The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 24

  ‘It was easy. He had an argument with me, declared he would be better living as a monk, and swore before witnesses that he would renounce the secular world and enter a fighting Order instead. In return I swore that I would myself enter the convent, and thus we parted for the night.’ Her voice was calm and level, but there was a certain fire in her eyes as she spoke, like a woman recalling scenes that were better forgotten.

  ‘The next morning he didn’t remember what he had said, and tried to force himself upon me, but I reminded him of his oath. He was rather shocked at first, but then tried to say that it wasn’t a real oath. I had to demonstrate that it was genuine, and if he was determined to renege on his word to God, I was not. Then he … he took me against my will. I spoke to the priest that morning and managed to install myself in the Priory that very same day. I believe that he joined that disreputable and dishonourable band of warrior knights, the Templars. It is terrible to think that I was once married to a man who would be capable of joining such a group. Terrible!’

  Baldwin’s sympathy for her eroded as he noticed that as she spoke, she put her hand out to Parceval. That man patted it and met Baldwin’s gaze with a calm smile. Baldwin’s feelings rose in favour of her husband. As she spoke, Parceval met Baldwin’s look again; there was a smug expression on his face.

  Biting back his contempt for the man, whoring about with this Prioress, Baldwin was about to make a sharp comment when he caught sight of Simon’s face. ‘My friend, are you quite well?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon lied. He felt as though he had a fever and was drunk at the same time. It was difficult to keep his vision in focus, and he must squint even to see Baldwin clearly. ‘I am just thirsty. Where’s that blasted innkeeper?’

  Baldwin stared at him, then bellowed to the serving staff to bring a large jug of water.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gregory shot from the tavern as soon as he thought it was safe, and bolted around the corner to stand with his back to a wall, panting slightly after the unwarranted exercise, ears straining for a sound of pursuit. If he could, he’d have laid an ambush for the devil, caught him, then showed his wife that she couldn’t catch him out so easily. He wasn’t just any green squire, he was a knight by birth and training, damn her soul! This fellow was plainly in her employ, a hireling who had been told to hurt him. Why, Gregory had no idea. All he did know, was that he was unwilling to sit about and wait to be killed.

  The alley into which he had darted was a quiet little thoroughfare, and as he waited, listening, almost no one passed by. It was good, because it meant he could hear any steps approaching. There was the occasional heavy tread of boots and slapping of sandals, but nothing that sounded like a pursuit, and after a few moments his heart slowed to its normal rate, as his body realised that there was no need to panic any longer. He could have wept. Why on earth had he married that vindictive woman? Obviously she was after him. God in heaven – were those men told to kill all the pilgrims, just to make sure they killed him? How could she be so wicked?

  He had been standing with his palms against a rough wall, and now he forced himself to pull them away. The left one was scratched. On the wall, he saw that there was a small projecting nail. At the time he had felt nothing, but now he was aware of a throbbing. It must be a sign of his mental distress.

  Why should his wife have wanted to kill him? Surely she couldn’t still bear him a grudge? She had punished him anyway, ruining his reputation and forcing him to go, like her, into a convent. Rape, she called it. Rape! When it was a wife’s duty to her husband. Not that she would ever admit to that. As far as Stefanía was concerned, it was a sign of his brutality, nothing more.

  What had he ever done, other than love her? It was just his luck that he should have married a woman who was incapable of returning affection. She had no idea of love. Couldn’t understand when he gave her his own unconditionally. It simply wasn’t part of her make-up.

  Damn it! Gregory knew that God Himself had forgiven him. Why couldn’t she? Was she so blind? And now she wanted him dead, she wanted revenge. She was prepared to see the felon and his band kill all the pilgrims, just so they could strike him down.

  Gregory felt a most peculiar courage take him over. He suddenly wanted to confront her. He had endured enough guilt over the years for his one mistake and saw no reason to continue to suffer. What, after all, had he done that was so wrong? Nothing! It was her, with her warped sense of morality. Her, and her airs and graces. Well, damn her. It was nothing to do with Gregory, and he refused to hide in the shadows. He had as much right to be here in Compostela as anyone else. He refused to run scared. Why should he?

