The Templar Magician

by Paul Doherty

  The honoured veteran had been given a spacious chamber overlooking the Temple pavement, its great open windows providing a breathtaking view of the city and the Mount of Olives beyond. The polished cedarwood used to lay the floor and provide the furnishings gleamed with its own polished fragrance. Tapestries decorated the walls; embroidered mats covered the floor. The ceiling was concave, and from its centre hung a Catherine wheel with numerous lamps embedded in its rim; this could be lowered and the wicks lit when darkness fell. Bowls of fruit – oranges, figs and apples – were laid out along the flat-topped chests. In the corners stood baskets of fresh flowers, rock rose, bell flowers and hollyhocks, their lovely smells mixing with the sweet aromas of balsam, cassia and myrrh placed in little sacks and pressed against any small hole in the walls. Trussell’s furry tabby cat, Tortosa, sprawled like an emperor on a quilted stool. Trussell himself was sitting in a high-backed chair, peering down at a lectionary placed to catch the light pouring through the great open window behind him.

  The old Englishman rose as de Payens entered. He was a tall, angular man with stooped shoulders and the long arms of a born swordsman. His undressed grey hair fell to his shoulders; his face reminded de Payens of the colour of weathered manuscript. He clasped de Payens’ outstretched hand and fussily waved him to a stool next to the chair. They exchanged pleasantries, whilst de Payens quietly studied his host. Trussell was a veteran much favoured by the order, a hero who had stormed the walls of Jerusalem and fought his way through the ranks of seasoned Egyptian soldiers who had been the bulwark of the city’s defenders. He’d cut a path through these and decapitated the witches the Egyptian governor had placed behind them: evil harridans, their faces full of hate, their foul mouths spitting curses. In his time, Trussell had met all the heroes of the order: Hugh de Payens, Geoffrey de St Omer, Eleanor de Payens and her redoubtable husband Theodore the Greek. It was Theodore and Eleanor who had raised Edmund, and ever since he could remember, he had visited Trussell, who had filled his mind with all the daring, noble deeds of the Temple. Now, however, the old man was weakening, his mighty frame racked by fevers and ulcers that never healed. Sometimes his mind wandered; his eyes could assume a glassy look, his face hang slack, though he seemed alert and active enough now. He pointed down at the manuscript he’d been reading.

  ‘Fulcher of Chartres, his description of the expedition to Jerusalem. Very good, Edmund.’ He recollected himself, rolled up the manuscript, then glanced sheepishly at de Payens.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about what happened in Tripoli. How you were blamed. Tremelai is a fool, arrogant and devious …’

  He was about to go on, then struck his breast.

  ‘Mea culpa, I have sinned. I should not speak so about our Grand Master. Edmund, you will not denounce me in chapter?’

  De Payens leaned forward and gently cupped the old man’s face in his hands.

  ‘Magister, Domine, I thank you for your kind intervention, but I am confused. Why was Raymond of Tripoli assassinated? What is happening here in the order? You must also have heard how Philip Mayele and I are bound for the Old Man of the Mountain.’

  Trussell nodded, and his face assumed a sorrowful look. He touched the roll of manuscript with a vein-streaked hand and glanced across at one of the tapestries.

  ‘I see visions, you know. In the dead of night, dreams come. Ships sail into the west,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘black sails billowing, masts bending as violent winds drive them swiftly over the deep. It will come, Edmund, the vengeance, Jerusalem besieged. The cross will go, and the visions of the cruciferi will become no more than the dreams of shadow-riders.’ He lifted a hand to fend off de Payens’ startled exclamation.

  ‘I dream,’ he continued, ‘of how, along the roads to the west, the horses clatter, taking their sombre message across the sleepy, golden, autumn-tinged fields.’ He looked up. ‘They’ll gather at crossroads, before the great doors of cathedrals and the wooden planks of hamlet chapels. They will assemble in the meagre rush-light of taverns or the fire glow of castle hearths, the chilling darkness full of moans at our stupid sins of pride and avarice. Listen, Edmund: the standards of the Antichrist will be raised, the banners of Satan will fly above this city once hallowed by Christ’s presence and sanctified by his blood. A storm is coming, and it’s not to be checked by half-finished prayers or feverish chatter.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I write my own chronicle about life here in Outremer. We have won the land, taken the city, but look around. Our king, Baldwin III, is steeped in intrigue. The great lords divide the Holy Land into counties, cities and shires. They squabble and intrigue whilst fresh threats gather. The house of the Temple is no different. Tremelai is ambitious, ruthless, but not far-seeing. We have our roots here, but they stretch back to France, Burgundy and the Rhineland. Tremelai wants more. He has talked about sending envoys to England to intervene in the civil war between King Stephen and his cousin Henry Fitzempress, the Angevin. He wants to put down roots there, grasp a place close to the Crown.’ Trussell paused, blinking, and dabbed at the silver froth between his lips. ‘Omnia mutanda – all things must change. Look at me, Edmund. I once ate rats’ heads outside Antioch, before Bohemond stormed its gates. I ate rats and chewed foot leather and harness. Now every day I am allowed three kinds of soups in honour of the Trinity.’

