The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 27

  The Prioress was little better. There was something that was holding her here, although she wouldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t make it out. If she’d wanted to, she could have thrown herself on the mercy of the Bishop. That must surely be better than sleeping with Parceval and the damage this could do to her immortal soul – not to mention the ruination of her career here on earth. Yet instead of asking for help, or even leaving town and heading back to her convent, which wasn’t that far away – only a few leagues – she stayed here, gazing at the beggars and thieves about the place, making it her business to talk to the whores and sluts as though she was thinking of taking up their cause before God. As though a stale who plied her trade in the Cathedral yard could hope to receive God’s sympathy!

  Not many men could make it to Compostela when the whole of the van Coye family was determined to skin them alive. He had been lucky at times, certainly, but generally he’d been clever and one step ahead. That was why he was here, and not lying dismembered in a ditch somewhere on the way.

  Doña Stefanía was suspicious, he could tell. She looked at him just a little bit warily, as though wondering whether he had in fact killed her maid and gone off with the money. Well, why shouldn’t she wonder? He would too in her position. She already knew he was a dangerous man, that he had killed before and was here because of that fact. There was no secret about it.

  He felt rather than heard her movement as she stretched out a hand, and he sniffed and cleared his throat. Instantly the hand withdrew. They deserved each other, he thought bleakly; she was only there because she wanted his money, and he was there because he wanted her body and the fleeting forgetfulness it provided. She detested him, in all probability, and he didn’t trust her an inch.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Odd, that man putting up such a fight – the one who attacked our band of pilgrims.’

  She grunted, but he was sure that she was listening carefully.

  ‘He was the leader – I told you that, didn’t I? And yet he was no coward, apparently. He tried to take the Englishman with him. Failed, though. He got killed but the Englishman lives.’

  Yes, he was lucky to have reached Compostela. Van Coye’s family had tried to have him murdered, no doubt about that. Bloody bastards! Van Coye had deserved his end. He was ever an argumentative arse, was Hellin van Coye. From the first day he arrived at Ypres to the day he died at Parceval’s hand, he had been a bastard. Big, strong, and proud of his power, Hellin used to bully all about him into submission. He’d push anyone, just to see them retreat. Mastery over others, that was the thing.

  Well, one day he picked on a man who wouldn’t back down. Hellin saw him in a tavern, and when he saw the girl with him, he was smitten, by all accounts. The youth was not half Hellin’s age, but that didn’t worry van Coye. If a man was smaller, younger, weaker and less experienced, so much the better.

  Parceval was very drunk when Hellin began his assault. Well, they all were. There must have been seven or so customers left in the inn by the time Hellin noticed the boy arrive. The lad walked with his girl to a dark corner in the tavern – a stupid error. He was away from the door, and must pass by Hellin again to escape the place. Not that Parceval knew this at the time. He was outside, spewing again. He’d already been forced to go out and puke once to make space for more ale, and now he was feeling the onset of the next bout. His skin felt too tight, his face was hot, his body clammy, but he felt marginally better and was rising to return when he heard the noise inside.

  It was strange how some men lost all control when they were drunk. Hellin was one such. Whenever he had too much to drink, he wanted to fight, and tonight was no exception. Apparently he made a great game of laughing at the couple, jeering and making stupid comments about the man. He’d a fair group of his friends about him, and they kept on and on until the couple rose to leave, the maid hiding her face beneath a veil. Then Hellin stood and blocked their path. The tavern was only a small place, and there was nowhere else for escape. The youth pushed the girl behind him, and Hellin held out his hands innocently, the brutish features – Christ Jesus, how Parceval hated that face! – expressing apology, as though he suddenly realised that he had gone too far and wished to apologise, but when the boy trusted him, Hellin van Coye drew him to his breast, snatched the boy’s own knife and plunged it into the side of his neck, thrusting down with all the force at his command. The lad fell without a murmur, probably dead before he reached the ground, and then it was that Hellin took the girl.

