by Paul Doherty
‘As well as witches and warlocks,’ Murdac broke in. The prelate quickly crossed himself. ‘I listened to your tale about the abominations in the Holy City. You think the name Erictho is not unknown here? My chancery is in York; Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, has his own records. Both would recognise the name Erictho.’ He waved a hand. ‘Oh, not much, just tittle-tattle.’
‘So it’s true?’ de Payens retorted. ‘Erictho is of English birth?’
‘Undoubtedly one of the many gregarii.’ Murdac used the term of contempt for those who wandered after armies. ‘She would have joined the devil horde who left for Jerusalem to seek out fresh victims.’ He crossed himself again. ‘What I know is only gossip from the villages and towns. Some say Erictho is a harridan; others that she is a great beauty, horribly disfigured for her sins. They have ascribed powers to her. How she can thicken the powers of the night, summon carrion birds and mix poisons from the froth of a dog or a snake-fattened badger.’
‘I would like to meet her.’ Eustace roared with laughter at his own joke.
‘She is a poisoner?’ Parmenio asked, ignoring the prince’s outburst.
‘One of the many accusations levelled against her.’
‘Children’s prattling,’ Northampton murmured. He sighed as he lurched to his feet, much the worse for drink. ‘She collects dragon’s eyes and eagle stones.’ He laughed sharply. ‘The likes of Erictho can be found, legion in number, along the filthy runnels of Southwark or on the devil’s land around St Paul’s. Your Grace,’ he turned to the king, who sat plucking at his lower lip, ‘these Templars have delivered a warning. Some madman has concocted a fey-witted scheme to kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Henry Fitzempress’s army has the same purpose, so why worry?’
The king smiled in agreement and rose, his son and councillors with him. He thanked the Templars courteously, and the royal party swept from the refectory, the king shouting at Eustace that they must have private words before they parted. De Payens listened as the footsteps faded in the corridor.
‘We are done.’ He sighed and stared around. ‘The king does not truly believe us, does he?’
‘His Grace is distracted,’ Berrington replied. ‘He is most concerned about his son, about the great lords withdrawing from the battle, the approach of Henry Fitzempress. He is surrounded by murder and intrigue. He has a son whom no one wants crowned, so why should he worry about one cut amongst many?’
‘He should.’ Parmenio sat down in the king’s chair. ‘Baiocis’s murder is a warning.’
‘Yet we cannot pursue Walkyn,’ Berrington declared, ‘because we do not know where he is, how he hides or where he goes. During the meal, His Grace assured us that his clerks had scrutinised the records of both Chancery and Exchequer. No trace of Walkyn was found, no sign of him entering or leaving the kingdom. Now,’ he rose to his feet, ‘we are to accompany the King’s son. We cannot refuse. To bring a warning to His Grace then decline his request to accompany the prince would be grave offence. Who knows, perhaps where we go, Walkyn will follow. He certainly made his presence felt here.’
‘Was Mandeville a warlock?’ de Payens asked abruptly.
Berrington leaned against the table and stared across, eyes hard, face resolute. ‘Mandeville was truly the rider on the pale horse mentioned in the Apocalypse; certainly all hell followed him. One of the reasons,’ he added brusquely, ‘why I left his company and journeyed to Outremer. Now,’ he pointed to the black wooden crucifix, ‘Baiocis’s corpse is to be laid out in the priory church. His body is past all help, but his soul still needs our prayers …’
Chapter 8
And Eustace … greatly vexed and angry, met his end.
They spent three more days at Wallingford Priory. Eustace gathered his troops, hundreds of ribauds, rifflers from London, Flemish mercenaries, whoremongers, looters, hard men who had battened fat on almost twenty years of civil war. They flaunted the royal livery, but in truth, de Payens concluded, they were wolves in wolves’ clothing. He realised how a great lord like Mandeville could attract rapists, murderers, thieves, warlocks and witches to his standard. No wonder the likes of Berrington, sickened by what he saw, sought to cleanse his soul by admission to the Temple. For the rest, Baiocis’s death remained a mystery. All they could do was supervise his funeral rites. A requiem mass was sung in the gloomy, shadow-filled priory chapel. The death psalms were chanted amidst the glow of candlelight and gusts of smoke. The corpse was sprinkled with holy water, incensed and blessed and taken out in a makeshift coffin, fashioned out of an old arrow chest, then laid to rest in the Potter’s Field, the yew-shrouded corner of the priory cemetery reserved for strangers.
