The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (30 page)

‘Perhaps he died because of something he had done in his past,’ Baldwin murmured. Enough people had believed the Pope’s propaganda about the Templars after all.

‘What sort of thing could he have done to make a man wish to murder him?’

Baldwin did not answer, and Munio stood observing him for a moment or two in silence. ‘I think you know more than you say.’

‘I have no idea why any man should want to harm the old beggar,’ Baldwin stated, ‘and I do not know who did it. But I have to speculate about his death. I should like to meet the other beggar again, the woman who witnessed the attack.’

‘So would I,’ Munio agreed glumly. ‘It is not a pleasing matter for me, having two murders one after the other.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘And I have other work to see to,’ he said with resignation. ‘I should return to my hall. Guillem will be expecting me.’

‘You can leave us here,’ Baldwin said smoothly.

‘Yes, I thought you would say that,’ Munio said with a faint grin. ‘So that you can be left alone to get on with your own investigations.’

Baldwin smiled but said nothing.

‘So long as you tell me what you learn, Sir Baldwin,’ Munio said with a certain firmness. ‘You are not in your own land now. This is my city, and I need to learn all I can about the young woman’s death. You understand me?’

Baldwin led the way straight to the tavern near which Matthew’s body had been found. ‘The thing is, you’ll sometimes find the odd innkeeper who is kindly disposed towards a beggar. Perhaps Matthew came here occasionally and we can learn something useful from the serving staff.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘Why do you think Munio was so insistent that he wanted to know about the girl’s death?’

‘I cannot imagine.’

Simon looked at him. ‘Was it because he thought that you’d run off and find out all you could about Matthew’s death and not bother with Joana’s?’

‘Perhaps. What of it? I am not responsible for what the good
Pesquisidor
thinks.’

‘Aren’t you? And what if we could find out something about the girl’s death?’

‘Then we should of course tell Munio. But right now, I want to see what I can learn about Matthew.’

‘Very well, Baldwin,’ Simon said, sure now that Munio was right, and that Baldwin was more interested in nailing his old friend’s killer than tracking down Joana’s murderer. From Simon’s perspective, this was all wrong, and he would continue to bend all his efforts to solving that crime.

The inn was a pleasant enough place, but the man at the bar could not help them. Yes, he had recognised the beggar, it was María. He knew her well – a sad girl, widowed when she was young. Where was she now? Couldn’t say. Hadn’t been up for food since Matt’s death, poor old devil.

Baldwin and Simon stood out in the shade of a chestnut tree
and chatted for a few moments, Baldwin scowling up at the building, while Simon gazed back along the alleyway towards the Cathedral.

He had a vague feeling of inadequacy. If he was back at home, at his own home in Dartmoor, he would know lots of people who could help with his enquiries. It was curious that Munio himself couldn’t tell them where to look for the beggarwoman, he thought. The other man had allowed them to come up here, almost as though he expected them to find out something.

‘Seems a bit odd that this man has no idea where she might be,’ Simon mused.

‘Why should you say that? I wouldn’t expect a tavern-keeper in Crediton to know where all the beggars are,’ Baldwin said curtly.

‘Even the tavern-keepers who feed and look after them?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin eyed his friend with a renewed respect. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I think we should go back inside and point out to mine host there that we are acting on behalf of Munio – and that the beggarwoman must be found before her life is endangered. If he still refuses to help, I think that we should sit down inside and make a nuisance of ourselves.’

Baldwin gave a humourless grin, and strolled back inside.

The man to whom they had spoken originally, a runty type with a skimpy moustache and a cast in one eye, looked up unwelcomingly as they re-entered, leaning on a large cask and reaching under his apron to scratch at his groin. It was a big, cool room, with a packed earthen floor wearing a thin scattering of hay. There were some unglazed windows with their shutters wide open down the right side of the place, while at the back, behind the serving man, stood a doorway covered with a large motheaten blanket. There were only two tables in there, for most visitors made use of the floor to rest their drinks on.

