The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Read online

  He was a tall man, his shoulders slightly bowed, and he had a narrow, hawk-like face, with high cheekbones and a thin gash of a mouth. The eyes in his browned face were very dark; there was a ferocity in them that Simon found intimidating. It was perhaps because the man rarely blinked, which gave him a strangely reptilian aura.

  This man studied Simon for some moments, then turned and subjected Baldwin to the same slow survey, before snapping out a question. Baldwin knew some Castilian and a little Galician, but he wanted to ensure that there was no room for misunderstanding. He looked at the priest and spoke in Latin. Simon knew that language from his studies, but Baldwin and the priest spoke so swiftly that he found it difficult to keep up. The priest translated to the inquisitor, listened to the reply, and translated that to Baldwin, who responded and pointed to the girl witness who had remained behind with them.

  There was much shaking of heads as the inquisitor spoke to her. Soon her companion, the girl who had fetched him, was brought to the front and he questioned the two together, then the peasant men, all of whom now appeared obsequious, a fact which confirmed Simon’s belief that this was the local investigator or judge.

  The man nodded at last as if he was content with all he had heard, and crouched at the head of the body. As he did so, a cloud of flies rose from the corpse and he waved them away irritably, pulling out an orange from his scrip and holding it beneath his nose.

  Baldwin, Simon saw, was watching him with interest, and even as the man rose to his feet and stood over the body, Baldwin was already staring farther off, in the direction of the water. ‘We should go and look at the trail there,’ he said to Simon. ‘I should like to see whether there are any signs in the mud at the side of the water. Perhaps this woman or her murderer stood or struggled on the bank.’

  The investigator gave him a piercing look, as though he had interrupted his thoughts, then spoke to the cleric, who sighed and translated again for Baldwin. Baldwin replied in Latin, and the investigator walked carefully around the body, gazing at the ground nearer the water. At last, after staring concentratedly for some while at something, he looked up and motioned to Baldwin.

  Simon walked with his friend and found that the investigator was pointing at a large stone lying near the riverbank. It lay on a piece of mud, looking entirely out of place, as though a man had tossed it towards the water, but missed by some feet. If there were any doubts that this was the murder weapon, the smears of blood all over it dispelled them.

  ‘The murderer killed her, then chucked the rock back here,’ the Bailiff murmured.

  ‘I expect he intended to hurl it into the river,’ Baldwin nodded.

  The two were so involved in their observations that they had momentarily forgotten the Galicians with them. Now the investigator spoke again.

  ‘So, Señors, you were right to think of the mud at the water’s edge.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, and there was a faint smile on his face as he turned to the man. ‘I congratulate you on your English.’

  ‘Scarcely a surprise that I should speak English,’ responded the tall man with a sniff. ‘I studied at Oxford.’

  The body was soon loaded on the door and carried to the cart. Then, while the crowd watched, the investigator spoke rapidly to the clerk, who had installed himself at the cart, and who scratched with a reed at scraps of parchment which had been bound together with a thong to make a thick bundle. When he was done, the investigator returned to Baldwin.

  ‘Señors, I am called Munio. I am one of the six pesquisidores of Compostela. You would call me an “enquirer” in English, I think. I must investigate this death.’ He added with a humourless smile, ‘You agree that she would not have killed herself like this? Please, your names?’

  When the two had told him who they were and explained that they were pilgrims, he held out a hand for their letters of testimoniales. Glancing at them, he read for a few moments before passing them back. ‘You are welcome, but I am sorry that your pilgrimage should have ended in so sad a manner. Did you see or hear anything?’

  Simon explained how he had been disturbed by the screams of the two girls and that he and Baldwin had rushed here to offer aid.

  ‘You appear interested in the matter,’ Munio said. ‘It is not often that a man suggests where the pesquisidores should look.’

  Simon could see that the man retained some suspicion of them, and he began to simmer with annoyance at this affront, but even as he opened his mouth to complain, Baldwin put a restraining hand on his forearm.

