The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (9 page)

‘
Content?
Look at yourself! A stale widow, no use to anyone. No money, no property, nothing,’ Joana said with disdain. ‘If you want my help, do as I say. Otherwise, be damned! Now leave me.’

In the face of her cruelty, Caterina held her head high, but as she turned, she couldn’t help a shuddering sob from racking her
frame. It was only with an effort, Joana noticed, that she kept herself from breaking down and weeping. The maid was somewhat disappointed not to hear evidence of Caterina’s grief as the beggarwoman passed in among the stalls and out of sight.

‘Poor bitch,’ Domingo muttered. He was still wiping his eyes, and now his voice sounded thick.

‘Oh, you’re not going to start weeping again, are you?’

‘I’m not weeping! I don’t weep! I seek the murderer of my son, and when I find him, I’ll make him regret ever trying to harm a hair on my Sancho’s head.’

‘Very brave, very commendable,’ Joana said. ‘Right – did you take the mare like I told you?’

‘Yes, and put her back in the stable.’

‘Good. Then go. I shall find Doña Stefanía and comfort her, and then take her place.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ Domingo asked hesitantly. ‘It may be dangerous.’

‘Domingo,’ she returned impatiently, ‘you are a fool. You worry about yourself and leave my safety to me.’

And with a new sense of purpose, Joana strode off to seek her mistress.

Doña Stefanía’s annoyance grew as she wondered where Joana had gone. The maid was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had made a tryst with Ramón, and had forgotten the time, or perhaps she had forgotten about Doña Stefanía’s appointment. Either way, she was late, and that was intolerable, today of all days.

Time was moving on. She had to find her mount, the Prioress thought, patting her purse. Where on earth was that peasant with her horse? Gazing about her with a crease forming on her perfect, broad forehead, she felt a rising disquiet. Thefts from pilgrims were always a problem. Women were robbed, knocked on the head, raped, sometimes taken and kept imprisoned by uncultured villeins who sought better quality wives than the women of the villages in which they lived. Well, that was fine. Men were at risk too, she knew. Only the other day she had passed
Lavamentula, and was told that it was a famous place for robberies, with pilgrims having all their clothes stolen while they bathed in the waters.

It would be no surprise if her mount had been stolen. Men had eyed it with interest in several towns as she passed through. The horse had cost her a small fortune. Ambleres were always hideously costly, and a popular target for thieves. Damn the lad, she wasn’t going to see it taken by a beardless boy!

Aha! Thank God. There he stood – over near the well, just where she’d told him to take her mount before she went up to the Cathedral. The thought was hardly in her mind before she was on her way over to him.

Seeing her mistress, Joana lifted her skirts to hurry over and join her.

‘Where is my horse?’ Doña Stefanía demanded as she reached the lad.

‘
Your
horse?’ he repeated, a faintly anxious expression rising to his face. He was a typically swarthy, unhealthy-looking serf, vacuous and incompetent – and right this minute as nervous as any felon caught filching a lord or lady’s purse.

‘Yes,’ she said tightly, ‘
my
horse. I left her with you while I went into the Cathedral. Perhaps you remember now?’

‘But the man …’

‘What man?’ she snorted. His manner was shifty; why she had left her mare with him, she didn’t know. Looking at him now, it seemed obvious he was a wastrel. He’d taken her mount and probably sold it already. ‘Where is my horse, you thief?’

‘My lady, please don’t shout!’ he begged, his hands up, but it was too late. There was whispering and now a space opened about them as the crowd became willing and eager witnesses. Among the voices, Doña Stefanía heard muttering as other pilgrims realised that this fellow had not just robbed any old pilgrim, he had taken a lady’s horse, and a lady of the cloth at that. There were many who would be ready to hang a man for that.

‘You have my horse? Good. Where is it?’ she said, her voice cold and relentless.

‘But you asked me to deliver the horse, and I did.’

‘What do you mean?’ she scoffed. ‘I told you to keep the horse for me and I would pay you when I had visited the Cathedral. Now you suggest I asked you to sell it and keep the money yourself, I suppose? You do know the penalties for those who rob pilgrims?’

