Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

‘Like that maid.’

‘Who, Joana? Oh, yes. She died cheaply.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘Only vaguely. I saw her on the journey here.’

‘I heard you met the Prioress on the way, too.’

Parceval smiled. ‘Yes. I am afraid so. I was the cause of some embarrassment.’

‘Because of …?’

‘Because we were seen together by that man Ruy.’

‘She spends much of her time with you still. Does she not fear exposure?’

‘Doesn’t seem to. She lost all her money, so maybe the advantage of a few luxuries outweighs the risk of discovery.’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon agreed.

‘That Ruy, though – he didn’t have to tell anyone. That was shameful. I think he was just jealous.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘I caught him sniffing around a few times. He was like a desperate hound after a bitch. All over eager. On the journey down here, he was after the maid, you know, the bloody bastard.’

‘Joana?’ Simon asked. He was trying to recall where he had heard that phrase before.

‘Yes. He was attracted to her, so I heard. That was what she thought, anyway. She told her mistress that too.’

Simon nodded and poured the remainder of their wine. Then he smiled as he remembered where he had heard those words. ‘Why did you beat up Gregory? Were you worried that he might take your woman away from you?’

‘Good God, no,’ Parceval sighed. ‘No, I only wanted him to stop upsetting the Doña. It was silly, but the little shitbag seemed to pop up wherever she went. So I tapped him and told him to leave her alone. And he did.’

‘Probably because of the pain in his head,’ Simon said grimly.

Parceval laughed unsympathetically. ‘It was a light tap, nothing more. He should count himself lucky.’

‘One thing more than anything else worries me about the girl’s death,’ Simon said. ‘It’s the money. The Doña didn’t keep it – she is plainly desperate for cash. Then there is Ruy. He appears to have little, as did Domingo. I wonder who else might have taken it?’

‘There was her betrothed, Ramón.’

‘It is possible – but not likely. He was a Knight of Santiago, after all.’

‘So? You think knights are any better than ordinary folk? Look at the French royal family! Three daughters, and two of them adulterers! Then there were the Templars, the most evil men ever born, and they were supposed to be religious. No, friend, you can’t trust to a man’s birth. The man I killed …’ He stopped momentarily, feeling his anger reaching up to strangle him as he allowed a vision of Hellin’s face to appear in his mind’s eye again, but then he rushed on again. ‘Yes. I killed him. You know why? He got me and some others drunk one night, and for sheer malice, he killed a boy and then had us gang-rape the girl. He thought it was great sport, very funny. I knew something was wrong – I was so drunk at the time, I didn’t join in. I don’t know. I was busy vomiting everywhere, and we left her there afterwards, but it was later, when I grew a little more sober, that I realised. Oh, God!’

Simon waved to the waitress and poured more wine as Parceval’s eyes streamed with tears.

‘God in heaven! How could he do that, eh?’

‘It was your daughter?’ Simon asked in a hushed voice.

Parceval nodded, sniffing. ‘And I killed him. What would you have done? I struck him down like a rabid dog. Like a demon. He was evil, though. He had already given me a mortal blow. And that, my friend,’ he choked, trying to recover himself, ‘was the most powerful man in Ypres at the time, a knight and son of a knight. So don’t tell me that a knight is incapable of rape and murder.’

Munio returned late in the afternoon, and when he saw Simon sitting out in the front of the house, he gave one of his slow smiles.

‘When my wife told me that you were much better, I hardly dared to hope that you would be so greatly recovered,’ he said. ‘Are you sure that you are quite well enough to be up and in the open? Perhaps you should stay indoors, away from dangerous airs?’

‘No, I think that the open air is better for me, thank you,’ Simon said, but his mind was elsewhere, and Munio could see his distraction.

‘My friend, are you still in pain?’ he asked solicitously.

Simon’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Me? No, I’ve a few aches, but nothing more than that. Why do you ask?’

‘You seemed to be thinking of other things, and I wondered …’

‘Ah, no. It was just a conversation I held this afternoon with that strange fellow Parceval the Fleming.’

‘I have heard that he is keeping the Prioress,’ Munio said with a stiff air. ‘She appears to have forgotten her vows. It is strange, is it not? She spent so much time after arriving here trying to conceal her affair, and yet now she is living with that man so openly that even I, the Pesquisidor , have come to hear about it.’

Simon had given the matter of Doña Stefanía and Parceval a great deal of thought. Alone in this city, lonely and adrift, he felt he understood the Doña’s feelings perfectly.

‘She arrived here with men, a maid, and money. All is gone. She must feel that her life has been turned upside-down. For a woman like her, what could be more natural than that she should turn to the only friend she has? She probably doesn’t fully realise how obvious her sins have become. Do you think the Bishop has heard of it?’

‘Not necessarily. He doesn’t trouble himself much about the town.’

‘Yet there must be a risk. It seems odd that she should have exposed herself to it. Why not merely go home: her Priory is not far, is it?’

‘No,’ Munio said. ‘But if all her money was stolen when her maid was killed …’

‘That is the other problem I keep returning to,’ Simon said. ‘Where is the money? What has happened to it? If a thief had stolen so much, I should expect to hear about it. Is there no man in the town who has been said to have spread libras around?’

‘There is nobody who has apparently received a marvellous gift, no,’ Munio said.

‘I do not understand it,’ Simon said, his face reverting to his scowl again. ‘Why should someone steal the money only to hide it away? Merely to keep it secret until it can be used and flaunted safely? That time may never come!’

For a moment he felt as though someone with greater intelligence and less confusion was hammering at the back of his mind, but the sensation faded, and he resorted to glaring at the view as though daring it to continue to hide the truth from him.

Baldwin jumped from the boat into the shallow sea with a grunt of relief. He turned to wave his gratitude, picked up his meagre pack, and started off up the loose sandy incline towards the houses.

‘I am beginning to feel that all I have done this year is travel,’ he muttered.

‘This year? Extraordinary. Myself, I feel as though travel is all I have been doing since my lord died.’

‘Aye, and before that,’ Paul added.

Baldwin grinned at Sir Charles. The knight and his man still had their horses. A knight would not allow his horseflesh to be taken until he had lost absolutely everything else bar his sword. The mounts shivered and tossed their heads, glad to be free of the ship and the stinking reek from the hold. Patting Sir Charles’s horse on its neck, Baldwin said, ‘And yet you decided to come back here with me?’

‘It is difficult to deny that your companionship, as an Englishman, would be more attractive to me than …’

‘A stranger from Portugal?’

‘Afonso was no stranger,’ Sir Charles corrected him. ‘In fact, he saved my life once, and I had grown quite fond of him in the last few months. But when all is said and done, he is determined to be a monk and take the three vows. Now, forgive me for being a rather conventional knight, but I never saw the harm in wine, women and song; the three, sadly, are not to my friend Afonso’s taste.’