The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 25

  Perhaps she would see reason, he considered. She might agree to find money in exchange for the thing. Simply to be rid of it would be a relief. He felt as though it was watching him all the time. There was a strong superstitious streak in him, and he felt that it was bad luck to have a part of a saint on your person when engaged upon less than honourable exploits.

  Yes, he would go and see her – right now, before their lack of funds was noticed by the tavern-keeper.

  Domingo walked out into the street, and made his way by the larger thoroughfares to the main square. There he saw a large body of men gathering, but thought little of it. Instead, he turned down the road towards the small chapel where he had last seen Doña Stefanía. He entered, looking for the Prioress, but saw no sign of her. Undaunted, he left and turned towards the next. She was bound to be in one of the chapels.

  As he reached the door, he heard a sudden roar in the distance, and stood for a moment, his head cocked, listening. It sounded like a fight. He hesitated, but his instincts took over, and he started trotting back the way he had come, towards the battle.

  Baldwin was not willing to allow Simon to take part in the actual fight. While Gregory tottered unsteadily towards the tavern, Munio and another man helping him, Baldwin told Simon about all the tortures he would have to endure, should Simon’s wife Meg ever get to hear that Baldwin had allowed her husband to go and fight when he was recovering from heat exhaustion.

  ‘And then, I think she’d have me skinned. The death would be entirely unpleasant,’ Baldwin finished cheerily.

  ‘Come on! I have to help catch this bastard,’ Simon said urgently. The big man wasn’t used to being mollycoddled.

  ‘No. Not a chance. I’d prefer to die myself than have to explain to Meg how I let you in there,’ Baldwin said lightly, but then he shot Simon a look. ‘I mean it. I won’t allow you in there.’

  ‘There are several men there.’

  ‘And I won’t have you killed by a single one of them,’ Baldwin said patiently. ‘You can stay out here in the roadway and stop anyone from escaping, if you like.’

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous!’

  ‘Ridiculous or not, it is what will be,’ Baldwin said, and gabbled to Munio. The Pesquisidor nodded, glanced at Simon, and then muttered something to one of the men from his posse. This man, a short but powerful-looking fellow with a grim expression and wary watchfulness in his brown eyes, had the appearance of one who was capable of stopping even a determined Bailiff. The staff that he gripped in his large hands underlined the message.

  Simon sulkily subsided as Baldwin and Munio moved forward with Gregory until they were nearer the tavern. There they paused; Baldwin moved stealthily around a wall and stood in the shadow of a large tree from where he could see the tavern’s open yard. A short while later, Gregory came back again as Munio hissed an instruction, and more men moved up to join him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘The leader isn’t there. They’re just waiting a while in case he’s gone out for a leak,’ Gregory said. His eyes were gleaming in the twilight, a flaming torch lending his face an unwholesome yellow and orange colour. ‘No! They’re going to attack now!’

  Simon turned back to see that the mass of men were streaming ahead. Just to the left, he saw movement – then there was a flash, like a burst of lightning, and he knew it was Baldwin’s peacock-blue blade. He saw it whirl in the air, over the heads of the men running into the tavern’s yard, and then there was a great roar, and the men burst like a torrent into the tavern itself.

  The noise now was a mixture of screams, growls, and an occasional short shriek, accompanied by the ringing, clattering and crashing of swords, axes and knives.

  ‘I have to see what’s happening,’ Gregory said with a most unclerical enthusiasm. He was very pale, but his hopping from one leg to another showed his eagerness.

  ‘If I can’t, I don’t see why you should.’ Simon grumbled, but he was talking to the empty evening air, for Gregory had already darted up and into the tavern. Simon started to move after him, but as soon as he took the first pace forward, the staff swung down in front of him. Resting his hand on it, Simon said bad-temperedly, ‘I could shove this up your arse if I wanted.’

  The man set to guard him merely shrugged uncomprehendingly as Simon turned and glanced up at him.

