by Paul Doherty
De Payens threw away the stick he was whittling and walked carefully around the yew tree and its grisly burden. Berrington and Mayele often came here, either to view this gruesome sight or to pay their respects to the great lord, he did not know which. The two men still believed that Mandeville had been a formidable war leader. As they stoutly maintained, the dead earl could not be held responsible for some of the people who served him. Parmenio also visited here, though de Payens noticed how he kept his distance, never drawing too close. On the other hand the Genoese had become friendlier, actually seeking de Payens out. He heard a sound and turned. Parmenio stood there, hand on the hilt of his dagger.
‘What is the matter?’ De Payens walked towards him. ‘Do you fear attack even here? Why do you caress your dagger hilt?’
The Genoese lifted both hands and grinned.
‘In the presence of the devil,’ he tapped the cross hilt of his dagger, ‘I ask God and his angels to protect me.’
‘From what?’ de Payens demanded. ‘Why, Parmenio?’ He leaned in, his face close to that of the Genoese. ‘Why are you so stubborn, so faithful in all of this? Here you are in a strange country, a foreign place. You are like a lurcher who won’t be thrown from the scent.’
‘You’re the same.’
‘I’m a Templar. This is Temple business. You are Genoese, far from home. Why bother? Why not go back?’
‘He was the devil.’ Parmenio ignored the questions and pointed at the hanging casket. ‘He used to send his searchers out at night to discover where rich men dwelt, so that he could seize them, throw them into dungeons and demand heavy ransoms. He took his coven by barge through the slimy fens at night and seized the monastery at Ramsey, surprising the brothers in their beds just after they’d sung matins. He turned them out and filled their monastery with soldiers. He seized sacred treasures, relics and vestments. He turned such places into a fort.’
‘Others have done the same.’
‘Old Mandeville did worse,’ Parmenio retorted. ‘He turned Christ’s church into a robber’s den, the sanctuary of the Lord into the devil’s abode. He attracted the worst amongst the warlocks and witches, blood-drinkers and demon-worshippers. Hideous abominations were carried out, so intense that even the walls of the church sweated blood.’
‘These children of Satan?’ de Payens asked. ‘They murdered?’
‘Oh yes, they took prisoners, innocents who were never seen again: those who hid in the fens nearby heard the cruellest screams.’
‘You seem well versed in their practices,’ de Payens retorted. ‘But to return to my question, which you never answered, why are you really here, Parmenio? You appeared like the Angel of Vengeance in that church in Tripoli. Since then you have dogged our footsteps like a hungry mastiff. You face battle, hunger, thirst, a perilous journey – why?’
‘Like you, Edmund,’ Parmenio’s reply was swift, ‘a task has been entrusted to me. I will complete it.’
De Payens was tempted to confront him with a litany of questions, then he recalled the Genoese protecting him in Ascalon.
‘Anyway,’ Parmenio beckoned him forward, ‘someone is here to see you. He says he will only speak to a Templar.’
‘Where is Mayele?’
‘On errands for Berrington.’ Parmenio’s reply was sarcastic. ‘And before you ask, our noble master and the beautiful Isabella are at Westminster again. Our king is much taken with them.’ He grinned. ‘Especially the charms of la belle dame. Ah,’ he smiled ironically, ‘the sorrows and pain of widowhood, eh, Edmund?’ He turned on his heel and led de Payens back into the Templar manse. They went down the flagstoned corridor that cut past the chambers on either side. Just before they reached the entrance hall, Parmenio paused. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered over his shoulder, ‘she’s back, your secret admirer.’
De Payens closed his eyes in exasperation. Over the last few days a young woman – the porters claimed she was a courtesan, a high-priced one – had been glimpsed near the main gate. On one occasion she had approached Parmenio and asked to see de Payens.
‘Well?’ the Genoese asked.
De Payens opened his eyes.
‘You see,’ Parmenio smiled, ‘she won’t see any other Templar, just you!’
‘She will have to wait. Now who’s this?’
The man waiting for him in the hall rose as they entered. De Payens gestured at the two serjeants to withdraw.
‘Well?’ he asked.
The stranger was a young man, clean-shaven, with an honest face. He was neatly attired in a bottle-green tunic down to his knees over brown hose pushed into soft clean boots. The mantle on his shoulders had a hood; this was pushed back over sandy hair.
