The Templar Magician

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Pax et bonum, Templar.’

  By his dark brown robe, the cross on a cord around his neck and the clean-cut tonsure, de Payens recognised a priest. He came and crouched beside the Templar, his weathered face wrinkled in concern, kindly green eyes searching for any wound.

  ‘You certainly have enemies, Templar.’ He spoke the lingua franca of the Middle Seas. ‘Oh yes.’ He grinned. ‘I was a chaplain in the retinue of Lord Balian. I have worshipped in the Holy Sepulchre, but now, for my sins and in reparation for my pride, I am parish priest of St Botulph’s-in-the-Wood, a benefice of St Edmund’s. Well,’ he patted de Payens’ leg, ‘you’re injured?’

  ‘No, just bruised and humbled,’ de Payens replied, pulling himself up. ‘Otherwise I’m sound. My horse?’

  ‘Poor beast.’ The priest extended a hand, and de Payens clasped it. ‘I am John Fitzwalter, as I said, priest and former chaplain.’ He helped de Payens up, and they went and stood over the dead horse. The forest people emerged, shaking their heads, talking quickly to the priest in their guttural tongue. ‘My beloveds,’ Priest John translated, ‘say that your attackers were assassins skilled in forest-lore.’

  ‘Who could hire such men?’ de Payens asked.

  The priest pulled a face. ‘We’ve heard the gossip about you and the other Templars at the great abbey. How you were in the retinue of Prince Eustace. As for your question, this is England; the shires are full of such men. They only believe in one verse from scripture: They fear neither God nor man. Thank the Lord you were kind to the children. They glimpsed your assailants and hurried back to the village with the news. Now, your poor horse.’ He patted de Payens on the arm. ‘You’ve read the great Anselm? He said that cruelty to animals comes directly from the Evil One. Ah well.’ He crouched and helped de Payens loosen the saddle and bridle. ‘Leave the animal here, Templar. The poor will eat it. Some good will come from this evil. Small recompense for your saviours.’

  De Payens stood up. One of the villagers gently took the saddle from him, another the harness. The Templar opened his wallet, shook out the remaining coins and medals and pressed them into the priest’s hands. He then stared closely at his rescuers, forest people dressed in shabby green and brown tunics bound around the waist with rope; rough sandals and leggings protected their ankles and feet. A few were young; others looked indistinguishable, with their mass of dark hair, bushy beards and moustaches. They smiled at him and spoke quickly to the priest.

  ‘They thank you. They always follow you when you come here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain.’ The priest added grimly, ‘Those children were a lure, but you were very kind. Come.’ He grasped de Payens’ arm. ‘We will escort you back to the abbey gatehouse.’

  They went back along the path. The priest described his village church, how he’d repaired it, the vivid wall painting he was preparing to illustrate themes from the bible, especially the Final Judgement.

  ‘God knows what will happen on that day. Now listen.’ He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. ‘As I said, we knew about the prince. We heard about his death and those of the others. We are also concerned, Templar. Men have appeared in our woods, strangers, dangerous nighthawks, dark wanderers, well armed, visored and hooded. They camp here and watch the abbey.’

  ‘Does anyone come out to meet them?’

  ‘I cannot say. We only see their fires at night, smell their woodsmoke. Indeed, one of my parishioners has met them.’

  ‘What?’

  The priest paused, shouting at the forest people, who drifted back.

  ‘Thurston,’ he called. A young man stepped forward, spear in one hand, club in the other. The priest spoke to him; Thurston replied, his gaze never leaving that of the Templar.

  ‘What did he say?’ de Payens asked. ‘I recognise the name Walkyn.’

  ‘Thurston is a skilled poacher,’ the priest murmured. ‘There is not a rabbit alive he cannot catch. Now there’s a warren deep in the forest, a source of fresh meat. Thurston was there; he trapped three or four, enough food for my parish. He was returning when two strangers slipped out from the trees. They were courteous enough, but asked him to hand over the meat. Thurston of course could not refuse, but in the forest fashion, he asked their names. One of the men replied that his name was Walkyn, that all he wanted was the meat, then Thurston could go on his way.’

  ‘Walkyn?’ De Payens stared at the villager. ‘You are sure of that?’