  ‘And Tripoli?’ de Payens asked.

  Trussell shook his head. ‘Something is missing,’ he murmured. ‘God knows why you were there. I don’t know, Edmund, I truly don’t.’ He paused. ‘Sinister forces threaten our order.’

  ‘Magister?’

  ‘Here in the Temple house of Jerusalem, they talk about how Henry Walkyn, one of our company, has been arrested and expelled.’ He glanced quickly around, then over de Payens’ shoulder, as if some eavesdropper might lurk at the door. ‘Witchcraft and sorcery!’ he hissed.

  ‘Nonsense!’ de Payens murmured.

  ‘Not so, not so.’ Trussell drew closer. ‘We have found relics here. They are still hidden away. Then there’s the secret knowledge. For fifty years our order has mingled with the mystics of Islam and studied the Kabbalah of the Jews. All the secrets of the kingdom lurk here. You say nonsense – I agree, but beyond these walls, Satan lays siege. Ah yes, the Lord Satan!’ Trussell grew more alert, leaning back as he chanted: ‘“His brows are full, his face is flat, with owlish eyes and the nose of a cat, his wolfish mouth gapes open, showing wild boar’s teeth, bloody and sharp.” A children’s verse, Edmund, but Satan still prowls here, as he does the desert wastes. Oh yes, I have seen him,’ his fingers flew to his lips, ‘a small black shape clinging to the cliff face. He scuttles insect-like, eyes gleaming green in the daylight, burrowing like a maggot into the hearts of men.’

  ‘Magister, Magister, please!’ De Payens chewed his lip. Were Trussell’s wits turning fey, riddled with dreams?

  ‘Look around, Edmund.’ Trussell peered at him. ‘We now recruit from as far east as Iberia and as far north as the icy wastes of Norway and Sweden. We Templars are as powerful as the Benedictines or the Cistercians. We are under the direct authority of the Pope. We own the heart of the Temple, castles at Acre, Gaza and Chastel Blanc. We possess the great treasures of our faith, yet many of us want more, and because of that, do we really reflect on whom we attract into our ranks? Men who have murdered, committed heinous sacrilege; sanctuary men, wolfsheads in their own countries. Tremelai has a great deal to answer for. He is so greedy …’

  ‘And here in Jerusalem?’ De Payens desperately tried to bring the conversation back to his own concerns.

  ‘Tremelai reaps what he sows. Gossipers and whisperers say that there are covens, secret fraternities within the brotherhood dedicated to this or that, yet that might all be ale-bench gossip. We are under siege, and the belfries of hell, crowded with our enemies, edge closer.’ Trussell clenched a fist. ‘Dark souls are already in our order!’

  ‘Magister, what are you saying?’

  ‘You’ve heard about Walkyn being expelled fro
m the order on suspicion of witchcraft?’

  ‘Yes, Mayele whispered about that.’

  ‘Ah, Mayele!’ Trussell smiled cynically, then paused and glanced over his shoulder, as if he felt a cold breeze from the window behind him. Then he turned back and touched Edmund on the knee. ‘Listen to this!’ He licked his lips. ‘Corpses were found around the Temple area and out in the Valley of Hinnom, others amongst the trees on the Mount of Olives. Young girls, their bodies hideously brutalised and their blood drained. Now, our so-called Holy City teems with ribalds and all the human scavengers from around the Middle Sea. Witches and warlocks are as plentiful here as lice on a dog. Most are mountebanks and tricksters, charlatans preying on other people’s fears. One, however, Erictho, is a true demon-worshipper, a witch whose very breath pollutes the air. A sorcerer of whom even the rock vipers would be wary. Anyway,’ Trussell wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘Erictho was held responsible for many crimes. She was accused of draining corpses of moisture, of gnawing nails from dead hands, clawing through the nooses of hanged men, biting off their swollen tongues. More importantly, she was accused of being involved in these murders, hungry, thirsty for human blood for her sacrifices.’ He paused. ‘Edmund, you think my wits are wandering? I will tell you the full story, then you can understand my anxiety. Jerusalem is riddled with sorcerers and warlocks, but serious allegations have been levelled that demon-worshippers also lurk here in the Temple.’ He held a hand up to fend off de Payens’ exclamation. ‘It’s true! Our Grand Master and some of our leaders know about this. Objections have been raised by both the governor of the city and the Patriarch of Jerusalem about such filthy practices. Demands have been made that something be done. Now, have you ever met the two Englishmen, Walkyn and Richard Berrington?’

