The Templar Magician

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Demons?’

  ‘This was once good land.’ Churchyard came back and sat down. ‘Hard work but good. I’ll tell you my story: Walkyn’s parents died. He was alone, raised by an old kinsman who later went the way of all flesh. Walkyn became the manor lord at a time of war. He decided to join that war, so we all followed.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘Why, of mankind,’ Churchyard joked back. ‘No greater sinner than you or I. He liked his wine and the soft flesh of any peasant girl he could seduce; a good fighter but a weak man. We joined Mandeville’s standard. We were no better or worse than any others …’ He paused as de Payens raised a hand.

  ‘You talk of demons. They say sorcerers, warlocks followed Mandeville.’

  ‘True, I heard the rumours, but they never bothered me. All kinds of wickedness crept out to bask in the sun. Why should I worry about that, Domine? I’ve seen enough in my life to believe in demons: corpses thrown into wells, swinging from gibbets, trees, roof beams. Men, women and children burned alive. Stew ponds coated with blood, flames licking the black night.’

  ‘And what about Walkyn?’

  ‘He grew tired of it all. We left the war and came here. Only then did we learn what had happened. This place had become an abomination: desolate, empty, soulless, reeking of evil. No one dared approach this manor, not even the most desperate for food and shelter. The stench of wickedness was as strong as woodsmoke. We discovered how Borley had become the haunt of storm-riders, night-dwellers, witches and warlocks. How fires had been seen glowing in the dead of night. How chilling screams pierced the darkness. We made careful search out there in the cemetery.’ He paused. ‘We unearthed hideous remains. We never discovered their names; now they are only bones and dust, the victims of terrible sacrilege and blasphemy. Borley had become an abode of evil; that’s how Walkyn described it, his family home a nest of vipers.’ Churchyard supped noisily from his pewter beaker. ‘That’s what happened during the war. Certain castles, churches and manors were seized by one group or another. Walkyn could not bear it. He blamed himself. He felt guilty; that his own sins would eventually catch him up. He left for London. He talked of taking the cross in Outremer to atone for his violence and lust. We heard rumours that he’d entered the Temple, that he’d gone overseas, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, after Walkyn left, we joined another company, which went deep into the countryside, pillaging and plundering. Whispers came, rumours that Walkyn had returned. You talk of demons? Walkyn’s name was one of those. I found it difficult to believe; I listened and I sifted. Hideous stories about him being a leader of a coven. By then, Domine, I could believe in anything. Mandeville was in a hot furious rage against both king and Church. This shire had become a place of war. Barges full of armed men floated along the waterways, horsemen thundered along its trackways. No place was safe. One of my company called it “the shire of Hell”.’

  ‘But you never met Walkyn again?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You recognised Mayele, though?’

  ‘Yes, he was one of those scurrier knights bringing messages to various camps. Mandeville’s henchman, a good swordsman, nothing more.’

  ‘And the witch Erictho?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard the name, stories, fables; a name to be frightened of, but nothing else.’

  ‘And Richard Berrington, of Bruer manor in Lincolnshire?’

  ‘Domine, I know nothing of him. I glimpsed him and his sister when they came here. My companions and I hid in the greenwood and watched them leave. I swear, I’ve never seen or heard of Berrington before.’ Churchyard took a gulp. ‘Anyway, the war continued. Mandeville was killed. Royal troops entered Essex and the other eastern shires. I and my companions drifted into the forest. We became outlaws. It was a hard life, so we came back here.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘We found ourselves the guardians of this place. Henry Fitzempress has now proclaimed his peace. Perhaps the manor will be taken from the Temple and granted to someone else. The new lord might cleanse, purify and reconsecrate it.’ He glanced greedily at the gold coin de Payens kept twirling between his fingers. The Templar handed it across and decided to trust this man. Churchyard had little to gain by lying. He told him exactly what Walkyn had been accused of, his escape and possible return to England. Churchyard listened in open astonishment. When de Payens had finished, he just shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Impossible!’ he breathed. ‘Either Walkyn was two souls in one flesh, or someone else has assumed his name. I could ask for a description of the Walkyn you knew.’

  De Payens shrugged. ‘I know nothing. More importantly, a man can change his appearance. Never mind.’ He rose. ‘If you wish, you can join our company.

  Churchyard shook his head. ‘Guardians, we call ourselves. I’ll remain here.’ He got up, clasped the Templar’s hand and shuffled out of the room.

