In a way, this ceiling reminded Simon of a wood, and then, when he viewed it slightly askance, he thought it was much like the trees leading up to the ford where he and Baldwin had found Joana’s body. There was the same large gap through which the ford itself could be seen, the same close-set meeting of branches where the girls hung up their drying. Beyond, he thought that the contours of the grasses in the roof were much like the rocks on which the washing was beaten and scrubbed. He could even imagine that the little hillock on the left side there, was the lumpy form of the dead body. On this side of the river.
So the horses had been tied up there, and the two had crossed over the water and walked together, perhaps made love in the sunshine: Ramon and Joana. Later he had gone back to town, but she had remained there.
Domingo had turned up after Ramon had left, had killed his cousin, beating her in a frenzy, and then taken her money. And raped her at some point, of course. He must have taken the money back with him to the town — except there was no sign of it amongst his possessions. Unless he had used it to buy the relic. Relics could be expensive, after all. But no! Domingo was not that sort of man. So maybe he had stolen the relic too.
Simon swore softly to himself, rose and padded out to the hall, grabbing a long shirt to cover himself with as he went. Munio and his wife had retired to their own quiet solar, leaving all the servants snoring or grunting here in the main hall. Simon donned his shirt and went out to the buttery, drawing off a pint or so of wine. He took it with him out to the cool garden and sat listening to the night’s creatures.
Domingo had not taken the money. He couldn’t have. All Simon’s experience rejected the notion. Domingo was not the sort of thief to hide his good fortune under a bushel. If he had won a small fortune from the Dona, he would have spent it, especially on his men. But the men whom Baldwin and Munio had captured proclaimed their poverty, and there was nothing on Domingo or in his pockets. Ramon might have it, but Simon doubted it. If the man was honourable and intended joining another religious Order, he could hardly do so with money acquired by stealing from a Prioress and murdering a maid. No, that made no sense. It was possible that Baldwin’s other target, the Portuguese, could have taken it. In fact, that made more sense than any other possibility.
Then his mind began to work with a sudden clarity. The assumption so far had been that this was an accidental murder, that the crime intended was blackmail, and that the killing of the maid was merely incidental to that; the maid’s attractiveness was simply the spur to the rape and murder, neither of which had been planned. But perhaps the murder of Joana was no accident after all. She was there because Dona Stefania’s horse had been hidden by Domingo, her cousin. What if her death had been planned?
That gave Simon much to consider for the rest of the night, but it was not until the eastern sky was lightening that his face cleared suddenly and his mouth dropped open as the other possibility occurred to him.
She was already dropping with exhaustion. The work was repetitive and dull, but at least washing clothes brought in a few dinheiros and still left her time to sit in the square.
Standing again, she closed her eyes as she drew herself upwards. The pile which was the result of her efforts overnight was a pathetic sight, and when she looked at it, she was close to tears. All this misery — all this shame, sadness and poverty — and all caused by the conjunction of some terrible events that were nothing to do with her. And as a result, she must sit here every night while her fingers ached, the skin cracked, and her eyes grew sore.
Now she was done. She would go to buy a little wine, something to put the feeling back into her fingers and toes. It would cost more than half the money she had earned tonight, she knew, and that made her choke back a sob.
The woman at the bar gave her a hard look as Maria walked from the place, as though she felt that the beggarwoman was enjoying herself too much and the rent should be put up. If she did so, there was nothing Maria could do about it. For now, the most important thing for her was to gain enough energy to be able to survive the remainder of the night.
She walked out into the roadway, past the small triangular patch of grass, pulling her hood up over her hair. It was while she was decorously trying to hitch the veil up that she saw a dark shadow pissing against a tree.
It was a perfectly normal sight in the evening, but something prompted Maria to hurry her steps, and as she did so, the man turned and saw her. She recognised him immediately, as he did her. Even with her hood and veil, there was no mistaking the form and size of Maria the beggar, and he hailed her with a sudden grin.
‘Where to, woman? May I buy you a cake and some wine?’
She hurried her steps, saying nothing, but she could hear his chuckle and his footsteps as he set off after her. The way took her down the side of the hill; she turned right along an alley, then left, hoping to lose him in the maze of smaller streets, but it was no good. She was clad in her heavy black skirts, while he wore hosen. While she kept feeling her bare feet getting tangled, he moved without impediment.
The pursuit ended when she tripped and fell headlong.
‘Come, Maria, why the panic? It’s not as if I’m a murderer, is it?’ he teased from above her. ‘And if you sleep with me again, I’ll pay you for a whole evening’s work as well as paying you.’
It was tempting to believe him. God! She could do with the money, and he was not unappealing like so many of the men she’d been forced to accept. But how could she trust a man like him? He was another so-called honourable knight, just like the ones who had taken her home away from her.
He saw her face hardening. ‘Please!’ he said, more quietly.
There was a curious expression of hurt in his eyes, as though he wished to have her company for its own sake. Perhaps he did, too. She was brighter, better educated than most wenches in the city. More companionable.
‘It will cost you more this time,’ she warned him.
‘I don’t care.’
‘The money now, then,’ she demanded, holding her hand out.
‘Come, you can trust me,’ he said.
‘You say I can trust you?’ she repeated cynically. ‘I can trust no men. One only who married me, and one who saved my life — but both are dead now. You, Don Ruy — you must pay. The money first, and then you can have me.’
While Baldwin awoke with a sore neck, glaring up at the grey sky and trying to imagine how long it would take to dry off his sodden clothing after being so effectively soaked by the dew, Simon was waking to a pot of warmed wine that had been watered and sweetened, with some aromatic herbs and spices added. To set it off, there was the fresh juice of an orange. It was tasty, refreshing and, in short, the ideal drink to wake a man from a deep slumber.
He stretched with only a slight feeling of stiffness in his lower back and one knee. That was an old wound, from a bad fall when he was a lad, and it was growing to be his most efficient means of predicting the weather. Whenever it was about to alter, his left knee twinged. Perhaps the weather would soon change, he thought. It was possible, but then again, it could merely be the last after-effect of his illness. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he was not going to tell his wife Meg about any of this.
The door opened just then, but with his eyes closed, he thought nothing of it. He murmured, ‘Meg, I adore you and miss you. God keep you for me and for me alone!’
Opening his eyes, he saw Munio’s wife, who stood silently with a plate on which was a flat lump of the local bread, some plain cheese and a little ham. She said nothing, but set the plate beside him, and walked from the room with an abstracted air.