The Templar

The beggars here were a dreadful nuisance. Children with withered arms, crippled men without limbs, women weeping, declaring themselves widowed and asking for food on behalf of their starving children. They were nothing to do with her. Her own responsibility was to the folk of her priory of Vigo and its manor, and she looked after them as well as she could, with some of the drier husks of bread and the carefully garnered remains of the meals, collected up and distributed to the needy at the convent’s gate. She and her Sisters were generous, as they should be, but there was no reason why she should also support the poor of Compostela. That was the duty of the townspeople here. Dona Stefania had limited funds, and these were already allocated. And now some must be scraped together for this accursed blackmailer.

She hoped Joana would find him and carry out her instructions. The maid was devoted to her mistress, of course, devoted and fiercely protective, so probably she would be successful. If Dona Stefania herself had gone, she might have broken down in tears, which could have been disastrous. It would show this fiend of a blackmailer what a hold he had over her. She had tutored Joana carefully in the time that they had; be calm, be cool, state the position and see what he says. There was nothing more she could do. Soon Joana would be with him, and a short while later Dona Stefania would know his response. No doubt it would cost her a fortune, the devil! Well, he could go to the devil if he demanded too much!

For now, there was no point in worrying. Dona Stefania was nothing if not a realist. The die was cast and there was nothing more she could do. She might as well take her ease. After this morning’s efforts, she surely deserved a good pot of wine, and it might calm her nerves. Yes, a good pot of wine.

A small smile played about her lips as she sat down at a bench and signalled to the innkeeper. In a corner, she was astonished to see two respectable men — a knight and a prosperous yeoman — sitting with a beggar! A repellent fellow with hunched shoulders and downcast gaze, as though he was scared to meet the eyes of any others in the room — or maybe he was merely ashamed, she amended. He had the appearance of a man who wore his befouled clothes and the grime on his hands and face like a thin patina to conceal his genuine status. When he picked up his cup, he sipped it like a lord; when he spoke, he waited until his companions had stopped before speaking. And he didn’t pick his nose, she noted. That was an improvement on many others.

Later on that day, she noticed him again, this time in the street, and he gave her a chill smile, ducking in a bow that was so courteous, it might have been given by a knight. That was when she realised that it was the man Matthew who had accosted her in the square. She barely acknowledged him, of course. A Prioress had no need of companionship from a mere beggarly peasant, after all, but then a short while later, he walked past her, and her nose twitched. He might look disreputable, but at least he didn’t stink like some; in this climate men often smelled worse than hogs. This fellow had the odour of citrus about him, and some spices, as though he had rubbed them into his skin to take away the stench of sweat. It made her look at him again, wondering.

There were always men who were born to a certain position and who then lost all, some from gambling in tournaments, others from gambling on politics and being forced into exile. This fellow could be one such man — someone who had been born to a good position, but who was then forced to beg because he had somehow lost the favour of his master.

The observation made her feel a vague sympathy for him. If he had been born to nobility, he deserved her compassion. Anyone of rank who had sunk so low as to depend upon the gracious gifts of others must be deeply humiliated. To be like that, she told herself, was worse than being dead. The disgrace must be intolerable.

Not that all men could appreciate such finer feelings, of course. Her ex-husband Sir Gregory was one such example: he had none. No humblesse, no shame. No understanding of others, the devil! Ah, but why should Dona Stefania trouble herself over him? When all was said and done, he was a mere churl, no better than a serf, and it was unlikely he would learn of the blackmail.