  ‘No, but Mayele has mentioned their names.’

  ‘Oh yes, he would.’ Trussell gnawed the corner of his lip. ‘Well, Walkyn gained a reputation for visiting the brothels and flesh houses. Apparently he found his vow of chastity difficult to keep. Here, Edmund, is an example of some of the men we are now recruiting. I suspect Walkyn had no more fidelity to his vows than Tortosa, my alleycat. Now, what concerned our master were reports from his legion of spies that Erictho had been glimpsed slipping into the Temple precincts. According to these reports, she dresses like a witch, a wig about her head, her face all painted, swathed in a robe fashioned out of crow’s feathers. Tremelai had no choice but to keep his own house under close scrutiny. Walkyn’s nocturnal expeditions to visit the ladies of the town were noted, but then fresh allegations were levelled at him that he was actually consorting with devil’s worshippers. I don’t know the true details, but Walkyn was arrested and his chamber searched. Evidence was found that he may have been involved in the same coven as Erictho.’ Trussell took a deep breath. ‘You know how the Temple works, Edmund. A secret inquiry was held. Walkyn was found guilty, but Tremelai did not want him punished here in Jerusalem. Instead he turned to a senior English knight, Richard Berrington. Berrington’s task, along with two serjeants, was to take Walkyn back to England, where he could be questioned thoroughly and imprisoned for life, or even executed. Everything was kept secret. A few weeks ago, Berrington and the two serjeants took Walkyn under chains from the city. Tremelai also summoned the English master from London, Boso Baiocis, to answer certain questions. Tremelai does nothing right.’ Trussell rubbed the side of his face. ‘Perhaps he should have provided a stronger escort, but to cut to the chase, it appears that Walkyn escaped.’

  ‘How?’

  Trussell shook his head. ‘We don’t know, but he may have fled to Tripoli.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Edmund gasped. ‘Could a malefactor like Walkyn have had a hand in what happened there?’

  ‘Gossip alleges that the Assassins may not have been involved but a rogue Templar might have been, which explains why Tremelai is so eager in his pursuit of the Assassins. He wants to lay the blame for Count Raymond’s death at their door. Now, we have no proof of what truly happened or who was responsible. Walkyn? The Old Man of the Mountain? Or was it some other group we know nothing about? Our spies in Tripoli also report that Count Raymond’s murder may simply have been an excuse for the city to be plundered. Already the lists are coming in.’ Trussell spread his hands. ‘It would appear that certain merchant houses were pillaged within a short while of the count’s death. But in the end, Edmund, if you want to know what truly happened in Tripoli, I can’t really say.’

  ‘And this Berrington?’

  ‘Tremelai is deeply concerned. Berrington was a leading knight, a man of good reputation. He came here and joined the order, bringing his fair sister, the Lady Isabella. She lodges in the Benedictine convent close to Herod’s Gate. Berrington seems to have disappeared. Tremelai believes that he and the two serjeants were murdered by Walkyn, assisted by the coven in Jerusalem. There has been no sign of him, no report.’

  ‘And Erictho?’

  ‘Oh, our malignant witch! She has apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. Tremelai is secretly worried but at the same time rather pleased about that. More importantly, the hideous murders have ceased. Tremelai is using his spies and his army of informants to discover where Walkyn could have fled and what has happened to Berrington.’

  ‘And you, William, what do you think?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you, Edmund. Some allege that Count Raymond became nervous, that he heard rumours about something nefarious being plotted in his city and asked the Temple for protection.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Trussell’s eyes refused to meet Edmund’s. ‘I don’t know,’ the old Englishman grumbled. ‘I sit here in the vespers of my life, chomping on my gums. I don’t know the truth of it all. Nihil manet sub sole, the psalmist says – nothing lasts under the sun, and,’ he added half in a whisper, ‘dixi in excessu omnes mendaces – I said in my anger that all men are liars.’ He stretched out and grasped Edmund’s hands. ‘Anyway, enough of rumour. Tremelai the bully has now realised that what happened in Tripoli is a real mystery. No one knows why Count Raymond was foully murdered. In the end, do not be too harsh on Tremelai. He chose you for Tripoli because he respects you. You are a de Payens, a mark of honour and respect for Lord Raymond.’

