Michael Jecks - The Templar

‘Five days. I think it was the foul air from when you fell into that pit with Domingo,’ she said. ‘But you are over the worst of it.’

‘I owe my life to you again, my lady,’ he said with a smile. ‘I should like to thank you.’

Her face was not glad, but rather remained anxious. ‘Your health is all the thanks I need, Bailiff. Now, drink this cider and try to rest.’

‘Rest? I’ve done nothing but rest for five days, if you are right.’ Simon grimaced, but he took the drink and sipped it slowly.

His recovery was slower than before. He had suffered a serious fever, and he felt as weak as a newborn puppy. Daylight itself was painful, and he found himself squinting even early in the morning, and to it was impossible for him to do more than rest in his bed when the sun was at its height.

The languor to which he had succumbed was not merely physical. His mind was scarcely able to concentrate for more than a minute at a time. He was too tired to worry himself about Joana’s murder, or any other matter, come to that, apart from the fact that he missed his wife, his own little family. The fact that Baldwin was not with him was an extra blow. Simon was not a man prone to feelings of self-pity, but on that first day after he woke from his fever, his soul was weighed down under a leaden gloom that prevented his taking pleasure in anything. The mere thought of food was enough to make his belly clench like a fist; he could drink little other than cider and a tiny quantity of white wine, and all he felt able to do was sit and doze. It was a relief to be nudged awake when the night approached, to be carried indoors to his room and sleep.

On the second day of his recovery, he felt that life was improving enough to justify taking a little meat, and although the stuff took an age to chew and try to swallow, it did eventually go down. At first he felt as though it was going to come straight back up, and ten minutes later he had the conviction, judging by the noises emanating from beneath his belt, that he might soon need to hasten to a chamber pot; however, his worst fears came to nought, and he did find later that afternoon that he was feeling much better.

When he went to bed, he did not sleep so well as he had. The bed felt too warm, the blankets too itchy, the air too muggy and uncomfortable. He rolled over, trying to settle, and eventually slept, but even as he did, he was aware of that same parade of people passing by which he had seen so many days before. There was Dona Stefania, Ramon, Don Ruy, Domingo, Maria, and then Gregory and Parceval — both together, and smiling at him as though they knew something he didn’t. Even as Simon tried to draw his attention away, he saw that Parceval was holding up a hand, and in it was clasped a large stone.

The next morning, Simon woke feeling tired still, but at least fully refreshed. He was able to roll out of bed, grunting at the pain in his aching muscles, and lumber to his feet. Drawing on his hose, then a thin shirt and jack, he forced himself to tie his belt about his middle. The weight of his sword was comforting. Heavy, he told himself with a curl of his lip at his weakness, but comforting.

Munio was already gone, running to view a body in a tavern. Some men had been drinking all night, and although they had started as the best of friends, they had ended the night as mortal enemies. Now one was dead, and the other unconscious after being hit hard by the cudgel in the hands of the innkeeper, the bloody knife still gripped in his hand.

Margarita looked glad that he was well, although she insisted that he should rest about the house all day and rejected absolutely his suggestion that he might go into the city and sit at a tavern for a while.

‘If you want to make sure I am all right, you could join me, lady. We could send for your husband.’

‘It would not be right for us to walk about the city,’ she said quickly. ‘No, you must remain here. I shall make sure that you are comfortable and one of my men will remain with you.’

‘Perhaps I could merely walk along a road, or-’

‘Master Bailiff, you will stay here,’ she said firmly, and so, he found, he did.

The pain in his joints was already going by lunchtime, when he ate a bowl of pale, watery soup with light ham-filled dumplings, followed by a mixture of fruits — not usually a meal he would care for, but today he was enormously grateful for it, and ate an orange and some grapes with enjoyment. Afterwards he lay back on his bed and dozed for an hour, before waking feeling much more hearty.

Pushing open the shutters, he saw that there were clouds over the sky and the afternoon had cooled a little. ‘Perfect,’ he said as he walked from his room. Outside there was an old man nodding on a stool. Simon passed by him quietly, but some alarm stirred him, and he woke startled, gabbling quickly in his incomprehensible tongue.

Simon smiled broadly, then nodded, ducking his head, widening his eyes and nodding again, before walking away, ignoring the man’s entreaties. ‘As if I can’t look after myself,’ he said.

The weather was delightfully cool compared with the previous days, and he walked easily down to the square.

It was quieter now, perhaps because there was a service going on in the Cathedral, and Simon found himself walking along almost empty streets. The market had finished and the stalls were deserted. It gave the place a curious feeling of death, a feeling which Simon did not enjoy after the grim misery of the last few days. He needed life and happiness, things to remind him that he was alive, that he had not expired. This deathly hush was alarming.

There was a bell from somewhere in the Cathedral, and suddenly people appeared in the doors, hurrying about again. It was just like Exeter Cathedral when the priests finished their ceremonies and the choir trooped out, and all the congregation of merchants, prostitutes, hawkers and haggling townspeople who had gone in out of the wind and rain sloped off back into the open.

Simon sat down on a bench and ordered a small cup of wine. It tasted rough, but as he sipped, the flavour improved and he wondered whether his reaction to it could have been caused by his fever. Nothing tasted quite right since he had recovered.

The air was warming, and when he glanced up, he saw that the clouds were clearing. He moved along the bench until he was shaded by a building at his side, and when he was there, he saw Dona Stefania leave.

She was swept along by the mass of people. Simon saw her glance in his direction, but he was fairly sure that she averted her head, as though he was a reminder of a sad experience. He wasn’t sure why she should blame him for the death of her maid or the loss of her money, nor was he interested enough to want to find out. It seemed unimportant, compared with the illness he had suffered, or compared with the pleasure of sitting in the warmth and feeling the sun heat his bones.

As she carried on around the corner of the Cathedral, Simon saw another familiar figure — Parceval. Simon wondered about him. Parceval was a curious fellow. His clothing was shabby, yet he had somehow managed to seduce the Prioress, so either she was a shameless wench, or Parceval had the gift of persuasion. Simon had not spoken to the man, thus had little idea whether he could have been involved in the murder of Joana. The only time Simon had seen him was when he himself had collapsed, and he had not been on his best interrogative form that day.

There was one way which always, in Simon’s experience, persuaded a merchant to come and chat. He gave a wolfish grin to Parceval and held up his cup. The Fleming smiled with a gesture of acceptance, and walked over to Simon.

‘Take some wine with me,’ Simon said, gesturing politely at the waitress.