The Templar

The alley stretched before them for several hundred yards, with other lanes turning off to the north and south. The man could have taken any number of turns, either into lanes or entering a doorway.

‘God’s cods,’ Simon cursed bitterly. If only his sudden weakness had not attacked him, they could have caught up with the man.

They were walking back towards the square and Munio. Simon puffed out his cheeks and moved his belt. It felt too heavy and hot about his waist, and he could feel the prickling of sweat beneath it.

‘Are you sure you are well, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied tetchily. ‘I just feel a bit hot, that’s all.’

‘So long as you are sure. You look almost yellow.’ Baldwin decided they must find a tavern as quickly as possible. His companion looked quite unwell.

‘So there you are! I have been looking for you!’ Munio bellowed angrily. ‘Come here, and don’t run off again.’

Ramon entered the little chapel and carefully set the body down before the altar. It was not usual for women to be permitted in this place, and it was still less normal for a man to perform this last, most intimate service, but he didn’t care.

Carefully, he removed Joana’s tunic and undershift, and when she was naked, her slim, well-formed body lying neatly, he fetched a bucket and filled it from the well. He could find no cloth, so he tore a large piece from her tunic, and soaked that to clean her. There was little enough to clean. As he wiped at her brow and skull, he could feel the broken shards of bones shifting beneath his fingers. A large flap of flesh had been removed from her cheek, and her face, her beautiful face, had been so savaged that it was impossible to recognise her. No one, not even her mother, would know her.

Not even her lover, he thought, and with that the tears began to flow in earnest.

‘My friend, may I assist you?’

The soft tone interrupted his weeping, and Ramon jerked up, staring at the figure who stood in the dark. Apologetically, the man stepped forward, as if realising that he was almost completely hidden in the shadows. ‘My name is Gregory. I hope you don’t mind that I followed you here. I knew her, you see. Only a little, but enough to honour her.’

Ramon covered his face with a hand, then wiped at it and sniffed. ‘I loved her.’

‘Let us tidy her, then. It is the last service we can do for her.’

Ramon accepted his aid, but reluctantly. He wanted Joana all to himself, and wanted to do this for her alone, but having another man with him, especially one who wore the pilgrim’s cockleshell, was soothing. And the man certainly had the skill of preparing a body.

When Ramon had finished washing her, cleaning the dirt and sweat from her feet and legs, under her armpits, around her breasts, he finished by removing the last traces of blood from her thighs. Then Gregory took the bucket, now pink with her blood, to her head, and gently dangled the sodden hair in the water, rubbing the long tresses between his fingers. When he had the worst of the blood out of it, he went out, rinsed the bucket, and returned with it refilled. He soaked her hair again, until at last it had recovered its silken sheen. Only then did he take the bucket out and throw away the last of the water. When he came back, he carried a thick bolt of linen. ‘A lady outside asked if you wanted some cloth to wrap her in.’

They clothed her, setting her out neatly with her hands crossed over her breast, and then knelt together and prayed for her.

‘How did you know her?’ Ramon asked when both stood again, staring down at her still form.

‘I used to know her mistress,’ Gregory said quietly. ‘She seemed a kind, charming girl. And generous. I saw her giving alms to a beggar this morning.’

‘She was ever big-hearted,’ Ramon said, gazing sadly at the still body of his fiancee.

By the time that Simon and Baldwin left Senor Munio, it was growing dark. The Pesquisidor had taken them to a small tavern. There he had spoken to them both, with the cleric taking notes, drinking copious quantities of wine and grimly munching on dry bread and olives. Nothing that they told him could ease the sour temper into which he had sunk since hearing from the gatekeepers that no one could remember a lady dressed like Joana leaving the city. It seemed as though he would have an unsolved murder on his hands, and his expression told of how much he disliked unsolved crimes.

Baldwin was intrigued by the cleric. He was scribbling on scraps of parchment that had been cut from pages when the latter were squared, and the knight was impressed that use could be made of such small pieces, instead of discarding them. The cleric was a serious soul named Guillem. He smiled rarely, but when Baldwin spoke in his fluent if somewhat rusty Latin, he beamed. It was, he said, good to speak to a man who had an understanding of the Holy tongue. His enthusiasm made Baldwin feign a certain dimness — an automatic reaction. He dared not be discovered as an escaped Templar.