The Templar

Joao nodded, but his face grew grim. ‘And you ask whether this man might have murdered his own fiancee, then stolen the money and fled? It is a great deal to absorb. It would also be ridiculous for him to do so, surely? If he was to run all the way here, what would be the point? He could not possibly keep all the money while he was here, in my castle. No, a man coming here to join the Order must first take the vows. Chastity, obedience and poverty! Why should a man come here, knowing that?’

‘That is a part of the proof,’ Baldwin said. ‘If he did come here, without money, then that perhaps is the best proof of his innocence. Unless his guilt took him over, and because of that he decided to live the rest of his life in penance. But when I set off from Compostela, I did not know if he would come here and take the vows.’

‘Is there more I should know about this man?’

‘I do not think so. Not this particular man,’ Baldwin said.

‘Then there is another?’

Baldwin could not meet his astute eyes. ‘Yes. There was another man — a fellow who killed a beggar, a mere feeble, washed-out beggar. Yet this man stabbed him to death. I do not know of any reason why he should have done so, other than a simple desire to kill. Others have told me that this man is a mercenary, with no allegiance to a lord.’

‘And you want his head?’ Joao asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘If it is possible I should like to ask him why he killed this man,’ Baldwin said.

‘Why? Was this man a companion or friend?’

‘He had been a companion once,’ Baldwin said a little stiffly. He was unused to responding to such personal questions. ‘But my interest is in what caused the killer to strike. The man he killed was of no earthly danger to him, and a man who can do that is a danger to all, like a rabid dog.’

Joao moved. A hand rose from his lap and went to his chin. It rested there a moment, his forefinger tapping thoughtfully against his lips. ‘So you say you are here to question a man who may be one of my freiles, that you wish to ask him about a woman’s death, but you are more emotional about another man who is nothing to do with him or me. You seem driven by powerful emotions, my friend.’

‘I … I seek justice, that is all.’

‘All? I thought that justice was in the hands of the Lord,’ Joao mocked gently.

‘Justice is also my work,’ Baldwin said simply.

‘Then you are a unique man. This fellow you seek — what makes you think he might have come this way?’

‘A chance comment overheard by another.’

‘And on that mere chance you came all the way here? Perhaps he died on the way. It is many hundreds of miles from Compostela.’

‘He was not alone. He had an English knight as companion, and a squire.’

‘So he may arrive here safely.’ Joao gazed out of the window pensively. ‘A Portuguese man with an English knight. It should not be too difficult to find such a pair.’

‘Your country is a large enough land,’ Baldwin said drily.

‘True,’ Joao said, and stood, all evidence of dreaminess gone. ‘Return here at noon tomorrow, Dom Baldwin. I shall consider your request and give you an answer then.’

‘I thank you,’ Baldwin said.

Joao clapped his hands, and one of the two clerics poked his head around the doorway. ‘Sir?’

‘Take Dom Baldwin to the gate.’

There was nothing more. Baldwin bowed to the still faintly smiling Joao, and trailed back out into the sunshine. He walked over the courtyard and through the double gates. Only when he was outside the castle did he feel he could take a breath of fresh air. Until then, tension had gripped his chest like a band of iron.

‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured as he mounted his horse. ‘And if I learn nothing then, why, I shall return to Compostela.’

He had spent the last days willing the time to pass until he could get here, and now he had arrived, he found that all he wanted was to be away again.

That night, Munio put his head around the chamber door to ask his wife if she needed anything. By now, Simon’s illness had changed in character. Munio could almost hear the sick man’s muscles grating and working against each other. It seemed as though the fever had turned the sick man’s body to stone, with every bone, every tendon and ligament made as stiff and brittle as flint. His jaws grated tooth against tooth, his fists were clenched, and over all, there was the springing of sweat at his brow and beneath his armpits. Munio had only rarely seen a man who looked so unwell and who yet survived without harm.

‘Margarita?’ he whispered again.

‘Leave us,’ she whispered back, reaching forward with a cloth to cleanse and cool Simon’s brow. ‘I shall let you know when he recovers.’

If, Munio thought as he softly shut the door and returned to his chamber. He lay back on his bed, put his arms behind his head, and prayed that Simon would get well. It would be terrible to think that their guest could die without the comfort even of an old friend.

Chapter Twenty-Four