by Paul Doherty
‘They were infidels, corpse-plunderers.’
‘What proof?’
Mayele pointed to the third man.
‘He had stolen a pyx.’
‘It’s not a pyx.’ De Payens gestured with his sword. ‘It’s jewellery. He was fleeing for sanctuary, innocent, Philip, as are so many who have died today.’
‘Innocent, guilty?’ Mayele hooked the bow over the horn of his saddle. ‘Who can judge but God? Let him decide …’
Chapter 2
It is rare that an enterprise, bad in inception and perverse in purpose, has a good ending.
Edmund de Payens, clad only in his loincloth, squatted near the door of the great refectory in the Templar house built on the corner of the Great Pavement at the heart of the old Temple enclosure in Jerusalem. He scratched the sweat coursing down his chest, wafting away the flies, trying to ignore the great wolfhounds eager to snatch his bread. He clutched his goblet, brimming with wine, and glared furiously at Mayele, who was similarly attired. Both were undergoing punishment for the chaos in Tripoli. The massacre there had ended when the standard-bearer of Baldwin III, King of Jerusalem, had processed solemnly through the city with trumpeters and heralds, demanding a cessation to the killing or immediate forfeiture of life and limb. The gallows were soon festooned with the corpses of those who had disobeyed. Decapitations, amputations and castrations had enforced the decree, and a royal standard had been placed outside the church. De Payens and Mayele had departed for the castle, only to be immediately arrested on the specific command of the Grand Master, Bertrand Tremelai, who ordered both Templars to be stripped, chained and brought back in disgrace. They’d spent two weeks in the Temple dungeons, only to be released for further punishment and humiliation.
Edmund greedily drank the watered wine. He tried to catch Mayele’s eye, but his comrade was too busy finishing his food before the wolfhounds did. Edmund glanced up the hall at the dais beneath the great Templar banner, a black cross on a sheet of sheer samite. Bertrand Tremelai sat there with his seneschals, clerks and other officers of the order. In truth, Edmund reflected, he did not like Tremelai, a cockerel of a man, proud and arrogant, with the spirit of wrath in his nostrils; a soul who neither feared God nor revered man. Red-haired, hot-tempered and choleric, Tremelai had lashed de Payens and Mayele with his contemptuous words, accusing them of failing to protect Count Raymond, of not capturing or destroying the assassins. In the presence of the full chapter, the Grand Master had condemned them to this. Now he sat feasting on the dais, drinking from a pure glass goblet, the best protection against poison, whilst de Payens and Mayele squatted on the floor amongst the dogs. Edmund wondered if he should bark, then grinned quietly to himself. He squinted at Mayele, who sat with his back against the wall, chewing on a piece of gristle, a half-smile on his face. Mayele caught his glance and spat out the piece of meat for the waiting hound.
‘Edmund de Payens,’ he whispered, ‘noble member of a noble family.’ His voice was tinted with sarcasm, but de Payens did not object. Mayele was his brother-knight, a strange, bloodthirsty man with apparently no sense of fear. During the chapter meeting where they had been judged and punished, he had loudly protested his innocence, arguing hotly with Dominus Tremelai, shouting that the Grand Master would do better to find the reason for Count Raymond’s murder and demand a full investigation by the papal legate into the incident. Tremelai had shouted back before ordering them both to strip and lie prostrate before the chapter. De Payens had done so; Mayele had objected, so he’d been seized, stripped and beaten with a sharp cane. The purple welts and bruises had now faded, the fresh skin neatly growing back, but Mayele had not forgiven or forgotten either the beating or the fresh humiliation.
‘Pax et bonum, brother.’ Mayele leaned over. He grasped de Payens’ goblet, sipped from it and handed it back. ‘This will not last long. Our brothers have intervened for us. No less a person than your great friend and patron William Trussell has pleaded on our behalf.’
De Payens nodded in agreement. Trussell was a legend, an Englishman who had joined Hugh de Payens after the cruciferi had stormed and taken Jerusalem some fifty-three years ago. A man well past his seventy-fifth year, a veteran treated as a hero, cared for and trusted by the order.
