Michael JECKS: The Templar's Penance

Then, to Baldwin’s amazement, she fell back.

The beggar’s veil had been knocked from its moorings, and Doña Stefanía could see that this was not Joana. ‘Who … who are you?’

It was María, but Baldwin now glanced with consternation at Simon. He had thought that María was merely Joana renamed. Apparently not.

Simon took up the story again. ‘However Joana was not able to kill her victim immediately, Doña. She was in hiding, about to spring, when a man rode up – a man of strong passions, who when he forms a desire, will have his way. This noble knight,’ Simon said drily, eyeing Don Ruy, ‘had seen you both on the pilgrimage here, and he had developed a fancy for your maid. When he rode past, seeing another woman of a similar build, walking by the river on her own, he offered her money to lie with him. Nothing loath to make a few dinheiros , she agreed, and the two lay together on the roadside. While they were coupling, Joana could not move even to retrieve the money. She was pinned there like a rabbit by an arrow.

‘After he was done, the man left the woman. She rose, and found herself being berated by Joana. She was reluctant to stand and listen to this, but Joana set upon her to kill her, and she must defend herself.’

‘No. Joana waited until her cousin was there, her Cousin Domingo. He was to have half the money for himself,’ María spoke up. ‘I knew nothing about this. Domingo did not realise at the time that I was to be her victim. She thought he would think nothing of killing me because I was nothing to her. Although I was her cousin, she saw me only as a useful thing to be destroyed for her profit. But Domingo! She thought he would kill me because I was no longer part of his family.’

‘You were related to him, weren’t you?’ Simon pressed her.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, her head downcast.

‘And you use a different name to save your family from shame, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your real name is Caterina. María is solely a trade name for begging and … other activities.’

‘Yes.’

‘What relation was he to you?’

‘I was his sister, but our father dispossessed me and refused to acknowledge me when I married,’ she said with a firm pride. ‘I married a mudéjar , you see. None of my family would help me from that day onwards.’

‘But Domingo drew the line at killing you?’

‘Yes. Joana tried to beat me to death, but her first blow missed its mark and only served to hurt. I saw she had a rock, and she started shouting to Domingo to hold me, to knock me down, so she could kill me, but he reached around me and beat at her with his rock, crushing her head, then her face, and beating all to a mess. It was horrible!’

‘It must have been,’ Simon agreed. ‘Especially when Domingo deliberately made the corpse look as though it had been mutilated after a rape.’

‘Yes.’ Caterina lowered her head with revulsion. ‘He said he had to make it look like a rape so that people wouldn’t realise anything else had happened. He wanted to hide the truth as far as he could.’

‘Why?’ Munio asked.

Simon answered, ‘I think because he knew that the Prioress would leave no stone unturned to find her money. If Joana’s body was found and she appeared to have been murdered during a robbery, Domingo knew he’d be suspected. A rape would make him, as Joana’s cousin, less suspicious in the Prioress’s eyes. Joana could have had a chance encounter with a rapist before she ever met the blackmailer, or the blackmailer himself could have raped her …’

The Prioress spoke. ‘He knew that I’d seen Don Ruy staring at Joana while we travelled here. He intended me to think Don Ruy was the guilty man.’

‘So, to continue,’ Simon said, ‘after this, Caterina left. She had no idea about the money. Domingo didn’t think that his cousin would have thrown it into the bushes, and didn’t know where she and Ramón had lain, even if he had guessed, so he could not find it. He searched about the horses, I expect, but then grew worried that he might be seen, so he rode back to the town, probably thinking Ramón had taken it. The body remained where he’d left it.

‘If all this is correct, then of course Caterina is innocent of any crime so far,’ Simon went on. ‘And so she would have been, but she grew worried. Someone else knew that she was there, I think – another beggar. Someone who happened to hear Joana and her talking about meeting. Perhaps this beggar put two and two together. He heard about the money which Joana had carried, and he demanded some of it for himself. Caterina knew nothing about any money and refused. In which case, he said, he would tell his very good friend, an investigator, and see her arrested …’

‘No!’

‘I saw this person go and talk to Caterina only a few minutes after we told him that a sum of money had been stolen from Joana. We helped to ensure his greed got the better of him. What else would a beggar do?’

He looked over to Baldwin now, and he could see the realisation dawning on his friend’s face. Baldwin’s eyes were glistening, and he blinked quickly, sniffing. Beyond that there was nothing. He had already come to terms with the sort of man that his comrade Matthew had become.

Simon shrugged. ‘Caterina followed after Matthew the beggar, or perhaps she simply waited at a place where she knew she would find him. And when he arrived, she thrust once with a sharp little knife. The death of Joana was undoubtedly self-defence, Munio. But Matthew? That was simple murder, nothing more.’

The only man who appeared shocked and unhappy was Don Ruy. ‘Don’t touch her! She is no murderer, but a victim of other men’s crimes.’

‘Perhaps in your case that could be true,’ Munio said. ‘For you have defiled her yourself, forcing her to accept you for money.’

‘I have done no such thing!’ Don Ruy said forcefully. ‘I have never taken a woman against her will, and this one has been paid handsomely.’

‘What of your wife?’ Baldwin asked.

‘He’s married?’ Caterina said, and stared at Don Ruy. ‘You said you–’

‘Enough!’ Munio commanded. ‘In the case against you for murder, I doubt that you need fear. We’ll keep you in custody until tomorrow when we can hold a court to debate the matter.’

Munio sat in his hall later that day as Guillem finished writing up the notes of the court’s events.

Doña Stefanía had left clutching her casket and money like a long-lost child, and the crowd had gone. Now only Guillem remained, and Munio. He wondered idly how a man like the cleric could enjoy life. No woman at his side day and night, no companionship other than that of men. It was a life upon which Guillem appeared to thrive, but Munio could not comprehend it. To live through the rest of his years without his Margarita was a terrible thought. A man needed his woman, and to live without her was a dreadful concept.

He was a fortunate fellow; he knew that. When he had met his wife for the first time, he felt as though he had found more than a companion. She was another part of him; they shared the same soul. Her kindness and generosity of spirit were a delight to him. Unfortunately, it was that which had caused them their troubles now, of course.

Margarita could no more see a man or woman in pain without helping, than she could have murdered a child. That was why she had tended to Simon so carefully through his two illnesses – because she was inherently kind.

He sighed. The trouble was, so often people thought that because a woman cared for them, necessarily she must love them. Oh, Munio had heard of it happening elsewhere, when nuns looked after the ill in their convents, and then the men who recovered found themselves deeply in love with the nuns. It was all too common. And now Simon had apparently fallen in love with Margarita. She had heard him praying that she would love him or something.