by Paul Doherty
The siege was now being pressed with a fury. The Franks brought forward their trebuchets, siege towers and catapults and unleashed a veritable storm against the city walls. Fresh fears swept the bazaars. The intense, constant volleys were clearing the parapets. The dead had to be dragged away and stacked on funeral pyres; the flames and smoke curling up from these became a constant, sickening reminder of the terror lurking beyond the walls.
The mood of the city changed. The grumble of the bazaar became a constant moan that swept through Ascalon. The citizens were losing all appetite for battle. They wanted to sue for terms. Fearful of a revolt in the city, and deeply alarmed at the Franks edging their war machines even closer, the governor hoisted boughs of greenery over the battlements and asked for a truce. The volleys immediately ceased; a welcome relief, as the last hail of boulders had crushed more than forty men. Later that day, heralds proclaimed the jubilant news. The Franks would accept the conditional surrender of Ascalon!
Chapter 6
By declaring however his innocence to the Master of the Assassins …
Edmund de Payens, bathed and clothed in clean robes, stared around the whitewashed walls of the council chamber of the former governor of Ascalon. The latter, his household and all who wanted to follow were now journeying south, being given free and honourable passage into Egypt. Ascalon and all it held was now a fief of Baldwin III. Royal banners floated from its towers and battlements. The king’s men patrolled the streets. Frankish knights lorded it in the city palaces, whilst the central mosque had already been stripped in preparation for its rededication as a church to St Paul the Apostle. Once the surrender had taken place, de Payens and Parmenio had made themselves known to the new rulers. The house of the Temple had welcomed them like prodigals returned, hailing them as heroes and insisting that Parmenio, time and again, describe Tremelai’s last stand, now viewed as heroic as any feat of arms by Roland and Oliver, Charlemagne’s great paladins.
De Payens and Parmenio had been housed in this spacious mansion close to the spice market, where they were reunited with Mayele. Cynical and mocking as ever, the Englishman explained, supported by the eloquent testimony of three serjeants, how they were about to enter the breach when the second fall of masonry sealed the entrance. De Payens believed him. His brother knight was no coward. Mayele was scathing about Tremelai, who’d led so many to destruction, and made no attempt to hide his glee at the Grand Master’s death. He explained how the Templar command was now in disarray, with a Burgundian, Andrew Montebard, a close kinsman of the great Bernard of Clairvaux, being hastily elected as temporary Grand Master. De Payens stared around the brilliant white chamber. In truth, he was confused. He did not know what was happening. They’d been brought here, praised and commended, but at the same time kept as prisoners, not allowed to leave or mix with their brothers. Mayele also reported how Temple clerks and couriers kept coming and going around the mansion. Now, after eight days, de Payens had been summoned to sit at this oval cedar table, Mayele on his left, Parmenio on his right.
Edmund stirred as the door opened. Montebard and the English master, Boso Baiocis, entered, escorted by two guards, and took their seats at the far end of the table. The Grand Master clicked his fingers; the guards withdrew, as did most of his retinue except for one clerk, his lanky hair framing a thin, cadaverous face, who held a cushion. At the Grand Master’s signal, the clerk solemnly processed down the chamber like a priest crossing a sanctuary and placed the cushion before de Payens. It bore an icon. At first glance it looked common enough to be found in any Greek church. It depicted the ravaged face of the crucified Saviour; a man in agony, hair sweat-soaked and bloodstained, eyes half shut, mouth open in silent protest at the agonies inflicted on him, his brow crowned by sharp thorns. De Payens stared at this most sacred relic, suppressing a shiver. He had heard rumours about this being the true likeness of the crucified Christ, an image solemnly venerated by senior commanders of the order. In clear tones Montebard instructed him to touch the icon and take an oath that what he heard here would be secretissime – most secret. De Payens obeyed. Mayele and Parmenio were also sworn, and the clerk withdrew. Montebard, fingers steepled, stared down at de Payens. Now and again his glance would shift to Parmenio or Mayele. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused, then bowed his head as if praying for guidance. De Payens was sure he heard the Grand Master whisper the words ‘Veni Creatus Spiritus’ – ‘Come Holy Spirit’.
