already covered some miles. It was only two hours or so later that the master touched Baldwin’s shoulder and pointed ahead. They were rounding a broad hill, the river a calm, smooth blue that reflected all the clouds. Closer, it was a pellucid expanse, through which Baldwin could see weeds waving gently and fishes darting to and fro. Following the master’s finger, Baldwin found himself studying a hill that rose before them from the water like an island.

‘Obidos.’

Simon woke to find that he was feeling much stronger. After breaking his fast, he walked out into the garden, sitting in the shade near the gate, where he could watch the people walking past.

‘So I find you well?’

‘I am very well, Munio, I thank you.’

Munio cast an eye over him, and nodded, pleased with what he saw. ‘You have recovered greatly.’

‘It is all because of your wife’s kindness. Without her nursing, I am sure that I would have been much slower to recover,’ Simon said.

‘I am sorry that I have left you to your own devices so much,’ Munio said, ‘but sadly there are many matters for a pesquisidor to look into.’

‘At least there have been no more murders,’ Simon said.

‘True enough,’ Munio said, and sighed. ‘But whatever happens with Baldwin when he questions Ramon, I should still like to know where on earth the relic came from.’

Simon nodded. He had seen the casket a few times when Munio had turned it over in his hands. ‘You still do not wish to give it to the Bishop?’

Munio smiled. He had already told Simon of his feelings for the Bishop and his men. ‘What would you do? If the Bishop had lost something like this, he would have told me immediately and demanded that I take the city apart stone by stone until I found it. Yet if I go to him with it, he will be bound to state that it is his and demand that I give it to him.’

‘In truth, it is the Church’s,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t think of a better place to install it than in the Cathedral. It should be safe there.’

‘Yes. Except what if it was stolen from another church which needs the intervention of a saint more? No man can say that our Cathedral is deprived of the good offices of saints of all ages and crafts. This could be the sole relic owned by a small provincial church,’ Munio said with slow uncertainty. ‘I do not know what to do for the best.’

Simon was still musing over his words long after Munio had left to go and see Guillem. It was noon when Simon stirred himself and, bored, decided to find some food. He could have remained in Munio’s house, for Margarita had made it clear that he was very welcome, but even with her happy and cheerful presence, it was growing a little claustrophobic and he felt the need to leave the place and find some peace in the city itself, in among the throngs of pilgrims and traders. Just being out and with other people would be soothing to his soul.

He was walking towards the small tavern where he had met Gregory, when he saw the fellow again. Gregory was sitting at a bench, chatting amicably with Don Ruy.

They made an odd-looking couple, the knight with his aquiline features and faintly supercilious manner, as though he was convinced that he was better than anybody else and had been punished only because the judge had been bribed or misled; and the priest with his hard done by appearance, but they appeared happy enough chatting together.

Simon was about to walk past them, seeking a quiet niche, when Gregory saw him and pointed him out.

Don Ruy eyed him unenthusiastically, but stood with a polite bow and invited Simon to join them. They were not eating, but if the Bailiff wished, they could ask for bread.

‘I was relieved to hear that you were unharmed after your fight with the felons,’ Don Ruy said, Gregory translating for him. ‘I heard that you had fought with the leader.’

‘Yes — the man you saw leaving the city as you returned,’ Simon said.

‘So at least that child Joana’s death is avenged,’ Don Ruy said.

Gregory stared as he explained to Simon, and then added, ‘Why does he say that?’

‘Her killer is dead,’ Don Ruy said, as though explaining to a fool.

‘Why should Domingo kill her?’

‘We are not sure that he did,’ Simon explained. ‘We know that Dona Stefania slept with the Fleming, and we have heard that others got to know. Don Ruy here heard of it from Joana herself, which is why he believes Domingo killed her.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘ I don’t.’