The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) (34 page)

‘Stop that man! Stop him! ’Ware that man! Stop that murderer!’

His breath was a harsh pain now. It felt like pins and needles as he swallowed it, as though the air was filled with steel that scraped and scrubbed his throat with every breath. With the row of his feet slapping on the slabs, there was the thundering of the blood in his veins, all but deafening him, and when he reached a corner, he had to hold out his arms to stop himself from crashing bodily into the wall, shoving away as he carried on running, pushing himself in the new direction. Ahead of him, he could still see Domingo, and the robber was gaining speed now. Simon was slowing, but the Galician, raised in the hills south of
Compostela where he had run throughout his youth, showed no signs of flagging. Simon felt his breath sob in his breast at the thought that he was going to lose his man, and then he was on again, teeth gritted in grim determination, fists clenched, while he concentrated on Domingo’s back, ignoring the pain in his own legs.

There was a bellow and he snapped a look over his shoulder, only to see, loping easily just behind him, his guard, the staff still gripped in his hand. He saw Simon’s look, gave a short nod, then overtook him.

Simon was dumbfounded. He had always been considered relatively swift over a longer distance, that he had stamina rather than the ability to sprint, but now he felt as though he might as well stop and stand still as try to compete. The Compostelan merely set his head down like a bull, and stampeded onwards. Simon hadn’t heard of the festivals in which the youths of the towns ran with the bulls, but if he had, he would have been hard pushed to say whether this man was more human than bull.

A pause for a heart’s beat, and then Simon’s second wind came; he chased off after the two men once more. He heard another shout, a scream, and then a third call, and this time it was taken up by other voices. Suddenly Simon was in the square again, and he stopped, leaning against a doorframe while his face suddenly flamed with heat, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he felt as though his mouth was too small to swallow as much breath as he needed. He had to grip the wall to support himself as he peered into the square.

Domingo was all but incoherent with rage. One fool he could have coped with, but this second man had prevented his escape, and now he was held at bay. There was a circle of stallholders and hawkers about him, all watching him with that measuring assessment that a man had in his eye when he gauged one dog’s strength against another’s in the ring. Three brandished good-sized sticks, while another had a blade out and ready. Then there was the thickset man who had pursued him. He stood gripping
his staff as though wondering where to poke it to make Domingo collapse most speedily.

This was the man who was the most dangerous, Domingo knew. While Domingo’s legs were recovering speedily, the other’s legs were already relaxed, as though he had not just chased Domingo for over a half mile.

Domingo must crush this opponent or be vanquished himself, he knew. He retreated slightly. The man smiled grimly, tapped the staff against the palm of his hand, and then started to advance.

Instantly Domingo moved. He ran full tilt into the officer, head down.

Astonished, the man hesitated, and then it was too late. He tried to bring his staff down to block Domingo’s rush, but the weapon bounced off the robber chief’s broad back; Domingo’s head then thumped into his belly, and all the air whooshed from his lungs before the first of his assailant’s punches landed on his body. Bringing the staff down again, he tried to inflict some pain on Domingo, but the latter had the leverage to push him around, and then managed to pound his fist into his kidney. Overcome with agony, the man fell.

Domingo felt him collapse, and kicked once as the man curled into a ball at his feet. He glanced down with surprise at the bloody knife in his fist. He couldn’t remember grabbing it. It must have been the officer’s own weapon, for it wasn’t Domingo’s. Furious, frustrated, he kicked again, seeing the thick mist of blood that erupted from the dying man’s kidney.

He could see Simon still leaning on the wall. To his surprise, Simon pushed himself upright and began to walk towards him. ‘Who are you?’ Domingo shouted. ‘What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing to you!’

Simon understood none of his words. He approached steadily, drawing his sword as he came, watching Domingo’s hands, his feet, his eyes – the way that his body moved – for those were the indicators that showed a martial artist’s skill.

Oh God, there was that dizziness again, but he wasn’t going to surrender to it. He would arrest this felon if it killed him.

