‘If all this is correct, then of course Caterina is innocent of any crime so far,’ Simon went on. ‘And so she would have been, but she grew worried. Someone else knew that she was there, I think — another beggar. Someone who happened to hear Joana and her talking about meeting. Perhaps this beggar put two and two together. He heard about the money which Joana had carried, and he demanded some of it for himself. Caterina knew nothing about any money and refused. In which case, he said, he would tell his very good friend, an investigator, and see her arrested …’
‘No!’
‘I saw this person go and talk to Caterina only a few minutes after we told him that a sum of money had been stolen from Joana. We helped to ensure his greed got the better of him. What else would a beggar do?’
He looked over to Baldwin now, and he could see the realisation dawning on his friend’s face. Baldwin’s eyes were glistening, and he blinked quickly, sniffing. Beyond that there was nothing. He had already come to terms with the sort of man that his comrade Matthew had become.
Simon shrugged. ‘Caterina followed after Matthew the beggar, or perhaps she simply waited at a place where she knew she would find him. And when he arrived, she thrust once with a sharp little knife. The death of Joana was undoubtedly self-defence, Munio. But Matthew? That was simple murder, nothing more.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The only man who appeared shocked and unhappy was Don Ruy. ‘Don’t touch her! She is no murderer, but a victim of other men’s crimes.’
‘Perhaps in your case that could be true,’ Munio said. ‘For you have defiled her yourself, forcing her to accept you for money.’
‘I have done no such thing!’ Don Ruy said forcefully. ‘I have never taken a woman against her will, and this one has been paid handsomely.’
‘What of your wife?’ Baldwin asked.
‘He’s married?’ Caterina said, and stared at Don Ruy. ‘You said you-’
‘Enough!’ Munio commanded. ‘In the case against you for murder, I doubt that you need fear. We’ll keep you in custody until tomorrow when we can hold a court to debate the matter.’
Munio sat in his hall later that day as Guillem finished writing up the notes of the court’s events.
Dona Stefania had left clutching her casket and money like a long-lost child, and the crowd had gone. Now only Guillem remained, and Munio. He wondered idly how a man like the cleric could enjoy life. No woman at his side day and night, no companionship other than that of men. It was a life upon which Guillem appeared to thrive, but Munio could not comprehend it. To live through the rest of his years without his Margarita was a terrible thought. A man needed his woman, and to live without her was a dreadful concept.
He was a fortunate fellow; he knew that. When he had met his wife for the first time, he felt as though he had found more than a companion. She was another part of him; they shared the same soul. Her kindness and generosity of spirit were a delight to him. Unfortunately, it was that which had caused them their troubles now, of course.
Margarita could no more see a man or woman in pain without helping, than she could have murdered a child. That was why she had tended to Simon so carefully through his two illnesses — because she was inherently kind.
He sighed. The trouble was, so often people thought that because a woman cared for them, necessarily she must love them. Oh, Munio had heard of it happening elsewhere, when nuns looked after the ill in their convents, and then the men who recovered found themselves deeply in love with the nuns. It was all too common. And now Simon had apparently fallen in love with Margarita. She had heard him praying that she would love him or something.
Munio stared out through the window, listening as he heard the footsteps approaching. They were the steps of two happy men. Simon’s gait was still a little slow, and there was a vague shuffle to his left leg, which had caught the brunt of the table at the tavern, while Baldwin’s was faster and lighter after all his travelling.
‘Guillem, I should prefer that you were gone,’ Munio grunted.
The cleric stopped and stared at his Pesquisidor. There was a strange note in Munio’s voice, he thought, a sad, lonely tone. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, and packed his remaining bits and pieces into his scrip before making for the door. He reached it just as it was thrown open by Simon and Baldwin, and the two entered, Baldwin grinning broadly.
The last Guillem saw of them was Simon marching up to Munio’s desk, and the Pesquisidor’s face assuming a smile of feigned pleasure. It was so close to being a mask of horror that Guillem felt his heart lurch in his breast.
Simon and Baldwin had no idea of Guillem’s insight as they crossed the floor to Munio. It was Simon who reached him first, thrusting out his hand. ‘I am so very grateful for all you have done for me, Munio. Especially your wife as well. I am sure I would have died if it were not for her careful ministrations.’
‘Perhaps so, but all she did was her duty to an unwell person,’ Munio said pointedly, but the two were not of a mood to pick up on subtle hints.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ Simon said with a laugh. ‘No woman could have treated a husband with more care and consideration than your wife did me.’
‘And it cannot have been easy for any person to look after so repellent a knave as this Bailiff,’ Baldwin said lightly. He was perched on the edge of Munio’s table now, and Munio looked away. He liked Baldwin. In fact, he liked them both, but his wife thought that she had heard Simon praying for her, asking God to keep her for him. That must mean that Simon wanted Munio dead. It was a terrible thing to do, to ask that a woman be widowed so that she might be taken.
‘Anyway, it will soon be time to go,’ Simon said. ‘I should like to say goodbye to you and your wife, and then we must leave Galicia and return to our own homes and wives.’
What about mine, then? Munio thought. Would you keep her in your house like a Moor with his harem?
Baldwin nodded. ‘Simon has a new home to find, down on the coast, and I must go back to my own home in Devonshire. We will both have much to do.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said with a noticeable lessening of his pleasure. ‘My wife doesn’t want to come and live with me in Dartmouth. Nor does my daughter. Poor Meg. She wants to remain in Lydford for the rest of her days.’
‘Meg?’ Munio asked. ‘Who is Meg?’
‘My wife,’ Simon explained. ‘Her name is Margaret, but I always call her Meg. She doesn’t want me to go so far from Lydford, but it is where my new job lies. The Abbot of Tavistock has asked that I go there, and there’s nothing I can do to refuse him. He is my master.’
‘What … what will you be doing there?’ Munio stammered.
‘The Abbot has just been made the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, and I am to be his representative.’
Munio took a deep breath. ‘Then we should celebrate your new position, Bailiff!’ He roared for a servant, and demanded that his wife be brought in, and Guillem too, so that all could share in Simon’s pleasure.
And his own. ‘I have a terrible murder resolved thanks to both of you,’ he said, and put his arm about his wife. ‘And let us drink to your wife, Meg,’ he added. ‘I hope she grows to love your new home as much as your old one!’
It was cold in her great church when Dona Stefania arrived home again, and she closed the door quietly behind her as though to shut out the possibility of any of the other Sisters hearing her. Today she knew that she had to beg forgiveness for all her sins on the way back here, and she must also plead to be able to keep the relic.