Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

‘I’d say he was sad – you know, like a man who has learned that his dog’s just died.’

‘Which means we are a little farther forward,’ Baldwin said to Simon as they walked back later.

‘Perhaps. We may know where the Prioress’s mare has gone, and we know where Don Ruy and Frey Ramon’s horses were kept.’

‘And there is Joana’s mount, too,’ Baldwin said suddenly. They were near the first stable, and he saw the wrinkled little man inside. ‘Hola! One last question, señor. That mare – was there ever another mare with it?’

‘There was another, yes. A pretty little thing,’ the man said, walking out to them. He had some twine about his belly, and he stuck a thumb in it as he stared at them both consideringly. ‘A maid came in here for it, and took it out yesterday after lunch. Haven’t seen it or her since. Pretty maid, she was. Slim, tall, black hair. Lovely.’

‘And so,’ Baldwin smiled, ‘this is presumably where Joana’s own mount was left.’

Simon nodded moodily.

‘What is it, Simon?’

‘It seems quite a coincidence that the shifty fellow who took the Doña’s mare chose to store it here with the Doña’s maid’s horse, doesn’t it?’

It was later that evening that Baldwin heard of the death of his friend. At first, he disbelieved the story. It seemed so unreasonable that he could have found an old comrade only to lose him again almost immediately.

He and Simon were sitting in a tavern in a small court some short way from the square, and they had eaten their fill of good stew, soft-crusted bread, olives and a light, fresh wine. Afterwards they sat back, Simon belching softly. ‘Not bad wine, this. Better than the French stuff I sometimes buy in Lydford. This is on a par with the quality wines they sell in Exeter.’

Baldwin sipped and nodded. ‘I think they have more flavour here. Either that, or the drink which we normally buy has been adulterated.’

Simon grunted and stretched. ‘It’s strange. This Galician air seems to make you more tired. I could ride twenty or thirty miles at home and still feel ready for a few quarts of ale, but here I sit about all day and have a little wine, and suddenly I’m exhausted.’

‘The heat can do that to you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I did warn you.’

‘It doesn’t seem to hurt others.’

‘The people who live here grow accustomed to the temperature.’

‘No, I meant the other pilgrims.’

‘They walked or rode here, spending time to get used to the gradual increase in temperature. You and I arrived on a ship after a short journey. We are more likely to be affected.’

‘If you say so.’ Simon cast a knowing look at him. ‘You aren’t interested in this at all, are you? You are still thinking about that dead girl.’

‘I cannot help it.’

‘Nor can I,’ Simon said. ‘You know, those injuries worry me. Joana was recognised instantly by her mistress, Doña Stefanía, and yet I wouldn’t be able to swear who on earth it was. It’s almost as though Doña Stefanía had ordered her death. She recognised the girl because she knew who had been killed.’

‘She was the right height and wearing familiar clothes,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Clothes alone! Is that enough to make a reasonable identification? No!’

Baldwin leaned his forearms on the table before him and met Simon’s gaze. ‘I too feel oddly uneasy. It is as though I am forced to remain a spectator, when my soul is crying out that I should be there helping. You and I must have more experience in seeking out killers than any man in this city, yet we have no authority to do anything, while a murderer is loose somewhere near us.’

‘It doesn’t mean we can necessarily help. I doubt that I’d be much assistance to anyone; I can’t even understand the language!’

Baldwin watched him drain his cup. ‘Yet you can still see when a man is lying, can’t you? You are adept at hearing when someone is dissembling.’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’

‘It is often said that a blind man will hear more acutely. Some philosophers believe that when a man loses one faculty, his mind works more concentratedly with the others. Thus, a blind man may hear better with his ears and feel more with his fingers. It follows that you may be better attuned to hearing a man’s deceit when you have no understanding of his words.’

Simon gave him a pitying look. ‘You think so?’

‘What of that man Ruy?’

‘Sir Ruy? There’s a prime example. I have no idea whether he lied or not.’

‘Nor have I.’

‘There you are,’ Simon said, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘It’s a handicap, not being able to speak the language. If even you couldn’t see where he lied, he fooled you too. Perhaps you need to be fluent in a language to spot a man’s dishonesty.’

‘I am not so sure. My linguistic skills have to be scraped up from the recesses of my memory, which means I cannot listen with the ear of an inquisitor to the tones and inflexions of a man’s voice. Now: I believe Don Ruy could have lied to us.’

‘He could have, I suppose, but why? Do you mean he killed the girl? He has a record for rape, of course. But we both know that what he was accused of was really eloping, if he was telling the truth. His documents support him.’

‘ If he told us the truth,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Then we should consider whether he was not lying to us.’

‘That means the Prioress was lying, and I won’t have that.’

‘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 Ramón 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 Ramón was there with her.’

‘Really?’ said Baldwin. ‘I cannot myself get away from the hunchbacked felon. He took Doña 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 Doña, 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.’