The Templar

Simon wondered whether the man had actually left Compostela to go and find the girl Joana. If he had, he might have come across her after Ramon had seen her; after which he killed and robbed her. Perhaps he had led an attack against the pilgrims because he wanted to kill her before, or to kill the Prioress, and he killed Joana when the Prioress didn’t appear? The two women had joined this group of pilgrims, Simon remembered, if only for a few short days. Could the man have intended to kill one or both of them, and that was why he attacked them outside Compostela? It was possible — but again, why? What motive was there for the attack?

‘I don’t know enough yet,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I need more information.’

That wasn’t all. He also needed his sleep. He cleaned himself as best he could and slowly made his way, yawning widely, to his bed. Once there, with his blanket spread over him, he closed his eyes, and imagined in front of him the face of Don Ruy, gazing at him sternly, one hand on his sword. Then Ruy moved aside, and he found himself facing Ramon, who stood sadly shaking his head. Behind him appeared first Matthew, then a woman whom he assumed was Joana.

But finally, as he began to drift into sleep, he grew aware of another figure behind them all — the squat figure of a man dressed in leather and cheap cloth, an ugly man with a head set to one side, a man whose hands were covered in blood.

Chapter Sixteen

Matthew’s corpse had been lodged in a room off at the northern side of the Cathedral. It was a mere rude shelter, and the next morning, when Simon and Baldwin arrived there with Munio, it was cool in the lee of the massive stone walls.

‘I keep bodies here until they can be buried,’ Munio explained as he fumbled with the lock. ‘You will understand that in the hot weather, we have to bury them quickly … and Matthew will need to be placed in his grave today.’

The room was bare. There was a set of shelves over on the left wall, all musty and cobwebbed, while the only light came from a small, high window. The right wall was composed of massive stone slabs, the unrendered wall of the Cathedral itself, and boxes were stacked along it, all with open lids. Some had shovels protruding, some axes, while in a far one stood some long polearms, an incongruous sight here in a church’s grounds.

Munio saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Where would you put them?’ he asked simply.

Simon grinned, but he saw that Baldwin didn’t hear their talk. The knight stood just inside the doorway, staring at the wreckage of his companion.

To Simon, the body was like a shrivelled husk of a man just as a raisin was a shrivelled husk of a grape. Other corpses struck him with real sadness, like that of the woman Joana, because in their death they had shown the ending of lives which were not yet fully ripened. There was so much that youngsters might have achieved. That was what had hurt him more than anything about the loss of his own first son. Peterkin had developed a fever, and that with the diarrhoea had made his end messily brutal. Worst of all, as he faded, his screams and whimpering had stabbed Simon like daggers of guilt, because he could do nothing to ease the lad’s suffering, and that had caused a terrible desire to have him silenced. It was almost a relief when at last his crying had faded to nothing and Simon realised that he would never again make a noise.

This death was different. Matthew was an old man. He had seen and done much in his sixty-odd years, and a life which had been fully enjoyed — or endured — had not been totally wasted.

Matthew lay untidily. No one had bothered to put his hands together or close his eyes. They probably thought there was no point, not with a beggar who wouldn’t be able to afford the simplest funeral. Simon could empathise with that view. There was no point in making too much effort for a man who, when all was said and done, wouldn’t be missed by many. Matthew had no wife, no daughter, no son, no mother; there was nobody to mourn him.

But when he glanced at Baldwin, Simon realised he was wrong: Baldwin mourned him. The knight was overcome with sadness. He had slept badly. Simon had heard him tossing and turning during the night, and more than once had thought that he should interrupt Baldwin’s thoughts and try to talk, but each time he had slipped away into slumber again. It was hard, but he was so tired with the heat during the day and wine at night, and he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open. He vaguely recalled waking and seeing Baldwin sitting at an open, unshuttered window staring out at the stars, but now he wasn’t certain that it wasn’t a dream. It had all the power of reality, certainly, but his dreams were often vivid.

The knight appeared reluctant to approach closer. For once, Simon felt that he was the calmer of the pair of them in the face of death. Rather than waiting, Simon stepped forward and stood over the corpse, staring down at the body. ‘Is the girl out here as well?’