Michael JECKS - The Templar's Penance

The boat moved along at little more than a slow horse’s walk, the wind gentle, and Baldwin began to wonder if he would arrive faster if he were to walk, but although they did not appear to race, he was surprised, when he peered back over his shoulder, to see that they had already covered some miles. It was only two hours or so later that the master touched Baldwin’s shoulder and pointed ahead. They were rounding a broad hill, the river a calm, smooth blue that reflected all the clouds. Closer, it was a pellucid expanse, through which Baldwin could see weeds waving gently and fishes darting to and fro. Following the master’s finger, Baldwin found himself studying a hill that rose before them from the water like an island.

‘Óbidos.’

Simon woke to find that he was feeling much stronger. After breaking his fast, he walked out into the garden, sitting in the shade near the gate, where he could watch the people walking past.

‘So I find you well?’

‘I am very well, Munio, I thank you.’

Munio cast an eye over him, and nodded, pleased with what he saw. ‘You have recovered greatly.’

‘It is all because of your wife’s kindness. Without her nursing, I am sure that I would have been much slower to recover,’ Simon said.

‘I am sorry that I have left you to your own devices so much,’ Munio said, ‘but sadly there are many matters for a pesquisidor to look into.’

‘At least there have been no more murders,’ Simon said.

‘True enough,’ Munio said, and sighed. ‘But whatever happens with Baldwin when he questions Ramón, I should still like to know where on earth the relic came from.’

Simon nodded. He had seen the casket a few times when Munio had turned it over in his hands. ‘You still do not wish to give it to the Bishop?’

Munio smiled. He had already told Simon of his feelings for the Bishop and his men. ‘What would you do? If the Bishop had lost something like this, he would have told me immediately and demanded that I take the city apart stone by stone until I found it. Yet if I go to him with it, he will be bound to state that it is his and demand that I give it to him.’

‘In truth, it is the Church’s,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t think of a better place to install it than in the Cathedral. It should be safe there.’

‘Yes. Except what if it was stolen from another church which needs the intervention of a saint more? No man can say that our Cathedral is deprived of the good offices of saints of all ages and crafts. This could be the sole relic owned by a small provincial church,’ Munio said with slow uncertainty. ‘I do not know what to do for the best.’

Simon was still musing over his words long after Munio had left to go and see Guillem. It was noon when Simon stirred himself and, bored, decided to find some food. He could have remained in Munio’s house, for Margarita had made it clear that he was very welcome, but even with her happy and cheerful presence, it was growing a little claustrophobic and he felt the need to leave the place and find some peace in the city itself, in among the throngs of pilgrims and traders. Just being out and with other people would be soothing to his soul.

He was walking towards the small tavern where he had met Gregory, when he saw the fellow again. Gregory was sitting at a bench, chatting amicably with Don Ruy.

They made an odd-looking couple, the knight with his aquiline features and faintly supercilious manner, as though he was convinced that he was better than anybody else and had been punished only because the judge had been bribed or misled; and the priest with his hard done by appearance, but they appeared happy enough chatting together.

Simon was about to walk past them, seeking a quiet niche, when Gregory saw him and pointed him out.

Don Ruy eyed him unenthusiastically, but stood with a polite bow and invited Simon to join them. They were not eating, but if the Bailiff wished, they could ask for bread.

‘I was relieved to hear that you were unharmed after your fight with the felons,’ Don Ruy said, Gregory translating for him. ‘I heard that you had fought with the leader.’

‘Yes – the man you saw leaving the city as you returned,’ Simon said.

‘So at least that child Joana’s death is avenged,’ Don Ruy said.

Gregory stared as he explained to Simon, and then added, ‘Why does he say that?’

‘Her killer is dead,’ Don Ruy said, as though explaining to a fool.

‘Why should Domingo kill her?’

‘We are not sure that he did,’ Simon explained. ‘We know that Doña Stefanía slept with the Fleming, and we have heard that others got to know. Don Ruy here heard of it from Joana herself, which is why he believes Domingo killed her.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘ I don’t.’

‘But why not?’ Gregory exclaimed.

‘Because someone arranged for Joana to go to that ford. He or she concealed your ex-wife’s horse so she couldn’t go, knowing that there was a blackmail attempt. Domingo did not get the money, though. The real killer must have done so.’

‘Unless the money was hidden by her.’

‘Or someone else,’ Simon agreed, his mind elsewhere.

Don Ruy’s voice rumbled again.

‘He says that he did not hear anything about any blackmail until later, when you spoke to him about the dead girl. Until then he had no idea,’ Gregory translated.

‘Yet someone must have known,’ Simon said. He was suddenly quiet as a fresh thought occurred to him. There were two others who definitely knew of the affair: Doña Stefanía and the Fleming.

‘The blackmail stood to damage the Doña’s reputation,’ he mused. ‘And she lost all her money.’

‘I understand that she has nothing left,’ Gregory said. ‘She is living on the alms of the Cathedral – and the Fleming,’ he added with a hint of vitriol.

The Fleming, Parceval, Simon thought. He had Munio’s confirmation that he had collected money, and afterwards he was with Doña Stefanía: she had confirmed that herself. Yet Simon felt there was something not right about the man – and the Prioress herself. She had arranged to have a band of pilgrims killed, if Gregory was right, just to avenge herself on her husband, but now she was living with Parceval more or less openly.

Gregory looked distressed. ‘I still don’t understand why my wife should have told her man to kill me. Twice she did so. Once when she set the whole gang on our band of pilgrims, and then secondly when she had him strike me down in the city. Why should she want to do that to me?’

‘A good question,’ Simon responded noncommittally.

‘Just goes to show my luck,’ Gregory said dismally. ‘Who else would be so unlucky as to marry a woman who could seek her own man’s murder?’

‘Strange that Domingo didn’t actually manage to kill you,’ Simon observed. ‘He was very practised at murder.’

‘It was odd,’ Gregory agreed. ‘It is hard for me to remember much about the attack, as my head was exploding. But I remember him warning me off my wife. Ha! He called me a “bloody bastard”! Can you believe that?’

‘In Galician?’ Simon asked.

‘No. Now you mention it, I think it was in English. I didn’t think a peasant like Domingo would speak English.’

‘No. I wouldn’t have thought he could,’ Simon agreed pensively.

That night, Simon felt the shaking and nervousness in his body again, as though his bones had developed a cold. He felt oddly sick, his appetite completely gone, and the rumbling in his belly boded ill. As soon as he could, he took to his bedchamber and closed his eyes, wishing away this malady before it could take hold.

As though denial might prevent anything worse than a temporary affliction, he had not mentioned his concerns to Margarita or to Munio, but they had noticed his lack of appetite. When he was woken in the middle of the night with terrible cramping pains in his belly, and vomited over the floor while sitting on his bedpot, he scarcely noticed his hostess and servants cleaning him and gently helping him back on to the clean sheets, but when he later fell asleep, he was enormously relieved to feel a woman’s cool hands calming him.