The Templar Magician

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Precisely. A riddle not resolved by you but through God’s own favour.’ Fulbert picked up a piece of parchment from his lap. ‘The first sentence is in the Greek Koine, a quotation from the Acts of the Apostles. I discovered it through the word ketra, which means “goad”. The verse is from the description of the conversion of St Paul. It reads: “Is it so hard to kick against the goad?”’ He peered up. ‘That, I suppose, is a reference to your own doubts and uncertainties. The second sentence, in Latin, from the poet Juvenal, was used by the great Augustine in his Sermon on the Resurrection. The guards at Christ’s tomb were told to report that his body had been stolen and that he had not risen from the dead. Augustine ridiculed such a story with a question. The text goes: “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who shall guard the guards?” The third part is a mixture of both Norman French and the lingua franca. This time it’s a quotation from the Book of the Apocalypse: “Rise up and measure the Temple of God.”’ Fulbert stretched out and stroked de Payens’ cheek gently with the icy tips of his fingers. ‘Only you, Domine, will know what that means …’

  ‘You are sure?’

  Richard Berrington, cloaked and cowled, moved his powerful destrier a little to the left and leaned down so that de Payens could grasp his gauntleted hand.

  ‘I’m sure, Richard.’ De Payens smiled back, then nodded at Isabella, seated on a grey palfrey.

  ‘We will miss you, Edmund.’ Mayele, his face almost hidden by the broad nose-guard of his war helmet, handed the piebald standard to the captain of mercenaries and moved his horse closer. ‘We’ll miss you,’ he repeated.

  ‘No you won’t.’ De Payens grasped his brother knight’s hand. ‘You’ll just miss mocking me.’ He peered up at Berrington. ‘You’ll go straight to Borley – yes? Then on to your home manor at Bruer in Lincolnshire?’

  Berrington nodded.

  ‘I’ll stay here with Parmenio.’ De Payens gestured to where the Genoese stood in the doorway, muffled against the cold. ‘I’ll use Hastang to search the tenements along the river. I am sure Walkyn still lurks here. If he doesn’t, I will call off the hunt. This island, its weather! It’s time I returned to Jerusalem.’ He grinned. ‘Our Grand Master cannot expect miracles.’ He nodded at Berrington. ‘But we shall meet again.’

  The cavalcade left, hooves sparking the cobbles to the jingling and creak of harness and mail. Isabella lifted one gloved hand in farewell, then they were gone towards the gate, the thick morning mist boiling up around them, dark figures in the shifting grey light. De Payens listened to the fading sounds, then walked over to Parmenio.

  ‘You’ll break your fast, Edmund?’

  ‘No. I shall retire to my own chamber. Say that I am sickly. I want no visitors, no interruptions.’

  ‘Why have you stayed, the true reason?’

  ‘I want to remain here and continue my hunt for Walkyn. I think I can trap him.’

  ‘Do you trust me, Edmund?’

  ‘As you do me.’

  Parmenio bit his lip. ‘For how long will we stay?’

  ‘A few days. If you wish, you can always accompany Berrington …’ De Payens did not finish his sentence. He glanced across the mist-strewn bailey. ‘A little more time,’ he murmured. ‘In the meantime, I do not want to be disturbed. I have done this before, in preparation for my knighthood. I want to be alone, to fast for three days, pray, reflect and meditate.’ He caught the look on Parmenio’s face. ‘Yes, the three-day fast. It’s necessary.’

  De Payens stayed in his chamber, never leaving except to use the nearby garderobe or attend the dawn mass. He refused all food and visitors, including Hastang. He knelt on his prie-dieu in his narrow closet and recited the psalms. He sipped water and chewed hard bread. He murmured the words of the Veni Creator Spiritus, begging for help in reaching the truth, the evidence to turn the suspicions milling in his mind into facts. He asked for pen, ink horn and vellum. He listed the main events, from the attack at Tripoli to that murderous assault on himself and Alienora and the translation of the cryptic message from the Assassins. Every sign pointed to the one path he must follow, with all its consequences. Again he prayed, emptied himself of all illusions, concentrating on the problem. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, now and again drifting into a fitful sleep. He’d wake, splash his face with water and study the crucifix nailed to the wall. One conclusion he could not escape.