  The priest translated, but Thurston was stubborn and kept repeating the name, nodding vigorously.

  ‘The strange thing is,’ the priest smiled at de Payens, ‘Thurston asked what his companion’s name was, and the same name was given. And that is not all.’ The priest indicated that they should walk on, calling to his parishioners to do likewise. ‘All kinds of men flee here, outlaws from the towns and villages. A few join us. Many do not survive, but these strangers certainly have. In the main they leave us alone, as we do them. Very rarely do we clash, but recently, in the last month, things have changed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Young girls,’ he murmured, ‘well, young women; at least three in the last weeks have just disappeared. Now that is not so surprising. Some of our young men and women get tired of forest life and flee to the towns and villages, but these were different. They had families, lovers; one was betrothed to be married. They just disappeared like frost under the sun.’

  De Payens repressed a shiver as he recalled the stories about similar macabre disappearances in Jerusalem.

  ‘And no corpses have been found?’

  ‘Templar, look around. You could bury the cadavers of an entire city in this forest and never find a grave. But to answer your question bluntly, we do not think these young women ran away. Something hideous has happened to them.’

  ‘And you think these strangers could be responsible?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The priest shook his head. ‘We even wondered about you. We watched you ride out, hence those three children. My parishioners,’ he added drily, ‘were watching you all the time. Deo Gratias, they also saved you.’

  ‘How long have you been here, Father?’

  ‘Oh, at least fourteen summers in all. Why?’

  ‘You know about the great rebel, Mandeville, Earl of Essex?’

  ‘Oh yes, that demon.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’

  The priest paused, looking up at the sky. ‘I’ve heard the stories about him being a warlock, a sorcerer, but that is not true. Mandeville was like the rest of the great lords, greedy for wealth and lands. He committed hideous blasphemies, occupying monasteries and abbeys, despoiling holy places. By doing so he attracted a host of dark spirits, men who dabbled in all sorts of wickedness. I am a pastor, Templar. I deal with the care of souls. Do you know what I think?’ He glanced sideways at de Payens. ‘We human beings, our souls are like manor houses, haunted by angels and demons. We all make a choice about which should dominate. Whatever,’ he sighed, ‘we heard the stories about Mandeville’s followers. Some of them were steeped in wickedness; they carried out bloodthirsty rites, revelling in what they did. Look at Prince Eustace. We heard about his wild ride through the shires. What chance do my parishioners have against mailed men on horse, armed with swords and crossbows? They ride into a village and can do what they want; no sheriff, no bailiff can object. The king’s peace is shattered. It’s so good to hear that King Stephen and Henry Fitzempress have been reconciled.’

  They reached the forest edge, and approached the abbey gatehouse. The priest took the saddle and harness from his parishioners; only he went forward with de Payens. He paused at the small drawbridge across the narrow ditch.

  ‘Templar,’ he handed over the harness, ‘God be with you.’ Then he was gone.

  De Payens’ dramatic return to the abbey provoked consternation amongst the good brothers. Parmenio, Mayele and Isabella came hurrying down. Once de Payens had assured the brethren that he’d suffered no real hurt, they all gather
ed in the guesthouse refectory, and he gave his companions a cursory description of the attack, even as he studied their faces, particularly that of Parmenio, who looked troubled. On his return, de Payens had immediately asked the porters and doorkeepers if any of his companions, or indeed anyone else, had left the abbey, only to be assured that they had not. On reflection, he concluded, it wasn’t possible for a malignant to leave St Edmund’s, thread through the woods, then lurk to kill him within such a brief space of time. Nevertheless, he did not wish to remain beetle-blind. He could have died in the forest. And had not a similar attack occurred outside Ascalon, when Parmenio had been with him? He deliberately did not tell them about the forest children or the details of his meeting with the priest, but he did mention the strangers in the forest, hooded and visored, all calling themselves Walkyn.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the name they have taken for themselves,’ Parmenio observed. ‘It’s quite common to assume the title or designation of the leader of a group. The retainers of great lords do likewise.’

  Berrington and Mayele agreed.

  ‘Edmund,’ Berrington declared, ‘while you were gone, we received information, a messenger from Essex: rumour has it that Walkyn landed on the Colvasse peninsula near Orwell, a lonely estuary not far from his manor at Borley. He would want to avoid port reeves and harbourmasters, and it would be easy in some foreign port to hire passage on a cog, a pirate ship, which could land him and any others on a lonely strip along the Essex coast.’

