‘Domingo? What is it?’ One of his men was watching him warily.
‘Him – the fair one. He’s the man who killed Sancho.’
‘You are sure?’
Domingo barely glanced at him, but reached out with the speed of a striking snake, took hold of Azo’s shirt and pulled. The other was a thin, unhealthy-looking youth of nearly twenty, his face a mass of acne, and he looked terrified as Domingo held him close enough to see the sweat of fear starting from his forehead. ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘I am sure. I watched him slaughter my son like a pig. You think I would forget his face?’
‘We can do nothing here in the city,’ another man cautioned. ‘If we do, we’ll be found.’
‘I want his head. The man killed my boy. I want him to pay.’
Azo felt himself being released and stood back, watching as Domingo touched his old wooden-handled dagger. ‘They were fearsome fighters,’ he said hesitantly.
Domingo sneered at him, then hawked and spat at his feet. ‘So am I!’ he snarled as he walked out and followed after the fair man. However, when he reached the square, the tall figure had disappeared. He took one alley at random, hurrying up it and staring about him, but although he followed it to the old city’s wall, he saw neither hide nor hair of his quarry.
Feeling the hilt of his dagger, Domingo licked lips which were dry with expectation and swore softly.
‘I shall find you, murderer of my Sancho. On his grave, I swear I shall find you, and cut you to pieces!’
Simon felt torn as he watched the grieving figure of Ramón walk slowly through the crowds, carrying his murdered fiancée to the Cathedral. Even when he was lost to view, the moving of heads showed where he was. ‘Baldwin, we have to ask him what’s happened here,’ he said quickly. ‘Perhaps he knows of someone who was obsessed with his fiancée and might be guilty of this crime.’
‘Look, this is nothing to do with us,’ Baldwin countered, but his interest was obviously piqued.
‘The lady can’t be questioned yet: she’ll need some time to recover from the shock. But that man, he was clearly very fond of the girl. Come on! Let’s go and speak to him – see if he can think of some reason why his woman should have been murdered.’
Baldwin glanced at Munio, but the Pesquisidor was arguing with a skinny man at the cart. It looked as though he was the cart’s owner, and was demanding payment for the use of it. ‘It is his investigation, not ours,’ he said reluctantly.
‘And he’s not pursuing the one man who might help,’ Simon snapped. ‘Come along!’
Baldwin gave up his reservations. As Simon said, this man could have some useful information, and it would be sheer folly to let him disappear without trying to learn whatever they could from him. He nodded and the two darted off through the crowd.
It was hard to see him, but they were able to push their way through the people without difficulty, their clothing and swords tending to give them more authority than most pilgrims, and when they were through, Simon pointed. Far off, in the southwestern corner of the square, they saw Ramón with his bloody burden, passing about the corner of one building and disappearing from sight.
Baldwin instantly pelted off after him, but Simon suddenly felt a little wobbly on his legs. The heat was like a furnace. It felt as though he was in a forge, and trying to run in such a temperature was mad. He moved forward as quickly as he could, but he had a tough time of it. By the time he reached the corner of the roadway, Baldwin was already waiting, an expression of half-annoyance, half-concern on his face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I felt a little odd,’ Simon admitted. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Baldwin glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’ve missed him now,’ he said with disappointment. ‘Do you want to rest a moment?’
‘No, I want to find the blasted man.’
‘We cannot do that now. He could be anywhere,’ Baldwin said.
The alley stretched before them for several hundred yards, with other lanes turning off to the north and south. The man could have taken any number of turns, either into lanes or entering a doorway.
‘God’s cods,’ Simon cursed bitterly. If only his sudden weakness had not attacked him, they could have caught up with the man.
They were walking back towards the square and Munio. Simon puffed out his cheeks and moved his belt. It felt too heavy and hot about his waist, and he could feel the prickling of sweat beneath it.
‘Are you sure you are well, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied tetchily. ‘I just feel a bit hot, that’s all.’