  Hastang and Parmenio came in to discuss what Churchyard had said. Both seemed surprised. Hastang too wondered if Walkyn was perhaps two souls. They were debating what part of the manor to lodge in for the night when one of Hastang’s serjeants burst into the room, saying that they must come. They left, hurrying across the yard. The ancient church looked even more sinister in the fading light, the derelict cemetery sombre, ghostly, alive with eerie sounds.

  ‘Your visitor,’ the serjeant gasped as he led them, brushing aside brambles, ‘he rejoined his companions and lit a fire …’ They rounded a soaring, tangled clump of gorse and went through the broken cemetery wall. A glow of light flared through the trees opposite. ‘I was simply being friendly,’ the serjeant muttered. ‘I could see they were hungry, and one of them had been accepted by you, sir …’ He let his voice trail away. They entered the trees and reached a small glade a little way in. The fire now burned weakly, and two corpses lay there: Churchyard and one of his companions, sprawled face down. Ugly, squat feathered bolts were embedded deep between their shoulder blades, mouths all bloody and sticky with that final rush of breath that had taken their souls.

  ‘There were three,’ Parmenio declared, staring around.

  De Payens stood up. ‘The third was probably Walkyn’s man, a spy, ordered to watch. He killed Churchyard for talking to us, then took the gold. He is on foot, so we’ll be swifter.’ He walked through the darkness of the trees, aware of all the chilling sounds around him. The day was drawing on. Darkness was approaching, as was the climax to all this horror. De Payens recalled an ancient prayer, closed his eyes and whispered it fervently:

  ‘Lord support me all the day long, until the shade lengthens and the evening comes, the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your great mercy, grant me safe lodgings, holy rest and peace at last …’

  They reached Bruer after five days’ hard riding. De Payens was determined to arrive unannounced. The manor stood on a slight rise at the end of a narrow valley that cut through sullen, wild heathland. The sides of the valley were heavily wooded, the trees densely clustered along the trackway that wound up to the moated, high-walled grange. A hazy, sombre day. The swirling mist shifted and curled. The air was icy cold, the silence broken only by crows wheeling above the frost-laced trees and bracken. Pinpricks of light from the manor provided a welcome beacon, drawing them in across the lowered drawbridge, under the fortified gateway and into a cobbled bailey, where Berrington, Mayele and Isabella waited to greet them. They’d been alerted by a guard just before de Payens had reached the gatehouse. All three were surprised but acted cordial enough. Berrington, despite his effusive welcome, appeared ill at ease. Isabella looked tired, with dark rings around her eyes. Mayele, muffled against the cold, was his usual sardonic self, his lined, bearded face twisted into a grin, though his eyes were as watchful as a hunting wolf’s. They offered refreshments, which were politely refused. All exclaimed in surprise at de Payens’ appearance and the presence of Hastang and his comitatus. Nevertheless, all three continued the pretence of being the b
usy, welcoming hosts.

  De Payens and his companions were shown around the precinct. Bruer was a large manor, with its own chapel, outhouses, even a small farm. They were eventually ushered into the solar above the great hall, a long, timbered chamber, its walls covered with painted cloths, the rafters draped with pennants and banners, soft rugs warming the tiled floor. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Cresset torches and candles provided ample light. The grand table on the dais had been hurriedly set, gleaming with dishes and candelabra. The kitchen behind the screen, housing the ovens and spits, provided fragrant, sweet smells. De Payens had a quiet word with Hastang and, through the usual exchange of courtesies with his reluctant hosts, learned how Berrington had brought six of his mercenaries here. Apparently he had dismissed the servants who’d looked after the manor and hired cooks, scullions and servants, five in number. Berrington ushered de Payens, Parmenio and the coroner to their seats, clapping his hands to attract the attention of the servants. He was highly nervous, de Payens concluded, as was his sister; even the cynical Mayele was growing uneasy. They’d been given little time to prepare or plot. This evil fellowship had dismissed him as naïve, a fool, even witless, the madcap knight who blundered wherever they pushed him. Well, that would change.

  De Payens placed his war belt on the floor beside him, even as he caught Berrington’s worried glance at Isabella. He heard a sound from outside. Hastang’s mercenaries and bailiffs had pushed their way into the solar. Isabella, flustered, tried to serve wine. De Payens glanced a warning at Parmenio and Hastang. All was ready! It would end, here, in this warm, sweet-smelling solar, with the fire flickering and the candles glowing, a far cry from the hot, dangerous desert or that sun-drenched gate of Tripoli where he had turned his horse with the assassins slipping towards him.