  He was nothing if not democratic though, Hellin van Coye. When he had enjoyed his game with her, he held her thrashing form for his friends. He wouldn’t have wanted them to miss out on the fun.

  Many wouldn’t believe the story afterwards. Ypres had been such a lovely little town, but things had changed, perhaps forever, when the famine struck and swathes of the population were struck down. In one month in 1316, a tenth part of the city’s people had died from hunger. After those days, the murder of one young man and the rape and subsequent suicide of his woman was of little note. There were many more things for the folk to concern themselves over, such as would there be any food on the table that night?

  Parceval had coped very well with things. Until that hideous night, he had been a cheerful fellow, always the first with the offer of an ale or wine when the taverns were open, always the first to open his wallet, the first to see the humour in a youngster’s shame or embarrassment. It all changed that night, though, because of Hellin.

  For Parceval, that scene haunted his dreams. Drunk, confused, he returned to see the boy dead on the floor. The girl was discarded at his side, eyes screwed shut, her wimple and veil gone, her dress torn apart, her skirts clutched to her in the hope that she might cover herself.

  He could do nothing. His horror rose, choking him, searing his soul, and as he reached towards her, Hellin and another grabbed him and pulled him from that hellish room.

  The lot of them callously left her shrieking to herself in the middle of the floor, covered with vomit and her lover’s blood. The men walked down an alley, two trying to support Parceval, but they had only gone a short distance when Hellin bethought himself that it would be amusing to pick on someone else. He did that sometimes; he was as unpredictable as the thunder. This time it was Parceval’s turn.

  Hellin turned on Parceval and accused him of not taking his chance with the girl. That, he said, was disloyal. Or was it because Parceval had no ballocks? Here was Hellin, providing them with a pleasant chicken to stuff, and the least Parceval could do was show willing and pile in. All this was said with that customary glowering mien with the twisted lip, that meant it was either a joke, or that Hellin was working himself up to a killing frenzy.

  Parceval had said nothing at the time. He was recalling that face – that pure, white, terrified face. It was appalling. He felt his stomach react, and he emptied his ale over the roadside to the hilarity of the companions, but then he lurched away, and while his ‘friends’ spoke and laughed, he sought a trough and washed his face and hands.

  That poor girl had screamed as though her soul was being torn from her with pincers of steel. She had screamed as though the entire legions of heaven were powerless to help her, as though there was nothing, nothing in this world that could ever rebuild the life that was shattered that night. When the men had all left her, she had taken up the knife that had ended her man’s life, and slit her own throat, rather than suffer any more. What could life have been to her after that night?

  Parceval had washed himself and felt the drunkenness fall away as he thought of her. Then, while his companions sat or sprawled in the roadway, he walked up to Hellin and stabbed him in the back of the neck, shoving the knife in and up with all his might, clinging on to his blade as the great meaty hands reached up and over to haul him away, ignoring the punches and slaps from his ‘friends’.

  ‘Friends’! These were the men who had raped his daughter. He
had no friends.

  ‘Why do you want to go there?’

  ‘It is only right that a man should seek a murderer, surely?’

  Simon eyed him doubtfully. Baldwin was suspiciously enthusiastic for someone who was talking about scouring a country for a fugitive. ‘Come on. This is not only about some dead servant girl, is it? I can understand your wanting to speak to Ramón, but you were all afire to seek out Matthew’s murderer. Why are you now so keen to leave here and go to Portugal?’

  Baldwin’s smile dropped a little. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘It is,’ Simon yawned.

  ‘In the first place, as you say, I want to question Ramón; in the second, it seems that the man who killed Matthew was with a small band, and he’s in Portugal too. We have heard that he was seeking a path to Tomar when he left here.’

  ‘That makes more sense,’ Simon said. There was a terrible lethargy stealing over him again. ‘So you want to catch him too.’