‘Ah, good day, Brother Baker, Brother Thurifer, Brother Smith, Brother Cook.’ Mayele’s sarcastic greeting rang through the hall as the lesser serjeants of the order trooped in for their main serving of the day.
His taunting refrain must have reached the Grand Master, for shortly afterwards burly serjeants appeared. The two men were dragged to their feet and pushed out along a vaulted passageway on to the pavement, then across to the house of correction beneath the old mosque. De Payens winced as his naked feet touched the hot paving stones. The light blinded him, whilst the sun was as hot as a roaring fire. Mayele tried to make light of his discomfort by dancing a jig, much to his guards’ amusement. While they tried to restrain his companion, de Payens shielded his eyes and peered across at the view that rose above the Temple walls: the towers and belfries of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Here, de Payens reflected, in the heart of Jerusalem, whilst the army of the cruciferi had rampaged like hungry wolves through the streets of the Holy City, Hugh de Payens and his companions had reached the Great Pavement and raced across to the Dome of the Rock, down into the darkness beneath, where the great Solomon had built his stables. According to legend, Hugh and his brethren, the first group of Poor Knights of the White Mantle, had found treasure greater than any gold, silver or gorgeous rubies. Relics, artefacts from the time of Christ! The crown of thorns thrust on to the sacred head; the nails that had pierced his hands and feet; the shroud in which his corpse had been wrapped, and the cloth thrown over the Saviour’s face, which allegedly still bore a miraculous imprint.
‘Sir!’ The serjeants now held Mayele fast. The scribe in charge beckoned de Payens to follow.
They went down steep steps into the cold darkness and along a vaulted passageway: it reeked of oil and pitch, the walls on either side glistening as if drenched with water. A door to a dungeon was opened, and de Payens and Mayele were pushed inside to squat down on straw-filled palliasses.
‘When,’ de Payens asked, ‘will this end?’
‘Soon.’ Mayele crawled across, took the lamp and put it between them.
‘And why?’ de Payens asked. ‘Why was Count Raymond murdered?’
‘Rumour runs like mice in a hay barn,’ Mayele murmured. ‘What was the count but another great lord snatching territory, dividing Outremer like a loaf of bread? A squabble of barons.’ Mayele laughed at his own joke. ‘Fat lords supported by their even fatter priests.’
‘So who murdered him, and why?’
‘They say the hashish-devourers, the Assassins, a secret cult of Islam under their master, the Old Man of the Mountain. They are hated by the Franks and loathed by the Turks. Rumour holds them responsible. They and their leaders live high in mountain eyries, dealing out death. Come, Edmund,’ Mayele’s voice turned soft, ‘you must have heard the legends? How when the Old Man goes out he is preceded by a herald bearing a huge Danish axe, its long haft enclosed in silver, to which braided knots are fastened. As he goes, the herald proclaims: “Turn out of the way of he who has in his hands the fate of kings”.’
Mayele’s voice thrilled through the shadows, unsettling de Payens even further.
‘But why Count Raymond? Why should the Assassins kill him?’
‘God knows.’
‘And why were we brought from Chastel Blanc to act as his escort?’
‘Only God and our Grand Master know that, Edmund. We’ve been away from Jerusalem for a year, locked up in the fastness of Lebanon.’
‘Not you,’ de Payens retorted, moving on the uncomfortable palliasse. ‘You were the Chastel messenger to Jerusalem and elsewhere.’ He paused at the sound of a braying horn, followed by the distant tolling of bells, marking a fresh hour in the horarium of the brethren.
‘Time
limps,’ Mayele murmured, ‘like a thief. In the light of day, Edmund, all will be revealed. Yes, I was a Templar messenger. I collected all the gossip and chatter from the brothers, winnowing the wheat from the chaff. Did you know Walkyn, one of our brethren, an Englishman?’
De Payens shook his head.
‘Expelled from the order!’
‘On what charge?’
‘Some say witchcraft, dabbling in the black arts, conjuring up the demons of the dark angel. I don’t know the full truth. Rumour has it that he was arrested, tried secretly and found guilty. He was supposed to be sent back to England in chains. Another Englishman, Richard Berrington, was delegated to escort him. You know Berrington?’
