The Templar

He drained his cup and sat back. Until Baldwin returned, Simon felt unwilling to expose the facts, just in case his assessment was wrong. If he was right, Dona Stefania was going nowhere until she had found what she sought — and she couldn’t find that now.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dona Stefania could feel his eyes upon her. It was infuriating! The shabby fellow with the bright eyes and unhealthy white skin was staring like a man ogling his first woman. If she could, she would have run to the nearest Cathedral official and demanded that the impudent churl be punished for his lack of respect.

She couldn’t, though. There was no official in the Cathedral to whom she could turn. She shouldn’t have remained here. Oh, if only she had gone back to the Priory …

It was mostly due to Parceval. Dona Stefania was confused. Without Joana, she felt as lost as an unmasted cog on the open sea. Worse was when the foul monster Domingo had demanded her relic. Losing that was a disaster! But so was the loss of her companions. She was all alone, with only Parceval. He was her sole friend here.

Parceval had money, but she no longer suspected him. No, he couldn’t have robbed, raped and murdered Joana and returned to meet herself in the tavern. He would have taken longer. Anyway, he had satisfied Munio. No, Parceval was innocent. Someone else had stolen her money and done those terrible things to her poor young maid.

Dona Stefania felt the beginnings of panic. There was no one to whom she could turn. Of course, when that devil Domingo had robbed her of her only valuable, the Saint’s relic, she had submitted to Parceval’s generosity. She joined him in his own room, an offer she had felt forced to accept. At the time, she had believed that he had stolen her money. She meant to take it back — except there had never been the opportunity. Every time she had tried to reach out and search his belongings, she became aware that he was awake. It was as though he needed no sleep, damn him!

She wanted her relic back, but Domingo must have sold it or just thrown it away. At that thought, ice entered her bowels. The idea that a saint’s holy remains should be cast away, perhaps into the river, or even into a midden near the town — that didn’t bear thinking of. Her religious soul quailed at the thought that her innocent theft of the relic could have led to it being discarded by a heathen like him. It would mean that she herself would be considered as guilty as Domingo, should the Bishop ever learn of her trick.

So she had to wait here. And then she had learned that the Fleming was not a liar, and he wasn’t a thief. The money wasn’t taken by him. She went with him and saw how the house of Musciatto treated him, like a deeply honoured client. This was no common churl, but a wealthy merchant who had chosen to dress like a peasant. That was up to him. It at least made her feel a little better. A man’s breeding would out, she considered. She hadn’t fallen for a bit of rough serfdom, but a rich man. It was some consolation.

What was not in any way consoling was the fact that although now she thought she had guessed the truth, she still couldn’t find her relic, her money or her maid.

Because Dona Stefania was sure that her maid had not died. Joana was still alive, and in possession of her money, and Dona Stefania wanted it back.

‘Wait a moment, Bailiff.’

Simon had stood as the Prioress disappeared around the side of a wall, and yawned. There was no point hanging around here, he thought, and he was about to make his way back to Munio’s house, when he heard Gregory’s call.

The cleric was approaching with the tall figure of Don Ruy at his side. ‘Perhaps we could share a jug of wine? This town, for all its gaudy baubles and trinkets to be sold to pilgrims, is surprisingly short of intelligent conversation.’

‘I should be happy to,’ Simon lied. He had no desire to speak to the miserable fellow. In his private opinion, Gregory spent too much time whining about his lot and not enough getting on with his life, but Simon was interested in speaking to Don Ruy.

‘Could you ask the knight,’ he said to Gregory when they were all seated on benches and each had a jug of wine before them, ‘whether he recalls that day when your ex-wife’s maid was murdered?’

Don Ruy looked a little startled on hearing the question and shot a look at Simon, but he nodded, then shook his head with apparent sadness.

‘A terrible waste,’ Gregory translated.

‘Certainly,’ Simon agreed. ‘Such a young life. And I understand you rather liked her?’

Gregory looked from one to the other as he translated. ‘He says she was a pleasant enough woman.’

‘With the legs and bosom to make her still more appealing,’ Simon said. ‘After all, Don Ruy was seen watching her closely as he followed her out of the city.’

‘He says he’s told you this already,’ Gregory said as Ruy affected an elaborate yawn.