Her sin was appalling. Yesterday she hadn’t been able to worry herself about it, because she was too tied up in the fact of Joana’s murder, but now she realised the enormity of her act. She had given away the life of her maid to save the little box in her purse.
How curious that she should have realised what she had done because of a stray word by that evil felon, Don Ruy. He had said it before the two Englishmen, commenting that he hadn’t tried to win the contents of her purse. An odd way of putting it, that. He hadn’t said he’d not tried to take her money, but the contents of her purse. Somehow, he had divined what she carried.
She couldn’t pray like this. Instead, with shaking hands, she reached into her purse and pulled out the little box. Perhaps the sight of it would calm her. A prayer to him might also help.
From the outside, the box was perfectly ordinary, a shining pewter cube, with only one piece of ornamentation to show its importance — a cross carved into the lid, its outline filled with gold. At the centre, where the cross’s arms met, there was a large ruby. The gold and the ruby together showed the value of the contents. Dona Stefania allowed her tears to moisten the metal, and then, with fumbling fingers, she unclipped the clasp and opened it, staring inside.
As usual, she was overcome with excitement at the sight. Inside was a small piece of bone, maybe a half-inch long, discoloured from its long burial. She took it out reverently and kissed it, then put it back. It made her entire body tingle, just like sex with Parceval. She felt slightly faint, as though she had taken a drug which enhanced the senses; it was always the same, whenever she was this close to the relic.
‘Saint Peter, I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I had no idea. I thought all he wanted was money, nothing more. It never occurred to me that he might want this as well — your own finger.’
She heard a step and hurriedly snapped the lid shut again, dropping the box into her purse. If someone was prepared to kill Joana, might they not come and find her as well? Perhaps it was this that they wanted, not the money which Joana had carried to her death?
If only she hadn’t been tempted to rut with that peasant, she would not have feared the blackmail. And the blackmail itself had led to this: to Joana’s murder and Dona Stefania’s trepidation.
All because of the finger of Saint Peter. Her priory’s most precious — its only — relic.
Gregory was content. He had spent much of the morning in the Cathedral’s square, and the result was, he was happier than he had been in many long years.
There was a wonderful sense of fulfilment here in the sunlight. Pilgrims who had travelled for hundreds of miles were arriving and giving thanks for being able to see this marvellous building, giving praise to God for allowing them to achieve their goals. As he watched them, his spirit was renewed.
The only thing that smudged the scene was the curious glimpse he’d had of that fellow Parceval. He remembered the churl from the journey here. He couldn’t very well forget the man, since Parceval had survived that terrible attack, just like him. Strange, but he’d found himself disliking the Fleming on sight, and from the way that Parceval ducked behind a tree when he spotted Gregory, he felt the same.
Still, he wouldn’t allow one idiot to ruin his day. He was having far too much fun. Especially once he left the square and entered the Cathedral again.
This place was magnificent. Gold gleamed everywhere, and the rich crimsons set it off perfectly. In a place like this, it was easy to imagine oneself that little bit nearer to God.
In fact, he felt better than he could have hoped. That terrible desolation had gone, replaced by a renewal of love, faith and hope. Gregory had thought his life was more or less ended, that there was nothing left for him. It seemed that God Himself had turned His face from him just when Gregory needed Him most.
But that was rubbish — he could see that now. When the others went streaming down the hill towards the city, only to be cut down by the outlaws, he realised that his survival was proof of God’s forgiveness. Why else should He have saved him? Obviously it was a sign that God still loved him.
That awareness was wonderful. Where he had felt horror at being divorced from God’s love, now he was once more closely united. All was well.
Slowly drifting with the crowd, he walked like a man in a dream. Incense didn’t so much waft as billow from the enormous censers swung by powerful-looking young novices, and he inhaled a lungful of the aromatic smoke by mistake, suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit. Pilgrims eyed him dubiously, either considering him to be an unhealthy specimen, or wondering whether this was a fit brought on by a demon. There were a few who watched with interest, hoping to be able to attempt to exorcise him, or witness another doing so, but unfortunately (for the witnesses) he soon recovered. He rested his back against the cool stone of a column and contemplated the great windows ahead.
He was there when he heard a sudden intake of breath, and looked down to see Dona Stefania. Dear God, he thought. Why was there always a serpent in Eden?
‘You again!’ he spat.
‘Where else, my once-husband?’ she said coldly.
It was lunchtime when Matthew glanced up at the sky and decided he needed a drink. That was the trouble with a place like this. The square was good for alms, for there were so many pilgrims passing through each day, but begging was hot, dusty work, and when the sun beamed down like this, it was unbearable. He felt as though he was melting in his black clothing.
Ever and again his mind took him back to the tavern last night, to the light playing gently over Sir Baldwin’s features as they chatted. It was the first time that Matthew had felt someone’s sympathy since the destruction of their Order. Usually all he felt was waves of revulsion when people saw him in the street.
He knew it was normal for ordinary people to loathe beggars — he would have done so himself. They were commonly the bone idle, incompetent and congenitally stupid — but surely people should see that he was different? He had the stamp of a warrior monk on him, he had been responsible for many lives, he had commanded men, and he had served his Pope with honour and distinction. His sole offence was to have been marked out for misfortune. He had not acted against the Lord God, he had not offended any of His commandments. All he had done, he had done in God’s name for God’s glory.
That was his firm belief. When he was younger, when he had served the Pope, things had seemed so simple and straightforward. There was good and evil, and the two were clearly delineated.
Matthew tramped over the square towards the alley that led north. A short way up here, he knew, was a small inn where folk like him were treated kindly. The owner was a decent woman who sought to support those who needed her aid. She had a soft spot for Matthew, he reckoned, for she always had a pot of wine and water for him, and sometimes there was a sausage to go with it or a slab of bacon.
Yet his mind was not on the blessed joy of a filled stomach. Rather, it was still fixed on Baldwin’s generosity of spirit. It seemed that the knight still adhered to the oaths he had taken so many years ago, and still felt comradeship for Matthew; it was as though he didn’t see the torn rags of a beggar, but smelled the purity of a clean soul beneath. At the memory of Baldwin’s expression, Matthew’s eyes filled with tears. He felt a thick, throat-blocking sense of guilt and foolishness at what he had done.
He couldn’t speak to Baldwin again, he decided. There was too much shame in doing so.
He walked along the narrow snickleway with the slow gait of a man made drowsy from the heat. Perhaps later he would leave the city, go back upriver again, and take a cool dip. Then he could lie on the bank and dream of the past, of his glories and honour during those great days when he lived in the Pope’s fortress at Avignon.