‘Oh, God,’ she sighed as she knelt on the freezing flagstones immediately before the altar. ‘What else could I have done? That man could have tempted an angel from heaven with his honeyed tongue. I tried to disregard him, but it was impossible. And when I thought he had my money, it seemed only sensible to stay with him, so that I could try to take it back.’
That was not all, of course.
‘No. I didn’t have to stay with him when I realised it was in truth his own money. But by then, it would have been difficult to find somewhere else. And I thought that Joana was still alive, and if she was, I could have won back my money still, and perhaps even found my relic … Your relic, I mean! I thought that after Domingo took the casket from me, he perhaps gave it to Joana for safekeeping, because surely if she hadn’t died there at the river, he would know. That devil knew everything. And I thought that if Joana had lived, and that the whole of her death was staged, then Domingo must have been involved with her. They were related, after all. Cousins.’
She tugged the casket from her scrip and held it aloft. ‘And see! I did succeed. Not in the way I expected, but I did manage to bring it back to You, and here it is! Please accept it, and let us keep it here, for if you do, it will be greatly to the glory of Your Church!’
There was no answer. No thunder-roll, no fork of lightning, nothing. But if there was no heavenly choir singing her praises, nor, reflected Dona Stefania, was there a bolt from the heavens to strike her down either.
Lowering her arms at last, which were now growing a little tired, she murmured a reverent paternoster before setting the little casket on the altar.
‘I shall announce that the relic is here, and people shall come from all over the world to sing Your glory, Lord. I shall have it mounted in a gold box, with rubies and pearls and emeralds and … and all manner of gems to show how highly we value Your generosity. Holy, holy, holy, Lord. Lord of all …’
On the morning they were due to leave, Munio was pleased to accept the decision of Sir Charles that he and his servant would leave with Baldwin and Simon.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he lied politely. It was best, he thought, always to be polite to men such as Sir Charles. He had the look of one who would be swift to take offence.
Sir Charles smiled as though he doubted the depth of Munio’s sorrow. ‘It is a shame, but there is nothing here but expense. You have no tournaments in Galicia or even in Portugal. What I need is an opportunity of fighting in the lists and winning wealth and renown, or a new lord whom I might serve, and a lord like that will be in England or France, not here. I shall have to return home and see what is happening in my country.’
‘Well, I wish you a happy voyage and Godspeed,’ Munio said.
‘We are thankful for all your kindness to us,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I especially thank you, Margarita, for your careful treatment of Simon while I was away. It must have been terrible to have the fear of his decease before my return.’
‘Let us not even think of such things,’ she said with a shudder.
‘No,’ Munio agreed. ‘Not when you are about to embark on another long journey. Godspeed to you all.’
Simon and Baldwin made their farewells, then Sir Charles; and the four men, Paul bringing up the rear, set off northwards, aiming for the coast and hoping to find a merchantman which would convey them back to Dartmouth or perhaps Topsham. There were many good, sizeable ports for them to strike for.
‘Let’s hope that the weather holds,’ Baldwin said with a glance up at the gathering clouds.
Simon had not forgotten his prostration on the way to Galicia. ‘Aye, let us hope so,’ he said with a frown.
‘It should be easier than the way here,’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘The weather looks hardly bad enough to ruffle the sea. I am sure we’ll have an easy time of it.’
‘Good,’ Simon said. He looked up again. There were storms gathering, he thought, but he relied on the knight’s greater knowledge of the sea and understanding of the weather in these parts. He had spent more time here than Simon.
Surely he must know better.
It was a few days after Baldwin and Simon had left that Munio stood with Guillem on the walls of the city near the eastern gate and watched the crowds entering the city.
‘Don’t you think she should have been executed?’ Guillem asked quietly.
Munio looked at him. ‘What useful purpose would it have served? I think that this way justice is seen to be done.’
‘She murdered the beggar Matthew.’
‘Only because he threatened her. If he had not demanded money, saying that if she didn’t pay him, he’d tell the Prioress who she was, she wouldn’t have been panicked into killing him. That is the point, I think. She was forced into killing him by his actions, that evil fool!’
‘A Templar,’ Guillem said, crossing himself. He shook his head. ‘I can understand how the Pope felt that they deserved destruction if they were all formed in the same mould.’
Munio remembered Baldwin and was silent a moment. He did not know, but he suspected Baldwin’s background. ‘No group can be entirely evil, Guillem. Even if there was one like Matthew, there were others who joined the Templars because they wanted to do good, protect pilgrims and serve God. Just think: those men, Sir Charles and Dom Afonso, both served no man, but when they saw pilgrims being attacked, they leaped in to defend them. They would be looked down upon by most people because they are lordless and landless, but they still did what they could to protect the pious.’
‘And no doubt rob them.’
‘That is not kind, Guillem.’
‘No. But realistic.’
Parceval sniffed and then tipped the rest of the pot of wine into his mouth and savoured it as he swilled it about. He had to sniff as he finished the drink. The tears were never far from his eyes now.
It was hard to lose a lover. He knew the Dona wasn’t really in love with him, but that didn’t matter because he could lie to himself. She had shared his bed for a while, she was an enthusiastic lover, and while she was with him, he could tell himself that she was there because she wanted to be with him, not because she was desperate without any money and wanted only to take his own purse.
He had loved her, he told himself again.
When his daughter died — he couldn’t bring himself to recall how — his wife had gone. She heard what had happened, and that same day she left, taking his son with her. There was no love there when the assumed rape of his own daughter became common knowledge. Perhaps that was why he was so desperate for the love of another woman. Maybe it was just that he was mad for someone to comfort him and give him the solace he craved: companionship and sympathy. Not that the Dona had given him much of that. She had been too self-obsessed. And yet even when she was completely focused on herself, there was something there: he had felt it. Perhaps it was simply the fact that both were lonely people. Their mutual despair made them companionable.
She had gone, though. And all there was for Parceval now was the long, blank road of the future.
He had wealth, it was true, but what use was his money, when his wife was gone and his son with her? All the time he lived in his house, he would be forced to confront that terrible picture in his mind. He had tried to forget it by coming here. The court at Ypres had sent him, but he had not demurred. There had been a hope in his mind that perhaps by coming here, he would be able to forget that scene, his daughter’s wide, screaming mouth.
‘My God!’ he muttered, and waved for another jug of wine. It helped him to forget, and that was all he wanted: to forget the loss of his family, and now the loss of his woman.
Perhaps he should think of her as ‘his last woman’. She was surely the last. He couldn’t possibly find another. He was too old, and even with his money, he obviously wasn’t the most attractive of men. No, in future all he could count on were whores.