An hour later, as the bells chimed nones, Prince Eustace took leave of his father, and with his three-hundred-strong retinue, left Wallingford in a flurry of dust, lowing horns and fluttering banners. De Payens rode at the rear with his companions, Isabella mounted on a palfrey especially loaned from the royal stables. Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton, together with Murdac of York were to act as Prince Eustace’s advisers. He pointedly ignored them. The prince’s cavalcade moved swiftly through the summer countryside along rutted trackways and on to the old Roman roads, dried hard by the summer sun. Beautiful weather. The fields were primed for the harvest. Orchards hung heavy with fruit. Watermills stood freshly repaired and painted for the autumn crop. Eustace transformed all that. The black banners of war were unfurled as he swept through the shires towards Cambridge, burning, pillaging and looting the manors and estates of his father’s enemies. Barns were fired, granges left smoking black ruins, harvest fields ravaged, orchards plundered, stew ponds and streams polluted. Any who resisted were cut down or hanged from the nearest oak, sycamore or elm. Peasants, farmers and merchants heard of this devil storm and fled to churches, monasteries, castles and fortified manor houses.
After six days of such ravaging, Eustace’s cavalcade reached Bury St Edmunds, a stately abbey built of light grey stone, set behind its own lofty walls and well stocked with granges, fish ponds, orchards, barns and outhouses. A place of peace and harmony, with its sun-washed cloister garth, a garden filled with luxurious rose bushes in full bloom, their fragrance hanging heavy in the afternoon air. The abbot had the good sense to meet Eustace on the road leading up to the main gatehouse. Flanked by cross-bearers, thurifers and acolytes all garbed in white, he delivered a short homily in Latin, welcoming the young prince but tactfully pointing out that his retinue would have to stay in the fields and meadows outside. Eustace, drunk in the saddle, agreed. He and his immediate household, the Templars included, were escorted into the abbey and apportioned chambers in the grey-stone guesthouse. De Payens lodged in a narrow room. He immediately took off his armour, arranged his few possessions and demanded that he and his companions meet in the small rose garden below. He was saddle-sore, weary and furious: he and Parmenio soon clashed with Berrington over what was happening.
‘Outlaws!’ de Payens shouted, giving way to the anger seething within him. ‘We are no more than outlaws, burning farms and watermills, for the love of God!’
Parmenio nodded vigorously in agreement. Since leaving Wallingford, he’d become even more secretive and withdrawn.
‘Well?’ de Payens demanded.
Mayele simply smiled, as if savouring some secret joke. Isabella sat on a turf seat, examining the bracelets on her wrist.
‘Why?’ de Payens yelled at Berrington. ‘Why are we here? This marauding? We are Templars, not gregarii, ribauds!’
Again Parmenio agreed. Mayele turned away. Isabella put her face into her hands.
‘We have no choice, Edmund, you know that.’ Berrington walked over and grasped de Payens’ shoulder. ‘As I said before, we brought a hideous warning to the king. We could not ignore his request; to refuse to accompany his brutal son would have damaged our interests.’
De Payens protested, yet in the end he had no choice but to agree. Back in his narrow whitewashed chamber, he sat on the edge of his cot bed and star
ed at the coloured hanging celebrating the martyrdom of St Edmund.
‘Illusions,’ he whispered, recalling Nisam’s accusation, ‘we are just chasing illusions. What is the reality? Is it Walkyn, or something else?’ He stripped, lay on the bed and drifted into sleep, still wondering about what should be done. He was wakened later in the day. The light through the lancet window had dimmed. For a brief while he ignored the pounding on the door, Parmenio yelling his name. Then he recalled where he was and hastily donned his long tunic, put on his boots, grasped his sword belt and drew back the bolts. The Genoese, breathing hard, beckoned him out.
‘For the love of St Edmund, come. The prince …’
De Payens followed Parmenio out of the guesthouse and round into the cloisters, where Eustace, sword drawn, was screaming at the abbot, who stood defiantly before him, shaking his head, now and again crossing himself in protection against the prince’s torrent of blasphemy. Berrington and Mayele stood to the right of the abbot. Isabella, sitting on the cloister wall, got up and approached de Payens, finger to her lips.