Turning, she saw Joana behind her. She opened her mouth to command her maid to seek an official to arrest the peasant, but now the momentum of her speech was lost and the groom’s desperate voice was winning support from others in the crowd.

‘No, lady!’ he pleaded. ‘When you were going inside, your man came here and told me to give him the horse. He said he would take it to you because you felt faint and were going to ride to an inn. He paid me, too.’

‘What man, eh? I see no one! Joana? I want you …’

‘He took the horse and led it away.’

‘A likely story!’

Now a basket-seller spoke up. ‘It’s true. I was here when the man came up. The boy was reluctant to hand over the horse, but this man, he accused the boy of calling him a liar. What else could the lad do?’

‘What sort of man was this?’ asked a suspicious-looking fellow who stood with his thumbs in his broad belt.

‘Looked like a felon, but he had something about him, you know?’ the helpful basket-seller said when the boy plainly wasn’t going to reply; he was overawed and terrified that he could be accused and found guilty of theft. ‘He wasn’t tall, but hunched, and very broad about the shoulder, like one who’s used to work – but his hands weren’t dirty, so he was more like a knight than a peasant. Had a head that was sort of tilted to one side, like this, as if he had a pain in his neck.’

There was some sympathetic noise from the crowd. Clearly most felt that the lad had done his best, and any boy who was threatened had a right to protect himself.

‘That’s all very well, but how do I know you aren’t in league with this fellow yourself?’ demanded the Prioress.

‘Lady, I am only trying to help.’

‘Of course you are!’ she said sarcastically, and threw a look at Joana. The description was all too familiar – but why should Domingo take her horse? More probably, this ‘witness’ had seen Domingo with her earlier, and thought this was a good way to deflect attention from the kid. Except there was an indefinable tone of conviction in his voice.

‘The horse might be found,’ Joana said. ‘Shouldn’t we go and look? In which direction was it taken?’

Doña Stefanía could have stamped her foot in frustration. This was not how she had intended spending her afternoon. Glancing over the crowds, she wondered where that oaf Frey Ramón had gone, but it was too late and he had disappeared. He wasn’t here, and neither was her mare.

‘Ballocks!’ she said viciously in English, but the folk about her merely stared uncomprehendingly.

Joana alone understood, and she was waiting when her lady joined her and spoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘It was
him
took my horse, was it, your damned cousin? Why should he steal
my
horse?’

‘If he did,’ Joana said soothingly, ‘I assume it was because he saw it held by a stranger and sought to protect your property.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Doña Stefanía snorted. ‘He’s a thief and a leader of thieves. When he saw a horse waiting with a groom, he saw a profit to be made, and that’s all.’

‘Perhaps I can find him and ask …’

‘Ask him what?’ Doña Stefanía hissed with frustration. ‘There’s no time – look at the sun. No, there’s no choice: I’ll have to use your mount, Joana.’

‘Doña Stefanía, let me go instead.’

‘Why?’ the Prioress demanded with some surprise, and frowned with indecision. There were advantages to sending Joana: it was the hottest part of the day and as Joana knew, Doña Stefanía would always prefer to remain under shelter with a jug
of chilled wine rather than gad about in the heat of the sun. And as for going and meeting this man … But it was she that he wanted, not Joana: it was
her
secret that he held. Besides, to stay away would be a tacit admission of fear, and Doña Stefanía had a hatred of being thought a coward. She was a noblewoman, after all.

‘It would be safer for you,’ Joana replied. ‘If there is only one of us, it could prove dangerous, but I don’t mind.’

‘Safer?’ Doña Stefanía stiffened and then pulled out her rosary, the cross dangling. ‘I fear no felon! I have God to protect me.’

‘I know, Doña, but think what a capture you would be to a man who had no scruples. If he was not prey to the fear of God, you would be a magnificent prize, wouldn’t you?’

