Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

She walked out into the roadway, past the small triangular patch of grass, pulling her hood up over her hair. It was while she was decorously trying to hitch the veil up that she saw a dark shadow pissing against a tree.

It was a perfectly normal sight in the evening, but something prompted María to hurry her steps, and as she did so, the man turned and saw her. She recognised him immediately, as he did her. Even with her hood and veil, there was no mistaking the form and size of María the beggar, and he hailed her with a sudden grin.

‘Where to, woman? May I buy you a cake and some wine?’

She hurried her steps, saying nothing, but she could hear his chuckle and his footsteps as he set off after her. The way took her down the side of the hill; she turned right along an alley, then left, hoping to lose him in the maze of smaller streets, but it was no good. She was clad in her heavy black skirts, while he wore hosen. While she kept feeling her bare feet getting tangled, he moved without impediment.

The pursuit ended when she tripped and fell headlong.

‘Come, María, why the panic? It’s not as if I’m a murderer, is it?’ he teased from above her. ‘And if you sleep with me again, I’ll pay you for a whole evening’s work as well as paying you.’

It was tempting to believe him. God! She could do with the money, and he was not unappealing like so many of the men she’d been forced to accept. But how could she trust a man like him? He was another so-called honourable knight, just like the ones who had taken her home away from her.

He saw her face hardening. ‘Please!’ he said, more quietly.

There was a curious expression of hurt in his eyes, as though he wished to have her company for its own sake. Perhaps he did, too. She was brighter, better educated than most wenches in the city. More companionable.

‘It will cost you more this time,’ she warned him.

‘I don’t care.’

‘The money now, then,’ she demanded, holding her hand out.

‘Come, you can trust me,’ he said.

‘You say I can trust you?’ she repeated cynically. ‘I can trust no men. One only who married me, and one who saved my life – but both are dead now. You, Don Ruy – you must pay. The money first, and then you can have me.’

While Baldwin awoke with a sore neck, glaring up at the grey sky and trying to imagine how long it would take to dry off his sodden clothing after being so effectively soaked by the dew, Simon was waking to a pot of warmed wine that had been watered and sweetened, with some aromatic herbs and spices added. To set it off, there was the fresh juice of an orange. It was tasty, refreshing and, in short, the ideal drink to wake a man from a deep slumber.

He stretched with only a slight feeling of stiffness in his lower back and one knee. That was an old wound, from a bad fall when he was a lad, and it was growing to be his most efficient means of predicting the weather. Whenever it was about to alter, his left knee twinged. Perhaps the weather would soon change, he thought. It was possible, but then again, it could merely be the last after-effect of his illness. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he was not going to tell his wife Meg about any of this.

The door opened just then, but with his eyes closed, he thought nothing of it. He murmured, ‘Meg, I adore you and miss you. God keep you for me and for me alone!’

Opening his eyes, he saw Munio’s wife, who stood silently with a plate on which was a flat lump of the local bread, some plain cheese and a little ham. She said nothing, but set the plate beside him, and walked from the room with an abstracted air.

Simon did not notice, for he was immersed in the sudden insight which had come to him last night: that the murder had been planned. The money had either been taken away from the town, perhaps by a pilgrim who had stolen it and now was a hundred miles away, or it had been stashed away for a rainy day. If so, Simon thought, it was an astonishingly restrained person who had committed the crimes.

He finished his meal and donned his tunic and hose, still pursuing the new direction of his thoughts. The more he pondered on it, the more sure he was that he was right. There was only one link missing now, and he was sure that he would soon discover that.

Pulling on his jack and binding his sword about his belly, he left his chamber and went to seek Munio.

The Pesquisidor was sitting at his table in his hall with a somewhat doleful expression on his face, and Simon could not help but notice it. ‘Is all well, Munio?’

‘Yes. Why – should it not be?’ he demanded.

Simon was surprised by his snappishness. ‘My apologies, friend. I did not mean to upset you.’

‘That is right. An English freeman would hardly insult his host, would he?’ Munio said.

Thinking to distract Munio from his strange mood, Simon said, ‘I think I can see what happened out at the ford that day when we found the body. Will you allow me to command some men? Perhaps you too could come with me?’

‘You think I have time to drop all of my official matters on some whim of yours?’ Munio grated, but then he took a deep breath. ‘My apologies, Master Puttock, but I have received some disturbing news today.’

‘But of course,’ Simon said mildly. ‘Shall I ride out alone, then?’

‘No, I shall find a man to help you,’ Munio said, eyeing the man who, so his wife said, desired her.

He was as good as his word. No sooner had he left the house to find Guillem, than two men arrived at Simon’s side. One spoke a form of English, and Simon was convinced that he could explain what he needed. They would walk while Simon rode, as he was still feeling weak. He borrowed Munio’s horse for himself, and the three set off as soon as they could.

Simon wore a small goatskin filled with weak cider about his neck, and as they left the city, he unplugged it and took a long gulp. This weather was peculiar. It was so hot, he wondered how people survived it for long. Surely most people must die young, withered away until they were nothing more than the dried-out husks of the folks they had been. Even Munio, he thought, had been affected. It couldn’t be healthy to live in so hot and inclement a climate. Not like his Dartmoor. There at least there was always abundant moisture. It kept the flesh full and elastic, healthy; not like these thin-skinned foreigners.

It took the trio less than half an hour to reach the ford. Simon sat on his horse, hands crossed over his mount’s cruppers, contemplating the land before him.

The body had been found up there on his left, but Don Ruy had said that Ramón and Joana had been walking over on the other side of the stream. Simon kicked his horse onwards. At the ford the river was only shallow, if broad, and the water came no higher than the men’s knees. Not that they cared. They stoically ploughed through it, without glancing at Simon on his horse.

Once on the other side, Simon began his search. The land here was separated into fields, with a footpath of some sort. On the right-hand side was a ditch, which was a little damp in the very bottom. It looked as though it was used for some form of irrigation. Bushes and a few thin, tormented trees tried to grow here, and there was a thick thorny mess beneath them.

It was here, Simon guessed, that Ramón and his woman had walked, and he rode along at a gentle amble, explaining as simply as he could to the men with him what he expected to find.

Once they understood, the two men set to with a will, and began to shove plants and twigs aside in their search for Simon’s proof. He had hoped that from his vantage point on the horse, he would be the first to see it, but it was the man who understood a little of Simon’s language who suddenly gave a delighted crow-like cry, and pounced. Grinning widely, one hand bleeding with a slash from a vicious thorn, he held up a large leather purse, an expensive, soft, decorated purse filled with gold and silver coins.