‘It’s best.’ Montebard lifted his head. ‘Yes, it’s best that you hear the truth yourself.’ He shouted at the door, and the clerk scurried back in. Montebard whispered to him, and he hurried out again. Footsteps were heard in the corridor, and a man was ushered into the chamber: tall, garbed in flowing Temple robes, his face and head completely shaven and glistening with oil.
‘Devil’s tits!’ Mayele whispered. ‘Richard Berrington!’
De Payens started in surprise as Berrington bowed to the Grand Master and Boso Baiocis, then took the proffered seat to the right of the table. He smiled at de Payens and nodded knowingly at Mayele. De Payens’ first reaction was that there was little or no family resemblance between this harsh-featured Templar and his sister, La Belle Isabelle, whom de Payens had met in Jerusalem. Richard Berrington was hard-faced and sloe-eyed, with high cheekbones, thin lips and a jutting chin. A warrior, de Payens concluded, a dangerous man, lean, muscular, swift in all his movements. He reminded de Payens of a wolf.
‘Brothers, Domine.’ Berrington bowed once again towards the top of the table. ‘It is good for brothers to dwell in unity.’ He intoned the usual courtesy greeting of the Templars.
‘Tell us.’ Montebard’s harsh voice was a stark contrast to the soft tones of Berrington. ‘Tell us, brother, what happened, what you know.’ The Grand Master rubbed his face in his hands. ‘I have scrutinised the Chancery records. I have already heard you speak. It’s best if you tell your brothers.’
Berrington stared hard at Parmenio, then glanced pointedly back down the table at Montebard.
‘He can be trusted, Richard. He has sworn the oath.’
‘In this he is one of us,’ Boso Baiocis grated. The English master had, until now, sat as if carved out of wood. A small man with a barrel stomach, he had protuberant eyes, and his thinning grey hair hung down in wisps, though his beard and moustache were a luxurious white. De Payens had met him earlier. Boso seemed an anxious man, eyes constantly darting, lower lip all a-tremble. He was fussy, uncertain as to why he’d been summoned from London to meet the Grand Master now killed in that bloody affray within the walls at Ascalon.
Whilst Berrington murmured his thanks to Boso, de Payens glanced quickly at his companions. Mayele sat head down, fingers splayed hard against the table top. Parmenio was staring at Berrington, who was waiting to speak.
‘From the beginning,’ Montebard declared. ‘Richard, we’re all brothers around the cross, but to some of us you are a stranger.’
‘I was born,’ Berrington began, ‘in Bruer in Lincolnshire, the second son of a manor lord. I served in the retinues of various barons, including Mandeville, Earl of Essex, before deciding to travel to Outremer. My sister,’ he smiled at de Payens, ‘agreed to accompany me. In Jerusalem I joined the Templar order. Dominus Tremelai was my novice master. As you may know, I served in several castles and garrisons before he brought me back to Jerusalem. I was declared a veteran knight. I served under his banners in many forays.’ He paused, licking his lips.
Montebard got to his feet. He brought across a flagon of water and a cup, which Berrington filled then sipped neatly from.
‘You mention your sister,’ de Payens interrupted. ‘The Lady Isabella; yes, I have met her. Was she not lonely in Jerusalem?’
‘No, brother.’ Berrington shook his head. ‘She stayed with other ladies in the Benedictine convent near Herod’s Gate. Dominus Tremelai was most kind. He even offered her a small house to the north of the city. She had her own inheritance, whilst I made sure she lacked for nothing.’
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‘Late last summer?’ Montebard demanded, glaring at de Payens as if he resented the interruption.