‘So long as you are sure. You look almost yellow.’ Baldwin decided they must find a tavern as quickly as possible. His companion looked quite unwell.
‘So there you are! I have been looking for you!’ Munio bellowed angrily. ‘Come here, and don’t run off again.’
Ramón entered the little chapel and carefully set the body down before the altar. It was not usual for women to be permitted in this place, and it was still less normal for a man to perform this last, most intimate service, but he didn’t care.
Carefully, he removed Joana’s tunic and undershift, and when she was naked, her slim, well-formed body lying neatly, he fetched a bucket and filled it from the well. He could find no cloth, so he tore a large piece from her tunic, and soaked that to clean her. There was little enough to clean. As he wiped at her brow and skull, he could feel the broken shards of bones shifting beneath his fingers. A large flap of flesh had been removed from her cheek, and her face, her beautiful face, had been so savaged that it was impossible to recognise her. No one, not even her mother, would know her.
Not even her lover, he thought, and with that the tears began to flow in earnest.
‘My friend, may I assist you?’
The soft tone interrupted his weeping, and Ramón jerked up, staring at the figure who stood in the dark. Apologetically, the man stepped forward, as if realising that he was almost completely hidden in the shadows. ‘My name is Gregory. I hope you don’t mind that I followed you here. I knew her, you see. Only a little, but enough to honour her.’
Ramón covered his face with a hand, then wiped at it and sniffed. ‘I loved her.’
‘Let us tidy her, then. It is the last service we can do for her.’
Ramón accepted his aid, but reluctantly. He wanted Joana all to himself, and wanted to do this for her alone, but having another man with him, especially one who wore the pilgrim’s cockleshell, was soothing. And the man certainly had the skill of preparing a body.
When Ramón had finished washing her, cleaning the dirt and sweat from her feet and legs, under her armpits, around her breasts, he finished by removing the last traces of blood from her thighs. Then Gregory took the bucket, now pink with her blood, to her head, and gently dangled the sodden hair in the water, rubbing the long tresses between his fingers. When he had the worst of the blood out of it, he went out, rinsed the bucket, and returned with it refilled. He soaked her hair again, until at last it had recovered its silken sheen. Only then did he take the bucket out and throw away the last of the water. When he came back, he carried a thick bolt of linen. ‘A lady outside asked if you wanted some cloth to wrap her in.’
They clothed her, setting her out neatly with her hands crossed over her breast, and then knelt together and prayed for her.
‘How did you know her?’ Ramón asked when both stood again, staring down at her still form.
‘I used to know her mistress,’ Gregory said quietly. ‘She seemed a kind, charming girl. And generous. I saw her giving alms to a beggar this morning.’
‘She was ever big-hearted,’ Ramón said, gazing sadly at the still body of his fiancée.
By the time that Simon and Baldwin left Señor Munio, it was growing dark. The Pesquisidor had taken them to a small tavern. There he had spoken to them both, with the cleric taking notes, drinking copious quantities of wine and grimly munching on dry bread and olives. Nothing that they told him could ease the
sour temper into which he had sunk since hearing from the gatekeepers that no one could remember a lady dressed like Joana leaving the city. It seemed as though he would have an unsolved murder on his hands, and his expression told of how much he disliked unsolved crimes.
Baldwin was intrigued by the cleric. He was scribbling on scraps of parchment that had been cut from pages when the latter were squared, and the knight was impressed that use could be made of such small pieces, instead of discarding them. The cleric was a serious soul named Guillem. He smiled rarely, but when Baldwin spoke in his fluent if somewhat rusty Latin, he beamed. It was, he said, good to speak to a man who had an understanding of the Holy tongue. His enthusiasm made Baldwin feign a certain dimness – an automatic reaction. He dared not be discovered as an escaped Templar.
‘Who was that woman to whom you spoke – the beggar?’ Munio had asked Baldwin.
‘She called herself María of Venialbo,’ Baldwin said. ‘Do you know of her?’