  ‘In my country, I could have you arrested for holding me here like this, you great hulking cretin.’

  This time there was a short grin, as though the man understood Simon’s frustration, but had his orders.

  The battle was soon all but over. There were only two men still resisting, and Simon could see a point of blue gleaming in a candle’s light, moving in an arc to rest gently on a man’s throat. The fellow suddenly stopped dead, and stood immobile while Baldwin’s hand reached around and plucked the long knife from his hand. It was so smooth and effortless, Simon had to smile. He turned again and grinned at his guard, and then his smile became fixed.

  Over the man’s shoulder, Simon had seen a face which he recognised from the descriptions. The man’s head hung slightly oddly, as though it was a little too heavy on one side. His expression was one of shock and anger, as he stared past Simon towards the tavern, and then at the grim figure of Munio who stood questioning one of the prisoners. Baldwin was walking about the place, his sword still in his hand, while Gregory had returned to join him, and now strolled a little to Baldwin’s side, eyeing the sword with satisfaction.

  Simon pushed the staff away and began to stalk his prey.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Domingo stared with amazement. How could any piddling official dare to attack his band? He had never heard of such a thing in his life before. These fools had no right to start hacking away at him and his men!

  But if they dared to attack, maybe that was because his men had been betrayed. And that could only mean one thing: the Prioress had informed on Domingo and his men. No one else could have had them all ambushed like this. It had to be her!

  Almost before he knew what he would do, he felt his legs turning him as though of their own volition. She had caused the death of his son with her stupid demand that Domingo should attack the pilgrims, and now she’d betrayed them when their only crime was having obeyed her commands. They’d done what she’d wanted, and now she’d made up her mind to throw them to the law.

  But Domingo wasn’t going to surrender without a fight, and if he could, he would kill her too. She deserved that much.

  He shot a look over his shoulder, and took in the scene at a glance. There were the officers, there were his men, one being clubbed and kicked on the ground, and another guard holding a man slightly nearer. Domingo’s eye was drawn back to that last man, a tall, strong-looking fellow with a sword on his hip and a serious expression, grim with concentration, fixed upon Domingo.

  The robbers’ leader turned and pelted away back towards the Cathedral. He would find Doña Stefanía, and by Christ, this time, he would make her pay.

  Simon’s legs exploded into action; he raced off after Domingo as soon as he saw the man start running. Simon easily sidestepped the staff and then he moved as fast as he could, left hand gripping his sword’s hilt, right one pistoning back and forth as if it could make him catch up with the wiry Galician a little faster.

  A dull ache started pounding in the back of his head, but he ignored it. It was just a hangover from his earlier illness, nothing more. He was fine, and he had a focus for all his energies now: the felon ahead of him. This was the man who had led the attack on the pilgrims. He was also implicated in the murder of Joana, and was probably involved in the attempted murder of Gregory as well.

  There was something wrong about that last thought, but Simon didn’t have time to analyse it now. His mind and body and soul were all focused on catching Domingo. Nothing else mattered.

  He saw the robber slam into a woman, who gave a short scream as she was hurled backwards into a wall, her head bouncing against it be
fore she slumped to the ground. Domingo rebounded from her into a small cart, back to a wall, and then he was balanced and running again, leaping over a tray of foods, pounding onwards. Simon hurdled the woman’s body, bellowing hoarsely at the top of his voice to clear the path before him, then roaring again to persuade someone to catch Domingo, but he only knew the English words, and no one appeared to understand him.

  ‘Stop that man! Stop him! ’Ware that man! Stop that murderer!’

  His breath was a harsh pain now. It felt like pins and needles as he swallowed it, as though the air was filled with steel that scraped and scrubbed his throat with every breath. With the row of his feet slapping on the slabs, there was the thundering of the blood in his veins, all but deafening him, and when he reached a corner, he had to hold out his arms to stop himself from crashing bodily into the wall, shoving away as he carried on running, pushing himself in the new direction. Ahead of him, he could still see Domingo, and the robber was gaining speed now. Simon was slowing, but the Galician, raised in the hills south of Compostela where he had run throughout his youth, showed no signs of flagging. Simon felt his breath sob in his breast at the thought that he was going to lose his man, and then he was on again, teeth gritted in grim determination, fists clenched, while he concentrated on Domingo’s back, ignoring the pain in his own legs.