The blackmailer, Joana told her, had asked for the contents of her purse, which surely meant solely the money. No one else knew what she carried, or so she hoped. Maybe Joana was right. There was no need to put herself into danger. She should at least keep her physical body from his clutches. There was little she could do to protect her good name now. Not even Saint James could save her reputation if that bastard got it into his head to ruin her, but that wasn’t the point. She had no desire to be raped, tortured or captured just to satisfy her stupid sense of duty and honour.

She nodded her agreement, spun on her heel, and found herself facing Gregory.

‘Oh, God! Not you again!’ she exclaimed dramatically, throwing both arms into the air, and then hurried past him before he could stop her.

It was one thing for her to be forced into the painful transaction of paying a man to keep a secret, but it would have been quite another, should her ex-husband hear of her misbehaviour!

They could smell the potent brew from several yards away and Baldwin eyed the cart with the barrel racked atop with a certain anxiety.

Simon saw his look. ‘I don’t care. It’s refreshing. Cider always is.’

‘Very well, but when we have finished, we must look for somewhere to stay the night. Rooms will be difficult to find.’

‘Rooms!’ Simon expostulated. ‘After last night in that hellhole of an inn, I’d prefer not to bother, thanks all the same! I’m covered in flea-bites and the lice are still squirming along my spine. No, let’s just find a pleasant, shady riverbank and stay there.’

‘I doubt whether the people of the town would be too pleased about vagrants sleeping out of doors,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘You think someone would dare accuse
me
of being a vagrant?’ Simon growled. ‘I’d soon teach the miserable bugger to—’

‘Look!’ Baldwin said hastily. ‘There’s a place up there.’

‘It’s a bit rickety-looking,’ Simon said doubtfully.

It was a large tavern, built into the side of a hill, so that on the ground level there was a cattle-shed, while the entrance to the place was on the next level. From the look of it, there was plenty of space inside, with a small chamber jutting out over the alleyway to provide toilet facilities.

‘You simply don’t like anything built by a foreigner,’ Baldwin said lightly, ‘but I’d rather a room in there than another night in the rain or being arrested as a vagrant.’

Simon grunted, but he couldn’t disagree. No one liked tramps sleeping rough, and he had no wish to be arrested.

They had reached the cart of the wine-seller, and at this moment their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a slim, short woman with black hair and gleaming eyes. She nodded encouragingly at them.

‘Cider,’ Simon said, holding up two fingers.

‘Simon,’ Baldwin remonstrated, ‘not all people here will speak English.’

‘Sí, señor,’ she nodded and was soon back with two large jugs.

‘See?’ Simon said triumphantly. ‘It’s easy to get what you need when you show a little understanding.’

Baldwin smiled. He knew that in a city like Compostela, many traders would be used to the curious languages spoken by pilgrims from all over the world. A moment later, before he could frame a reply, he became aware of a woman behind him. She was hunched over, dressed entirely in black, a hood thrown over her head, veil covering her face like all beggars, a palsied hand waving before her as she wailed and wept, bemoaning her fate, her bare feet dusty as she shuffled through the dirt. She approached the two, her crying increasing in volume.

A woman like that, Baldwin mused cynically, would be more of a challenge in communication. He was wrong.

‘Bugger
off
!’ Simon said unsympathetically, and without missing a note, she moved away like a ship turning across the wind, seeking a fresh target. ‘I hate being confronted by beggars. You know that most of them are professionals, trying to gull the innocent out of their hard-earned money, yet some will always help them.’

‘There is a motive – you have heard of charity?’

‘Yes. And I give a good tenth of all my income to support people like her,’ Simon said, ‘
if
she is genuine. But most beggars aren’t, as you well know. If only they’d take up work, they could get by. It’s people like her who prey on crowds, knowing that among all the people she only needs … what? One in every twenty or four and twenty? That would bring her plenty of money for herself and a family of eight squalling brats. If she was really
that desperate, the Cathedral would look after her. I’m sure there are alms enough for her at the doors after each meal. The Almoner wouldn’t see her starve if she is needy.’