Simon crossed his arms and leaned against a large, rough pillar that propped up the roof while Baldwin walked forward
and sat on a table, eyeing the man with ill-concealed distaste. ‘I want to speak with you again.’

The man looked from him to Simon. Then he shrugged and turned his back.

‘If I have to,’ Baldwin went on, ‘I shall have you arrested by Munio and we’ll question you in his hall.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say. I told you all I know.’

All of a sudden, some words he had heard came back to Simon. Someone had said that the innkeeper here was a woman, not a man. It was a
woman
whom Munio had said was kindly disposed towards the beggars of the city. A woman who protected them.

Pushing himself away from the post, he crossed the floor and, as he was about to pass through to the back, the man suddenly flicked aside his apron to pull at a knife in a scabbard underneath. The first Simon knew of it was when there was a harsh rasp of steel; he whipped round to see Baldwin’s bright blue sword blade resting on the man’s throat. While the latter swallowed nervously, Baldwin reached over with his left hand and took the dagger from him; Simon stared a moment at the man before turning and pushing his way out to the back.

He found himself in a small room, filled with the stench of sour wine and rotten meat. On the floor near a water jug lay the rank carcass of a cat. An open doorway revealed a small garden beyond, filled with vegetables. Two women were inside the room – one short and truculent with a narrow, rat-like face; the other a black-clad beggar who sat at a bucket, sleeves rolled up while she beat clothes clean.

There was a clumping clattering noise, and Baldwin burst in with the servant. ‘Aha! Hello, María,’ he said. ‘We should like to speak with you for a while.’

‘Yes, I was there,’ she said.

They were sitting out in the yard area, the early sun gradually warming them. Baldwin had demanded some wine, but when it arrived, he found it impossible to drink and asked the man to
fetch a skin of good quality wine from another tavern not far away. The woman who owned the place grudgingly agreed, and Baldwin was now sipping a strong red wine which he found more palatable.

For once, Simon had little taste for wine. His head was aching, making him feel a bit woolly, and he demanded a pot of fresh, cold water from the well, watching the innkeeper as she went to draw a jug for him.

He was somewhat surprised by his second meeting with María. With her veil removed, she was a striking-looking woman, with an oval face that, if it had been cleaner, would have been attractive. Her face was lined with grief, and he remembered with a pang of guilt that she had mentioned losing her family. She looked as though she had suffered greatly.

For Baldwin, though, there was no time for kindness. ‘Why did you choose to hide?’

‘What would you have done? Waited out in the open for someone to kill you?’

‘Why should anyone kill you?’

‘I saw him. I was there. No murderer wants to leave a witness behind.’

‘You honestly believe your life is in danger?’ Baldwin said.

She looked at him, and let him see the full extent of her fear. Lifting her hands, she took up her hood and let it fall on her shoulders.

Without the protection of veil or hood, the two men could see her for what she really was. Dressed in her beggar’s clothing, she appeared a large, middle-aged woman who could have been any age. Without the camouflage of clothes, she was revealed as a slim, haunted-looking woman in her mid-twenties. Her great doe-shaped eyes were luminous with sadness, and there were bruises beneath them from tears. She had a delicate face, but where her complexion should have been a dark olive colour, she was wan, almost yellow. On her left brow there was an ugly brown and mauve bruise. ‘Look at me and tell me I don’t fear,’ she said hollowly. ‘I have suffered everything. I have lost my
husband and my children, and now a man seeks my death in order to hide his guilt. I fear every footstep!’

‘The man who killed Matthew – have you seen him since?’ Baldwin asked.

‘If I had, I should have run away!’

‘Do you know who he was?’

She stared out over the garden. There was a curse, and the servant dropped a pot, the thing exploding on the hard floor. The sound made María duck with utter terror, a look so petrified on her face that Baldwin half-rose and put his hand on hers. ‘Don’t fear – it was a clumsy potman, nothing more. You are safe with us here.’