‘I speak Norman French.’ The stranger’s voice was low and cultured. ‘I’m a clerk in the Guildhall, Martin Fitzosbert.’ He licked his lips, and lifted ink-stained fingers.’
‘And what do you want, clerk?’
‘The reward for Henry Walkyn alive, or at least part of it.’
‘What?’
‘Listen,’ Fitzosbert gabbled, ‘the entire city knows about the proclamation. I work at the Guildhall. I help transcribe the documents putting men to the horn. It’s common enough.’ He spread his hands. ‘We clerks have a sharp eye to a quick profit. Around the sheriff’s chamber cluster the bounty-hunters and professional thief-catchers. They swim in the same dirty pools as their prey: vagabonds, sturdy beggars, counterfeit men of every ilk, outlaws, sanctuary-seekers, night hawks and dark wanderers.’ He paused. ‘Morteval the Welshman is the best in London. He came into the Chancery after the Jesus mass this morning. He claims to have knowledge about the Radix Malorum.’
‘The what?’ De Payens half laughed. ‘The Root of all Evil?’
‘A notorious sorcerer, a seller of philtres and potions,’ Fitzosbert declared. ‘A self-confessed member of many covens, who consorts with witches and their like. Morteval believes the Radix will know the true whereabouts of Walkyn and his coven.’
‘How, why?’ Parmenio asked sharply.
‘Because the Radix knows all about such matters.’
‘So why not abduct him and bring him here?’
‘Ah, he will do that, Domine,’ Fitzosbert smiled thinly, ‘but first he keeps the Radix under close scrutiny. He lurks at a tavern, the Light in the Darkness, in the slums near Queenshithe, a place haunted by ribauds and other malefactors. Morteval believes that today, after the Angelus bell, the Radix is to meet someone important. He has hired an upper chamber and the tavern cooks are very busy. Morteval believes that if we enter, we may find Walkyn and his ilk. All he wants is a substantial portion of the reward, as do I.’ Fitzosbert paused as de Payens lifted a hand. ‘I will not go there by myself.’
‘Oh no.’ Parmenio voiced his agreement.
‘Your two serjeants.’ Fitzosbert pointed at them.
De Payens glanced at Parmenio, who nodded in agreement. The Templar hurried up to his own chamber. He put on his mailed hauberk, covered by a dark cloak; beneath this he strapped on his war belt with its sword and dagger sheaths.
A short while later, accompanied by the two serjeants, Parmenio’s farewells ringing in his ears, he followed Fitzosbert out through the great double gate of the Temple into the streets and alleyways leading down to the river. De Payens had not wandered London. Berrington had warned him that after the attack in the forest, he must be more prudent and cautious. Certainly the narrow lanes and runnels they now entered were as dangerous as any lonely forest trackway. The ground was pitted and holed. An arrow-slit sewer, crammed with steaming dirt, ran down the middle. Signs bearing all kinds of garishly painted symbols swung dangerously close above their heads, whilst the doors and shutters of the tenements on either side kept opening and shutting in a never-ending clatter. The constant stench from the midden heaps was as rich as any in Jerusalem, the noise and babble just as strident as the bazaars of the Holy City. The lack of colour, though, was strikingly different. The breeze was turning cold, and passers-by w
ere swathed in dark cloaks and hoods. The roofs were drenched by recent rain; their thatch of reeds, straw and shingles poured down a wetness that soaked the timbers of the upper storeys, thickening the wooden shutters and rusting the hinged lattices of iron. Under this drizzle hens, geese, goats and pigs roamed aimlessly. Scavenger dogs plundered the grease-coated heaps of rubbish, fighting off the yellow-ribbed, amber-eyed cats whilst blocking the passage of carts, horses and pack ponies.
Fitzosbert led them past stalls set up in front of houses supervised by traders and their legion of apprentices, who darted about like imps from hell. Cookshops, pie stalls, wine taverns and alehouses did a thriving business with those eager to escape from the thronging, filthy streets. Now and again the line of houses would break to reveal an open space, where skinny cows grazed on meagre grass, or some little church, with dirty steps and narrow windows, desperate to catch the attention of passers-by with the clanging of its bells or the preaching of its parson from an outside pulpit.
