The Templar

Matthew squared his shoulders. A flare of anger ran through his bones like quicksilver, making him recall his past, as though his youthful strength might return to him and give his muscles the power they once enjoyed. He clenched his belly and felt his shoulders drop, a leg slipping back into the approved position for defence. Yet even as his body flowed automatically into the posture, there was a twinge in his ankle and a stabbing pain in his thigh. If he were to try to fight this man, he would be killed within seconds.

That stark reality hurt. Even after the destruction of his Order, he had known that he could fight off an assailant: now even that was taken from him. His stomach was empty, not only from lack of food, but from the emptiness in his soul. He felt like a warrior who had been left on the field after a battle, watching with empty eyes as the scavengers arrived — the crows, foxes, rats and men and women, thieving what they wanted from the corpses. He was the last alive, the remaining member of his unit. And now he had been dishonoured by a felon whom he would have killed with one hand tied behind his back when he was a younger man.

His head hanging, he turned and stumbled away. At last he looked what he knew himself to be: an old, broken man.

Joana watched him shuffling away, then turned to her cousin again. ‘So, Caterina, you’d like to win my lady’s favour, would you? I think I might be able to help you there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never you mind for now. Later, when the sun is two hours past its highest, meet me again. There is a ford north of here where many women do their washing. I’ll tell you then. I promise it will be worth your while.’

Caterina held her gaze steadfastly. ‘Very well, but I beg of you, don’t make me hope for something which you can’t provide. Please, I am content now.’

‘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 Dona Stefania 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.

Dona Stefania’s annoyance grew as she wondered where Joana had gone. The maid was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had made a tryst with Ramon, and had forgotten the time, or perhaps she had forgotten about Dona Stefania’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?’ Dona Stefania demanded as she reached the lad.