  Looking at his scratched palm again, he felt a rising annoyance. He wasn’t evil. If the silly mare wanted an apology, he could give her one, but he would no longer keep avoiding her and hiding all the time.

  With a sniff, Gregory put his nose in the air and set off towards the little room where he had a lodging. Less than halfway there, he was suddenly struck from behind by a massive buffet that made him fall to his knees, dazed. Looking up, he was about to open his mouth and cry for help, when the next blow caught him over his ear, and he collapsed on his elbows. There was a rushing in his ears, and the ground opened up in front of him. With the inevitability of disaster, Gregory felt himself toppling forwards, and he began the fearful journey into the deep darkness.

  Just as the roaring noise overwhelmed him, he heard a strange guttural voice rasping in his ear. ‘Leave the Prioress alone, you bloody bastard.’

  ‘Stop your damned bellyaching!’ Simon said, averting his head from the bowl of watered cider. ‘God’s Ballocks! If I wanted to fill myself with water, I’d jump in the river.’

  ‘You are lucky to have been with us when you collapsed,’ Baldwin said.

  They were still in the tavern. Once he was sure that Simon was going to recover, Munio had left them to go and speak to the house of Musciatto to confirm that Parceval had told the truth about the money. The Prioress had hurried away with Parceval while the two lifted Simon and set him down on the table top. Baldwin now stood above him, cooling a cloth in a bowl of chilly vinegar and dabbing it on his head. He had felt a terrible fear when Simon toppled over, thinking that the Bailiff might die. Others he had known had died from heat exhaustion – and the idea that his best friend should succumb was appalling.

  ‘Are you sure you are …’ he choked out.

  ‘I am fine, Baldwin! God in heaven! I was just a bit thirsty, that’s all.’

  Baldwin could not prevent him from sitting upright. He stood back, wiping his hands on the cloth, then thought better of it, dipped it in the vinegar, and passed it to Simon again.

  ‘Are you sure this is supposed to help?’ Simon growled. ‘It makes me feel like puking.’

  ‘Better that than dying,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘Are you sure you haven’t shown any sign of illness until today?’

  ‘Well, only a little,’ Simon admitted reluctantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just felt a bit … I had a touch of gut rot during the night.’

  ‘Last night? What of before?’ Simon’s shiftiness made Baldwin exclaim in exasperation. ‘Good God, man! You should have told me.’

  ‘I will in future, Baldwin. All right? Now give me more cider, and then we can decide what we need to do next.’

  Baldwin sat on a bench and watched as Simon drained his cup. ‘I don’t know that cider is the best drink for a man in your condition,’ he said miserably.

  Simon lowered his cup. ‘Baldwin, I am not dead, and I won’t die either, provided I am just a little more careful. That’s all I need, a bit more care.’

  ‘Very well,’ Baldwin said. He looked in towards the tavern-keeper. ‘He does not seem to like having you lying on his table.’

  ‘Tough!’ Simon said unsympathetically. ‘If he wants, he can come here and tell me I’m not allowed. I’ll settle his mind on the matter.’

  Baldwin smiled. He was abo
ut to speak when he heard an odd noise outside in the crowds. ‘What’s that?’

  Simon turned his head, wincing a little as he did so. ‘Sounds like some sort of upset.’

  ‘My heavens, I hope it’s not another dead man,’ Baldwin murmured. He sat up and stared out into the roadway, craning his neck to see what was happening.

  Simon hopped down from the table and tensed his legs slightly. He still felt rather wobbly, but a great deal better than he had before. ‘Any sign?’

  ‘There’s a man hurrying here.’

  Simon saw him, a large ox-like man with a square head and thick neck. He was running straight towards them. ‘I don’t recognise him.’

  Nor did Baldwin, but soon the man was talking to the tavern-keeper, and the two men came to Simon and Baldwin and indicated that they were wanted.

  ‘By whom?’ Baldwin demanded.

  ‘Munio.’

  Gregory came to gradually, like an old dog stirring from a deep sleep.