They eventually skirted the grim fastness of Newgate. Before the massive iron-studded gates stood the pillory and thews, busy with its daily line of victims: men and women caught by the beadles and bailiffs, waiting to be fastened in the clamps to stand and be mocked in their own filth until justice was done. Fitzosbert described the list of offences as he came alongside de Payens, with the two serjeants trudging behind him. Life in London was certainly cruel, the Templar reflected. They passed Ludgate, down between the castles of Montfichet and Baynard, where the gallows stood, each scaffold bar decorated with its gruesome victim. Most of the cadavers were rotting, turning slightly on dirty ropes; beneath them, ragged children played their games. A barber, his bowl slopping a bloody froth, offered to cut hair, trim a beard or draw a diseased tooth. His shouting for business cut across the white-garbed Cistercian chanting the general absolution as three malefactors, death warrants pinned to their shabby tunics, were turned off the execution cart to swing and struggle against the ropes suspended from the stout branches of an elm tree. Great lords and ladies on their richly caparisoned horses trotted by, grooms and retainers hurrying alongside. They rode untouched and undisturbed by their surroundings, as if their ermine-lined cloaks, dark robes and thick furred hoods created an impenetrable barrier between themselves and the rest of humanity. Here and there guildsmen in the blue and mustard colours of the city kept a sharp eye on the various stalls. Aldermen, resplendent in their scarlet robes and glinting chains of office, also patrolled, faces full of their own importance. Around these clustered liverymen, eager to act on their every whim.
‘London means trade,’ Fitzosbert whispered, and de Payens nodded in agreement. Everything was for sale, from woollen hangings to Spanish boots, fine steel pins to brocaded cloths, eel pies to sugared manchet loaves, wine from Gascony or furs from the frozen north. Woe betide anyone who fell foul of the regulations proclaimed by criers and enforced by the market walkers. All transgressions were met with summary justice. Bakers who sold short were fastened to hurdles with a bundle of hay lashed to their backside and dragged through the city. Ale masters who conned their customers sat in a horse trough with a whetstone around their necks. Fishwives who freshened stale catches had to crouch chained to a post with the rotting produce slung under their noses. Whores caught touting for business were paraded to the noise of bagpipes to barber stools, where their heads would be roughly shaved and their faces smeared with dung. A priest caught with his leman was forced to ride a horse bareback facing the animal’s tail, much to the amusement of passers-by, as he kept falling off and had to be hoisted back on.
De Payens sensed the bustle, the violence of the streets, where landless men, beggars, mercenaries and the denizens of the alleyways moved in a swirling crowd. He and Fitzosbert entered a broad thoroughfare and went down past the stately, pink-plastered mansions of the wealthy into a tangle of alleyways and tunnels full of darting shadows. They twisted and turned, the houses leaning over them, until they reached a small square. In the middle a madcap performed a frenzied dance before the statue of some patron saint. In one hand the lunatic held a firebrand, in the other a wooden mallet, which he used to strike the flames to create a shower of sparks. Across the square stood the Light in the Darkness, a gloomy tavern of wood and plaster on a stone base. The door was guarded by ruffians holding cudgels, who stood aside and let them into the tavern room, which stank of onions and rancid cheese. The light was poor, the windows shuttered. Fat tallow candles smoked on the top of the overturned barrels and casks that served as tables. A dwarf, almost swathed in a grey apron, scurried across, his gargoyle face making him even more grotesque in the flickering light. He peered up at de Payens, then at Fitzosbert, who leaned down and whispered. The dwarf tittered behind his hand. De Payens curbed his own spurt of fear; the two serjeants were also uneasy, loosening their swords and daggers, peering through the murk. De Payens could not express his fear; it was like bile in the stomach, stench in the nostrils. He was making to turn away when another figure strolled softly as a cat across the rush-strewn floor.
‘Friends, greetings, my name is Morteval.’ He stepped into the pool of light, his pockmarked face redeemed by small, clever eyes. He ran a mittened finger through the long tendrils of his oily black hair, which framed bearded features.
‘Templar.’ He extended a hand. De Payens kept his own on the hilt of his sword. Morteval shrugged and pointed to the ceiling. ‘Our guests have arrived. Master Martin will lead the way.’
Chapter 10
A numerous horde of foes had gathered to threaten them with unbridled savagery.
