The Templar

Simon was saddened to see a noblewoman brought so low by circumstances, but he could easily understand her feelings. A pilgrim, many miles from her home, the only companion she would have had was her maid, and now the latter had been snatched away. It was a fearfully lonely life for a woman, no matter how well-filled her purse, if she were left alone. Bad enough to lose a husband, but in some ways Simon thought that for a woman, losing a maid or manservant was worse. The companionship was usually easier and more genuine between master and servant than that which prevailed between married partners.

No one could doubt the genuine sadness of the woman. She had collapsed at the sight of her maid, and now she wept uncontrollably. It was the sort of behaviour that no one of her station would normally indulge in. They wouldn’t want people to think they were so weakly as to become too closely attached to their staff. All too often people did, of course: the number of widows who married their husbands’ stewards was eloquent proof of that.

Rather than contemplate the wailing woman, Simon turned away. Nearby was a woman clad in black, wandering among the crowds. He watched her irritably, half aware of Baldwin arriving at his side.

‘Another ruddy beggar,’ he grouched. ‘There seem to be more of them than pilgrims.’

‘Do not be too harsh,’ Baldwin remonstrated gently. ‘Some are genuine enough.’

Simon winced. ‘I’m sorry, Baldwin. I didn’t mean to pass comment on your old companion. He’s obviously all right.’

‘Not many would agree with you,’ Baldwin said moodily, scuffing a boot on the paving and sending a pebble skittering over the slabs.

‘There is one thing that is beneficial about beggars, though,’ Simon said. ‘Come with me.’

Surprised, Baldwin obediently followed Simon to the edge of the crowds. The beggarwoman in black was moaning gently, a hand wrapped in filthy linen held out to any who passed within her range. There was a repellent odour about her, with a faint hint of lemons, as though she had slept beneath a grove of citrus. Simon caught sight of a pale face beneath her hood, but averted his eyes automatically. One didn’t meet their gaze, because that lent their begging legitimacy and let them feel that they could ask for more money.

‘You speak English?’ he demanded gruffly.

‘Si — a leetle, Senor.’

‘You walk about the crowds here. Did you see the woman with the blue tunic before, the woman who was killed?’

‘I saw her with the Dona there. She was maid to her, called Joana.’

Baldwin smiled as he understood Simon’s reason for questioning this beggar. A beggar could pass through a crowd unnoticed, ignored, as irrelevant as a cur, but might still notice others and make comment about them.

Simon saw his understanding dawn. ‘Today, did you see her leave the city?’

‘Si. She left by the Porta Francigena after lunch.’

‘Was she alone?’

There was a long pause, and then the woman spoke as if reluctantly. ‘I think she was with a man. Perhaps I am wrong, but he was behind her — a tall, dark knight. I have seen him. He is called Don Ruy, I think. A pilgrim to Compostela.’

‘You think he and she were going to a rendezvous?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I do not think she saw him, but he had eyes only for her.’

‘They were both walking?’

‘No. Both were on horseback.’

‘We may need you to speak to the Pesquisidor,’ Simon said sternly.

‘I am always here in the square,’ she said sadly, and her hand rose a little.

Simon grunted, but he reached into his purse and pulled out a coin. ‘Very well. What is your name?’

‘What need has a beggar of a name?’ she asked softly. ‘I have lost my husband, my home, my station. But I have been called Maria. My father called me that. You may, too. Maria of Venialbo.’

‘Very good,’ Simon said and dropped the coin into her palm.

Chapter Eight

Domingo had watched dully while the men with the body on the cart passed, going towards the Cathedral, but it meant nothing to him. Nothing did, not since the death of Sancho. Life itself had lost its meaning. All that mattered was finding the fair man and executing him. Standing with his men in front of the tavern, he drained his cup and belched.

They had been waiting here as he had told them, and now that the little cavalcade was done and the body had been carried away by Frey Ramon, they all felt the anti-climax. They turned to drinking more cider or wine, thinking about finding some food and maybe a woman. One of his men had told of a serving girl at an inn up the way who had a saucy smile that promised more than mere conversation, or he was a mudejar!

Domingo sat on a wall with a pot of wine and drank steadily.