Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

‘It is as I said! Ramón saw my money and took it! He is not going to Tomar; he is fleeing justice!’ Doña Stefanía cried. ‘Oh my God – all that money!’

Joana had lied to her: she was sure of it now. Joana had intended stealing from her, then she herself was murdered and robbed. While she, Doña Stefanía, sat alone, waiting. Until Parceval finally arrived, anyway.

Suddenly, the Doña felt a lurch in her breast, and her heart began pounding just as it had the night before in the alleyway. She shot a look at Parceval, her attention dropping from his features to his lap. There, she saw, was his heavy wallet. He had said that he was poor when he had journeyed here with her. She wondered about that again, then shot a look at his face. Could he have been Joana’s killer, the robber of the money?

Baldwin saw the direction of her gaze and thought that she was eyeing her lover salaciously. It was a shock to him to see a Prioress acting so lewdly, and he felt physically repulsed. He was close to passing a sarcastic comment, when he saw that her face was stilled, as though there was a terrible doubt in her mind, and that was when he took in the sight of the well-filled purse.

‘You appear to have enjoyed some success with investments,’ he said to Parceval.

‘Hmm? Oh well, I have been fortunate, but this isn’t from investments.’

‘Then how did you come to find such wealth?’ Baldwin asked, allowing an edge of suspicion in his voice.

‘When I left on pilgrimage, I wanted to make sure that I could travel without being recognised,’ Parceval explained. ‘So I deliberately wore these miserable clothes. I carried no money, for a pilgrim should need none, and instead had a receipt for a sum I had deposited with a Florentine banker. Now I’m here, I have cashed it with his house – that of Musciatto.’

‘Most convenient,’ Baldwin said. ‘But please – tell us where you were when Joana was being killed.’

‘She died during the afternoon, you say? I was in church at first, and then went to meet Musciatto. After that, I went to a tavern where I met this good lady.’

Simon, meanwhile, was beginning to feel quite sick. His breathing was abnormal: he was having to take shallower breaths, but more of them. It felt as though he was growing hotter, then a little cooler, and his throat was parched. He had ordered drinks, but the damned innkeeper was so slow, it would be next week before he bloody arrived. Simon tried deeper breaths, and simply doing that seemed to help. Noticing Baldwin’s anxious expression, he said with scarcely a moment to think, ‘If he was so fond of her, why didn’t Ramón stay here for her funeral? He left yesterday morning, didn’t he, and that was before the poor girl was put in the ground.’

‘True, I did not see him there at the funeral, and I should have expected to,’ Munio said thoughtfully. ‘Yet if he was filled with gloom at losing her … why wait to view the funeral?’

‘I think he killed the woman, took the money, and bolted,’ Simon gasped, but he was scarcely aware of his words, he was so overcome with sickness. He had to concentrate merely on sitting upright. Otherwise he must fall.

‘Most men would draw the line at murdering the woman they intended to marry, but I suppose such a thing is possible when a lot of money is involved. One thing that my time as a Keeper of the King’s Peace has taught me is that nothing is impossible.’

‘Surely it is unlikely, though,’ Munio said, shrugging. ‘This man was her lover, poor young lady. Even if he did not stay for her funeral, that may have been the impact of his broken heart. Losing her, he lost all. He decided to travel and, who knows, to throw away his life in a gesture of faith to God, joining the Knights of Christ. No, I believe someone else had a part in this, some other man. There are so many strangers in a city like this,’ Munio said dejectedly. ‘Foreigners from all parts.’

‘Even my husband,’ the Prioress said. ‘I had not thought to meet him here!’

Parceval was frowning. ‘It must have been him. Who else?’

Munio sat back and gazed at Doña Stefanía suspiciously. ‘Your husband?’

‘My ex-husband, perhaps I should say. I was married to Gregory of Coventry. We were wedded in 1301, when I was fourteen, and I was lucky enough to divorce him six years later.’

‘How did you get dispensation for that?’ Baldwin asked, intrigued.

‘It was easy. He had an argument with me, declared he would be better living as a monk, and swore before witnesses that he would renounce the secular world and enter a fighting Order instead. In return I swore that I would myself enter the convent, and thus we parted for the night.’ Her voice was calm and level, but there was a certain fire in her eyes as she spoke, like a woman recalling scenes that were better forgotten.

‘The next morning he didn’t remember what he had said, and tried to force himself upon me, but I reminded him of his oath. He was rather shocked at first, but then tried to say that it wasn’t a real oath. I had to demonstrate that it was genuine, and if he was determined to renege on his word to God, I was not. Then he … he took me against my will. I spoke to the priest that morning and managed to install myself in the Priory that very same day. I believe that he joined that disreputable and dishonourable band of warrior knights, the Templars. It is terrible to think that I was once married to a man who would be capable of joining such a group. Terrible!’

Baldwin’s sympathy for her eroded as he noticed that as she spoke, she put her hand out to Parceval. That man patted it and met Baldwin’s gaze with a calm smile. Baldwin’s feelings rose in favour of her husband. As she spoke, Parceval met Baldwin’s look again; there was a smug expression on his face.

Biting back his contempt for the man, whoring about with this Prioress, Baldwin was about to make a sharp comment when he caught sight of Simon’s face. ‘My friend, are you quite well?’ he asked, concerned.

‘Yes,’ Simon lied. He felt as though he had a fever and was drunk at the same time. It was difficult to keep his vision in focus, and he must squint even to see Baldwin clearly. ‘I am just thirsty. Where’s that blasted innkeeper?’

Baldwin stared at him, then bellowed to the serving staff to bring a large jug of water.

Gregory shot from the tavern as soon as he thought it was safe, and bolted around the corner to stand with his back to a wall, panting slightly after the unwarranted exercise, ears straining for a sound of pursuit. If he could, he’d have laid an ambush for the devil, caught him, then showed his wife that she couldn’t catch him out so easily. He wasn’t just any green squire, he was a knight by birth and training, damn her soul! This fellow was plainly in her employ, a hireling who had been told to hurt him. Why, Gregory had no idea. All he did know, was that he was unwilling to sit about and wait to be killed.

The alley into which he had darted was a quiet little thoroughfare, and as he waited, listening, almost no one passed by. It was good, because it meant he could hear any steps approaching. There was the occasional heavy tread of boots and slapping of sandals, but nothing that sounded like a pursuit, and after a few moments his heart slowed to its normal rate, as his body realised that there was no need to panic any longer. He could have wept. Why on earth had he married that vindictive woman? Obviously she was after him. God in heaven – were those men told to kill all the pilgrims, just to make sure they killed him ? How could she be so wicked?

He had been standing with his palms against a rough wall, and now he forced himself to pull them away. The left one was scratched. On the wall, he saw that there was a small projecting nail. At the time he had felt nothing, but now he was aware of a throbbing. It must be a sign of his mental distress.