  ‘It is not only that,’ Baldwin said and stared out through the open window. ‘It is hard to explain, Simon. When I was in the Order, I was a young man. For the first time in my life, I had a purpose. Before that, I was idling my way through life, enjoying it as I could, but always knowing that my older brother would inherit the manor. At last, when I went to Acre and witnessed a magnificent city brought down and destroyed by the Moors, I realised that I had a purpose. At that time, I thought there was no more honourable thing that a man could do, other than join an Order and defend pilgrims by fighting as many Moors as he could. And then the city fell and I was injured and saved by the Templars.

  ‘I suppose if I had been saved on a Hospitaller ship, I might have joined the Knights Hospitaller instead, in which case you and I would never have met, because I would still be in my Order. But I wasn’t. I was saved by the Templars, and because I owed them my life, I gave my life to the Order. My happiest memories of all are of the Order, of warm sea breezes, of the scent of orange blossom, of fresh lemons, of …’

  Baldwin fell silent. In his memory there were so many different scenes. Rocky coasts, sun-baked hills, lush olive groves, vineyards, slim, dark-skinned women with black hair that gleamed in the bright light. It was more than a series of unrelated memories; it was his life.

  ‘You want to go and see it again?’

  ‘I was in Portugal for a while. It has happy memories for me, but it also has the great fort of Tomar.’

  ‘So what?’ Simon yawned. It felt as though his entire body had been pummelled by a gang of miners with their hammers, and he winced.

  ‘If this Ramón was heading for the Order of Christ, Tomar would be the first place he would go to. It is where I shall find him.’

  ‘And the killer of Matthew.’

  Baldwin’s smile hardened. ‘His killer also seems to have headed in that direction. I think I shall find him there as well.’

  ‘How long would it take to get there?’

  ‘I am told that on horseback, a man travelling at his ease could do the journey in fifteen days without any strain, or perhaps as few as eleven if he was prepared to make his mount suffer.’

  ‘I’ve been here for two days. You’d have to travel swiftly to catch them.’

  ‘I have an easier method. We shall take a ship and sail there.’

  Simon caught a yawn. ‘If you think so,’ he said unenthusiastically.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Simon. It’s only a short ride to the port, and then we take a ship down the coast. Travelling night and day, not worrying about a horse’s stamina, we can get there speedily.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Simon said, but now the exhaustion was overtaking him again.

  ‘When we are there …’ Baldwin began, but before he could complete his sentence, Margarita appeared in the doorway behind him. Baldwin turned and gave her a shamefaced smile. ‘I see I am not allowed to overtire you. Rest, Simon, and I shall speak to you again later.’

  Simon nodded, and although he tried to give the woman a cross look, because he would have liked to know what Baldwin had been about to say, he failed. His eyelids were too heavy, and he needed to close them, just for a few moments.

  Before Margarita could silently close the door, he was already snoring.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Baldwin found it hard to contain his enthusiasm. He left the house and went out to the small garden that Munio was so proud of, and when Munio’s steward appeared, Baldwin asked for a cup of wine.

  It arrived, carried not by the steward, but by Munio himself. ‘So you have had some good fortune?’ he enquired.

  ‘It seems so,’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘With luck we can soon take our leave of you and board a ship to Portugal. I will be reluctant, but it will be good to try to find this Ramón.’

  ‘And the other,’ Munio said. His usually doleful expression looked today still more mournful than usual.

  ‘It would be good to catch him as well,’ Baldwin agreed.

  ‘It would have been more satisfying if Joana’s murderer had been that felon Domingo.’

  ‘Yes. But his men deny anything to do with her murder and there is no money. If a common felon found himself in possession of such wealth, he would be incapable of saving it or concealing it. He would surely spend it at once,’ Baldwin said. He had seen it many times before.

  ‘Yet he did go out there that day. Of course, one of Domingo’s men once said that he and Joana were cousins.’