  ‘I acted like a child,’ he whispered. ‘No more than a child, suckled and left in the dark.’

  On the morning of the fourth day, de Payens shaved his head, moustache and beard, then stared at his reflection in the shining disc of steel.

  ‘A new man.’ He smiled to himself. ‘When I was a child,’ he continued to quote St Paul, ‘I did the things of a child, but now that I’m a man …’

  He attended the Jesus mass. Afterwards he sat on the ale bench in the buttery and slowly ate a delicious bowl of oatmeal, followed by soft loaves of white bread smeared with butter and honey. Then he sent a courier into the city and met with Parmenio, who, surprised by the Templar’s appearance, quickly agreed that he would accompany him. He went to ask questions, but de Payens turned away.

  ‘You still don’t trust me, Edmund,’ the Genoese accused.

  ‘And you, Parmenio, have you told me everything?’ De Payens turned and stood over him. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

  The Templar returned to his chamber. He checked his weapons and armour. He undid the secret pocket on his war belt and took out the pure gold coins of Outremer. He put these in his wallet and sauntered down to the main gate. The usual traders thronged there, but so did strangers, dark-faced creatures from the alleyways, their pointed hoods thrown back, hanging down like loose flaps of lizard skin. De Payens deliberately walked past as if interested in the shabby stalls of the tinkers, then quickly turned and caught the glances of these men with hollow eyes and the stare of ghosts. Once his curiosity was satisfied, he returned to the Temple, where he waited for the coroner to arrive just before the Angelus bell. Hastang teased him about his monkish appearance, then listened intently as de Payens described what he wanted. The coroner heard him out and whispered his disbelief. Nevertheless, he took the gold coins de Payens pushed towards him and promised to hire a comitatus of trusted men. Once he had left, de Payens made his own preparations. He remained tight-lipped as regarded Parmenio, and kept his distance from the Genoese; it was the best way, the only way. He must rein in his anger, which was as intense against his own stupid foolishness as anyone else’s.

  They left the Temple four days later. Hastang led the way out of the cobbled bailey, followed by de Payens, Parmenio, six city serjeants in their blue and mustard livery and about twenty mercenaries whom Hastang had hired with the Templar’s gold. These were veterans, well horsed and harnessed, with steel helmets over their chain-mail coifs, leather hauberks, sword belts draped over their saddle horns, the rest of their baggage heaped on sumpter ponies. They made their way north through the busy city, a babble of voices and a sea of shifting colour. De Payens realised that such an imposing cavalcade would be closely observed, but this did not worry him. He was about to enter the tournament. He now knew his enemy and, God willing, would ride him down. Before they left, he had attended the dawn mass; afterwards he had lit tapers before the lady altar and prayed earnestly for those unfortunates who had died, as well as others who would do so before this horror-inspired nightmare was brought to an end.

  De Payens was glad to be busy, alert to everything around him. They passed the grim prison of Newgate, where a madman chattered to a corpse dangling from a scaffold. Next to him an old man and woman danced to a tune a boy piped, all anxious to earn a coin or crust. They passed the haunt of prostitutes and whores, who clustered at the mouths of alleyways aptly named Love Tunnel or the Runnel of Secret Moles. Pimps in rat-skin hoods stood, thumbs in belts, keeping an eye on their charges or any potential customers. An iron cage next to the Death Man tavern housed a lunatic, who, when poked by the warder, would dance
for the amusement of passers-by. A water-carrier found selling dirty produce stood clapped in the nearby stocks with a cowbell around his neck. De Payens noted all these keenly, as he’d observed the face he’d glimpsed three streets away, or the figure lurking in the shadows as they left the Temple. He glanced up and saw a man with hooded eyes like those of an owl peering down at him from an open casement of the Death Man. He was sure he’d seen that face before, but there again, what was the danger? Matters were moving to a conclusion, whilst he was closely guarded and protected by Hastang and his comitatus.