‘Late last summer,’ Berrington continued, ‘hideous murders were perpetrated in or around the Temple Mount and elsewhere in Jerusalem. Young women were slain, their corpses drained of blood. Now, Jerusalem may attract the righteous, but it also houses the citizens of hell. At first the city authorities believed that some madcap was waging his own unholy war, because the victims were Muslim, but then Frankish women were also found murdered. Rumours whispered that their deaths were linked to the black arts, magic, sorcery, witchcraft. Allegations were laid. There was a witch, Erictho, possibly English; she’d arrived in the city and steeped herself in the secret knowledge. The patriarch and the governor of Jerusalem offered rewards for her capture, but Erictho seemed to live a charmed life. Rarely glimpsed, a true shape-shifter, she was never arrested. However,’ he paused, ‘gossip had it that she had been seen either visiting or near the Temple precincts. Other whispers hinted that a Templar might be involved; worse, that a secret coven of sorcerers had infiltrated our order. Henry Walkyn certainly did not help matters. He had gained a sinister reputation for slipping into the city, visiting the strumpet-mangers, whorehouses, brothels, taverns and bathhouses frequented by prostitutes. Nothing substantial, not enough to bring charges, but such rumours turned into accusations of witchcraft against the Temple.’ Berrington held up a hand. ‘Of course, such allegations have been levelled before against our brethren. Our scribes and scholars study the secret knowledge of both the Jews and the Arabs, and that, in turn, provokes unrest amongst certain prelates of Holy Mother Church, but this time the allegations were serious. Henry Walkyn’s name kept being mentioned. Dominus Tremelai consulted with me as a leading English knight here in Jerusalem. Walkyn’s chamber was searched. He owned coffers and chests with secret drawers and compartments. They contained enough proof to hang or burn him many times over.’
‘Such as?’ Parmenio asked quietly.
‘Bowls, phials stained with blood, items of jewellery taken from the girls, books of spells, herbs. Walkyn denied the charges. Tremelai, however, insisted that he stand trial for his crimes, though not in Jerusalem: the scandal would have been too great. He wished to keep matters sub rosa. He conferred with me and decided that I should take Walkyn back to England, where he would be tried at the Temple manor near Westminster. At the same time, I believe, he sent a letter to you, Master Baiocis, asking you to make careful scrutiny of what you knew about Walkyn in England, as well as summoning you here.’
‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Baiocis flustered. ‘I was much perturbed when I received the summons. Dominus Tremelai asked me to make careful searches about where Walkyn had come from. How he had joined the order.’
‘And?’ de Payens asked.
‘Very little.’ Baiocis shrugged. ‘Henry Walkyn was born and raised in the manor of Borley in Essex. His parents died when he was young; the manor was put in wardship. When Walkyn became of age, he too served with Mandeville. Later he turned his manor over to our order, to which he sought entry. I admitted him. He served a brief novitiate in London, then asked to go to Outremer.’
‘What kind of man was he?’ Parmenio asked.
‘Pious, dedicated, a good knight, secretive.’ Baiocis shrugged. ‘Certainly not a chatterer or a gossiper.’
‘The same was true in Outremer.’ Berrington spoke up. ‘Walkyn kept to himself. Oh, he dined in our refectory – you must have met him, Mayele.’
‘Yes, on a few occasions. A man you would not notice.’ Mayele smiled. ‘Not unless he brought himself to your attention. Of medium height, blond hair I remember, very blue eyes; he could be gracious and pleasing but I had little conversation with him.’ He pulled a face. ‘I knew he was from Essex, that he’d fought for a while in the civil war, but that is true of most English knights.’
‘And you, de Payens?’ Montebard asked. ‘Did you know him?’
Edmund shook his head. ‘Not at all, my lord. I served a brief apprenticeship in and around Jerusalem before being sent to Chastel Blanc.’
Montebard nodded in agreement. ‘Continue.’ He gestured at Berrington.
‘Walkyn continued to declare his innocence, but the proof against him pressed hard. Dominus Tremelai decided that I and two serjeants would escort him to the port of Tripoli and then take ship to England.’
‘And Erictho?’ Parmenio spoke up. ‘What happened to her?’
Montebard stretched his hands. ‘Searches were made through the Holy City. She seemed to have disappeared, though rumour had it that she still hid in Jerusalem.’
De Payens remembered the gruesome figure he had glimpsed on leaving Jerusalem for Hedad, but decided to keep his peace, as he would try to on all matters.
‘Anyway, we left the city,’ Berrington continued, ‘and journeyed through the Jordan valley towards the coast. We reached Jacob’s Well, just to the east of Nablus. I intended to travel on into Samaria and camp near the tomb of St John the Baptist. Walkyn had changed. He no longer acted the innocent. He began to hint that the charges were true. I am not too sure whether he was boasting or not. He said he nursed a great grievance against King Stephen and hoped that when he returned to England he would be able to purge that on the king’s own body.’
‘What?’ Parmenio pushed himself away from the table.
