Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

‘But of course,’ she said graciously, waving her hand to indicate that he might stand beside her. Her companion looked Munio up and down in a thoroughly insolent way, but the Pesquisidor didn’t appear to notice. Simon himself felt his ire rise at the sight of his attitude, though, and he walked to join Munio even though he felt the sweat breaking out all over his body. It was unpleasant, because he actually felt rather chilly in his sweat, even though he knew the heat was terrible.

Other than the man at her side, there were a pair of pilgrims who, from their voices, came from the lands about Bavaria; they sat fanning their faces with their great broad-brimmed hats while they spoke in a desultory manner. On the opposite side of the table were two stoic-looking men who appeared to be local traders up to sell their goods at the market. Both seemed unaware of the heat, so far as Simon could see. They slurped their wine and muttered incomprehensibly to each other, to all appearances quite comfortable. It made Simon feel irritable to see them so relaxed when he felt so crotchety and sticky.

Perhaps it was their clothing; their shirts and hose might be made of something that made them feel cooler, Simon thought. As for him, he could better appreciate the Bavarians, with their red faces beaded with sweat, puffing and blowing. Simon reckoned he could leap into a well and drain it, it was so hot. He had never known a place to be so burned by the sun. It was as though the air itself was being exhausted from an oven’s vent, and each breath seemed liable to scorch his throat.

Munio stared at the two locals, who were of a mind to ignore him and remain, but then Munio jerked his chin at the landlord, and suddenly the table was entirely empty but for the Prioress and her friend; the traders were whisked away like dirty platters, and the two Bavarians took one look at the way they had been ejected, and decided not to argue. It was always the way for a sensible traveller: while in a foreign land, it was better to avoid disputes.

‘So, lady,’ Munio said, when they were sitting, ‘we wanted to talk with you a little about the murder of your maid. Our apologies for this. It must be hard for you, having lost your sole companion.’

Simon was sitting next to Munio, and he saw the woman shoot the Pesquisidor a sharp look, then glance somewhat shamefacedly at the man beside her. For his part, he sat as if unconcerned. Simon waved at the innkeeper for some watered wine, listening to what Munio was saying. After her first startled reaction, Doña Stefanía appeared simply disinterested, as though she had better things to occupy her mind.

‘It is hard. I have lost much since I arrived here,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘At least some have made me welcome and have been keen to comfort me in my sadness.’

Looking at him, she thought Munio appeared less than sympathetic to her. He was a typical, hard-faced man like so many of these tough Galicians. No sense and less feeling. He had no idea how much it meant to her, losing her maid. Of course he couldn’t understand how much she had then lost last night. No one could. That relic was all that kept the convent going.

My God! she prayed. Saint Peter, please don’t let us lose it for ever! Make that devil Domingo bring it back to me. How can we survive without that relic? Without it, our whole priory must fail!

He had spoken again, but as her gaze moved to him and she tried to concentrate, she saw that Simon had caught the innkeeper’s attention and was demanding drink. He seemed a little slow already, she thought, and shifted in her seat, squirming away from him.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Are you aware of any distinguishing marks upon your maid’s body?’ Munio repeated steadily in English.

‘I don’t know … What an extraordinary question!’

‘Not so strange as that,’ Simon said, a little thickly. There was no air in the square, no breeze to cool the forehead, and he really did feel quite odd, as though the room would start spinning any moment. Except he wasn’t in a room.

To ease his strangely whirling mind, he concentrated hard on the conversation. Munio was taking too long. Why didn’t the man get to the point? ‘Look, your maid, she was so badly beaten … why would someone do that to her? There must have been a reason! Did she have any enemies?’

‘No, but I told you that she was delivering money for me. Surely she was found on the way with my purse, and that was why she was taken. Perhaps someone saw her and took an interest in a pretty young woman like her. Oh, how should I know? And what does it matter? The fact is, she’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon. He had seen the look on his old friend’s face, and he wondered: was Simon quite well?

Doña Stefanía could see that her answer had nonplussed them. At her side, she could sense that Parceval was impressed too.

It was Simon, though, who blurted out, ‘Go on, ask her about Ramón!’

‘What did he say?’ She understood English perfectly well, but Doña Stefanía cast Simon a look that would have suited a small toad, convinced that he was drunk. Just like her husband. She could never have respect for a man who was inebriated. He might rape her, just as her husband had that time.

‘Doña Stefanía,’ Baldwin said, ‘I am sorry that we must ask these questions, but we have to try to learn what happened to Joana – and ensure that the dead woman was indeed Joana. Ramón has apparently left the city, so we wanted to ask: could you have been mistaken about her identity?’

‘I don’t know what you could mean,’ she began, and then she saw his expression. ‘You mean Frey Ramón …? So at last you understand my fears?’

‘What fears?’ Baldwin asked.

‘As I said before, he could have persuaded poor Joana to pretend that Don Ruy had spoken to her and demanded money. When Ramón got the money, he killed her and fled.’

‘That is one possibility. Another is that both fled together, with your money,’ Baldwin said.

‘You really think she lied to me?’ Doña Stefanía repeated dumbly, and the memory of the shattered face above the tunic sprang into her mind at the same time. ‘She lied …?’

‘The poor girl was so viciously beaten; no woman deserved such a fate,’ Parceval said, resting a hand on hers. ‘I think I can throw some light on the matter.’

‘Please speak,’ Munio said.

‘I saw the Knight of Santiago riding away yesterday morning. At the time I thought it was odd because he has only recently returned with us, and I thought that a knight in an Order would be told to rest and remain here for some time. It isn’t right that a monkish knight should wander about so much, surely! Yet there he was, saddling his mount and riding off.’

Baldwin shot out, ‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes, so far as I could see.’

‘Then surely that dead maid was my Joana,’ the Prioress said brokenly. ‘You let him escape!’

‘In which direction did he go?’ Munio asked.

‘I saw him heading for the southern gate. Perhaps he turned in a different direction afterwards, I don’t know, but he didn’t look like a man who was trying to conceal his route. I think he was going to carry on that way. Surely his departure proves his guilt!’

‘I shall have men follow after him,’ Munio said.

‘There may be no need,’ Baldwin said. ‘We spoke to a groom who mentioned that Frey Ramón had gone, and from what the groom said, he was determined to seek out the Knights of Christ at Tomar.’

‘Why would he want to do that?’ Munio frowned. ‘He was already a member of an honourable Order here.’

Parceval took a gulp of wine. ‘My God! Because he was appalled by what he’d done, of course! He killed Joana and then bolted. If he’d stayed here, the freiles of the Order would have condemned him and wanted to punish him, so he chose to ride away and seek fulfilment of his penance in battle. The Knights of Christ are the successors of the Templars and the Reconquista , aren’t they? Ramón must have decided to ride there and seek for war against the Moors. How else would a warrior find peace, but in fighting?’