The Templar

Matthew, Munio thought to himself. He had seen the man often enough, as had everyone who lived in the city. His stumbling gait was well known to all, as was his independence. He always stood apart, as though he was too proud to accept his lowly position. Munio was not the only man who had wondered about Matthew’s past. Odd. He was the one beggar who remained unbending and unsociable, yet he was the one whom all knew best. He was a loner, but that made him significant. It made him seem important.

There were other differences between Joana’s corpse and his. She had died as the result of a maddened attack, whereas Matthew had been disposed of in a simple, direct manner. A single stab wound, and that was that.

Munio considered that contrast as he sat back on his heels. Perhaps Joana had not merely cast off a past lover; maybe she had taken another woman’s man, and the spurned mistress had taken her revenge? In contrast, this beggar Matthew may have been cut down because he had known something, or seen something.

Whatever the reason for his death, Munio was not sanguine about finding his murderer. The sad fact was, that when there was no killer caught at the time, it was unlikely that anyone would be found later.

Was there a chance that the two deaths were in some way linked?

Munio stared down at the body. It was not very likely. The methods of death were so different, the means too, and any connection between an old man and a young, fresh woman was all but inconceivable.

‘So you heard her scream, saw him fall, and then the murderer went to him? Very well. Now we should seek the woman.’

A woman who was terrified for her own life, since she was a witness to a murder. Munio sighed to himself. Someone who was that scared would be hard to find.

Chapter Fourteen

Running away from the place, Afonso knew that his attack was mad, that he had been a fool, but he couldn’t help it. When that bastard son of a Moorish slave and a Venetian whore, that piece of hogshit, Matthew, had wandered away from the square looking so smug, Afonso had felt the strings of his gut and bowels start to tighten like he was about to be sick. He couldn’t help it. He’d chased off after him, running along the alley.

But he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and found himself in a dead end. He had to run back, then up the next connecting lane.

It was a grim place, stinking of piss and shit, and he’d slapped his sandals through pools of damp, trying not to think of the mess that fouled his feet, ankles and shins. The smell was enough to hint at what lay all about. He was relieved when, diving round the corner of one house, he found himself in a wider opening, and was able to look about him in the blindingly bright sunshine.

Left was a tavern with a single tree outside, a cobbled yard a little like one of his own, back in the village where he had been born — in Gradil, in Portugal. In the road next to his father’s olive farm, there had been a place much like this, a small building with a triangular court before it, and one solitary olive tree, he recalled. From there, on the side of the hill, you could look eastwards over the broad space of the land, with the olive trees and grapes ripening on the vines. It was always peaceful there, quiet and good. A man like his father could sit and gaze at the view with a jug of his best red wine beside him in the hot summer evening, while a few pieces of fish or meat cooked on his open fire.

For an instant Afonso felt his heart fold in upon itself. That was where he would still be now, if it weren’t for the Templars — and for Matthew in particular. It was as he turned that he saw, coming from the opposite direction, Matthew and some beggarwoman. Immediately he had drawn his dagger and rushed at the old sod.

Matthew was dead. That was the main thing, the only thing that mattered. Matthew, the murderer of his father, had died; although his passing was far too easy and gentle for Afonso’s taste. If the latter could have had his own way, he would have made the traitor suffer much more.

It was curious, that expression on his face, Afonso thought. Almost as though he was glad. Perhaps he had known that he was going to die like that someday. He had certainly guaranteed that he had enough enemies.

In the square, Afonso glanced about him before making off towards the lane that would take him back towards Sir Charles and Paul. Once there, he would pack and prepare to leave. There was no point in hanging around here for someone to find him. No, he would throw all his things into a bag, then make his way south, away from this city.

Sir Charles was sitting with his back to a tree, a large pilgrim’s hat with a cockleshell symbol pinning up the brim to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun, when Afonso arrived. The Portuguese stood a moment contemplating him, then cleared his throat loudly enough for Sir Charles to hear.