Domingo saw the steely determination in Simon’s eyes, cast a look about him, saw the reluctance of the others to come to his aid, lifted his blade and gave a shriek of defiance, and then ran at the youngest man there. The fellow gave a squeak, tripped and fell, and Domingo was already over him, and running on.

But this time he’d been forced away from the Cathedral. He wouldn’t be able to catch the damned Prioress, the woman responsible for all his woes; he wouldn’t be able to kill the vixen! There was a hill ahead, and he hurried up it. Behind him he could hear footsteps pounding after him; and every now and again a missile would hurtle past his head.

He came to a small open space with a couple of donkeys tearing at a patch of scrubby grass. He hurtled down an alley to the right, hoping to deflect some of the hunt. Forty yards or so into it lay another alley, and he ran up it. This ended in a wider space. An old barn stood in the middle; he slipped through the part-open door, hoping no one was close enough to see him, praying that they wouldn’t be able to hear the painful thudding of his heart in the still air.

Simon was convinced at first that the man must have darted down another alley. He wasn’t the first of the pursuers to reach what he thought of as a cross between a yard and a green, and there were already three or four men milling in confusion when he reached it. He had to stop, leaning against a low tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘Where is he?’ he gasped. ‘Did anyone see him?’

It was clear that no one understood a word he said, and beyond a couple of quizzical looks, he was ignored.

He couldn’t blame them. This area was roughly triangular, with their entrance in the middle of the longest side. From here, three main lanes ran away, and two smaller alleys as well. Domingo could have taken any of these and would be well out of sight by now. There was no means of telling where he could have gone.

Simon permitted himself to sink to his knees, the breath sobbing in his throat as he realised that they had lost the man responsible for so much pain and suffering, Simon had been determined to catch him and bring him to justice, but he had failed. Worse, he had led one of Munio’s men to his own death. In his mind’s eye, Simon saw that man’s body twisted with agony after Domingo had stabbed him, writhing as Domingo kicked him. Another death. Another victim.

Then, through a veil of tears, Simon saw it: the faintest smudge of ochre. Hastily wiping his eyes, he stared. A half-moon of blood lay on the ground. Looking back the way he had come, he could see no sign of footprints of blood, but then he realised that here, emerging from the alleyway, Domingo would have had to alter his pattern of footsteps, slowing, then hurrying again. Perhaps as he came out into this yard, a different part of his shoe hit the ground, and that was why he had deposited blood here.

The mark pointed towards a narrow alley which headed up away from the Cathedral. Simon was about to take the men up that way, when he saw what looked like another print – except this one pointed to a barn door. The door looked slightly ajar, and Simon, looking up, thought he saw a flash, as though there was an eye in the gap, watching to see what the posse would do.

Simon looked along the alley again and nodded to himself. He stood, whistled, and, when he had the attention of all the men, he ran straight at the barn’s door, kicking at it with a foot.

Domingo saw Simon slump to the ground in defeat, and smiled to himself, but he wanted these men to leave. He didn’t want them idling away their time here, he wanted them to run off in a different direction. There was a group of three who were pointing away from the Cathedral, and he willed the others to take their advice. ‘Go on, go on!’

The whistle cut through his thoughts. It was as loud as a pig’s squeal and Domingo’s attention shot back to Simon. He saw the Bailiff look about him with satisfaction at all the other men,
then he saw Simon’s gaze turn back towards him and the door, and realised. ‘No!’

He retreated as Simon began to run. In moments the door shivered to pieces and the whole barn filled with particles of rotten wood and dust. By then he was already partway to a screen at the back of the barn. He hoped that there was a room beyond, maybe with an exit to another building, thence to an alley where he could escape, but as he ran in, he realised that this was only a garderobe. His feet took him almost into the small chamber, and then he had to stop, before he got trapped.