  ‘Señor, in our own country we are both very experienced in looking into homicides. I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devonshire and often sit as a Justice of Gaol Delivery, while my companion here is a Bailiff of the King’s Stannary in Dartmoor under Abbot Robert of Tavistock. We often work together in order to secure the punishment of murderers.’

  ‘I see.’ Munio drew in a breath and stared about him. ‘If you can assist me in this matter, I would be glad. These peasants do not recognise her face – I doubt she would recognise herself. But they do not know this dress either. Perhaps she was a pilgrim. Is she known to you?’

  Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. They had not seen this woman before. Both shook their heads slowly, and Munio sighed. ‘As I feared. It is hard to find a killer when the victim is not known. He could be a man desperate for a woman, could be unknown to her. Mere random death.’

  Simon had listened, but now he shot a look back at the body and spoke up boldly. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never seen a body mutilated like that before. It’s as if someone killed her in a frenzy – someone who went berserk. Perhaps a jealous lover, striking her in return for a rejection? Or someone who wanted to conceal her identity?’

  Baldwin nodded but he felt there was another possible explanation. ‘In a city like this, where there are so many pilgrims, one might have decided to attack a woman to satisfy his desires. Perhaps it was another pilgrim who travelled here with the victim?’

  ‘You think to accuse yourselves?’ Munio said with a faint smile. ‘But perhaps you are right. Perhaps one of the many pilgrims here became overwhelmed with the urge to possess a woman, and this is the result.’

  ‘She rejected his advances,’ Simon pointed out. ‘Those scrapes on her hand – they look like marks made when she tried to defend herself.’

  Munio nodded slowly.

  ‘The peasants saw no one?’ Baldwin enquired.

  ‘No.’

  Baldwin looked at them. When he and Simon had run here, they had passed no one. There had been no peasants, nor any other travellers. ‘We dozed in the sun before we heard the girls’ screams. It is possible that another man or men passed us while we slept.’

  ‘Sí! So the murderer could have returned to the city.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, but his mind was playing through the scene before him. A man had come here, molested the woman and killed her. ‘Perhaps she walked here with the murderer. You should ask at the gates whether the keepers remember a woman dressed like this, and whether she walked alone.’

  ‘I shall have it done.’

  ‘And if he killed her here,’ Baldwin said pensively, walking back to the body on the cart, ‘it must have come as a surprise to her, for there is little sign of a struggle.’

  ‘Only the scrapes on her hand.’

  Baldwin nodded vaguely, but he was already exposing the woman’s forearms. ‘And here, on the underside of her forearm,’ he said.

  ‘Sí. What of it?’

  Baldwin stared down at the arms. ‘Perhaps nothing, but her assailant may have been unsure – nervous, perhaps – because it means that she was not killed with the first blow, but was able to hold up her hands and defend herself.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘I have seen women who have been able to hold their arms over their heads even after having massive injuries. Perhaps this is one such woman. Maybe she had a strong skull and thick skin.’

  Baldwin nodded.

  ‘In any case,’ Si
mon continued, ‘if you’re right and this woman was adored by a man so that he formed a desire for her so strong that he was prepared to rape her, maybe his hand was reluctant. It’s not surprising that he wouldn’t want to kill her. It’s an odd man who wants a woman so much, he’ll murder her just to possess her.’

  ‘It’s a stranger man still who is so determined to possess a woman that he does not mind the fact that she’s dead,’ Baldwin pointed out gruffly.

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t dead when he had her,’ Simon countered. ‘He could have taken her by force, and then realised that she wouldn’t forgive him, so he beat her. Maybe she taunted him, saying she’d have him arrested as soon as she got back to the city.’

  ‘Come, Simon! How many rape victims have you known who have not shown extreme fear and loathing afterwards? Few would dare to taunt their attacker.’

