Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

If, for Baldwin, Simon’s recovery was a delight that was all but unhoped for, to Simon it was nothing more than a hideous nightmare, worse than his drifting off into insensibility beforehand. That had been terrifying, feeling the world, as it seemed, cracking about him as he was forced down, down, down by the demonically grinning Domingo. He had genuinely thought that the devil had captured his soul. That was one thing, but coming to, lying in a box filled to overflowing with sewage, was enough to make him freeze in a blind panic, his fingers clenching rigidly, all his muscles tensing as his mind refused to accept what his nostrils were telling him. He closed his eyes just before the second bucket hit him.

That was when he found his voice again, although he had no wish to open his mouth. He started mumbling and swearing, but revulsion soon made him shout to be pulled free. Baldwin berated the men standing around, kicking two to make them pull Simon out, but even then refused to hear of Simon standing. Simon was desperate to get up, as though movement itself could clean him of the filth in which he was smothered, but he was forced to lie back on the broken remains of an old door rescued from a building nearby. Once there, Simon passed out again, thankfully just before more men arrived and carried him to Munio’s house.

‘He will be well,’ Munio said.

Baldwin nodded, but he felt empty. Simon was his closest friend, probably the only man living who knew quite so much about Baldwin and his past, other than Edgar, Baldwin’s steward. Seeing him so weakened made Baldwin realise how vulnerable a man could be. Loneliness was a terrible thing, he realised. To live alone, with all one’s friends dead or gone, that must be the worst possible penalty God could impose.

It was the punishment which had been meted out to Matthew. The poor man was without any companions. Even the beggars in the streets were apart from him – although whether that was because they disdained him , or because he ignored them was a moot point. His pride would make it difficult for him to accept that he was a part of their fraternity.

A man like him, a noble knight, brought so low. And then to be murdered by some inconsequential peasant in an alleyway. Why should a common churl attack a beggar? It was inexplicable, or it was simple. Either a man had taken a sudden dislike to Matthew’s face – Baldwin had seen that before – or it was a long-held grudge.

‘I forgot to tell you before,’ Munio said. ‘I had Guillem ask at the house of the money men. Musciatto confirmed that they had given Parceval money. He is wealthy in his own right.’

‘So as one door opens, it is slammed in our face,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘So it would seem. So there is nothing to suggest that Parceval had anything to do with the murder. He didn’t get that money from Joana’s purse. Now I have heard from the gatemen. The southern gatekeeper remembered this man Dom Afonso. He left the city yesterday, with an English knight and his squire.’

Baldwin nodded, but the news gave him no comfort. If anything, being reminded of Afonso simply added to his mental confusion. There was no motive for this strange man, this mercenary, to attack Matthew, as María had said. An older man, perhaps, who had a grudge against the Templars – that could have been comprehensible, but María had said that he was a younger man – quite a lot younger. So what could have been his motive? It made no sense. A richer man trying to rob someone with nothing; a man with position killing a man with none; a young man killing an old one at the end of his life. There was no logic to it. Baldwin had mused over it all through the night while sitting at Simon’s bedside, and all day today it had never been far from his mind.

He needed more information. There was not enough to allow him to speculate. All he was convinced of was that Matthew had not died because he was a beggar. Beggars were sometimes killed, usually by drunks or arrogant fools who thought they were better than them, when the only difference between a knight and a man like Matthew was good or bad fortune.

There were men who believed that Templars were evil, but men who thought that way would not kill like an assassin in the street and run, they would usually confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the local court, expecting all other rational men to thank them for ridding the world of a foul parasite. Any man might execute a heretic, after all, and the Pope’s entourage had succeeded admirably in persuading the population of Europe that all Templars were little better than lackeys of the devil.

Munio was still toying with the little casket. When the men pulled Domingo away from Simon, this little box had been gripped tightly in his hand. Munio had cleaned it and opened it to reveal the bone; both he and Sir Baldwin were convinced that it must be something with religious significance, but there had been no reports of any missing relics. Maybe Domingo and his men had stolen it in France or further away.

‘I wish I could make sense of Matthew’s death. Why should this Afonso kill him?’ Baldwin fretted.

‘You are greatly exercised by the death of a single beggar.’

‘Even a beggar deserves justice,’ Baldwin said sanctimoniously.

‘Perhaps,’ Munio said, but without humour. ‘But so does a young woman, whose life has been cut short.’

‘I know. Both are equal in importance.’

‘Are they?’ Munio asked. ‘Forgive me, but you appear to have discounted the girl’s life already.’

‘Not at all,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘I am as keen as ever to catch her murderer – but with Ramón gone, I do not see how to proceed, whereas a witness gave us the name of Matthew’s killer.’

‘I keep thinking: but where is the money?’ Munio said.

‘Well, we now know that Domingo and his men were penniless. So that makes it less likely that they killed Joana,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘And this box and its contents is hardly the sort of thing that could be easily sold. Unless they intended selling it here to the Cathedral?’

‘If they had, it would have involved lengthy negotiations. The Church does not approve of buying back things which are Her own.’

‘The lack of money does not justify assuming that Ramón was the murderer,’ said Baldwin.

‘I do not like to accuse a Knight of Santiago. But he left the city, and no one here appears to have suddenly grown wealthy,’ Munio pointed out. ‘Surely the money could have been removed from the city. Where better, than to be taken out of Galicia itself, carried by a man who has declared himself to be so overwhelmed with grief that he must leave the country? Ramón was there, he saw Joana, he lied to you and he fled. Who else can I suspect?’

‘We know Ramón was there,’ Munio continued sombrely. ‘Domingo went up there later, but if Domingo took the cash, he’d have spent it or run. Yet he did neither.’

He stood, the casket still in his hand. ‘This man Ramón has many questions to answer.’

Simon came to feeling groggy and lethargic, and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. For some reason it was very dark, and he thought at first that he must have woken during the night, but then he saw the light in thin streams that reached across the floor. There were shutters here which were covering the window.

For a moment, he wondered where he was. He had woken expecting to see the rough thatch of his own home at Lydford, and he reached out an arm for his wife, but his hand encountered emptiness at the same time as he realised that the ceiling was not his own. The beams weren’t pale logs split into planks, but appeared to be blackened poles, all unsplit. That was odd, but when he turned his head to stare at where Meg should have lain, he saw that he was not lying on his own bed. This bed was too small for sharing, and that was no doubt why the woman was sitting on a chair. But this was terrible. As he lay and mused over this mystery, his overriding concern was that Meg might learn he had been here, sleeping in this woman’s bed. Who was she? She certainly looked very attractive, with her dark skin and black hair, but he could remember nothing about arriving here. It was very peculiar.