‘The prince,’ she whispered, ‘wishes to empty the abbey’s granaries.’
‘God’s teeth!’ Eustace bellowed, shaking his fist at the abbot. ‘I will have my purveyance, my rights in this matter.’ He stormed off, mouthing threats, yelling for Murdac and Northampton, standing in the shadows of the cloisters, to follow him. Then he paused and spun around, fingers falling to the hilt of his sword in its brocaded scabbard, and stormed back to the abbot. De Payens half drew his own sword; Parmenio caressed the hilt of his dagger, while Berrington hastened forward as the prince advanced threateningly. The abbot stood his ground, one hand grasping his pectoral cross. Eustace stopped, glared at the abbot, then abruptly burst into laughter. He tapped the abbot on the shoulder, stepped back and sketched a mocking blessing in the air. Northampton and Murdac came hastening over, but Eustace’s mood had changed.
‘No trouble, my lords,’ he shouted. ‘We shall take close counsel in my chamber later.’ He waved a hand at them to withdraw, then linked his arm with that of the abbot, walking him through the cloisters, talking softly, as if they were the closest of brethren.
De Payens watched them go, hand still on the hilt of his sword. Berrington and the others sauntered across.
‘The prince is mad,’ de Payens whispered. ‘In heaven’s name, Berrington, Mayele, what a tangle we have ourselves in. Every bush is a bear. Every word is a possible curse. Black smoke against blue sky. Houses and cottages burning like bonfires on a sea of green.’
‘That is why we left England.’ Isabella spoke up softly. ‘Edmund, what you see is not as malignant as what we witnessed.’
‘Homo diabolus homini – man is a devil to man,’ Berrington murmured. ‘It was no better in the other shires: storm-riders, night-prowlers, fire and iron …’
‘Here we are,’ de Payens shook his head, ‘supposed to be pursuing a warlock who seems no more real than a marsh wisp. We should leave. Baiocis is dead, murdered. We should return and tell the Grand Master what has happened. This is impossible.’
‘And Montebard will reply,’ Berrington observed, ‘that we did not carry out his orders. Indeed, we jeopardised the Templar cause in England. Remember, Edmund, we are only here because he asked us to be.’
De Payens glanced at Parmenio. The Genoese stood, hands on hips, staring at the ground.
‘What shall we do?’ murmured the Templar.
‘What shall we do?’ Parmenio echoed. ‘Little wonder the Holy Father in Rome and many of the English bishops do not want Eustace crowned as king-in-waiting. We follow a wild man with a violent past and little future.’ He glanced up. ‘I hear what you say, Berrington, yet Edmund is correct. We cannot ride the trackways of England for ever and a day searching for Walkyn.’
‘But he must be close,’ Berrington declared. ‘Baiocis’s death proves that.’
‘It proves nothing,’ de Payens snapped, ‘except that someone poisoned Baiocis.’
Berrington, face drawn, eyes even more narrowed, shook his head.
‘How else was Baiocis murdered? Did anyone see any of us lean over and pour that noxious potion into his wine? If we had, someone would have noticed. No, he was killed in a subtle, clever way, by Walkyn or one of his minions.’ Berrington paused. ‘Walkyn might well be responsible. We are here, however, to prevent mischief to the crown.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If that happens and we fail, then perhaps we should think of leaving. Even so, Baiocis’s death creates fresh problems. I cannot leave the bailiwick of England in such confusion.’
De Payens walked off across the cloister garth. He stopped and stared up at a carving of a lizard, a two-legged serpent crawling up a lily stem towards the petals, each of which represented a human soul. Next to this peered a gargoyle with the face of a pig and the ears of a monkey. On the breeze floated the faint plucking of a lyre and a young, clear voice chanting a hymn to the Virgin.
‘We should wait,’ Berrington called out, ‘we should wait a little longer. The prince must return to London, to Westminster; by then we may have finished our duty.’