  The first thing he became aware of was that his cheek was sore. There was a solid lump under it, and he tried to move his head to a more comfortable position. That was when he realised that not only was the lump hard, his head was very painful too.

  ‘Christ alive!’ he muttered.

  ‘You should be careful of your language in a god fearing town like this one.’

  Gregory opened one eye and stared at Munio. ‘Ah, señor, I …’ he began, but Munio waved a hand.

  ‘I can speak English as well as Castilian or Basque. Perhaps it would be safer to stick to that.’

  ‘Safer?’ Gregory became aware that a small crowd was milling about them, and from the muttering, people were not happy to have found him there. ‘What happened?’ he asked thickly.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me that,’ Munio said.

  ‘But I was … walking. Oh yes, I was on my way to—’ He suddenly lifted his head. The pain was like a swift thrust from a dagger, straight in at the back of his skull. ‘Christ Jesus!’ he moaned, and began retching.

  Baldwin and Simon arrived as he ejected a stream of yellowish bile onto the slabs, and Baldwin muttered to Munio, who sent their messenger to a nearby wine-seller. He was soon back with a skin of wine, and Munio passed it to Gregory without comment.

  The injured man’s mouth tasted foul, as though he had woken from a night’s carousing, and the strong wine was a relief. He swilled some and spat it out, then drank a goodly mouthful and swallowed with gratitude. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘What happened?’ Munio asked.

  Simon stared at the cleric without comprehending why they had been called here. ‘Is this someone else who’s been attacked?’

  ‘Yes,’ Munio answered. ‘Fortunately this one wasn’t killed, although he could have been, had he been hit a little harder.’

  ‘Is there anything to connect this attack with either of the others?’ Baldwin asked.

  Munio nodded to Gregory.

  ‘I was going to see my lady,’ the man explained, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I was married to her once, but she left me and took the vows.’

  Baldwin said, ‘You are Gregory?’

  ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘Because we were looking for you,’ Baldwin said, smiling at Munio. ‘You must have heard that there have been some murders here. A man was killed yesterday, only an old beggar, but—’

  ‘And a woman the day before,’ Munio interrupted. ‘Now we find you here, beaten over the head, just like the first corpse – the woman. Yet you are alive.’ The Pesquisidor was clearly angry that Baldwin appeared to have forgotten all about poor Joana, and was concentrating all his efforts on the murder of Matthew.

  To his credit, Baldwin heard the rough note of anger in Munio’s voice and looked abashed. He nodded hurriedly. ‘Yes. The woman was beaten to death, and although you have not suffered so much damage as she did, perhaps there is some connection between the attacks.’

  ‘Connection?’ Gregory echoed dully, but then his head jerked up. ‘Yes! I was going to talk to my wife. She tried to hurt me before, I think – and this must have been her again! Christ, but my head hurts! I saw her man, you see, and I thought that she was trying to punish me for … well, for a past misdemeanour.’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘What misdemeanour was this?’ Baldwin demanded curtly. He had other things to check up on.

  ‘Sir, you are English. I can speak freely in front of you. My wife and I had not enjoyed a happy marriage. She decided to join a convent, and when I was in my cups, she had me agree to dissolve our marriage so that she could take up the vows. In jest I said that I would do so too, and thought little more of it. Next morning, she refused to see me, saying that our union was no more, that she was a Bride of Christ, and I a Brother. I found this infuriating, and sought to make up with her as a husband and wife should, with the result that she accused me of rape and locked her door to me. That day she left my house.’

  ‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘She has not forgiven me. On the day I arrived here, she learned somehow which party I was with, and set her men to attack it with the aim of killing me. I just heard them discussing their attack! By a miracle there was a second party, this of honourable knights …’ A vision of Sir Charles’s face came to his mind, but he pushed the memory away. ‘Well, they rescued us. Drove off the others and saved us from death.’

  ‘You were with Don Ruy?’ Simon asked.

  ‘How did you know that?’ Gregory asked. His head was hurting abominably, and he wanted to thrust it into some cold water to try to cool it. When he felt the back of his skull, he found a lump the size of a cobblestone. Merely touching it made his breath hiss with pain. ‘He almost killed me! It’s just my luck she should get a servant with a strong arm!’