Turning at bay, he felt his lips draw back from his teeth in a snarl of animal rage. He shouldn’t be in this position!
He shouldn’t!
Grabbing at his purse, he pulled out the relic, and muttered a prayer for protection to Saint Peter, but there was nothing; no reply. He grasped the box in his fist, shaking it furiously. The Saint could save him if he wanted, but he had no regard for Domingo, and the outlaw knew that even that last hope was gone. He uttered a curse against the Saint, his parents, and all his descendants just as the door cracked and fell, and Simon hurtled in.

It was all the Bailiff could do to duck under the swinging knife; he felt no more than a slight grabbing at his shoulder as the knife caught at his jack. Luckily the quilting saved him from being scratched. Domingo couldn’t escape, for the door was blocked with the other men from the pursuit, so he turned again to face Simon. If he couldn’t get out, he could sure as hell take the foreigner hostage, keep him at knife-point until they paid him and released him.

Simon was feeling quite faint now – and that was his excuse later. He should have been able to disarm the Galician without killing him, but at the moment, all he could think of was that knife and stopping it from hurting him. His reactions were too slow; he still felt queasy after all the running, on top of his earlier fainting fit. As Domingo charged towards him again, he lifted his sword.

Domingo felt the steel slip into his breast with a sense of disbelief. There was no pain, just a curious slithering sensation, but when he looked down, he saw that the sword was buried in his chest. He opened his mouth, tottered, and then lifted his knife to dash Simon to the floor, pushing himself onwards, using the full force of his weight and malice to try to crush Simon.

All Simon could see was the insanely grinning features of Domingo advancing. It was a scene from hell, with the mad face approaching and the wet red knife held wickedly high overhead. Simon felt himself being pushed back, until there was nothing but the timbers of the garderobe behind him and beneath him; and then he heard a great cracking and wrenching, and felt himself freefall, that smiling face above him like a devil’s, pulling him down to hell.

‘How is he?’ Baldwin demanded as soon as Munio returned.

‘Not good. I think it is the heat. It can sometimes affect a man who is not used to our weather, yes? He was very exhausted.’

‘Exhausted!’ Baldwin repeated. All he could remember was that foul stench.

They were in Munio’s house, a long, low building with a garden that was planted with more plants than Baldwin could possibly name. The whole place seemed verdant, and filled with vibrant colours – rich purples, reds, yellows and everywhere green.

The house itself was white-painted with simple shutters on each window and a small stable for Munio’s two horses, to whom Baldwin had already introduced himself. The knight always liked to investigate the horseflesh wherever he went, but it was scarcely worth the bother in Munio’s household, he saw. One plain and rather old rounsey and a skittish young mare made up the total complement. Munio was not poor, but neither was he wealthy.

When Simon had set off after the felon, Baldwin had been helping to disarm one of Domingo’s men, and had not noticed his friend’s sudden disappearance. Later, when he and Munio
wondered why Simon had not come to help interrogate the members of the band, Baldwin was only just in time to hear of the accident, and then he had bolted after the messenger to go and supervise Simon’s rescue.

It had been one of the most repulsive tasks Baldwin had ever witnessed. The two men had fallen through the floor of the garderobe, toppling together some fifteen feet into the relative softness of the heaped sewage underneath. It was fortunate that the toilet did not fall straight into a stream, as so many did, for then Simon must surely have drowned. As it was, he fell backwards into the muck, Domingo on top of him, embedding Simon’s sword deep within his torso. The robber was already dead when Baldwin arrived; the knight had thought Simon was as well.

It was a terrible shock. Baldwin had known many comrades die, and he would have said, had he been asked, that he was all but inured to loss. True, he would not have felt that way about his wife, nor his daughter, but he would have thought that losing the companionship of a man was something he had been long seasoned against fearing. The idea that a man’s death could bring him up so sharply had not occurred to him. Yet here it was. His hand grasped his sword hilt as though to keep his grip on reality, but all he could see was the terrible future, of returning to England without his best friend, of telling Simon’s wife and family that he was dead. He could imagine all too easily the appalled horror in Meg’s eyes.