Munio shrugged and grunted. ‘I’ve a good wife to look after me – I don’t need her sort. Anyway, a woman who turns to begging or whoring will always change her name so that she doesn’t bring shame upon her family – if she has any remaining.’
He sighed and looked thoroughly out of sorts. Baldwin knew how he felt. In his own investigations, there had been times when he had realised there was little likelihood of finding a culprit, and he too had known despair and annoyance at the thought that a guilty man might go free.
Simon had been getting jumpier and jumpier as the questioning went on, and his trepidation had been obvious to Munio. ‘So, you are sure you can tell me no more?’ the Pesquisidor asked searchingly.
‘We’ve told you all we know,’ Simon stated resolutely.
‘Then you can go.’
Simon had paused with his mouth slightly open, and then shot a look at Baldwin.
Catching sight of his expression, Baldwin smiled. ‘What – do you want to stay here?’
‘I thought …’
Munio knew what was passing through his mind. ‘You thought you’d be grabbed and arrested, maybe dragged off to a cell and tortured, didn’t you? You English! You think that every other land is without compassion and meaningful law. The only way is the English way; the only law is English law. Listen, my good fellow. We don’t torture people here unless there is good reason. If someone is found red-handed and denies guilt, he might be tortured to get at the truth – but not when there is no reason to suspect a man.’
Simon felt his nervousness fade as he watched the investigator moodily crumbling a crust between his fingers. He had heavy hands with thick fingers, the hands of a man who was used to working. ‘What will you do now?’ the Bailiff asked.
‘Ask if anyone else knows this person, María. Joana’s mistress, for a start.’ Munio had permitted Doña Stefanía to leave on compassionate grounds, on the proviso that he could speak to her properly the following morning. She had walked away disconsolate, shuffling like a woman suddenly aged.
The only help the Prioress had been able to give them was to tell them that Joana had been with her for many years. She and a cousin of hers lived not far from the Prioress’s estates at Vigo. Another cousin called Caterina lived hereabouts in the city, but that was the limit of her knowledge of her maid’s family. As far as she knew, Joana had no enemies; she was honest, dependable, and had her mistress’s absolute trust. The two of them had just been to Orthez on business, and were on their way home to Vigo. And now … now the Prioress would have to return alone, and break the news of their Sister’s death to the other nuns in the convent. It was a terrible day, truly awful. She didn’t know how she would be able to make the journey alone.
Baldwin ended with the impression that if Joana was still alive, her mistress would be berating her for her selfishness in being killed.
‘None of the guards at the gates saw this woman, you said?’ Baldwin mused.
‘That is right. I described her and her distinctive blue tunic, but none noticed her. It came as no surprise. Many hundreds of people walk in and out every day by all the gates. This is an important city.’
‘Yes. And yet I should have thought that a bored guard would have noticed a pretty young woman in her prime, with wealth stamped all over her. From the look of her, she would have been a woman with style.’
The Pesquisidor grunted. ‘Perhaps. But all too often the gatekeepers sit in their little chambers and gossip; they don’t watch the people outside. Why should they? All they are supposed to do is see that people coming to sell goods pay their tolls, but if they’re doing that, it’s hard for them to keep an eye on people leaving the city as well.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘This Ruy whom María spoke of – perhaps we could find him. If he stayed with her, he could be the guilty man. There may be blood on his sleeve …’ Then Baldwin had another thought. ‘We should ask at the stables. We know that two horses at least were present at the murder scene. Joana’s mount must have been stabled somewhere in the city, and she herself rode out on it. You may be able to discover where her horse was kept, and that way learn whether the groom saw anyone suspicious – like this Ruy.’
‘It is a good idea,’ Munio said drily. ‘Which is why I sent two messengers to enquire at the stables as soon as we returned to the city.’
Baldwin smiled. ‘You are a sensible man, Señor. You know how to investigate as well as any.’
