The Templar

‘Why?’ the Prioress demanded with some surprise, and frowned with indecision. There were advantages to sending Joana: it was the hottest part of the day and as Joana knew, Dona Stefania would always prefer to remain under shelter with a jug of chilled wine rather than gad about in the heat of the sun. And as for going and meeting this man … But it was she that he wanted, not Joana: it was her secret that he held. Besides, to stay away would be a tacit admission of fear, and Dona Stefania had a hatred of being thought a coward. She was a noblewoman, after all.

‘It would be safer for you,’ Joana replied. ‘If there is only one of us, it could prove dangerous, but I don’t mind.’

‘Safer?’ Dona Stefania stiffened and then pulled out her rosary, the cross dangling. ‘I fear no felon! I have God to protect me.’

‘I know, Dona, but think what a capture you would be to a man who had no scruples. If he was not prey to the fear of God, you would be a magnificent prize, wouldn’t you?’

The blackmailer, Joana told her, had asked for the contents of her purse, which surely meant solely the money. No one else knew what she carried, or so she hoped. Maybe Joana was right. There was no need to put herself into danger. She should at least keep her physical body from his clutches. There was little she could do to protect her good name now. Not even Saint James could save her reputation if that bastard got it into his head to ruin her, but that wasn’t the point. She had no desire to be raped, tortured or captured just to satisfy her stupid sense of duty and honour.

She nodded her agreement, spun on her heel, and found herself facing Gregory.

‘Oh, God! Not you again!’ she exclaimed dramatically, throwing both arms into the air, and then hurried past him before he could stop her.

It was one thing for her to be forced into the painful transaction of paying a man to keep a secret, but it would have been quite another, should her ex-husband hear of her misbehaviour!

Chapter Four

They could smell the potent brew from several yards away and Baldwin eyed the cart with the barrel racked atop with a certain anxiety.

Simon saw his look. ‘I don’t care. It’s refreshing. Cider always is.’

‘Very well, but when we have finished, we must look for somewhere to stay the night. Rooms will be difficult to find.’

‘Rooms!’ Simon expostulated. ‘After last night in that hellhole of an inn, I’d prefer not to bother, thanks all the same! I’m covered in flea-bites and the lice are still squirming along my spine. No, let’s just find a pleasant, shady riverbank and stay there.’

‘I doubt whether the people of the town would be too pleased about vagrants sleeping out of doors,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘You think someone would dare accuse me of being a vagrant?’ Simon growled. ‘I’d soon teach the miserable bugger to-’

‘Look!’ Baldwin said hastily. ‘There’s a place up there.’

‘It’s a bit rickety-looking,’ Simon said doubtfully.

It was a large tavern, built into the side of a hill, so that on the ground level there was a cattle-shed, while the entrance to the place was on the next level. From the look of it, there was plenty of space inside, with a small chamber jutting out over the alleyway to provide toilet facilities.

‘You simply don’t like anything built by a foreigner,’ Baldwin said lightly, ‘but I’d rather a room in there than another night in the rain or being arrested as a vagrant.’

Simon grunted, but he couldn’t disagree. No one liked tramps sleeping rough, and he had no wish to be arrested.

They had reached the cart of the wine-seller, and at this moment their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a slim, short woman with black hair and gleaming eyes. She nodded encouragingly at them.

‘Cider,’ Simon said, holding up two fingers.

‘Simon,’ Baldwin remonstrated, ‘not all people here will speak English.’

‘Si, senor,’ she nodded and was soon back with two large jugs.

‘See?’ Simon said triumphantly. ‘It’s easy to get what you need when you show a little understanding.’

Baldwin smiled. He knew that in a city like Compostela, many traders would be used to the curious languages spoken by pilgrims from all over the world. A moment later, before he could frame a reply, he became aware of a woman behind him. She was hunched over, dressed entirely in black, a hood thrown over her head, veil covering her face like all beggars, a palsied hand waving before her as she wailed and wept, bemoaning her fate, her bare feet dusty as she shuffled through the dirt. She approached the two, her crying increasing in volume.

A woman like that, Baldwin mused cynically, would be more of a challenge in communication. He was wrong.

‘Bugger off!’ Simon said unsympathetically, and without missing a note, she moved away like a ship turning across the wind, seeking a fresh target. ‘I hate being confronted by beggars. You know that most of them are professionals, trying to gull the innocent out of their hard-earned money, yet some will always help them.’