De Payens just shrugged in agreement. He left the cloisters and visited the abbey church, admiring its treasures, especially a sombre wall painting describing the fifteen signs of God, which, according to St Jerome, would precede the Last Judgement. Dramatic, soul-searing events painted in vivid colours: mountains tumbling, tidal waves surging, stars dropping from heaven, crashing to an earth engulfed in the fires of hell. He then visited the Lady Chapel and the chantry dedicated to St Anne. He spent some time there before leaving and going down the tree-lined path into the Petit Paradis, a little garden arranged in concentric circles full of flowers in all their glory and colour. He sat on a turf seat before a small fountain carved in the shape of a luxuriously feathered pelican striking its breast, from which water gurgled. He heard a sound. Lady Isabella, dressed in a tawny robe fringed with white bands at cuff and neck, her lovely face hidden under a coupe de mail, came sauntering down the path. She sat next to him and grasped his fingers, tightening her grip as he tensed.
‘Edmund, Edmund.’ Her lips were so close he could smell the mint on her breath. ‘In heaven’s name,’ she teased, ‘fair knight, be at ease. I’m no belle dame sans pitié.’
He turned.
‘We all want this finished,’ she murmured. ‘Soon it will be. Walkyn will be hunted down and killed.’ She turned to face him squarely, her fingers white and delicate, the cuff of her sleeve soft against his neck.
‘Never trust a soldier …’
De Payens whirled round as Berrington and Mayele came into the paradise.
‘Sirs, are you spying on me?’ Isabella teased.
‘No, sister, but the good brothers of St Benedict are; they told me where you’d be.’
‘Where is Parmenio?’ asked de Payens, eager to divert attention.
‘Gone wandering, as he always does.’ Mayele crouched down and squinted up at de Payens. ‘You know, Edmund, I don’t trust the Genoese. He appeared like some sprite in Tripoli and since then he has never really explained his presence here.’ He paused as the abbey bell clanged noisily, booming out the tocsin.
De Payens sprang to his feet. Above the tolling of bells, shouts and cries of alarm drifted across the walls of the paradise. Berrington raced back up the path, de Payens and the rest following. They left by the wicket gate and paused as a lay brother, sweaty-faced and out of breath, clutched Berrington’s arm and gasped out the news in a tongue difficult to understand.
‘It’s the prince, Northampton, Murdac,’ Parmenio called, hastening over, jerkin undone, the shirt beneath sweat-soaked. ‘All three,’ he gasped, ‘murdered!’
‘All three!’ de Payens exclaimed.
‘God pardon them,’ Parmenio gasped. ‘The prince and Northampton have been poisoned. They are already dead.’ He waved his hands. ‘Murdac is barely alive and has been taken to the infirmary. The abbey leech is examining the wine goblets. You’d best com
e.’
Eustace’s chamber was on the ground floor. The great double shutters over the arched window had been flung open to allow in more light to reveal the grim horror. Both Eustace and Northampton lay sprawled on the floor. The prince was dead, eyes staring, his face contorted, a frothy foam trickling from his open mouth. Northampton sprawled nearby on his side, face all ugly in death. It seemed as if the earl, in his last agonising throes, had tried to creep towards the great crucifix nailed to the wall. Berrington asked for the chamber to be cleared except for the abbot and the leech. The prince’s captain of mercenaries, face flushed in anger, did so, beating at the brothers and servitors with the flat of his sword. He fastened the door behind them and went and stood over his dead master. De Payens stared around. The chamber was luxurious, with gleaming walls, well-polished stools and benches, a great chair with padded leather backing and a huge four-poster bed hung with drapes. Dominating it was a long trestle table, most of which was covered with scrolls, rolls of parchment, scraps of sealing wax and ink horns. Next to these stood three goblets and platters of unfinished food. The high-legged stools thrown back on their sides told their own macabre story. De Payens walked across and picked up the wine jug. It was empty. He sniffed but could detect nothing and put it down. The prince was a toper, a lover of wine, and Northampton was no better. Two of the goblets, one of which was Eustace’s, at the top of the table, were drained even of their dregs. The third, which stood to the right of the prince’s chair, was almost full. De Payens, heeding the warning of the leech, picked this up and smelled the strong tang, like that of an empty skillet left over a fire. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and glanced towards the window. The sunlight was dimming. He went across and looked up at the sky, where clouds massing dark and low threatened a sudden summer storm.
