As they sat about the table with a thick stew ladled into their bowls and plentiful supplies of coarse bread, Baldwin told them all he had learned about Matthew from Afonso. There was a strange feeling that, by telling this story, somehow his own sense of betrayal was diminished. Matthew was a weak man. There was no crime in that. He was as other men were – a human being. Fallible, he could be twisted by those who were more corrupt, ruthless, or simply more brutal than himself. And once he had agreed to lie to protect himself from torture, he was lost. There was no one who would support him. His former companions and friends would not look at him, either because they knew of his perjury and despised him for it, or because they too had committed the same crime, and avoided any man who might remind them of their evil deed, condemning all their friends in exchange for their own freedom from torture. The men with whom he had colluded thought him a coward and ignored him, while those who knew nothing, merely believed the accusations against the Templars and assumed that he was as foul as he had himself confessed. No man would have dealings with him. Thus he was forced to beg.
‘It’s sad to see people begging,’ Simon said meditatively. ‘There are many such here. Not because there are more poor folk here than in other towns, but because many people here will give alms. The beggars know that pilgrims are likely to have been sent here, or to have set off to come here, because they have committed some crime and will be willing to give money away to the poor. And beggars are faceless people, who are used to being ignored. It must be rare indeed for a beggar to be heard, watched or threatened.’
Baldwin glanced at him. ‘Matthew wasn’t threatened by Afonso, Simon. He would have been killed by Afonso – but Afonso found he was already dead.’
‘Yes. And we know who did it.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’
Munio gazed from one to the other. ‘Who, then?’
It was Simon who responded. ‘Pour me a little more of that marvellous wine, and I think I can put in place a means by which we can show you.’
‘When?’ Munio demanded.
‘In the morning, I think,’ Simon said. ‘That will give that fool Don Ruy time to clear his head and calm himself. It will also make him appear more vulnerable. And should give us an extra little piece of incentive.’
The next morning was grey and cool, and when Baldwin threw open the shutters, he felt that the weather was suitable for the end of this grim little affair.
He had set off for this pilgrimage with a heart that was keen to purge itself of the hideous murder he had committed, and he had hoped that when he arrived, his soul would be lightened; instead he had found an old comrade, lost him, and finally learned of his perfidious behaviour. It was a sad man who stared out at the roadway before the house.
While the household stirred and readied themselves for food, he went out and walked away through the city until he reached the gates. He left Compostela and walked up along the river again until he came to the ford. There he sat on a rock and studied the ground once more. Simon had been mysterious all last night. He and Baldwin knew the culprit, but Baldwin had only guessed because of Matthew’s death. As to why, he thought he knew that as well, but Simon’s twinkling smile made Baldwin wonder whether he had got completely the wrong end of the stick.
He would not learn anything here, though. Walking quickly back to the city, he felt himself grow a little out of breath, and told himself sternly that today he must make time to practise with his weapons. It was his normal regime at home to play with them for at least as long as it took for his blood to heat sufficiently to make his muscles ache and burn, and the sweat to run.
At Munio’s, he was surprised to see a massive bowl set at the door ready for beggars. The norm was for one tenth of a household’s food to be given up to the poor, but this was almost enough for Munio’s entire staff and guests. Roasted fowls, pies, even a large cheese, were thrown in higgledy-piggledy, and Baldwin remembered that he had not yet eaten. He hurried into the house to see if there was any food left after the others had broken their fast.
In the hall there was still a little wine, watered and flavoured with spices and oranges, and some bread. He took a large piece and a handful of olives, and stood chewing while servants arrived to clear the room. The tables were emptied, then their cloths removed while the tops were stacked against a wall and their trestles folded and put away. Soon there was only Munio’s own table standing on its dais, and before it a wide, clear space.
Sighing, Baldwin took his seat on a bench.
He did not have long to wait. Munio arrived soon after the last of the tables were removed, and shortly after him Guillem hurried in, carrying his pots and parchments. He sat down and began to prepare his tools, glancing about him enquiringly as he did so. Then the other interested parties filtered in.
Simon came in and looked about him, walking to Baldwin’s side. Sir Charles and his man arrived and stood at the back of the hall as though interesting themselves in the strange and obscure practices of a foreign court. After these came the spectators – the rowdy, the nosy and the plain silly, who could always be counted upon to witness another’s potential execution.
Munio had a small hammer with him, which he used to call order. ‘Bring in the man.’
To Simon’s delight, Don Ruy was a dishevelled figure after a night in the gaol. His beard blued his jaw, his hair was unkempt, and his clothes were marked with more recent stains. There was a tear in his sleeve which hadn’t been there the night before, Simon noticed, and he hoped that the madman was content with the result of his attack. The Bailiff was happy to forgive and forget an insult, but not a sword.
‘Don Ruy. You are here because last afternoon you attacked this man, Simon Puttock, and caused a disturbance which could have grown ugly. Do you confess?’
‘I don’t. He accused me of a crime. I was protecting my honour, as is the right of a knight.’
When Baldwin had translated, he had to put a hand on Simon’s wrist to stop him leaping up and accusing Ruy of lying. ‘It will not help matters.’
‘It’d make me feel a lot better,’ Simon said, but he was already cooling. Instead of watching Ruy, his attention was concentrated on the door at the rear of the hall. Occasionally he saw a black-clad figure arrive, but each time he shook his head, and the person was left alone.
‘That man accused me of murder,’ Ruy said, throwing out a hand towards Simon with justifiable anger. He was humiliated, standing here like a common felon, while the man who had dared to accuse him stood there with his honour intact. It was he, Don Ruy, who had been the injured party, not that smarmy, block-headed English Bailiff! ‘What would you expect a man of honour to do? I defended myself, as is my right!’
Simon was pleased to see that at last a proud, slender figure had appeared. He quickly lifted his brows and nodded his face towards her: Doña Stefanía de Villamor, and not a moment too soon, because only seconds later he saw the person entering anxiously behind her. That was when he smiled to himself, glanced at Baldwin and saw his brief nod of approval, not unmixed with confusion, and settled back in his chair with his chin on his chest. There was little more he could do for the moment.
‘You launched an unprovoked attack on the good Bailiff, and for that you must suffer the consequences.’ Just then, Munio caught sight of Baldwin’s glance and followed his look towards the back of the room. At this point he changed his speech.
‘But first, before we decide on the punishment, I should like to mention something else.’ He reached into his purse and brought out the little casket. ‘This was found recently. Does anyone recognise it, or claim it as their own?’
There was a sudden hush at this unexpected interruption to proceedings, and Ruy himself looked as though he might protest, but before he could do so, Doña Stefanía stepped forward eagerly.