  ‘But how could he do that?’ de Payens countered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Parmenio demanded.

  ‘Well,’ de Payens stretched out his hand, ‘look at me, a poor Templar knight. You, Berrington, and the rest have come to England paid by monies drawn from the exchequer in Jerusalem. We are dependent on what we receive from our order, the hospitality of the good brothers, the kindness of the king in loaning horses. Where did Walkyn get such wealth? He was a poor Templar knight.’

  ‘He was also leader of a coven.’

  ‘Yes, but he was captured,’ de Payens insisted. ‘He was seized, held captive by you, Berrington, bound as a prisoner, manacled, seated on a poor horse, I presume. He had nothing on him, did he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Berrington agreed. ‘But remember, his coven attacked us. They stripped us of our armour and whatever wealth we carried, and stole our horses. They would also have brought whatever wealth they had from Jerusalem.’

  ‘And Tripoli?’ Mayele observed. He gestured at Berrington not to interrupt. ‘Remember, brothers, Count Raymond was killed, then the rioting and massacre began. Part of the city was plundered; wealthy merchants had their houses stripped of all possessions. If Walkyn was responsible for that, he may have amassed a small fortune, true?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parmenio leaned his elbows on the table, ‘yes, that would make sense.’ He talked as if speaking to himself. ‘It’s been mentioned before. Perhaps that was the reason for the attack in Tripoli: to kill the count and cause chaos and mayhem as a guise, a cloak. Walkyn’s real intention was to plunder the houses of the rich to acquire the wealth he needed.’

  ‘Which he would use,’ Mayele declared, ‘once he began his travels. Silver and gold in foreign ports would soon buy passage on a private cog, whilst in Essex he would use the same to recruit and summon up members of his coven and hire assassins.’

  The discussion about Walkyn’s intentions grew heated. Isabella slipped on to the bench beside de Payens, face all worried. She rested a hand on his arm, shaking her head.

  ‘Edmund, Edmund,’ she whispered in a return to her old flirting. ‘I could have accompanied you on your rides.’ She grinned impishly. ‘A fair maid on the green sward …’

  ‘Sister!’ Berrington got to his feet. ‘Edmund, you cannot go out alone again.’ He walked up and down. ‘It’s possible that armed men, cowled and masked, are gathering in the woods, a natural place for Walkyn to hide. He may even have followers here in the abbey. We’ve outstayed our welcome here. Tomorrow we leave for London. Walkyn might follow us, and there we can trap him.’

  Edmund de Payens stood in God’s Acre, a plot of land stretching between the wall of St Andrew’s, Holborn, and the Templar enclosure with its rounded church, half-timbered hall, barracks, guesthouses, forges, storerooms and other outbuildings. He stared in astonishment at the great oaken casket hanging by stout chains from the branches of an ancient, gnarled yew tree. All around him rose the memorials of dead Templars and those who had served them, but this was unique: the coffin of a great earl who had died excommunicate, a body refused burial in consecrated ground until the Pope in Rome lifted the sentence of eternal damnation. The ox-hide covering, blood red in colour, was fading and weathered, the huge chain links rusting. The coffin swayed slightly, creaking as if the corpse inside housed a blackened soul still struggling to begin its journey towards the light.

  De Payens whittled at the stick he’d picked up as he studied the ground beneath the coffin. Someone had taken great care over this plot; no nettles or weeds, their roots matted like basketwork, thrived here. The ground had been torn with a tooth-rake, reaping out the crawling, snake-like roots and breaking up the clods of earth, and a meadow plot planted of green grass jewelled with lilies of the wood, daffodils, daisies, forget-me-nots and speedwells. De Payens crouched down, relishing the flower scent. Even though it was October, autumn had arrived late here and the full glory of summer was not yet spent. He thanked God for the clement weather and crossed himself. He and his companions had left St Edmund’s following, where possible, the old Roman road south. They had bought horses, palfreys and sumpters as well as whatever harness they needed. Each day they’d travelled immediately after the dawn mass until the hour of vespers, when they’d sought shelter in some monastery, church, hostelry or pilgrim tavern. They’d ridden into London from the east, close to the soaring white donjon built by William the Norman, making their way along the north bank of the Thames, past the castles of Montfichet and Baynard, through Newgate, into the Temple enclosure. They’d arrived nine days ago. Berrington, acting very much the master, had summoned the seneschals, clerks and bailiffs. He’d inspected the Templar buildings and allocated them chambers, except for Isabella, who took lodgings in the nearby Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn, a fortified manor house within walking distance of the Templar manse.

