Baldwin nodded, but the news gave him no comfort. If anything, being reminded of Afonso simply added to his mental confusion. There was no motive for this strange man, this mercenary, to attack Matthew, as Maria had said. An older man, perhaps, who had a grudge against the Templars — that could have been comprehensible, but Maria had said that he was a younger man — quite a lot younger. So what could have been his motive? It made no sense. A richer man trying to rob someone with nothing; a man with position killing a man with none; a young man killing an old one at the end of his life. There was no logic to it. Baldwin had mused over it all through the night while sitting at Simon’s bedside, and all day today it had never been far from his mind.
He needed more information. There was not enough to allow him to speculate. All he was convinced of was that Matthew had not died because he was a beggar. Beggars were sometimes killed, usually by drunks or arrogant fools who thought they were better than them, when the only difference between a knight and a man like Matthew was good or bad fortune.
There were men who believed that Templars were evil, but men who thought that way would not kill like an assassin in the street and run, they would usually confess and throw themselves on the mercy of the local court, expecting all other rational men to thank them for ridding the world of a foul parasite. Any man might execute a heretic, after all, and the Pope’s entourage had succeeded admirably in persuading the population of Europe that all Templars were little better than lackeys of the devil.
Munio was still toying with the little casket. When the men pulled Domingo away from Simon, this little box had been gripped tightly in his hand. Munio had cleaned it and opened it to reveal the bone; both he and Sir Baldwin were convinced that it must be something with religious significance, but there had been no reports of any missing relics. Maybe Domingo and his men had stolen it in France or further away.
‘I wish I could make sense of Matthew’s death. Why should this Afonso kill him?’ Baldwin fretted.
‘You are greatly exercised by the death of a single beggar.’
‘Even a beggar deserves justice,’ Baldwin said sanctimoniously.
‘Perhaps,’ Munio said, but without humour. ‘But so does a young woman, whose life has been cut short.’
‘I know. Both are equal in importance.’
‘Are they?’ Munio asked. ‘Forgive me, but you appear to have discounted the girl’s life already.’
‘Not at all,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘I am as keen as ever to catch her murderer — but with Ramon gone, I do not see how to proceed, whereas a witness gave us the name of Matthew’s killer.’
‘I keep thinking: but where is the money?’ Munio said.
‘Well, we now know that Domingo and his men were penniless. So that makes it less likely that they killed Joana,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘And this box and its contents is hardly the sort of thing that could be easily sold. Unless they intended selling it here to the Cathedral?’
‘If they had, it would have involved lengthy negotiations. The Church does not approve of buying back things which are Her own.’
‘The lack of money does not justify assuming that Ramon was the murderer,’ said Baldwin.
‘I do not like to accuse a Knight of Santiago. But he left the city, and no one here appears to have suddenly grown wealthy,’ Munio pointed out. ‘Surely the money could have been removed from the city. Where better, than to be taken out of Galicia itself, carried by a man who has declared himself to be so overwhelmed with grief that he must leave the country? Ramon was there, he saw Joana, he lied to you and he fled. Who else can I suspect?’
‘We know Ramon was there,’ Munio continued sombrely. ‘Domingo went up there later, but if Domingo took the cash, he’d have spent it or run. Yet he did neither.’
He stood, the casket still in his hand. ‘This man Ramon has many questions to answer.’
Chapter Twenty
Simon came to feeling groggy and lethargic, and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. For some reason it was very dark, and he thought at first that he must have woken during the night, but then he saw the light in thin streams that reached across the floor. There were shutters here which were covering the window.
For a moment, he wondered where he was. He had woken expecting to see the rough thatch of his own home at Lydford, and he reached out an arm for his wife, but his hand encountered emptiness at the same time as he realised that the ceiling was not his own. The beams weren’t pale logs split into planks, but appeared to be blackened poles, all unsplit. That was odd, but when he turned his head to stare at where Meg should have lain, he saw that he was not lying on his own bed. This bed was too small for sharing, and that was no doubt why the woman was sitting on a chair. But this was terrible. As he lay and mused over this mystery, his overriding concern was that Meg might learn he had been here, sleeping in this woman’s bed. Who was she? She certainly looked very attractive, with her dark skin and black hair, but he could remember nothing about arriving here. It was very peculiar.
He moved to sit up, and as soon as he lifted his head from the mattress, he felt the nausea and weakness washing over him. With a groan he sank back and, hearing him, the woman awoke and walked to him, putting a cool hand upon his forehead.
‘Am I in heaven, or are the angels visiting the earth?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘You look much better,’ she said. He could see marks of exhaustion under her eyes. ‘Your high temperature is gone.’
‘I have been in a fever?’
‘For two days. I think it was the sun. It has been very hot here for a little while, and your friend told me that you were not used to it. You need to drink more.’
Simon was sure that he remembered her, but his mind seemed unable to focus. Then: ‘You’re Munio’s wife!’ he blurted out at last.
‘Of course,’ she said mildly, taking a cool cloth to his brow and wiping it. ‘I am Margarita.’
She brought over a pot of wine that had been diluted by water and held his head up to it. He drank greedily, and could feel the chill drink washing down his throat and into his belly. It felt wonderful, but it served to remind him just how weakened he was. ‘Where is Baldwin?’
‘He is out, but he will be back before long,’ she said, and her smile was gentle, but exhausted.
‘You have been looking after me for long?’ She was very beautiful, he thought. In the absence of his wife, Meg, he was fortunate to be nursed by such a kindly woman.
‘All the time that your friend was not here, I was,’ she nodded. ‘You were very unwell.’
‘I was fortunate to have so capable a nurse,’ he said with an attempt at gallantry, but in reality he was thinking of his own wife, struck by a pang of homesickness. He missed her and he wanted to return to her, away from this strange country with the people who spoke their odd language.
She laughed. ‘I think you are well enough now,’ she said, and left him with an order to call if he wanted more to drink.
As she was leaving, she heard him murmur, ‘God bless her, and keep my lovely Meg safe for me. I love her.’
Inside, as Simon relaxed, the investigation came back to him slowly, and he recalled the conversation at the tavern. They had captured Domingo, he recalled. The man had run at him, and it was all Simon could do to defend himself, he was so weak. That much came back to him — but if he had been lying here in a fever for two days, surely Baldwin must have discovered the meaning behind the girl’s murder. Perhaps he had also learned why the old beggar had died.
Baldwin arrived back much later in the afternoon. Simon heard his voice calling loudly, and then there were running steps and the door was thrown open as he strode inside. ‘It is true, then? You are all right again?’
‘I’m fine,’ Simon grunted peevishly. Not only had Baldwin left the door wide open, with windows in the passage behind him, but although Simon wouldn’t admit it, he had been dozing, and Baldwin’s sudden eruption into his room had made him leap from sleep to wakefulness in a moment. It was not good for his humour.