The Templar

She was swept along by the mass of people. Simon saw her glance in his direction, but he was fairly sure that she averted her head, as though he was a reminder of a sad experience. He wasn’t sure why she should blame him for the death of her maid or the loss of her money, nor was he interested enough to want to find out. It seemed unimportant, compared with the illness he had suffered, or compared with the pleasure of sitting in the warmth and feeling the sun heat his bones.

As she carried on around the corner of the Cathedral, Simon saw another familiar figure — Parceval. Simon wondered about him. Parceval was a curious fellow. His clothing was shabby, yet he had somehow managed to seduce the Prioress, so either she was a shameless wench, or Parceval had the gift of persuasion. Simon had not spoken to the man, thus had little idea whether he could have been involved in the murder of Joana. The only time Simon had seen him was when he himself had collapsed, and he had not been on his best interrogative form that day.

There was one way which always, in Simon’s experience, persuaded a merchant to come and chat. He gave a wolfish grin to Parceval and held up his cup. The Fleming smiled with a gesture of acceptance, and walked over to Simon.

‘Take some wine with me,’ Simon said, gesturing politely at the waitress.

‘I thank you.’ The Fleming sat down gratefully. When the wine arrived, Simon poured from the earthenware jug, topping up his own cup as well as filling one for Parceval.

‘You speak good English,’ Simon observed.

‘I am a merchant. I deal more with the English than any others, because your wool is such good quality.’

‘We are proud of it.’

Parceval nodded. There was a coldness about him, Simon thought, but that could well have been the reserve of a man who was conversing in a foreign language.

‘You are here for your benefit?’ Simon asked.

‘Ah yes. I always thought it a strange thing, to go on pilgrimage for another man,’ Parceval said.

‘I agree. Although it is easy to see how a great lord, who swore that he would go on pilgrimage but then died, might leave in his will an instruction that one of his staff, or perhaps his child, should undertake the journey in his place.’

‘For the good of his soul, he should ensure that he can make the journey himself,’ Parceval said. There was a hardness to his voice. ‘No man should force his child to do something against her will.’

‘I have a daughter,’ Simon said. ‘She wishes to marry a boy I think a fool. He is one of these youths to whom costly particoloured hose are more important than a warm home, a good flock of sheep or a herd of cattle.’

‘And you are sad at this thought?’

‘Very.’

Parceval leaned forward, his face animated. ‘If you take the advice of a man who lost his daughter, you will indulge her.’

‘You have lost yours?’

‘She was a beautiful girl — my pride and delight. But I told her not to see a boy because I did not approve of his father. She went to see him without my knowledge, and that night, she died with him. He was murdered; she was raped, and she took her own life in despair.’

Simon gave a groan of sympathy. ‘My friend, that is terrible. My own worst fear is that I could lose my daughter. Did you find the man who had done this?’

Parceval’s face hardened. ‘Oh yes, I found him, and I killed him that same night. And I think I too died that night.’

Dead, he thought. Yes, I am dead. I have been dead since that night. There has been nothing since then. Only transient pleasures. Perhaps she wouldn’t have committed suicide if I’d stayed with her — or did she recognise Hellin as my companion? My friend even!

He had hoped that the journey here to Compostela would have given him some ease of mind, but it had achieved nothing. The only result had been his affair with the Prioress, a matter of convenience to him, but one of necessity for her. She had no money. Of course she could have gone to the Cathedral and demanded alms, but she appeared chary of that. Instead she preferred to wander the grounds watching all the visitors. Parceval had wondered why, because she should surely have been more worried about being seen consorting with him than about any shame at being poverty-stricken. Still, the ways of women, as he had so often thought, were usually incomprehensible.

Simon left Parceval to his own thoughts for a moment. Then, ‘She seems a good woman, the Prioress.’

‘You think so? I suppose so. She is lonely since the death of her maid.’

‘It was a peculiar thing, that,’ Simon said.

‘A man saw her, a man raped her, robbed her, and killed her,’ Parceval said harshly. ‘There is nothing strange in that. Just one more bloody bastard who feels nothing for the death of another person. Life can be cheap.’

‘Do you think so?’