  They journeyed on, only pausing when a line of mummers’ carts cut across their path as the travelling troupe made its way down to one of the parish churches to stage a Passion play. The actors were all garbed ready for their performance. Herod in his bright orange wig, moustache and beard. The soldiers in their leather tunics followed a cart full of angels all clothed in dirty white with gold cords around their heads and Salome holding the dripping severed head of John the Baptist. Once the mummers had passed, the cavalcade continued through Aldgate on to the old Roman road stretching north into Essex. A cold, hard, fast ride. The fields on either side were covered in dazzling ice. A swirling silver-grey mist curled through black-branched trees heavy with glossy-feathered crows. They cantered through villages damp and dark showing the ravages of war as well as the inclement weather. Grey-skinned villagers emerged hollow-eyed, begging for food. They passed churches with their doors rent off and glimpsed plumes of dark, threatening smoke against the sky. Yet there was also a change. De Payens sensed this not just in the weather, with its first clusters of sturdy spring flowers, but in a growing peacefulness. The roads were empty of marching troops. Merchants, traders, tinkers and pilgrims were on the move. Fields were being swiftly ploughed. Carts of produce trundled along trackways. Royal messengers thundered by on sturdy horses. Taverns and inns were open and welcoming. Henry Fitzempress’s peace was being proclaimed at crossroads, markets, on the steps of churches and at ancient shrines. Hastang whispered how King Stephen was sickening, even dying, whilst his surviving son William of Boulogne lay grievously ill with a leg injury, the result of a mysterious riding accident outside Canterbury. Henry Fitzempress was apparently growing stronger by the day.

  They stopped the last night at a priory, the good brothers only too eager to sell food and lodgings in their guesthouse, and approached Borley late the following morning. The manor was built on a slight rise ringed by a palisade and a dry moat, the soil heaped on the inner edge. The main gate hung askew, whilst the bailey was littered with dirt and broken pots, shattered coffers and chests. Scrawny chickens pecked at the ground. Doves swooped and glided from their muck-encrusted cote. Geese strutted noisily around the slime-covered stew pond. The house itself had apparently been built on an old dwelling of stone, the foundation of which had been used as the base for a house of strong beams and thick plaster. It was now in decay. The door hung from its leather hinges, the window shutters were gone and the sloping thatched roof was rent and torn.

  De Payens dismounted and went into the murky entrance hall. The rank smell and dirt-slimed walls were offensive. He suppressed a shudder. There was something about this place, a cloying horror, as if some malignancy lurked deep in its rotting darkness. Hastang and Parmenio also felt it. They didn’t want to stay here, so they walked back into the fresh cold air.

  ‘Strange,’ de Payens observed, ‘a deserted manor during a time of war. Surely people would flock here, peasants, outlaws?’ He asked his escort to search the outlying buildings.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Hastang asked.

  ‘Anything strange,’ de Payens replied, ‘out of the ordinary.’

  The retinue did as they were told, joking and laughing, glad to be off the ice-covered trackways, yet as they searched, the mood of these hard-bitten veterans changed. They became uneasy, eager to be gone, asking loudly where they would camp for the night. They searched the lonely yards and outbuildings, and eventually one came hurrying across to where de Payens waited in the door porch of the barbican.

  ‘Someone has stayed here recently.’ The man pointed back across the yard. ‘Fresh horse dung in the stables. They also ate in the small outhouse buttery.’

  ‘Berrington and Mayele,’ de Payens murmured. ‘They must have stayed the night.’

  Parmenio hastened across and plucked at de Payens’ cloak.

  ‘Come! I want to show you something.’ He led him across the manor yard to the little chapel: no more than a stone barn with a bell tower built alongside. An ancient, dark place with high narrow windows and a heavy-beamed roof, its stone-flagged floor eaten by time. An abode of ghosts, sombre and echoing. Parmenio had lit candles and lanterns taken from their baggage. The light did little to soften the mood of the place, bathing in a meagre glow the peeling wall frescoes and paintings. The Genoese led them into the sanctuary, a semicircle of rough-hewn brick, though the floor was tiled. A wooden altar dominated the centre. Parmenio had pushed this away and set down two candles; the ring of light revealed how the floor was stained and blackened.

  ‘A fire,’ Parmenio whispered, ‘quite recent. Wood and charcoal were used, and look …’ He picked up a candle, moved to the side of the sanctuary and pointed a gloved finger at the dark splash on the paving stone. ‘Blood, I’m sure of it.’

  De Payens squatted down.

  ‘Mayele and Berrington have been here,’ said Parmenio.

  ‘And so,’ de Payens smiled grimly ‘has Walkyn.’

