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.
‘So, my lady!’
The hand on her shoulder made her squeak in alarm, but then the hand gripped her hair roughly, and she felt her head being pulled back and upwards until she was staring into his face, saw the fiercely smouldering eyes gazing down into hers.
That was when she knew she was lost.
Simon was first to hear the scream.
It exploded into his mind and shattered his dream of lying in bed with Meg, his wife. He wasn’t in his bed, he was lying in the shade on a grassy riverbank in a foreign country. Shocked into full wakefulness, he shot upwards like a startled lark and stared about him.
Baldwin stirred beside him, and Simon prodded him with an ungentle foot as he listened, utterly absorbed. Flies hummed near, a large black one aiming for his face, and he waved it away, frowning with concentration, his other hand hovering near his sword.
They had been here for at least an hour, from the look of the sun’s shadows, sitting and eating their bread and cheese in quiet contemplation, drinking wine chilled by the river, the skin left dangling by a thong in the waters. Once they were done, both men lay back and chatted desultorily until they submitted to the warmth of the afternoon sun and fell fast asleep.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin grumbled.
Simon was almost sure that the scream had come from farther upriver. ‘A cry — up there somewhere.’
‘Nothing now,’ Baldwin yawned.
‘Wait!’
Shrill and terrified, the cry came again and again, shuddering on the still air like the call of a strange bird.
Baldwin was on his feet, hand on his sword, already sprinting towards the sound.
Simon hurried along behind him, his sword out, the blade flashing as it caught the sun. The blade had been so well-used over so many years, that there was nothing left of the high polish which it had once possessed, in stark contrast to Baldwin’s newer one. That flashed with a wicked intensity whenever the sun caught it, the carefully tempered, peacock-blue metal glinting like a well-cut and polished jewel.
Their path took them through lank, straggling grasses, wild flowers of white and yellow, under great trees and through drying puddles, and although it was not a great distance, Simon soon found his heart was pounding more vigorously than he had ever known it do before. He put it down to the strength of the wine, and perhaps the fact that he had eaten too much cheese, but he was sweltering in his rough tunic and cloak and would have felt no damper had he thrown himself into the river.
But all thoughts of his comfort disappeared as they ran through a small grove, past a donkey braying wildly, and some skinny chickens which fled, squawking, and found the two girls.
Neither was more than fourteen, Simon guessed as he leaned down, both fists on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. Both were plainly petrified, but as Simon began to find his wind, he realised that a large part of their terror might stem from the fact that two foreigners had suddenly burst through the trees and materialised in front of them with drawn swords. He tried a soothing smile, but was rewarded with a fresh screech of panic.
It was Baldwin who calmed matters. He carefully thrust his sword back into its scabbard, motioning to Simon to copy his example, and then stared about him, ignoring the two girls. After a moment, they pointed and, to Simon’s mind, jabbered incomprehensibly. Baldwin appeared to understand, and strode off in the direction which they had indicated.