  ‘Who is the man whom you accuse of doing this?’ Munio demanded.

  ‘My wife’s servant. He’s called Domingo – he’s a hunchback and he hangs his head like this …’

  Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look, then stared at Munio.

  The Pesquisidor nodded. ‘Yes, it sounds like the fellow whom Don Ruy said went out through the gate after he saw Ramón and Joana: the felon who led the malfechores. Do you know where we can find this man?’

  Domingo watched over his men in a surly mood. There were two fewer men now, he saw. Two had left during the day, leaving his group to find better work or pay.

  He stood and walked out to the wall behind the tavern, pulled open his cods and pissed. There was a small pebble on the ground, and he turned, aiming and rolling it end over end a few times, chuckling without amusement. A moment later he was smothered beneath the torment of grief.

  Sancho was dead, and there was nothing he could do to bring his boy back. It was wrong that people should be happy, when this tragedy had happened. The whole world should have grieved with him.

  He reset his clothing and started back to the tavern, a hand touching his purse. There were no coins left to buy drinks. All he had was the little box with its valuable contents, but he daren’t try to sell it in Compostela. He needed money, and that meant the Prioress. No one else he knew could help him. Perhaps if he went to see her and suggested an exchange – money for the Saint’s relic? The bitch couldn’t refuse that, could she? She’d hurry to the nearest moneylender to get her precious box back. Perhaps she could pawn her rosary or something. Domingo wasn’t very strong on the sort of belongings a Prioress would have; all he knew was that she was wealthier than his own wildest dreams. He should know that – he who had grown up in the shadow of the Priory at Vigo.

  This journey had begun with such optimism, he and his men setting off with the Prioress and his cousin Joana, travelling all the way east to the Basque regions, visiting the church, Domingo and his men trying not to appear too overwhelmed by the people, the money, the buildings, the rich clothes, the shops selling everything … everything imaginable! Domingo and his men had gazed in utter awe at the stalls in the town. Only later, w
hen they had gone to the church to give thanks for their safe arrival, had Domingo seen the little casket which Doña Stefanía handed to the Bishop with a grimace.

  It had obviously cost her, that grimace. She looked like a woman who had eaten the biggest egg only to learn that it was bad. But what Domingo didn’t understand was why the Prioress burst out laughing the moment they were all out of the church. And kept laughing for the next few miles, as did Joana.

  Not that Joana would tell him anything. Bitch! His cousin had always had a fond belief in her own importance. Never treated Domingo as anything better than a dog, and not a favoured one, either. As far as she was concerned, he was a necessary evil. He protected her and her mistress, but that was all.

  Then, one day when the Prioress and Joana were talking quietly together before the campfire, Domingo heard them mention a relic. They had their heads together over a small box, and he saw them both cross themselves as the Prioress closed it and dropped it into her purse. Joana looked up and saw him staring. It was a short while after that, that she and the Prioress tried to join Don Ruy’s band of pilgrims, as though they feared Domingo might steal their most prized possession.

  Once they had settled in with the new group, Domingo and his men had been told to leave the two women, but to keep within earshot. The Prioress was a fast worker, and she had soon picked a pilgrim as her lover. Joana had told him about this the next day, giggling at the way her mistress had knelt and prayed, begging God’s forgiveness, once she realised she’d been more than a bit indiscreet!

  Next morning, way before dawn, she’d come to Domingo with Joana, and insisted that they leave instantly. Luckily they soon met Frey Ramón again, and stayed with his party until Doña Stefanía told Domingo and his men to attack Don Ruy’s band.

  Domingo pulled the box from his purse again and stared at it, weighing it in his hand. It felt like nothing, and yet he knew it was worth large sums to any number of churches. The trouble was, he couldn’t walk into the Cathedral here and offer it for sale. If they believed for one moment that the box contained a genuine relic, they would arrest him and torture him to learn when and how he had acquired it. He could make sure that the Prioress was punished for taking it, he supposed, and that would bring her down off her high horse, but he didn’t care about that so much as having a pocketful of money to purchase wine to deaden the hurt of Sancho’s death.