‘As well as an Englishman, I suppose you mean. I dare say that is a compliment,’ Munio growled, but there was a faint smile on his face as he stood and beckoned the cleric to follow him. ‘I thank you for your help. If you can advise me – if you have any new ideas, I would be most grateful.’
‘Any help we can give, we offer freely,’ Baldwin said, rising and bowing.
‘I am glad to hear it. After all,’ Munio continued, eyeing Simon, ‘I shouldn’t like to think I could miss out on the aid of two English investigators!’
‘What did that mean?’ Simon demanded suspiciously when the Pesquisidor had gone.
Baldwin smiled. ‘Do not take his words personally, old friend. I think he likes the English. Otherwise, why should he have lived and studied so long in our country?’
‘I don’t care. He seems to be making fun of us,’ Simon muttered, but without rancour. He was merely glad to be free, out in the open air, and taste the local wine. ‘Still, this wine is good.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Perfectly acceptable, yes.’
‘You are still thinking of the dead girl,’ Simon said. ‘So am I. It’s hard to believe that any man could do that to a woman.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said absently. ‘And especially if the man was unknown to her. Why mutilate her so brutally? Perhaps it was done by a man who had been snubbed by Joana.’
‘Could be,’ Simon acknowledged, and waved a hand at the tavernkeeper, indicating their empty jug. A wave of contentment rose and engulfed him as he relaxed and leaned back against the inn’s wall, stretching his legs before him. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Baldwin, that until that miserable bugger informed us that they don’t use torture on just anyone, I was waiting for him to put our thumbs in a vice. Phew!’
Baldwin grinned. ‘Foreign travel can be dreadfully alarming.’
‘Don’t take the rise out of me!’ Simon threatened. ‘I am happy to be here. Look at this place! Warm, no midges, a gentle breeze, good wine, pleasant folk – what more could a traveller want?’
Perhaps, if you were Joana, your life back, Baldwin thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. Instead he said, ‘Tomorrow we should rest, ready for the return journey.’
‘It seems odd to have come so far, and to know that all that remains to us is to return.’
‘Most pilgrims walk all the way here, dependent upon the good will of inns and other people throughout, and once they arrive they take a meal or two, rest, and then go home again, knowing exactly how dangerous and exhausting their return journey will be,’ Baldwin mused. ‘We were lucky to be able to take s
hip almost all the way.’
‘Quite so,’ Simon said. ‘And I think that it is entirely reasonable for a pilgrim to rest here, especially since so many hostelries are duty-bound to feed and water them! But it seems odd for us to just turn about, walk to the coast again and find another ship to take us home. We have only just arrived.’
A servant placed a dish laden with roughly sliced rings of sausage on their table. Simon took a piece and chewed. ‘It’s good! Like a smoked sausage at home.’
Baldwin took a slice and the two chewed meditatively for a while.
‘Bugger!’ Simon exclaimed.
‘What?’ asked the knight.
‘We still haven’t found a place to stay this evening,’ Simon pointed out.
‘I am sure there’ll be a space at that inn we saw earlier,’ Baldwin said confidently.
Chapter Nine
Sir Baldwin and Simon were still sitting in the tavern when they saw Frey Ramón pass from the door of the Cathedral. He moved like a man in a nightmare, his features drawn and blanched. His white robe was smeared and beslubbered with gore from carrying Joana’s body, and there were tearstains on his cheeks.
Baldwin motioned to the innkeeper and stood. ‘Frey Ramón,’ he called out. ‘Please join us.’
‘I have no wish to be sociable,’ the knight said. His eyes were restless, as was his soul, Baldwin thought. The man was torn by horror and loss.
At least he understood English. That was a relief. ‘There is little comfort in the compassion of a stranger, and yet I would speak with you,’ Baldwin told him. ‘If we can aid you, we should like to do so.’
Frey Ramón looked a little confused by some of Baldwin’s words, but he understood the sympathy in his tone. He ducked his head, and appeared to make up his mind. ‘I am thankful for your kindness. Perhaps a little wine?’
The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) Page 12