‘That is what he claimed,’ Berrington declared. ‘That he had a grievance, a blood feud with King Stephen. He boasted that the Temple would not hold him. He’d be freed, cleared of the charges, then he and others had business to settle.’
‘Why?’ de Payens asked. ‘Why did Walkyn change? You claimed that he first protested his innocence.’
‘I don’t know,’ Berrington chewed the corner of his lip, ‘but I have reflected. In Jerusalem, perhaps he believed he could refute the charges. Chained, manacled and destined to take ship to England, he probably realised that such protestations would not help him. He seemed confident, assured, rather arrogant. He made no reference to anyone else, but of course, he must have had his followers in the city. Now, a Templar knight and two serjeants,’ Berrington spread his hands, ‘no brigand would trouble our passage. Moreover, we passed other outposts and could call for help.’
‘You were attacked?’ Mayele asked.
‘Late at night,’ Berrington declared, ‘at an oasis just near Jacob’s Well. I’d set the guard. I made sure that Walkyn was still manacled and chained. God knows the truth, but just before dawn they attacked, about a score of them. They crept into the camp; I am not too sure if one of the serjeants had been bribed. The hand-to-hand fighting that followed was bloody and vicious. I stood my ground, but our assailants were well armed with bow, lance, spear and mace. The serjeants, whatever their true allegiance, were killed. I tried to reach Walkyn. I knew the attack was meant to free him. I would have executed him there and then, but by the time I reached the place, he was gone. I then hid, and our attackers withdrew. I had suffered cuts and bruises. When the sun rose, I discovered that all our supplies and mounts had been taken. How the mighty had fallen,’ he whispered. ‘A few hours earlier I had been a Templar knight, armed, mailed, mounted on a good war horse; then I was nothing, dressed only in my shift. I couldn’t stay there. I did what I could for the dead, then left them and began to walk. Later that afternoon I was attacked by desert wanderers. They soon realised who they’d captured.’ He shrugged. ‘I was passed from hand to hand. I begged them to let me write to our Grand Master in Jerusalem, telling them that he would ransom me, but they refused. I was brought to Ascalon and placed in the slave pens. It was then that I decided to escape. I hid in the city, trying to plan what to do next. I was desperate to get back to Jerusalem.’ He shrugged. ‘And then the rumours became fact. King Baldwin was marching on Ascalon. The city was put under siege.’ He nodded at de Payens. ‘I had no choice but to do what you did: lurk in the slums, hide away and pray that deliverance would come.’
‘So Walkyn escaped?’ Parme
nio observed. ‘Master Richard, before the siege of Ascalon, your Grand Master sent us on an embassy to Nisam, the caliph of the Assassins at Hedad. He told us that Walkyn had visited there.’ Parmenio cleared his throat. ‘Apparently the Walkyn who visited Hedad was no more than a wandering beggar. Was this the same man who organised such a dramatic escape?’
Berrington breathed out noisily. De Payens kept his own counsel. He had decided that that was best. He would not divulge what Nisam had secretly told him: that Walkyn had been resolute, a man busy on his mischief. Indeed, what the caliph had told him agreed with Berrington’s description of Walkyn as a dangerous adversary.
‘I do not know,’ Berrington retorted. ‘Master Parmenio, I have heard of you. You know the Assassins. Did they tell you the truth? After all, Tremelai suspected them of being involved in Count Raymond’s death.’
‘I have read the caliph’s reply,’ Montebard intervened. ‘He claimed that he and his kind were not involved in what happened to Count Raymond. He asked that Tremelai put his own house in order before meddling with other people’s. Oh, he was diplomatic, tactful, full of praise and gifts, but his message was clear enough.’
De Payens could see that Parmenio was agitated and full of questions. The Genoese, for all his help in Ascalon, still remained an enigma. What had he been searching for at Hedad? Had he known about Walkyn’s visit beforehand?
‘And why was I sent to Tripoli?’ Mayele asked.
‘For two reasons!’ Montebard snapped. ‘First, you’re English. You’d met Walkyn; perhaps you might recognise him. Second, you are de Payens’ brother knight.’
‘I confess,’ de Payens spread his hands, ‘that I suspected our Grand Master’s motives in sending me first to Tripoli then to Hedad.’
