Only then did he realise that the innkeeper himself was nowhere to be seen. The grim-visaged man still sat at his table, chewing on a hunk of bread, but there was no sign of anyone else. Sir Charles felt a curious sense of foolishness, standing with his sword drawn and ready, surrounded by slaughter, while a few feet away from him, unaffected by the mayhem, sat this odd-looking fellow. He cleaned his blade on the shirt of one of the peasants, and sheathed it. Only then did he see a pair of bare feet sticking out near the wine barrels. Peering closer, he saw that it was the tavern-keeper, and in his back was a wicked-looking long-bladed knife.
‘He was going to brain you,’ Afonso said courteously, pointing to a large club, and then walking around Sir Charles and retrieving his dagger from the man’s back. He wiped it clean on the man’s shirt, then threw it up. It whirled glittering in the light, and he caught it by the tip of the point, then up it went again, and this time he caught it by the hilt, swiftly stowing it away in his sheath. He stood there gazing down at the keeper’s body for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have a knight attacked from behind. That is not honourable.’
Sir Charles commanded Paul to prepare their horses while he searched the place, hoping to find a stash of coins, but found only a few of low denomination. As he knew, all too often the trade in a place like this would depend upon a form of barter. There were some sausages drying in the chimney, and some bread on a table, and Sir Charles and Paul sat and ate, ignoring the stink and gore of death all around them, and both eyeing the stranger with slight suspicion.
‘My name is Afonso.’
Sir Charles introduced himself and his man, and then asked what Dom Afonso was doing in this place.
‘I thought to ride to find fame and fortune. Now I return home. I tried the joust, but,’ he shrugged emphatically, ‘I lost. So now I return to Portugal.’
Sir Charles nodded sympathetically. Those who lost a joust would often lose their armour and horses too, because a joust could develop into near-war; participants could get nasty and demand a ransom to release their prisoners.
‘The jousting can be difficult,’ he said.
‘Yes. But I had to leave my home to find a man.’
‘Ah. The gentleman has a name?’
‘He was called Matthew. I only knew him as Frey Matthew.’
‘Brother Matthew?’ Sir Charles repeated. ‘I have not met such a man.’
‘He was rumoured to be a great fighter with lance and spear, but,’ Afonso looked glum, ‘I failed to find him, and now I must return to my home. I have to find more money.’
‘We need money too,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You have far to ride?’
‘First I go to Galicia, to Compostela. There I shall pray to Saint James to let me find this man Matthew and kill him. He will understand why. I am avenging a terrible wrong. Brother Matthew is a traitor to his master, to his comrades, and to God.’
Sir Charles had never travelled so far before. To take leave for such a long period would have been troublesome to his master, but now he thought that the journey could be pleasing. The more he considered it, the more the idea had appealed to him. It would be good to join this man and visit the famous Cathedral of Santiago.
‘May we travel with you?’ he asked.
The dour-faced Portuguese glanced at the bodies on the floor. There was a humming sound as blowflies sought out the blood and started to crawl over them. Then he held out his hand and nodded.
They had packed the remaining sausages and a loaf of bread each, filled some jugs with wine, and then made their way out to their horses. Excusing himself for a moment, Paul re-entered the inn when he had loaded their prizes on the packhorse, muttering and tutting to himself, and while Afonso and Charles waited, they heard a short shriek which ended abruptly.
‘Nearly forgot the little sod who hurt your foot, Sir Charles,’ he said when he came out again, wiping his blade clean on a piece of rag.
The recollection made Sir Charles smile. Paul always remembered any unfinished business. Ever efficient, he was the man who went about the dead of battlefields first, always on the lookout for better shirts or boots. ‘You can’t afford to wait until the rooks have landed,’ was his favourite phrase after a fight. Crows he admired. Like him, they went alone or in pairs; rooks were those from nearby vills, who invariably sprang up afterwards in great numbers, massing and robbing wholesale when they had done nothing to share in the profit.
He was drawn back to the present, to his seat beneath a great vine in Compostela, by Paul saying, ‘So now we’ve got here, where do we go next Sir Charles?’
‘You find this city boring?’
‘No. It’s got wine and women. That’s enough for me while there’s a little cash in my pocket. But the money we have won’t last long.’
‘True enough. We need a chance of making some more,’ Sir Charles said.
It was the eternal problem. In the days when they had been kept by Earl Thomas, life had been a great deal easier. Now, acquiring funds had become their chief occupation.
‘If we don’t get some money soon, we’ll have to think of selling the packhorse.’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘That would be as stupid as throwing away my armour. Without our mounts and our weapons, we’re no better than mercenaries. At least while we have these, we can call ourselves chivalrous.’
‘In that case, we’d best find someone rich who doesn’t mind sharing his wealth,’ Paul said.
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Yes. And if he does mind, we’ll have to persuade him otherwise,’ he grinned.
Just then he caught sight of Afonso appearing through the crowds, moving with his usual rolling gait, a little like a sailor. Sir Charles somehow felt that the Portuguese man had suffered more than he, but Afonso had volunteered nothing more about his past, and he was not the sort of man to blab confidences willy-nilly. He was rather like Sir Charles – self-sufficient, calm and satisfied with his own company. While Sir Charles and Paul were with him, he was content to be their companion, but if they were to leave today, he would not care.
That was his usual demeanour, but today something had upset him, Sir Charles could see. His face was set, and he shouldered a man from his path in an unwarranted display of anger. The man opened his mouth to remonstrate, but then closed it again when he took in the broad back and worn sword of the knight.
‘My friend, what is the matter?’ Sir Charles asked mildly.
‘It is nothing. I saw a man I had not expected, that is all,’ Afonso said.
‘I see,’ Sir Charles said. ‘When we first met, you mentioned someone whom you wished to find. Is this him?’
‘Yes!’ Afonso swore and spat out, ‘Matthew!’
‘Would you like me to come with you and see him again?’
The offer of his assistance in attacking this man, who must surely be an enemy of Afonso’s, did not produce the result which Sir Charles had expected. Instead of giving thanks, Afonso rounded on him, eyes glittering.
‘No. You leave him to me! He is the cause of me being here, and I’ll kill him myself!’
Doña Stefanía sat back, her heart pounding as she studied the now-pale knight. ‘You didn’t think I would be able to muster the courage to accuse, did you? Well, I have. I accuse you, Sir Knight, and I hope you will be forced to pay for your vicious crime!’
‘I have done nothing, woman!’ Don Ruy snarled, but Simon was sure that this was not the reaction of the discovered felon, rather the furious denial of a man repudiating his accuser.
‘You killed her!’ she shouted, and there was a kind of delight in saying so, she discovered. It was as though she had found some form of comfort in being able to declare her maid’s murderer’s guilt.
Don Ruy did not retreat or cower, though the other two men closed in subtly. It was the knight called Baldwin who spoke.