The Templar

That damned knight had appeared at the chamber’s doorway and had stood there stock-still as though shocked; she had seen him. Her view had necessarily been confused, being upside-down at the time, but she had recognised him. Parceval continued bulling like an ox on his cow all the while, hoarse grunts bursting from his throat at every thrust, oblivious to any interruption — to be fair, she herself hadn’t stopped encouraging him at the gallop — and Senor Ruy stood there staring, drinking in the sight and sounds of their lovemaking. In a curious way, his silent presence stimulated her still more. It gave the Dona an especial thrill to think that she was exciting the knight while helping her lover to a climax. She had felt safe in the dark of the room, thinking that the man couldn’t recognise her. All he would know was that a couple had been rutting.

Then he turned and marched away, just as Parceval gave a loud groan, called upon God in his guttural voice, erupted, and collapsed panting sweatily on top of her.

In reality, she hadn’t cared much about the knight at the time, and soon after Senor Ruy left, Parceval recovered enough to tease her to a fresh bout and she found herself responding enthusiastically. That was then; now she was worried.

The next day she saw Senor Ruy talking to another pilgrim out in the yard of the place, and realised with a jolt of horror that the man to whom he spoke was Gregory, curse his cods — the man she’d divorced; the man who knew she was a nun. Hardly the sort of fellow she wanted to hear about her nocturnal escapades. Just then Parceval appeared and saw her, all but shouting out to her, his face beaming, and she had hurriedly ducked away from him before Gregory could notice her. The little man had given her enormous sexual pleasure, true, but he was a scruffy churl, penniless and clad in worn clothing that would have shamed a mudejar.

It was immediately obvious that she must flee the group as soon as possible, and it was her good fortune that the others decided to remain at that village, to rest and visit a local shrine. All that day, Dona Stefania had kept herself away from the others and the next morning, she, Joana and Domingo and his men all rode off long before dawn, their destination: Santiago de Compostela.

In a way it was lucky that she had seen Gregory before he had seen her. Perhaps by now, Gregory had heard of Parceval’s nocturnal exercises — the two men might even have talked together! The Prioress cringed at the thought. She had concealed her real name to Parceval, but if she were to stay with the band of pilgrims, she would have been pointed out, and it would only have been a matter of time before Gregory heard the gossip. She knew enough about men to predict that Parceval would enjoy boasting about his conquest. The eager little fellow! she thought with some affection.

Then that disquieting thought resurfaced: Parceval had been poor then. How had he suddenly managed to find so much money? Where had it sprung from? It was curious that he was suddenly in funds, just as she was losing her own.

Joana — where was Joana?

Joana had indeed reached the place chosen for the rendezvous, but at first there was no sign of anyone there.

It was a pleasing spot, a quiet glade a little distance from the roadway, near to the river, and for a while she just stood on the bank watching the water drift past. Laughter came to her from upstream and she stood back, shadowed by the branches of a tree until she could see the source: some young women were approaching with baskets of laundry propped against their hips, probably heading for their favourite spot. Soon they had passed and Joana could relax again. She didn’t want anyone else to see her here. That could only lead to embarrassment.

The bag in her hand was heavy and she stared at it wondering how he could carry it away without it being noticed. But then she reflected that he would have his own leather satchels to transfer the money to. A man who was used to travelling, he was bound to be accustomed to concealing money so that others wouldn’t notice it. Anyway, he was a knight. He must be used to fighting and protecting what was his. Heaven help the footpad who tried to pick his pocket!

Joana took a deep breath and sighed. Her heart was pounding. Strange to tell, she was petrified. This was a new experience for her. After all, he wasn’t going to hurt her; she had the money, and that was a guarantee of her future. Yet she still felt nervous, in case her confederate, when he arrived, would be enraged.

Dona Stefania would be on tenterhooks by now. She would have drunk at least her first cup of wine, if not more. Suddenly Joana wished she was there, with her mistress. She could have killed for a taste of good wine, for a crust or two of bread dipped in olive oil. Her belly felt empty, as though she hadn’t eaten for a week, and yet she was well enough. Still, when she looked at her hand, she could see it was shaking.