  ‘Which makes murder neither more nor less likely,’ Baldwin observed.

  ‘As you say,’ Munio said. ‘And have you given any thought to what you would do if you caught one or other of the two?’

  ‘Oh, Ramón I should like to question, if the Mestre allows me. As you said, he could have had something to do with the death of the girl. We think he saw her up there but lied and left the place. If he is guilty of her murder, I should wish to bring him back here.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Matthew’s killer is clearly evil,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘He was witnessed murdering a harmless old man. He deserves his fate.’

  Munio turned upon him a look of such piercing intelligence that Baldwin blinked. ‘I fear you think me a fool, just because I do not speak your tongue so well as you.’

  ‘Not at all, you speak my language better than I speak yours, and for that I honour you,’ Baldwin protested.

  ‘But still you treat me as an idiot. You think me a country bumpkin, not an astute fellow like yourself. Oh, do not try to argue otherwise. It is clear enough. Now, Don Baldwin, let me tell you some things. I know you have a burning desire to go to Portugal. Why not? I hear it is a lovely country. But you want to punish the murderer of a beggar. That death offends you more than the ending of the life of a beautiful, defenceless child, when the motive for her death was either her rape or the simple theft of the money that was on her. That means to me that her murderer was either exceedingly fortunate, because he found a suitable woman to rape just at the time that she was carrying a fortune in money, or that he already knew she would be there with the cash. Which means he knew her, knew of the blackmail, and knew she had the money. That man could so easily have been Ramón. He picked up a stone and smashed that poor face into nothing, then stole all the money. If that is the case, he is a cold-blooded murderer and should be punished.’

  ‘I agree, of course I do. But where is the proof? Why should he run if he had killed her?’

  Munio was scathing. ‘If he didn’t, why did he run away before seeking out and killing the real murderer? Can you imagine a chivalrous man leaving his fiancée’s corpse like that? Any knight would try to seek the murderer.’

  ‘I have no power to arrest him in Portugal or anywhere.’

  ‘So you will question him,’ Munio said. ‘And he will go unpunished.’

  Baldwin nodded slowly. The thought in Munio’s mind was easy to read. The Pesquisidor wanted the man killed. ‘If he is a Brother in the Order of Christ by the time I get there, there is nothing I can do to have
him punished. The Brothers will protect him.’

  ‘And meanwhile you will go about and in his place, seek the killer of an old beggar.’

  ‘If I can bring the man to—’

  ‘Yes. You want him more than Ramón. You think he deserves his punishment and you will visit it upon him. Why is that?’

  Baldwin couldn’t meet his gaze. There was a deeper understanding in Munio’s eyes than he had expected, and he felt ashamed. Yes, he had been determined to go to Tomar, both because he wanted to find the murderer of Matthew, but also because he wanted to see a Templar site once more. He had heard that Tomar was unchanged, that the Portuguese King Dinis had no wish to lose the powerful army that had helped to protect his Kingdom, and had therefore allowed the Order to continue in all but name. Striking the words ‘and the Temple of Solomon’ from their name satisfied the Pope, as did the statement that the new Brothers were all recruited from untainted men who had nothing to do with their forebears, although Baldwin suspected that many among them must have had some links to his old Order.

  It was not only that, though. Munio had hit the nail on the head with that astute comment: Baldwin wanted to serve justice on the murderer of a man who had once been his companion-at-arms. This confession made Baldwin feel ashamed. He had truly sought to treat one murder as somehow more worthy of justice than the other. When all his life since the destruction of the Templars had been focused on seeking an equality of justice for all, he now saw that in this strange city he had forgotten the basic principle of his own creed: that any murder victim deserved the same benefits from the law as any other.

  Munio had not ceased to gaze at him, but now his expression was less bitter, and he poured some wine into a cup for Baldwin, lifting it to him. ‘Have a little of this.’

  ‘Señor, my shame knows no bounds.’