Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

The knight appeared reluctant to approach closer. For once, Simon felt that he was the calmer of the pair of them in the face of death. Rather than waiting, Simon stepped forward and stood over the corpse, staring down at the body. ‘Is the girl out here as well?’

‘She is buried. There was nothing to keep her from her grave.’

‘This man was wounded where?’

As he spoke, Simon was aware of Baldwin walking forward and standing at his side. The knight’s eyes looked moist, as though there were unshed tears held at bay, but then Simon saw him blink a few times, and when he glanced at his friend’s face again, he saw a kind of resolution there. Baldwin reached down to pull the clothing from Matthew’s body, and as he did so, he grew once again into the magnificent logician whom Simon so admired.

‘Only the one wound,’ Baldwin noted.

‘A stab in the breast,’ Munio agreed. With his expressive features cast in such a mournful mould, Simon thought he looked as miserable as a hound which has just seen its supper stolen by a cat.

Baldwin waved away a small collection of flies. In hours, he knew, that tiny wound would be heaving with maggots. The wound itself was only a mere half-inch long. It was a narrow blade which had done this. There was no tearing apparent, which tended to mean that the blade had been sharp all along its length, right to the hilt, or that it had not been thrust in with full force, but there were no hard and fast rules with wounds, as he knew. It was largely a case of supposition.

He pushed his little finger into it, and found resistance as his second joint slipped beneath the skin. Thus the wound was only some two inches deep. Either the murderer had used a very short blade, or he had failed to stab with any great effort. This was the sort of wound which could have been inflicted by accident – not that that was likely. There were simply no reasons for someone to want to rob a mere beggar, so this was a deliberate act: perhaps Matthew had insulted a man or his wife, or this was the execution of a renegade Templar. And Baldwin knew which of the two he believed.

There were so many people who might have wanted to kill a Templar, had they learned of Matthew’s past. A beggar who insulted a woman in the road might earn himself a knock or worse from her husband, but that would be an instantaneous reward for a real or imagined slight. This, if the witness was right, was a sudden attack without any hint of conversation or words beforehand.

‘No sign of robbery or theft from the body?’ he asked.

Munio looked at him. ‘If a man was desperate enough to steal, would he seek out such a victim?’

‘The witness, this other beggar who saw it all happen – have you tracked her down?’ Simon asked.

‘No. I am afraid she has disappeared too. I wonder …’

‘You think she too has been killed?’ Baldwin shot out.

‘No, but perhaps she was so fearful of the killer, she ran from the city. She was not well known here. I have seen her a little recently, but she wasn’t a local woman. Perhaps she saw a murder and feared he might track her down as a witness and kill her too?’

‘It is possible,’ Baldwin mused, staring down at the terrible figure of his dead friend.

It was Simon who asked, ‘What was her name?’

‘María from Venialbo.’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon commented, ‘It’s odd that she was able to help us with first Joana’s death and now Matthew’s death too.’

Baldwin said, ‘Have you asked the gatekeepers whether they have seen her leave the city?’

‘Yes, but none of them say they have.’

‘So we have lost the only witness?’

‘She may return, but yes, I think we have lost her.’

Simon touched Baldwin’s arm. ‘Come. We ought to leave Munio to his work.’

‘Yes, of course. We are grateful for your time and your help, señor.’

‘It is fine. Of course, you would tell me if you learned anything that could be useful?’

‘Yes. As soon as I can, I will tell you what I may,’ Baldwin said, but he knew that he couldn’t tell Munio anything. It would be too dangerous. Especially if there was a man in the city who was prepared to kill any Templars he met.

Gregory was disgruntled. That stupid cow of an ex-wife of his had the brain of an ox. Dull-witted and only ever thinking of herself. She had ruined his day. Just his luck that he should meet her here when he was feeling so good. Well – she’d wrecked all his sense of well-being.

He was back in the nave of the Cathedral, praying as well as he could over the din of the newest batch of pilgrims, who were gawping up at the ceiling and telling each other just how magnificent it all was at the top of their voices. They had to talk loudly, because with everyone speaking at the same time, it was impossible to hear anything. Thus it was that Gregory’s concentration on the service being conducted forty feet away was regularly being shattered. The priest kept an expression of unconcern fitted to his face, as though this was perfectly normal and that speaking in the sure and certain knowledge that nobody more than two rows away from you could hear was natural, but Gregory was convinced that every so often there was a faint crack in his benign façade whenever a particularly pushy pilgrim braying about the decoration broke into his prayers. Curious, wasn’t it, Gregory thought, that so many people who could have declared their religious convictions with absolute sincerity, could behave with such brash insensitivity towards so many others who were trying to participate in the devotions.

To Gregory it seemed sacrilegious, but he knew that it was normal human behaviour. Even in his own home town, people shouted at each other as the service went on. In the Cathedral at Canterbury, the public conducted their business in the nave because it was a warmer, drier place than the market square outside, but here it was infinitely worse. Some of the folks here had travelled hundreds of miles in order to come and have their prayers heard. To have the words of the priest drowned out was a great annoyance, especially to Gregory, when he desperately needed to hear something soothing today.

He was feeling very raw after meeting his wife again. Stefanía would keep popping up. What she wanted with a pilgrimage, he didn’t know. Since she had legally divorced him, there was little he could do about it, of course. He couldn’t even demand to know what she was here for; as she had haughtily pointed out to him, that was none of his business now. When she set her head back like that, peering at him like some slug she had found munching at her vegetables, he wanted to clout her, the disrespectful baggage. Her tone, when she coldly informed him that, as they weren’t married any more, she need not show him respect, merely added oil to the flames of his anger. It didn’t help – as she knew too well! It was typical of his luck that he should have chosen her for his wife.

At the end of the service, he stood and bowed his head. So far as he was concerned, his task here was over and done with; all he need do was return home now. Somehow he had to try to recover from this journey.

If he had not joined the Templars, his life would have been better, surely. He had gone there less from a feeling of conviction or devotion, much more because he wanted to get back at her for what she’d done. The cow! She’d even ended their marriage in a way that did most harm to him. It was – what? – a month after he joined them that the Order was swept away. One month, one miserable month, sleeping in clothing already foul, the new beard itching at his jaw, the sleepless nights as he was woken at some unearthly hour to go and pray. Good God! It was awful.

Not as bad as the arrests, though. When he had been taken, during his time in the preceptory at Montesa, it was typical of his bad fortune. His wife had left and divorced him, he was a laughing stock at home in England, and he had only joined the Templars to escape, thinking that by joining the richest Order, he could have an enjoyable life of moderate luxury. He had not realised that by joining the Order and being sent to Montesa, he would be going to the only blasted place in the Christian world where there were more Moors than anywhere else in Castile or Aragon. It was a sick joke. Still worse, that he should have been arrested and threatened with torture. How could they have threatened a man like him? He’d done nothing except try to join the most religious of all the Orders, and for that he was to be arrested and persecuted, if the Pope had his way.