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

  ‘I didn’t report him.’

  ‘Another theft that went unreported. Curious, because that theft apparently prevented you from going to meet someone.’

  ‘My maid was able to go instead.’

  ‘And she died in your place,’ Munio pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ Doña Stefanía said, her eyes downcast.

  ‘And your money was stolen from your maid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Munio glanced at Baldwin, who nudged Simon. The Bailiff gave a beaming smile and flicked aside his coat. From beneath it he brought out the purse he had found at the ford.

  ‘Is this yours?’ Munio asked.

  Her face was answer enough. ‘I had no idea … how did you …’

  ‘It was easy,’ Munio said, and motioned to Simon.

  Simon stood now, and strolled to Munio’s table. While he spoke, Munio translated. ‘The money was never stolen. The attempt was made, of course. Your maid, Doña Stefanía, as you suspected, wanted to leave you and take a nice little nest egg with her. She had spoken to her lover, Don Ramón, about getting married, and he agreed. He was delighted; he loved her.

  ‘But first she must get her hands on the money. To do that, she told you that someone had heard or seen of your affair with another pilgrim, and that he had approached her, demanding to meet you and be paid off. You were enraged, of course. You thought that you had done nothing wrong …’

  Munio’s tone was ironic, and a chuckle rippled through the hall. Simon smiled winningly and continued as the Doña’s head shot around to glare at the audience.

  ‘… so you told her you would go and pay the man. But when you went to fetch your horse, you learned that Domingo had taken it already. Perhaps he wanted to sell it for himself. So you had no horse. Instead, you told your maid to go.’

  ‘She wanted to go. She said it was safer than letting me go. If there was a felon there, he might have molested me – ransomed me, perhaps!’

  ‘Perhaps. You should be glad, whatever is true. It was easier for her merely to go in your place. She arrived there, and met her husband-to-be, Don Ramón. He was thrilled to see her. They went for a lovers’ walk – but then things went wrong. She produced your money, Doña, and presented it to him.

  ‘But she had not reckoned on Ramón’s integrity. No sooner had he heard how she came to have your money, than he threw it from him. He refused to listen to her blandishments, but left her, telling her that if she wanted to marry him, she must take the money back to you and confess. Then he mounted, and rode away.

  ‘He did not know that her plans were already set in train. One part of her plan was to have a woman arrive, someone who was similar in appearance to her, who was of the same build, the same shape. As Ramón rode away, she saw this person who was to take her identity. She was going to kill her and disappear with the money.’

  Doña Stefanía nodded. ‘You are right in every respect, I believe. I have remained here in the city in order to find where my Joana has gone, but she has been in hiding.’

  ‘A beggar may walk the streets, but she can be found if she is unique. That is why the woman you sought has been hiding.’

  Something in Munio’s voice made Doña Stefanía frown. Then her mouth fell open and she whipped round. There, near the door, she saw the tall beggar. ‘That’s Joana! Don’t let her get out!’

  There was no need for her cry. The figure leaped for the door, but before she could reach it, two sturdy peasants moved before it, arms folded. Seeing their stolid figures, the beggar sagged, as though she realised that there was no escape.

  ‘Joana, you evil child!’ the Prioress raged. She forgot all about the other people in the room, and marched up to the beggar, slapping her across the face. ‘You would steal everything from me, would you?’

  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 be
en, 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.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  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.

  Munio stared out through the window, listening as he heard the footsteps approaching. They were the steps of two happy men. Simon’s gait was still a little slow, and there was a vague shuffle to his left leg, which had caught the brunt of the table at the tavern, while Baldwin’s was faster and lighter after all his travelling.

  ‘Guillem, I should prefer that you were gone,’ Munio grunted.

  The cleric stopped and stared at his Pesquisidor. There was a strange note in Munio’s voice, he thought, a sad, lonely tone. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, and packed his remaining bits and pieces into his scrip before making for the door. He reached it just as it was thrown open by Simon and Baldwin, and the two entered, Baldwin grinning broadly.

  The last Guillem saw of them was Simon marching up to Munio’s desk, and the Pesquisidor’s face assuming a smile of feigned pleasure. It was so close to being a mask of horror that Guillem felt his heart lurch in his breast.

  Simon and Baldwin had no idea of Guillem’s insight as they crossed the floor to Munio. It was Simon who reached him first, thrusting out his hand. ‘I am so very grateful for all you have done for me, Munio. Especially your wife as well. I am sure I would have died if it were not for her careful ministrations.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but all she did was her duty to an unwell person,’ Munio said pointedly, but the two were not of a mood to pick up on subtle hints.