  Simon gave a fleeting scowl. ‘I have known women who were not that scared of their rapist beforehand. Some had so little expectation of being attacked, they told the man that he’d best be off, before they told their father and brothers, and all too often the fellow’s run. I’ve seen it many times. Familiarity breeds contempt, and the mere fact that a man wants to get inside a woman’s skirts doesn’t mean she’s petrified of him, not if it’s a man whom she knows well. If it was a man this poor girl had come to know on the way here on pilgrimage, perhaps she didn’t fear a murderous assault until it was too late.’

  ‘It is possible,’ Baldwin admitted, but reluctantly. In his experience, women were all too prone to terror when they were raped – no matter how well they knew the assailant. ‘But let us investigate the land about here and see whether there are any signs which might assist Señor Munio.’

  Simon was happy to leave the body in the cart and join Baldwin.

  The ground was hard and dusty, dried out already by the midday sun. It was only at the water’s side that there was still moisture, but here there was only the mark of some feet walking to the water, then away.

  ‘Small feet,’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘Perhaps it was this woman,’ Munio said. ‘She came here to fetch some water, and was attacked as she walked away.’

  ‘Yet there is no container,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Does that mean that the killer took her water? Maybe he knew he must flee, and because of that, he took her skin or pot with him.’

  Simon was less interested in the land by the water, and more in which direction the killer had gone after the murder. ‘If he killed her and was struck with remorse, I’d have thought he’d have run straight to the Cathedral to beg forgiveness, but this doesn’t look like a sudden attack that went wrong. It’s more as though the man was overwhelmed with fury, to have done so much damage. Perhaps he just ran straight away?’

  ‘There’s no sign of footprints,’ Baldwin said, peering about.

  Simon was walking in a circle at some distance, trying to see whether there was any mark in the dry soil or clue left in the scrubby plants. He then extended his search by some yards, but found nothing of interest. It was only when he looked in the shade of a small tree some forty yards distant that he saw the first of the hoofprints.

  One set was broader, belonging to a bigger, heavier horse, for where they crossed the other hoofprints, they were set deeper into the soil. ‘Baldwin!’

  The knight and the Galician investigator joined him. Baldwin touched the dusty marks gently. ‘There’s little doubt that these are recent,’ he concluded. ‘The rain would have destroyed them, so I assume these horses were here after the rains.’

  ‘This tree – surely they came here and tied their mounts to it?’ Simon suggested.

  Baldwin frowned. ‘A man could have ridden here with her, and when he saw that they were alone, he decided to take advantage. He and she stopped, probably to take refreshment from the waters, and both tied their mounts to the tree. But then he revealed his genuine desires.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Señor Munio jerked his head to the cart, and the cleric began storing his parchment, inks and reeds in his scrip. ‘But it’s all guesswork. For now, I must return to the city and question the gatekeepers in case they saw someone like this woman leaving the place earlier.’

  Baldwin smiled. It was clear enough that the Pesquisidor expected Simon and he to join him. In his position, Baldwin would have demanded the same. ‘There is another possible explanation,’ he said. ‘I heard today that this morning there was an attack on a group of pilgrims just outside the city. Perhaps this was another band of thieves, who simply happened upon a young and attractive woman and decided to enjoy her body. Maybe it was not her horse: there were two men, one with a smaller horse than his companion’s. They had travelled here together and caught sight of this pretty young woman. One captured her, the other tied their horses, and then they both raped her. Overwhelmed with fear for their own lives in case she denounced them, they then beat her to death.’

  ‘It is as likely as any other explanation,’ Munio shrugged.

  ‘And as a story, it holds this advantage,’ Baldwin said. ‘If you spread this tale and the real killer is in Compostela still, he will think himself safe. That might give you more time to discover the truth.’

  Simon nodded, and gruffly said, ‘And thank you for not arresting us.’

  Munio’s face was curiously still as he glanced at the Bailiff. ‘There is still time, Señor.’

  Chapter Seven

  As the sun passed slowly across the sky, Doña Stefanía grew anxious. What was taking Joana so long? The place of the rendezvous had been chosen because it was almost in hail of the city walls, easy for both to get to, easy for both to escape from.