De Payens shook his head.
‘Anyway,’ Mayele sighed, ‘Walkyn may have escaped. Berrington has certainly disappeared, so the gossips say.’
‘Perhaps the Grand Master wishes that we would do the same.’
Mayele laughed and shook his head.
‘No, brother, not that.’
‘What happened?’ De Payens returned to the question haunting him. ‘What truly happened in Tripoli? Why were we there? Why did they kill Count Raymond?’
Mayele didn’t answer. The sound of footsteps echoed in the passageway. The door was unlocked and swung open, and a serjeant beckoned to them to rise and follow.
Bertrand Tremelai was waiting for them in his octagonal chamber in the Temple manse, a ground-floor room decorated with brilliantly hued tapestries. The first described the fall of Jerusalem some fifty years earlier. The second related the story of the Templars from their founding to their patronage by St Bernard of Clairvaux. The third described the order’s adoption by the papacy and the issuing of the decree Milites Dei et Militia Dei – Soldiers of God, Army of God. The Pope was shown flanked by St Peter and St Paul, with the title of the decree, which took the Templars fully under papal authority, inscribed on a silver tongue of parchment issuing out of the Pope’s mouth.
Tremelai sat enthroned beneath these glories behind a broad desk of polished cassia. In the far corner two scribes copied documents, whilst a third poured hot wax on manuscripts before sealing them with the Temple seal displaying two poor knights sharing the same horse, suggesting both comradeship and humility. There was little of such virtue in the Grand Master’s choleric red face or his luxurious chamber with its opulent furnishings, lambswool rugs and beeswax candles. Tremelai thrust himself back in his chair and jabbed a finger at de Payens and Mayele.
‘You will be readmitted to our ranks in chapter tomorrow. In preparation for which …’ He raised a hand, flapping his fingers. One of the clerks rose, collected two cloaks from a wall peg and hurried across. De Payens and Mayele donned these and sat on the stools provided. ‘In preparation for which,’ Tremelai repeated, ‘you will read the great Bernard’s work, De Laude Novae Militiae – In Praise of the New Knighthood.’
‘I’ve read it,’ Mayele retorted.
‘Then read it again.’
‘Domine,’ de Payens chose his words carefully, ‘what happened in Tripoli?’
‘Count Raymond was murdered by the Assassins, the Naziris, Islamic heretics lurking with their so-called prince, the Old Man of the Mountain. As for why?’ Tremelai pulled a face. ‘The count raided a caravanserai under their protection.’ He glared fiercely at de Payens, his watery blue eyes bulging, red beard bristling, chin jutting out aggressively, as if ready to refute any contradiction.
You are lying, de Payens swiftly concluded. You’re blustering, but why?
‘More importantly,’ Tremelai continued, shifting his gaze, ‘Count Raymond was under the protection of the Temple. The Old Man of the Mountain must be checked, brought to book, made to pay reparation, accept the power of the Temple. You two will lead an embassy into the mountains.’ He stilled de Payens’ objection with his hand. ‘You’ll take six serjeants and a clerk. You’ll demand both an apology and compensation.’
‘And what happens,’ Mayele snarled, ‘if he sends our heads back to you pickled and dried in a basket?’
‘He will not do that,’ Tremelai soothed. ‘I have already received his written assurances. You will be received honourably.’
‘Does he deny the charge?’ de Payens asked.
‘He denies nothing, he offers nothing.’
‘The murderers,’ Mayele insisted. ‘Their corpses were found?’
‘No.’ Tremelai shook his head. ‘In the bloodbath, heads and limbs were severed, bodies mangled.’ The Grand Master shrugged.
‘So why were the Assassins blamed?’ de Payens insisted.
‘Naziris,’ Mayele interrupted. ‘That’s their true name, heretics!’
‘They are killers, murderers and marauders,’ de Payens countered. ‘Even so, what proof do we have that they were involved?’