  ‘And Mayele, what do you know of him?’

  Trussell smiled with his lips only. ‘Very little, but Tremelai has high hopes for you, Edmund. The blessed Hugh journeyed to England to establish the Temple there, a mere foothold. Tremelai wishes to develop that. He and his council are thinking of sending you to England, even though the country is being torn apart. King Henry I died without a male heir; his daughter, Mathilda the Empress, claimed the throne only to be challenged by her cousin, Stephen of Blois. He in turn has been opposed by Mathilda’s son Henry Fitzempress, or Henry the Angevin, as they call him. That island now resounds with the clash of swords and,’ he added, ‘has done so for the last eighteen years.’ He sat back in his chair, wafting his hand as he peered at Edmund. ‘May God always be with you. I have spoken enough.’

  De Payens made his farewells and left the chamber. He went along the gallery and down the stairs, so lost in his own thoughts that he was startled when a hand touched his arm. He turned quickly and gazed at the vision of beauty staring intently back at him. The woman was of medium height, dressed in the blue robes of a Benedictine novice, a white wimple framing her face. She was threading a set of ivory ave beads through her fingers.

  ‘Madam.’ De Payens stood back and bowed.

  ‘I am sorry for startling you, but I want …’

  ‘Madam, there is no need to apologise.’ De Payens was struck by the lucid beauty of the woman, her fair skin and violet-blue eyes. Was she laughing at him, teasing or just smiling?

  ‘Madam, what do you want with me?’

  ‘My brother, Richard Berrington, is a knight of the order. You must have heard of him?’

  ‘Madam, I certainly have. I am sorry about your sad loss. I know he was escorting a prisoner, who es
caped, whilst your brother has now disappeared. Perhaps …’

  ‘I live for perhaps … Domine de Payens.’ She took a step closer.

  The Templar caught her faint scent, the trace of an exquisite perfume. He stood fascinated by that face, the woman’s delicate movements as she moved the beads, those lovely eyes searching his.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ again the smile, ‘but I come to the Temple daily to learn news about my brother. I’ve heard that you and another knight, Philip Mayele, are to leave Jerusalem on some errand for the Grand Master. I just wondered if you could keep eye and ear open for any news of my brother’s whereabouts.’ She stepped closer and grasped de Payens’ hand. Her skin was soft, smooth as silk. She stood on tiptoe and abruptly kissed him on the cheek, then stepped back, fingers to her lips as if to stifle a smile. ‘That is the only payment I can give you, Templar, but please, remember Richard Berrington! Anything you learn, anything you discover. I’m sure my brother is still alive.’

  De Payens nodded. He stretched out his hand, clasped hers between his, then kissed the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Madam, it will be my pleasure. I shall do what I can.’ He stepped back, bowed and left.

  Chapter 3

  Neither Christians nor Turks know whence their name, Assassins, is derived.

  Edmund de Payens, Philip Mayele, Thierry Parmenio and their six serjeants left the Temple precincts the following day. They’d all visited the shriving pew before the Pity displayed in the Lady Chapel. Each had knelt on the prie-dieu and stared at the carved dead face of their tortured Saviour, his corpse taken down from the cross and laid across the lap of his sorrowful mother. De Payens had whispered his litany of petty offences, including thoughts about Isabella Berrington. He received absolution and went to stand in the church porch, where he lit tapers before a painting of St Christopher, a powerful protector against sudden, violent death. The others joined him, and they were met there by Tremelai, who carried a sealed chancery pouch containing letters to the Assassin leader in his mountain eyrie of Hedad, which lay to the east of the Templar castle of Chastel Blanc. Maps and charts were handed over to Parmenio, who’d act as their guide as well as their interpreter. Mass was then celebrated, the singing bread distributed, the Pax Tecum shared and the Eucharist taken. Once the Ite Missa was sung, they gathered on the Great Pavement. The afternoon sun was still strong, glistening off the Temple buildings in a sheen of light. Tremelai, his marshals and his seneschals bestowed their blessings. De Payens and his companions mounted, a black and white Templar gonfalon handed over as their official standard. Above them a horn blared, followed by blood-tingling trumpet blasts along the walls of the inner courtyard. De Payens lowered the gonfalon, a stiffened pennant, three times in honour of the Trinity, and they left the Temple enclosure through the Beautiful Gate, which led down into the city.