  There was a bellow and he snapped a look over his shoulder, only to see, loping easily just behind him, his guard, the staff still gripped in his hand. He saw Simon’s look, gave a short nod, then overtook him.

  Simon was dumbfounded. He had always been considered relatively swift over a longer distance, that he had stamina rather than the ability to sprint, but now he felt as though he might as well stop and stand still as try to compete. The Compostelan merely set his head down like a bull, and stampeded onwards. Simon hadn’t heard of the festivals in which the youths of the towns ran with the bulls, but if he had, he would have been hard pushed to say whether this man was more human than bull.

  A pause for a heart’s beat, and then Simon’s second wind came; he chased off after the two men once more. He heard another shout, a scream, and then a third call, and this time it was taken up by other voices. Suddenly Simon was in the square again, and he stopped, leaning against a doorframe while his face suddenly flamed with heat, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he felt as though his mouth was too small to swallow as much breath as he needed. He had to grip the wall to support himself as he peered into the square.

  Domingo was all but incoherent with rage. One fool he could have coped with, but this second man had prevented his escape, and now he was held at bay. There was a circle of stallholders and hawkers about him, all watching him with that measuring assessment that a man had in his eye when he gauged one dog’s strength against another’s in the ring. Three brandished good-sized sticks, while another had a blade out and ready. Then there was the thickset man who had pursued him. He stood gripping his staff as though wondering where to poke it to make Domingo collapse most speedily.

  This was the man who was the most dangerous, Domingo knew. While Domingo’s legs were recovering speedily, the other’s legs were already relaxed, as though he had not just chased Domingo for over a half mile.

  Domingo must crush this opponent or be vanquished himself, he knew. He retreated slightly. The man smiled grimly, tapped the staff against the palm of his hand, and then started to advance.

  Instantly Domingo moved. He ran full tilt into the officer, head down.

  Astonished, the man hesitated, and then it was too late. He tried to bring his staff down to block Domingo’s rush, but the weapon bounced off the robber chief’s broad back; Domingo’s head then thumped into his belly, and all the air whooshed from his lungs before the first of his assailant’s punches landed on his body. Bringing the staff down again, he tried to inflict some pain on Domingo, but the latter had the leverage to push him around, and then managed to pound his fist into his kidney. Overcome with agony, the man fell.

  Domingo felt him collapse, and kicked once as the man curled into a ball at his feet. He glanced down with surprise at the bloody knife in his fist. He couldn’t remember grabbing it. It must have been the officer’s own weapon, for it wasn’t Domingo’s. Furious, frustrated, he kicked again, seeing the thick mist of blood that erupted from the dying man’s kidney.

  He could see Simon still leaning on the wall. To his surprise, Simon pushed himself upright and began to walk towards him. ‘Who are you?’ Domingo shouted. ‘What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing to you!’

  Simon understood none of his words. He approached steadily, drawing his sword as he came, watching Domingo’s hands, his feet, his eyes – the way that his body moved – for those were the indicators that showed a martial artist’s skill.

  Oh God, there was that dizziness again, but he wasn’t going to surrender to it. He would arrest this felon if it killed him.

  Domingo saw the steely determination in Simon’s eyes, cast a look about him, saw the reluctance of the others to come to his aid, lifted his blade and gave a shriek of defiance, and then ran at the youngest man there. The fellow gave a squeak, tripped and fell, and Domingo was already over him, and running on.