  The bastard, making use of her shame in this way! It was disgraceful that a knight should act in such a manner, demanding cash in exchange for his silence. Not that it would necessarily be the end of the matter. Doña Stefanía was a woman who had lived in the real world all her life, even if nominally she was supposed to be cloistered now in her abbey. As a lady, before she took up the cloth, she had travelled widely, and she still did so at every opportunity. She was not naive enough to believe that a blackmailer would make his demands once only and then forget her indiscretion. No. Any man who was foul enough to rob her in this manner, would try it more than once.

  She was really worried now. It was growing late and there was no sign of her maid. What had happened to Joana? The meeting should have been over hours ago.

  After some little while, she heard a rumour passing along the street and glanced up, wondering what the noise might portend.

  It was a curious noise, almost hushed, as though the crowd was talking more, but less loudly, out of some form of respect, and she wondered for a moment or two whether this might be a religious procession; however she knew that there was no religious significance to the day or to the hour. In any case, a procession would emanate from the Cathedral itself, not from the Via Francigena. That way led only to the outside world.

  It was as though that mere thought had suddenly sprung a hideous fear upon her. Overcome with dizziness, she sank back onto the bench from which she had risen, a hand going to her breast.

  ‘Doña?’

  Looking up, she found herself gazing into the concerned eyes of Don Ruy.

  ‘My lady, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he said hurriedly, ‘only to ensure that you were well. You appear pale. Have you had a shock?’ And then he gave her a smile. ‘Would you like me to seek your maid?’

  The twist to his mouth was ghastly. She was sure that he was implying something … that he was somehow threatening her. He must have had his money, damn him! Joana had been there – hadn’t he seen her? Was she still waiting there for him? She stared at the knight transfixed, but no words came.

  It was as she was about to demand what he wanted of her, that the behaviour of the crowd caught her attention. All were staring towards a corner of the square on her left. She was struck by the sudden quietness. It was as though there was a cloud of trepidation engulfing the square from that end.
/>   Standing again, and moving swiftly away from Don Ruy, she stared in that direction. Rolling slowly across the pavings was a cart, and behind it came many men, while in front of the donkey pulling it was a solitary cleric, hands joined together in prayer.

  Doña Stefanía felt her heart begin to shrivel. She glanced at the knight again, a dreadful fear overwhelming her. ‘Where is she?’ she cried hoarsely. ‘What have you done with her? Where is my maid?’ Then, without waiting for his reply, ‘She told me she was seeing you,’ she went on wildly. ‘I know why, too, so don’t try to deny it.’

  As the thoughts swirled in her mind, she grew aware that Don Ruy had moved a little closer to her, and then she made that fateful leap: if Joana wasn’t back yet, it was probably because she couldn’t come back. Don Ruy had stopped her.

  ‘You have killed her!’ she gasped, and before he could lunge and grab her, she spun around and, picking up the skirts of her tunic, hurried off through the crowds. The only thought in her mind was to get away from him before he could kill her too.

  In front of her the crowds seemed to thin, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself pelting into the middle of an empty space. There stood the cart, and in front of it were four men – the cleric, one Galician and two foreigners, to judge from their dress – all watching while four others lifted a door from the back of the cart and laid it on a table.

  From her vantage point, Doña Stefanía could see a pair of thighs lying on the door, and a face that was a horror of blood. A man rearranged the clothing to cover the corpse’s legs and render her decent before she was placed in plain view of so many men. It was, the Prioress thought, a kindly act, the sort of thing a father might do for another man’s dead daughter; protect her modesty. The body might have ceased breathing, but that was no reason to be callous. Someone somewhere must have loved her.

  That was the last thought, that someone must have loved this woman, for clearly from the well-formed calf and shapely ankle, this was no man’s body, before she saw the hem of her old tunic and knew for certain that Joana had been murdered.