Read Online The Templar's Penance: (Knights Templar 15) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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she sawthe little caress Joana gave him – a fleeting touch on the forearm, no more. There was no need. He was enraptured, smitten, hooked. Bowing to Joana, he walked away backwards for a few paces, as though intending to fix every aspect of her upon his mind, reluctant to leave her presence.
Doña Stefanía pursed her lips. What an idiot. He was just like a lovesick youth. Yet he made Joana happy, and that was good.
Joana was talking to the beggarwoman now, a tall woman who looked much like Joana herself, apart from the heavy black material of her habit and veil. There was no hunching to her shoulders, no palsied hand shaking beneath the noses of passers-by; in fact, she had the carriage of a noblewoman. Doña Stefanía thought she could herself have been a lady.
It was annoying that Joana would still go and talk to people who were below her station. It was always a mistake, Doña Stefanía thought sourly. It made those to whom she talked feel as though they had some importance, which was entirely spurious. Better by far to leave them to their own kind.
There she went again, laughing with the beggar. Joana would always have a word with even the lowliest. For many people who knew her, it was a part of her charm; for Doña Stefanía, this ability to talk to any person, whether a whore, a beggar, or a queen, was a sign of the girl’s foolishness. One should always remember from whence one came, and stick to one’s equals while serving one’s superiors. That was the whole basis of society. If peasants started to think they were equal to lords and ladies, there would be rioting. Better that the peasants should know their place. Better for everyone. Peasants didn’t enjoy being treated like equals, they preferred certainty. But a person’s station in life mattered less to a woman like Joana, the Doña assumed. After all, she was born a peasant herself, so there was less stigma for her, talking to the dregs of society. The Doña herself would have found it very difficult to talk to some of the folks that Joana sought out – like those beggars. Nasty, befouled people that they were. Most of them were perfectly healthy, too. They only begged because they were lazy.
It wasn’t only Joana who went to the beggars. Another group of pilgrims had just entered the square, and Doña Stefanía saw a monk, two merchant-types and a tall woman in black all reaching into their purses. Fools. All they were doing was showing the beggars that there was money to be made.
‘Doña? Doña?’
She took one look at the grubby out-thrust hand and commanded, ‘Begone.’
‘Could you spare a coin for an old man?’
‘No. If you want alms, claim them from the Cathedral.’
He was frowning now, peering determinedly. ‘Doña Stefanía?’ She turned and looked at the black-clad beggar, slowly taking him in, up and down. ‘What do you want? I have no money for you.’
‘I remember you. You were wife to Gregory.’
She drew in her breath. ‘I do not know you,’ she said. The insolent son of a Moorish slave!
‘I used to be a knight, Lady – Sir Matthew,’ he whined. ‘I knew your husband.’
This creature used to be a knight? It hardly bore thinking of. Some knights occasionally suffered loss, when their master died or they were thrown from their positions because of some real or imagined misdemeanour, such as trying to bed the master’s wife. That was the most common cause of a knight’s urgent separation from his place of bed and board. This fellow did not fit her picture of an adulterous servant, however. Nor did he look like a knight, even one who had lost his position and livelihood.
‘Go away, little man! I do not know you,’ she snapped.
Matthew stood unmoving for a long moment after the Doña had walked away with her nose in the air.
Only ten years ago he had been a man of honour. He was called to meetings with great lords, his opinion was sought by the rich and powerful, his support enlisted.
In that one decade,
Doña Stefanía pursed her lips. What an idiot. He was just like a lovesick youth. Yet he made Joana happy, and that was good.
Joana was talking to the beggarwoman now, a tall woman who looked much like Joana herself, apart from the heavy black material of her habit and veil. There was no hunching to her shoulders, no palsied hand shaking beneath the noses of passers-by; in fact, she had the carriage of a noblewoman. Doña Stefanía thought she could herself have been a lady.
It was annoying that Joana would still go and talk to people who were below her station. It was always a mistake, Doña Stefanía thought sourly. It made those to whom she talked feel as though they had some importance, which was entirely spurious. Better by far to leave them to their own kind.
There she went again, laughing with the beggar. Joana would always have a word with even the lowliest. For many people who knew her, it was a part of her charm; for Doña Stefanía, this ability to talk to any person, whether a whore, a beggar, or a queen, was a sign of the girl’s foolishness. One should always remember from whence one came, and stick to one’s equals while serving one’s superiors. That was the whole basis of society. If peasants started to think they were equal to lords and ladies, there would be rioting. Better that the peasants should know their place. Better for everyone. Peasants didn’t enjoy being treated like equals, they preferred certainty. But a person’s station in life mattered less to a woman like Joana, the Doña assumed. After all, she was born a peasant herself, so there was less stigma for her, talking to the dregs of society. The Doña herself would have found it very difficult to talk to some of the folks that Joana sought out – like those beggars. Nasty, befouled people that they were. Most of them were perfectly healthy, too. They only begged because they were lazy.
It wasn’t only Joana who went to the beggars. Another group of pilgrims had just entered the square, and Doña Stefanía saw a monk, two merchant-types and a tall woman in black all reaching into their purses. Fools. All they were doing was showing the beggars that there was money to be made.
‘Doña? Doña?’
She took one look at the grubby out-thrust hand and commanded, ‘Begone.’
‘Could you spare a coin for an old man?’
‘No. If you want alms, claim them from the Cathedral.’
He was frowning now, peering determinedly. ‘Doña Stefanía?’ She turned and looked at the black-clad beggar, slowly taking him in, up and down. ‘What do you want? I have no money for you.’
‘I remember you. You were wife to Gregory.’
She drew in her breath. ‘I do not know you,’ she said. The insolent son of a Moorish slave!
‘I used to be a knight, Lady – Sir Matthew,’ he whined. ‘I knew your husband.’
This creature used to be a knight? It hardly bore thinking of. Some knights occasionally suffered loss, when their master died or they were thrown from their positions because of some real or imagined misdemeanour, such as trying to bed the master’s wife. That was the most common cause of a knight’s urgent separation from his place of bed and board. This fellow did not fit her picture of an adulterous servant, however. Nor did he look like a knight, even one who had lost his position and livelihood.
‘Go away, little man! I do not know you,’ she snapped.
Matthew stood unmoving for a long moment after the Doña had walked away with her nose in the air.
Only ten years ago he had been a man of honour. He was called to meetings with great lords, his opinion was sought by the rich and powerful, his support enlisted.
In that one decade,
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