  Chapter 13

  In the meantime, as Fortune proved herself fickle and changeable to both sides …

  De Payens inspected the dark, sticky stain, murmured a quiet prayer and walked down the nave, the heels of his boots echoing like the tap of a drum. In the poor light the babewyns carved on the top of the stout rounded pillars seemed to be leering and squinting at him. He stood in the shadow of the battered porch and stared across the cemetery, a wild, overgrown spot, the bracken and weeds almost smothering the tattered headstones and decaying wooden crosses. He was about to turn away when he caught a glimpse of movement in the cemetery. He stared again. Yes, he was sure: someone garbed in brown and green to blend in with the sombre colours of the ancient yews, hardy shrubs and creeping foliage. He glanced up at the sky, greying with the first touches of the night. Soon it would be owl time, and this place … He recalled a ghost story told by Theodore, how each cemetery was guarded by an earth-bound spirit, the soul of the last person to be buried there. Was he seeing visions? He smiled at the faint crackle amongst the undergrowth. A heavy-footed ghost? Parmenio came hurrying down the nave.

  ‘What is it?’ he murmured. ‘I sensed …’

  ‘A malignant place,’ de Payens replied. ‘Evil lurks here like some beast hungry at the door, famished for souls. I’m not too sure who it is,’ he turned to face the Genoese, ‘but someone hides in the undergrowth. I doubt if they’re hostile. No one would dare attack a company like ours. Ah well,’ he sighed, ‘perhaps a little honesty might dispel the gloom.’ And without waiting for a reply, the Templar walked into the cemetery. He came across an ancient table tomb, crumbling, gnawed by the years and the passing seasons, once a magnificent resting place, now nothing more than a derelict slab. He climbed on to it and unsheathed his sword.

  ‘Parmenio,’ he said, ‘if you could translate …’

  The Genoese, fingering his face, reluctantly came alongside. De Payens held up his sword by the cross hilt.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ he called, ‘whatever you may fear, I am not your enemy. I wish you peace. I swear by the Holy Rood, by all that is sacred, that you are safe. Yes, even in this demon-infested place you are safe.’ Parmenio repeated his words in the harsh island tongue, then de Payens took one of the precious gold coins from his wallet and held it up to catch the light. ‘I swear by the Holy Face that this is yours if you come forward.’ He lowered his hands and stepped down.

  The undergrowth stirred. Three men came out dressed in dark green jer
kins and brown hose, hoods pulled well over their heads. They were armed with crossbows, daggers pushed through their belts. Two stayed where they were, while the man in the centre walked slowly forward, folding back his hood to reveal a narrow bearded face, eyes glistening from the cold, cheekbones chapped and weather-worn. He approached de Payens, one hand extended. The Templar clasped it.

  ‘Churchyard,’ the man declared in stumbling Norman French, ‘my name is Churchyard.’ He jabbed his thumb at his two companions. ‘If I, we, could have some food, wine, meat?’

  De Payens called over to Hastang standing in the porch. The stranger would only talk to the Templar, so he took him to the buttery, where Churchyard warmed himself over the makeshift brazier, then wolfed down the food Hastang brought. As he ate, de Payens studied him. Churchyard’s fingers were blackened, his garb stained and sweat-soaked, but he was sharp, intelligent and, by his own admission, educated in the horn book and psalter. He might have been a clerk, Churchyard confided; instead he had become Walkyn’s franklin or steward. He grinned at de Payens’ look of surprise.

  ‘I tried to tell the same to the others who came here, but they drove me off.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Berrington.’ Churchyard grimaced. ‘Well, it wasn’t them; more the cold-faced Templar. We needed no second warning. I recognised Philip Mayele, an expert swordsman. I knew him when he fought for Mandeville.’

  ‘You fought with Mandeville?’

  ‘Of course. Walkyn had no choice. You’ve seen this manor, a lonely outpost in the wilds of Essex. Armies roamed like fleas on a carcass. What was the use of tilling and sowing if you never lived to harvest, or if you did, someone else took the produce? Lord Walkyn, myself and others drifted into war. Borley was left deserted.’ He got up and walked to the door, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re here to learn about Walkyn, aren’t you? You must be: there is nothing else here except, of course, the demons.’