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ Simon said with a laugh. ‘No woman could have treated a husband with more care and consideration than your wife did me.’

  ‘And it cannot have been easy for any person to look after so repellent a knave as this Bailiff,’ Baldwin said lightly. He was perched on the edge of Munio’s table now, and Munio looked away. He liked Baldwin. In fact, he liked them both, but his wife thought that she had heard Simon praying for her, asking God to keep her for him. That must mean that Simon wanted Munio dead. It was a terrible thing to do, to ask that a woman be widowed so that she might be taken.

  ‘Anyway, it will soon be time to go,’ Simon said. ‘I should like to say goodbye to you and your wife, and then we must leave Galicia and return to our own homes and wives.’

  What about mine, then? Munio thought. Would you keep her in your house like a Moor with his harem?

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Simon has a new home to find, down on the coast, and I must go back to my own home in Devonshire. We will both have much to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said with a noticeable lessening of his pleasure. ‘My wife doesn’t want to come and live with me in Dartmouth. Nor does my daughter. Poor Meg. She wants to remain in Lydford for the rest of her days.’

  ‘Meg?’ Munio asked. ‘Who is Meg?’

  ‘My wife,’ Simon explained. ‘Her name is Margaret, but I always call her Meg. She doesn’t want me to go so far from Lydford, but it is where my new job lies. The Abbot of Tavistock has asked that I go there, and there’s nothing I can do to refuse him. He is my master.’

  ‘What … what will you be doing there?’ Munio stammered.

  ‘The Abbot has just been made the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, and I am to be his representative.’

  Munio took a deep breath. ‘Then we should celebrate your new position, Bailiff!’ He roared for a servant, and demanded that his wife be brought in, and Guillem too, so that all could share in Simon’s pleasure.

  And his own. ‘I have a terrible murder resolved thanks to both of you,’ he said, and put his arm about his wife. ‘And let us drink to your wife, Meg,’ he added. ‘I hope she grows to love your new home as much as your old one!’

  It was cold in her great church when Doña Stefanía arrived home again, and she closed the door quietly behind her as though to shut out the possibility of any of the other Sisters hearing her. Today she knew that she had to beg forgiveness for all her sins on the way back here, and she must also plead to be able to keep the relic.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she sighed as she knelt on the freezing flagstones immediately before the altar. ‘What else could I have done? That man could have tempted an angel from heaven with his honeyed tongue. I tried to disregard him, but it was impossible. And when I thought he had my money, it seemed only sensible to stay with him, so that I could try to take it back.’

  That was not all, of course.

  ‘No. I didn’t have to stay with him when I realised it was in truth his own money. But by then, it would have been difficult to find somewhere else. And I thought that Joana was still alive, and if s
he was, I could have won back my money still, and perhaps even found my relic … Your relic, I mean! I thought that after Domingo took the casket from me, he perhaps gave it to Joana for safekeeping, because surely if she hadn’t died there at the river, he would know. That devil knew everything. And I thought that if Joana had lived, and that the whole of her death was staged, then Domingo must have been involved with her. They were related, after all. Cousins.’

  She tugged the casket from her scrip and held it aloft. ‘And see! I did succeed. Not in the way I expected, but I did manage to bring it back to You, and here it is! Please accept it, and let us keep it here, for if you do, it will be greatly to the glory of Your Church!’

  There was no answer. No thunder-roll, no fork of lightning, nothing. But if there was no heavenly choir singing her praises, nor, reflected Doña Stefanía, was there a bolt from the heavens to strike her down either.

  Lowering her arms at last, which were now growing a little tired, she murmured a reverent paternoster before setting the little casket on the altar.

  ‘I shall announce that the relic is here, and people shall come from all over the world to sing Your glory, Lord. I shall have it mounted in a gold box, with rubies and pearls and emeralds and … and all manner of gems to show how highly we value Your generosity. Holy, holy, holy, Lord. Lord of all …’

  On the morning they were due to leave, Munio was pleased to accept the decision of Sir Charles that he and his servant would leave with Baldwin and Simon.

  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he lied politely. It was best, he thought, always to be polite to men such as Sir Charles. He had the look of one who would be swift to take offence.

  Sir Charles smiled as though he doubted the depth of Munio’s sorrow. ‘It is a shame, but there is nothing here but expense. You have no tournaments in Galicia or even in Portugal. What I need is an opportunity of fighting in the lists and winning wealth and renown, or a new lord whom I might serve, and a lord like that will be in England or France, not here. I shall have to return home and see what is happening in my country.’