She gazed into his eyes to try to gain confidence from him, but then she shook her head and looked away. ‘All you want is to hear me accuse another man,’ she said sadly. ‘You don’t care about me any more than you care about a rat.’

That was the truth. These men wanted a trophy that they could hang on a wall. They weren’t interested really, not in a beggarwoman. Why should they be? She was just a victim of her circumstances. It was not her fault that she had been widowed, it was just something that had happened. Because of it, she was without a protector, and had become a beggar, regarded by some as a whore. She had so much to give, but now she must spend her time hidden in case she was hunted down.

With shaking hands, she pulled her cowl up and over her head again. From beneath its protection her voice appeared to gain a little strength. ‘His name is Afonso. He’s a young man in his mid-twenties, perhaps younger. A handsome fellow, so long as you don’t look in his eyes. He’s a mercenary – no loyalty to any lord. He was a Portuguese in the company of an Englishman and his squire. I saw Afonso run at Matthew with the knife in his hand. Matthew died; Afonso fled. I saw him run.’

‘Do you know why he did it?’

‘You think I should have asked him?’ she asked with slow, cold sarcasm. ‘While his hands were yet bloodied?’

‘The girl, Joana,’ Simon said hesitantly, glancing at Baldwin. He could sense that the knight’s mind was focused on Matthew’s death, but Simon was more interested in Joana’s. ‘She was killed in such a ferocious manner. I wonder …’

‘What?’

Simon saw Baldwin throw a look over his shoulder towards the inn, as if he could stare through the walls and see the beggar sitting, still weeping, where they had left her.

‘I just wondered …’

‘It makes no sense,’ Baldwin interrupted. ‘Why should a young man want to kill him? How on earth could someone like Matthew have offended a fellow of twenty-five or so?’

Simon sighed to himself. ‘It could have been anything. You know as well as I do that some men will take umbrage at the way another man looks at them. Remember that Knight of Santiago whom we saw on the day we got here? He was the sort of fellow who was prepared to take offence for no reason.’

‘The knight? Oh, yes – the man with the woman.’

Simon gave a low whistle. ‘I hadn’t thought: it was Ramón, wasn’t it? And the woman must have been Joana. Poor girl. She had no idea she was going to die that day.’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘Most victims have no idea of their impending end. I wonder if Matthew did?’

The two old friends made their way down to the Cathedral. There they joined a queue to pray at a chapel, and when they were done, they wandered about the square until they saw Munio, who gave them a welcoming smile and waited for them to catch him up.

‘So, have you enjoyed any success?’ he enquired.

‘We have been considering some ideas,’ Baldwin said.

‘At least you have had some ideas, then,’ Munio said drily. ‘Which is more than I have done. I have arranged for Matthew to be buried, but that is all.’

‘There is one thing that occurred to me,’ Simon said hesitantly. He wasn’t sure how rational his thoughts were, in the cold light of day. ‘The attack was so extreme, I wondered whether it was
deliberately brutal, just to conceal the identity of the girl.’

‘You think that is possible?’ Munio asked. ‘You think we were lucky to recognise her so swiftly?’

‘
If
we did,’ Simon said. ‘I was saying to Baldwin last night that the identification was too swift. Perhaps the lady was wrong to think it was her servant. Could someone else have been killed, and this servant girl used her body to effect her own escape from a miserable existence with her mistress? Or did someone abduct her, leaving this other woman in her place so that he wouldn’t be followed?’

Munio’s face had grown longer as he spoke. ‘The lady did say it was her maid. The clothes …’

‘You say that the body is already buried?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Yes. We couldn’t leave it above ground for any longer. In this temperature …’

Baldwin had turned to Simon with an expression of resignation, as though that settled the matter. It spurred Simon to say, ‘Of course. But we could ask the Doña whether there were any distinguishing marks on her maid’s body. Perhaps those who laid her out would have noticed something. If not, we could always have the corpse exhumed so that we can check.’