  Two days later they had been summoned to the king’s house at Westminster. They’d heard mass at St Paul’s, leaving even as the masons, stone-cutters and carpenters swung themselves up on to the scaffolding around the still unfinished cathedral. They’d ridden through the strengthening morning light and entered the north gate of the palace. The great bailey beyond was already busy with falconers, hooded hawks on their wrists. Hunters were fussing with wolfhounds and wiry vulperets. Grooms and ostlers grouped around horses, destriers and palfreys. They’d left their mounts and pushed their way through a throng of clerks, men-at-arms and serjeants, and along vaulted passageways into the royal chamber, hung with canvas newly dyed a deep crimson, the gaps between emblazoned with the king’s arms. A grand table under a gold-fringed canopy stood on a dais at the far end of the chamber; this was ringed with high-backed chairs and stools. On each side stood small trestle desks holding parchment rolls, tubs of sealing wax, vellum, bound books and steel-ringed coffers. Sconce torches flickered, candles glowed and brazier baskets crackled and smoked; the chamber was very warm and full of fragrances.

  They had to wait for a while until a blare of trumpets and the shouts of chamberlains announced the arrival of the king. Stephen entered garbed in a short mantle of russet fastened at the right shoulder by a large jewel brooch over a long red tunic flowered with gold and fastened at the throat by a silver clasp. His tight-fitting scarlet hose and boots of black leather, still spurred, were splattered with the blood and mud of the hunt. He was accompanied by a whey-faced clerk dressed in black, which only emphasised the cleric’s pinched features beneath a mop of neatly tonsured hair. Other courtiers and officials follo
wed, but they stayed near the door. Stephen swept to the chair in the centre of the table, the chancery clerk to his right. Berrington and the rest were told to approach and take their seats. The king was pale, thinner. The death of his son had clearly shaken him, but he did not indulge in recriminations.

  ‘My son was murdered,’ he whispered once Berrington had finished speaking. His face lightened when he caught Isabella’s smile of compassion. ‘Yes, yes,’ he waved a hand, ‘my lady, you and your brother must dine with me in the hall, but for now …’ He beckoned at de Payens, who felt a stab of jealousy and frustration at not being invited as well. ‘Please,’ the king insisted, ‘tell me again. Tell me what happened.’

  De Payens described the deaths of Senlis and Eustace, and then added a short description of the murderous assault on him in the forest outside the abbey. Once he’d finished, Stephen nodded and whispered to the chancery clerk, then raised a hand for silence.

  ‘We have done fresh searches.’ The king rubbed his face. ‘The harbourmasters and port reeves have not reported Walkyn’s entry into the kingdom, though,’ he added wistfully, ‘there are a legion of deserted coves such as Orwell. Our recent troubles have certainly not helped matters. Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘without specifying his crimes, Henry Walkyn, former Templar, is to be put to the horn as utlegatum, beyond the law. By order of king and council, he can be killed on sight. A reward of a hundred pounds sterling is posted on his head; two hundred if brought in alive. This proclamation will be issued to every sheriff and port reeve, and pinned to the cross outside St Paul’s and that in Cheapside. Dead or alive,’ he mumbled, ‘dead or alive – wolf’s-head.’

  Afterwards, de Payens, Mayele and Parmenio had returned to the Temple, where they had to wait until early evening before Berrington and Isabella returned, full of chatter about the king and the favour he’d shown them. That evening held a further shift in events. Once again Berrington raised the possibility of leaving Walkyn to the bounty-hunters and reward-seekers. De Payens, however, recalling the murderous attack on him, stood his ground. So it was decided that Berrington would continue as master of the Temple in England. He would be assisted by Mayele, who’d act as his envoy to the other preceptories. Parmenio and de Payens meanwhile would continue their hunt for Walkyn.