  But this time he’d been forced away from the Cathedral. He wouldn’t be able to catch the damned Prioress, the woman responsible for all his woes; he wouldn’t be able to kill the vixen! There was a hill ahead, and he hurried up it. Behind him he could hear footsteps pounding after him; and every now and again a missile would hurtle past his head.

  He came to a small open space with a couple of donkeys tearing at a patch of scrubby grass. He hurtled down an alley to the right, hoping to deflect some of the hunt. Forty yards or so into it lay another alley, and he ran up it. This ended in a wider space. An old barn stood in the middle; he slipped through the part-open door, hoping no one was close enough to see him, praying that they wouldn’t be able to hear the painful thudding of his heart in the still air.

  Simon was convinced at first that the man must have darted down another alley. He wasn’t the first of the pursuers to reach what he thought of as a cross between a yard and a green, and there were already three or four men milling in confusion when he reached it. He had to stop, leaning against a low tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘Where is he?’ he gasped. ‘Did anyone see him?’

  It was clear that no one understood a word he said, and beyond a couple of quizzical looks, he was ignored.

  He couldn’t blame them. This area was roughly triangular, with their entrance in the middle of the longest side. From here, three main lanes ran away, and two smaller alleys as well. Domingo could have taken any of these and would be well out of sight by now. There was no means of telling where he could have gone.

  Simon permitted himself to sink to his knees, the breath sobbing in his throat as he realised that they had lost the man responsible for so much pain and suffering, Simon had been determined to catch him and bring him to justice, but he had failed. Worse, he had led one of Munio’s men to his own death. In his mind’s eye, Simon saw that man’s body twisted with agony after Domingo had stabbed him, writhing as Domingo kicked him. Another death. Another victim.

  Then, through a veil of tears, Simon saw it: the faintest smudge of ochre. Hastily wiping his eyes, he stared. A half-moon of blood lay on the ground. Looking back the way he had come, he could see no sign of footprints of blood, but then he realised that here, emerging from the alleyway, Domingo would have had to alter his pattern of footsteps, slowing, then hurrying again. Perhaps as he came out into this yard, a different part of his shoe hit the ground, and that was why he had deposited blood here.

  The mark pointed towards a narrow alley which headed up away from the Cathedral. Simon was about to take the men up that way, when he saw what looked like another print – except this one pointed to a barn door. The door looked slightly ajar, and Simon, looking up, thought he saw a flash, as though there was an eye in the gap, watching to see what the posse
would do.

  Simon looked along the alley again and nodded to himself. He stood, whistled, and, when he had the attention of all the men, he ran straight at the barn’s door, kicking at it with a foot.

  Domingo saw Simon slump to the ground in defeat, and smiled to himself, but he wanted these men to leave. He didn’t want them idling away their time here, he wanted them to run off in a different direction. There was a group of three who were pointing away from the Cathedral, and he willed the others to take their advice. ‘Go on, go on!’

  The whistle cut through his thoughts. It was as loud as a pig’s squeal and Domingo’s attention shot back to Simon. He saw the Bailiff look about him with satisfaction at all the other men, then he saw Simon’s gaze turn back towards him and the door, and realised. ‘No!’

  He retreated as Simon began to run. In moments the door shivered to pieces and the whole barn filled with particles of rotten wood and dust. By then he was already partway to a screen at the back of the barn. He hoped that there was a room beyond, maybe with an exit to another building, thence to an alley where he could escape, but as he ran in, he realised that this was only a garderobe. His feet took him almost into the small chamber, and then he had to stop, before he got trapped.

  Turning at bay, he felt his lips draw back from his teeth in a snarl of animal rage. He shouldn’t be in this position! He shouldn’t! Grabbing at his purse, he pulled out the relic, and muttered a prayer for protection to Saint Peter, but there was nothing; no reply. He grasped the box in his fist, shaking it furiously. The Saint could save him if he wanted, but he had no regard for Domingo, and the outlaw knew that even that last hope was gone. He uttered a curse against the Saint, his parents, and all his descendants just as the door cracked and fell, and Simon hurtled in.