‘True, their corpses weren’t found,’ Tremelai replied. ‘But one of their medallions was, a token they leave on the corpses of their victims.’ He gestured at the clerk, who handed across a circle of copper about six inches across, the rim fretted with strong symbols, in its centre a striking viper. De Payens and Mayele studied this, then handed it back even as the clerk produced two long curved daggers, their handles of ivory decorated with blood-red ribbons. De Payens recalled similar ones in the hands of those brown-garbed assassins racing towards the count.
‘These too were found,’ Tremelai barked. ‘Proof enough – at least for the moment. Now …’ He paused. ‘I said that you will travel with six serjeants and a clerk. The latter has chosen himself.’ He snapped his fingers and whispered to one of the scribes, who hurried out, then returned ushering a figure garbed in the dark robe of a serjeant of the order. The stranger kept to the shadows behind the Grand Master’s desk. De Payens had to strain his eyes to make out a figure and face he thought he recognised.
‘I believe you have met.’ Tremelai gestured the man forward into the full light. De Payens startled in recognition. It was the physician who had tried to stab him in the church after the massacre. The man’s dark hair, moustache and beard were now neatly clipped, the swarthy skin oiled, the deep-set eyes calmer, the face more tranquil than the violent mask de Payens had glimpsed. The new arrival sketched a bow and spread his hands.
‘Thierry Parmenio, Domini,’ he murmured, ‘physician, wanderer, perpetual pilgrim.’
‘Whom I should have hanged out of hand,’ bellowed Tremelai, though his tone was surprisingly good-humoured, like that of a man who had drunk deep and well. De Payens glimpsed the poison-proof glass goblet, brimming with wine, standing amongst the curled manuscripts littering the desk.
The Grand Master’s guest came forward, hand extended. De Payens rose and clasped it.
‘My apologies, Domine, my apologies.’ Parmenio’s grip was warm and strong. ‘Let me explain.’ He rested against the Grand Master’s desk and turned to Mayele, who rose, staring narrow-eyed at the newcomer, then shrugged and clasped the extended hand. Parmenio gave a loud sigh and gestured at de Payens.
‘I was in Tripoli because I had to be,’ he began. ‘Business with King Baldwin. I am, sirs, both physician and clerk, trained in the cathedral school of Genoa, later an avid scholar at Salerno. I have the deepest distaste for violence. I witnessed the horror, the rapacity of Count Raymond’s mercenaries. I thought that you, Edmund, were one of them.’
‘Garbed in Templar dress?’ Mayele sneered.
‘In my shock, I did not recognise that,’ Parmenio answered tactfully, eyes still smiling at de Payens. ‘Just another killer, I thought. Only later did I realise who you were, what you had done and what great scarlet sin I had nearly committed. I hastened to be confessed, shrived and pardoned by the Grand Master. I offered to do penance, to rectify what I had done. So,’ he spread his hands again, ‘for a while I have donned the robes of a serjeant of your order, and will go with you into the mountains.’
‘Why, sir?’ de Payens asked.
Parmenio’s grin widened. ‘You look at me as if my neck was garlanded with de
ad men’s fingers. I am not a cullion, no wandering beggar, but a bachelor of learning, eager to pour balm on a wound …’
De Payens left the Grand Master’s chamber bemused and startled. Mayele clapped him on the back and laughingly dismissed Parmenio as a glib, glossy-throated Genoese. De Payens shook his head, but Mayele just scoffed, adding that there was little they could do about it. The Grand Master had declared that they were to leave the day after tomorrow, so there was much to arrange. Together they went to the draper’s office to draw fresh linen, cloaks, hauberks, cooking pans, drinking cups and all the impedimenta they would require for the journey. Clerks of the scriptorium, chancery and muniment room provided charts. Grooms and ostlers prepared the surefooted garrons and sumpter ponies they would need. The six serjeants had also been chosen: wiry, tough Provençals, surly but skilled, hand-picked by the Grand Master. De Payens realised that their allegiance would be solely to Tremelai, not to the Templars they escorted. Parmenio joined them, all affable, a fount of amusing stories, anecdotes and tales, chattering about his previous travels, the marvels he had witnessed, the people he had met. Mayele remained wary of him, while de Payens, still intrigued about what had happened in Tripoli, eagerly seized the opportunity to escape from his companions and visit the old Englishman William Trussell.