They climbed the steep steps built into the corner near the door. Fitzosbert went first, de Payens and the two serjeants behind, Morteval at the rear. They reached a shabby stairwell, its needle-thin window covered by a strip of dry horn. Morteval pushed himself to the front and, finger to his lips, pointed at the door. De Payens leaned his head against it; he heard the clink of cups and the murmur of voices. Morteval whispered to be careful, but de Payens was now very wary. Morteval and Fitzosbert had slipped behind him, so to go back down the stairs might be dangerous. Without warning, de Payens raised his boot and kicked at the leather-covered door. It opened with a crash. The room beyond was in darkness, except for a fiery lantern blazing angrily in its centre. Suddenly de Payens was back in that forest outside the abbey, the sunshine dazzling his eyes through the trees. He shouted a warning and fell to his knees as the cross-bolts whirled through the air. One of the serjeants screamed as a feathered quarrel shattered his face; the other, struck in his chest, staggered forward into the darkened room. De Payens drew his dagger and lunged swiftly at a shape moving towards him, plunging the blade deep into the man’s belly. He then threw himself back into the stairwell. Morteval, surprised by the sheer swiftness of the Templar, was too slow. De Payens slicked his throat with his knife, and the thief-taker died in a frenzied whirl of arms and legs. De Payens crashed down the stairs, hurling himself on to the fleeing Fitzosbert. He grasped the hair on the back of the man’s head, threw him to the floor and pounded his face until Fitzosbert stopped screaming and lay still. De Payens staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. The dwarf came rushing at him. The Templar smashed him aside with a sweep of his mailed arm. Figures appeared through the tavern doorway; dark shapes crept down the steps behind him.
De Payens made a decision. Keeping to the shadows, he ran at the door, crashing into the men gathering there, his dagger gashing hooded, visored faces. He felt the full fury of battle engulfing him, the sheer joy of lashing out with his sword. Kicking and swearing, he was out into the square, his assailants following. He did not give them time to gather, but closed with them, and when he broke off, gasping for breath, three more corpses lay sprawled jerking in their own life blood. Other assassins massed in the doorway, but its very narrowness constricted their movement. De Payens charged, screaming his war cry, confusing them even more as they tried to fend off the whirling, jabbing steel of his long war sword. For the Templar, th
is was joy and elation, his blade cutting and slicing the flesh of his enemy. No more reflection. No brooding. Nothing but the sheer fury of battle, of crushing his foes.
His assailants now realised their mistake: they were confronting a Templar knight, a master swordsman, who was using the narrow tavern entrance to trap them as a farmer would a horde of rats in a barn. They edged the Templar out across the dirt-strewn cobbles, trying to outflank him then attack him from behind. Two of them succeeded. The madcap, still whirling his firebrand and mallet, danced across to meet them, shaking the flames in their faces, then screamed as one of the assassins drove his sword deep into the poor fool’s throat. De Payens, alerted, darted sideways, jabbing swiftly with the tip of his sword, skewering the assailant in his right eye, then backed away, moving across the cobbles until he felt the statue behind him. His opponents, now spread out in an arc, followed cautiously. The cobbles ran with blood, as if the very ground was wounded. Yells and groans rang out. Wounded men fought to staunch deep slashes in their limbs, chests and bellies. One man, his eyes and face smashed by de Payens’ sword, crawled like a blind dog on all fours, pleading for assistance. Doors and shutters were being flung open. A horn sounded, followed by shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ as the hue and cry was raised.
‘Non nobis, Domine,’ de Payens shouted. ‘Non nobis. Deus Vult! Deus Vult!’
The attackers closed again, desperate to bring him down. One slid to his knees and slashed at de Payens’ leg. The Templar cleaved his skull, splitting it like a log, then brought his blade up so that it scythed to the right and left, slashing the arm of another attacker, who moved back too late. De Payens felt his breath choke. He was sweat-drenched, his eyes were blurred, his strength was failing, arms growing heavy, wrists aching, whilst the cut in his leg was bubbling blood. Four assassins were still edging forward. De Payens glanced past them; more were emerging from the tavern, one of them carrying a crossbow. The Templar mustered his strength as the four charged in a whirl of clashing steel, darting swords and snaking daggers. He used every trick, swaying slightly, blade moving constantly, twisting like a sheet of glancing light. Nevertheless, he was weakening. He fought for breath and began to chant a psalm, even as the first cross-bolt whirled past his head to strike an attacker, hurling him back. Suddenly a horn brayed, and the Templar war cry rang out. Parmenio was beside him. Templar serjeants were pursuing the remaining attackers, who fled like shadows into the darkness of the alleyways. De Payens fell to his knees, then tumbled in a faint against the statue.
