‘My God,’ Simon murmured.
‘Has the heat affected you?’ Baldwin asked quickly.
‘That must be the seventh time you’ve asked me that so far today,’ Simon noted.
‘It is important, Simon. You are not on Dartmoor now.’
‘Dartmoor can be hot enough in summer.’
‘Perhaps so, but here the temperature is that much warmer, and people do collapse from the heat. It affects everyone differently.’
‘I can cope with heat,’ Simon said confidently.
‘Perhaps in England, but here you should be careful. It is something that my Order taught: always take refreshment when you can, for you need more in the sun. During my first years in these warmer climes, I had to be taken from my weapon training several times because of the heat. It is a terrible malaise, Simon. You become weak and sickly, dizzy and disorientated. I was thoroughly laid low and had to be given a cool bath and plenty of water.’
Simon pulled his hat over his brow without comment. It was, to his mind, a foolish piece of headgear. The felt of the brim was swept up and folded over to form a long peak at the front, like a duck’s beak. It was designed, so he had been told, to keep the sun from his eyes, because it could weaken his vision. He was sure that this was another old wives’ tale, to be treated no more seriously than the other tales he had once heard, of fevers being passed on by foul waters, when all knew that they came from vapours in the air; or the idea that taking blood wasn’t good for a man, when all knew that letting some blood was the only way to balance a man’s humours.
‘What I need right now is some liquid inside me – and I don’t mean water,’ he said with determination.
‘I doubt you’ll find any ale here,’ Baldwin said.
‘They must have something to slake the thirst.’
‘Yes …’ Baldwin agreed doubtfully, eyeing the nearest wine-seller. Then he saw a cart with a larger barrel. ‘Ah – cider!’
Simon followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, that will do perfectly. A pint or so of that will definitely help clear my head!’
Caterina led her brother away from the tumult at the Cathedral gates, and out to the square. A line of trestles stood in the shade of some chestnut trees and she took him along here.
The man selling cider and a thin beer didn’t seem to care that Caterina was a beggar. He ignored her black clothing and veil, but waited until he saw that there was some money in Domingo’s purse before serving them.
‘What happened?’ she demanded.
Domingo told her all about the attack, how he and his men had swept down only to be repulsed when the three strangers slammed into their flank, five men falling in the first few moments.
‘It was evil! The fair man, he could have been a devil. A devil with yellow hair.’
She said nothing. In her life she had already experienced enough misery – she had lost everything. It was hard not to feel sympathy for her brother, though. His bereavement was all but unbearable, she knew. It was obvious in his eyes, and she squeezed his large, horny hand.
In a moment, he had snatched his hand away. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, he gave a twisted grin. ‘I shouldn’t be with you.’
‘I was comforting you, Brother.’
‘But you are no longer known to our family. You married against our will, and when you did that, you left us for ever.’
She felt the blow like a dull stab over her heart, but the pain was brief. Soon it had dimmed, like the memory of her husband’s death.
He had been such a handsome, bold fellow. Brash, too, she could admit to herself now, from the vastness of the years. A young soldier in the service of the King of Navarre when they first met, she had been attracted by his courage and his stories of adventures near the mountains. He told them with a mock seriousness, but in each story there was a bawdy ending, or a sharp edge that showed him to be self-deprecating in attitude, a good trait in a man whose entire life was bound up with searching for honour and fame.
They had known each other only three days when they ran away and married. Caterina’s father had refused to acknowledge her afterwards because for him, there could be little more dishonourable than that his own daughter should marry one of ‘them’. He and his family had learned to cope with the continual raids, had learned to fight back and defend themselves, and now his daughter was marrying one of the enemy.
‘You should never have married him,’ Domingo said roughly. She knew he wasn’t a man who could show love readily, and yet he meant to be kind. They had not spoken in years, and he was finding it difficult to talk to her, she knew.
‘How is Joana?’
He grunted. ‘Your cousin is much as she always has been – loud and demanding. Seems to think she can order people around for no reason. She asked me and my boys to come east, to guard her mistress; now my Sancho is dead, she’s completely lost interest. Just wants …’ He broke off, rubbing vigorously at his eye. ‘Always wants things her own way or not at all. That Lady Prioress has turned her head. Gives Joana her old dresses, and then the silly mare thinks she’s got the position to go with it.’
‘She was once my best friend,’ Caterina said sadly. Now she’d be lucky for Joana to acknowledge her in the street.
‘You shouldn’t have married a mudéjar,’ he said harshly.
She wouldn’t have if she could have helped herself. The thought of wedding a man who had Moorish ancestry was appalling to her, and yet when she saw him, his white smile, his lazy grin wrinkling those deep brown eyes, his tanned, dark face, when she felt his solid frame and those wiry muscles beneath, Caterina had simply congealed with desire. He was perfection, and a kind and attentive husband to boot.
But Domingo could never see beyond the colour of his brother-in-law’s flesh. No matter that he had renounced the religion of his father and grandparents, that he had become a Christian; to Domingo, he was still the enemy, and Caterina was sure that on the day Domingo had heard of Juan’s death, he would have danced with joy. If she had enough cruelty in her, she would have asked about Sancho – and then she would have danced before him for the death of his own son. Except she wasn’t cruel enough – or perhaps she was too drained with exhaustion to work herself up to such an emotion.
‘He died in the famine?’ Domingo grunted.
She nodded. ‘He was in France with his lord, six years ago now.’
Six whole years. Since then, nothing to live for. Only survival. The mere thought of all those years gone was daunting, as though she had blinked and a quarter of her life had disappeared. She had been married for five years, from fourteen to nineteen, five wonderfully happy years. And since then, her life was empty.
‘Yeah. And he died there,’ Domingo said laconically. He had finished his pot of cider, and now ordered another. He didn’t offer Caterina a second drink. ‘Best thing. Saves you from being pointed out and laughed at. It’s better.’
‘I’m better off being a beggar?’
Since Juan’s death, everything had fallen apart. Her son had died, her daughter had been adopted by Juan’s sister, and Caterina had been left desolate. No money, no home: Juan’s master wanted no women about the place. There was nothing left for Caterina, so she had packed her few belongings and returned to her home a little south of Compostela. But her father rejected her, denying that he knew her.