  ‘Edmund!’ Isabella was openly alarmed. Hastang’s comitatus was now filing around the chamber. Shouts and cries echoed from the buttery and the entrance hall outside.

  ‘Edmund.’ Mayele half rose to his feet, glancing longingly at his war belt hung on a peg near the door.

  ‘Sit down!’ De Payens’ gauntleted hand beat the table so hard the platters, ewers and goblets shifted and clattered. ‘Sit down,’ he repeated. He felt a sense of relief. Hastang quickly whispered that they’d been told the truth: his serjeants had reported how the strength of the manor was only the six mercenaries Berrington had brought from London and the five servants recently hired. ‘Please.’ De Payens held up a hand. ‘Berrington, Isabella, my one-time brother Mayele, remain seated.’ He could hardly bear to look at Isabella, her face now tense and watchful. All three were grouped at the far end; Berrington in the middle, Isabella and Mayele on either side. Parmenio and Hastang sat halfway down, either side of the table. The Genoese was acting perplexed, gnawing his lips, fingers never far from the hilt of his dagger. De Payens glanced around. Hastang’s men-at-arms, crossbows primed, guarded the door and all entrances.

  ‘I have found Walkyn,’ de Payens announced. ‘When I arrived here, I briefly mentioned that I thought he was in York. That was a lie. He is here!’

  ‘What?’ Mayele exclaimed.

  ‘You!’ de Payens retorted. ‘You!’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘And you!’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of Isabella. ‘All three of you are Walkyn.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Isabella hissed.

  ‘Truth!’ de Payens replied. ‘Henry Walkyn, lord of Borley manor in Essex, was undoubtedly a sinner, a man much given to hot lust, but his flesh, his bones, God knows where they lie. Rotting under the hot sun of Outremer, perhaps, or buried deep beneath some rocky outcrop, picked clean by the vultures and buzzards. The same is true of those two hapless Templar serjeants sent to guard him.’

  ‘Lies!’ Berrington snarled.

  ‘Listen.’ De Payens rose and walked the length of the table. ‘I do not know when this began. I do not know if Isabella Berrington is truly your sister or whether she is your leman, your strumpet!’

  Berrington pushed back his chair, but the click of the crossbow catch Hastang now lifted on to the table kept him still.

  ‘She is certainly the witch Erictho.’ He leaned down and held the hard eyes of the woman he’d once thought he loved, certainly glorified as the lady of legend. ‘You and Berrington are steeped in the black arts, the bloody rites, the demonic psalms and all the other heinous practices. You came together when the civil war raged, a time ripe for your malignancy, when God and his saints slept. You moved from here and joined Mandeville in Essex, forming your own coven, drawing in the likes of Philip Mayele, whose face was already turned against God. Little if any record exists of you, Berrington, in Mandeville’s retinue, but you were there, though I suspect under a different name. I wonder if the Berrington the king and others mentioned so favourably was your elder brother? You claim to be the second son. You are certainly Cain’s offspring! Others flocked to sit at your table, a time of utter freedom for your abominable rites. No sheriffs, no king’s justices, only war, murder, plunder and rape. Who would notice? Who would care about peasant maids being snatched up as your offerings? Who would busy themselves about disgusting ceremonies being carried out in the black hours of the night in sanctuaries once sacred to God? No peace, no law, nothing but anarchy.’ De Payens paused. ‘But King Stephen, God bless his name, resolutely opposed Mandeville, and the earl was killed. The Church refused consecrated burial to an excommunicate, so the Temple received his coffin and hung it from a tree in a cemetery close to their house in London.’ He paused as he heard a cry from outside, then dismissed it. Parmenio was fiddling with his wine goblet but never raised it. De Payens had given strict instructions not to eat or drink anything offered at Bruer.

  ‘Your coven,’ he smiled at Berrington, who still sat surprised at the turn of events, ‘became notorious. It attracted the attention of abbots, bishops even the Pope in Rome. Accordingly Thierry Parmenio, malleus maleficorum, the Pope’s hammer of witches, was also alerted.’

  ‘So that’s what you really are, Genoese,’ Mayele drawled, ‘a pimping spy. I wondered as much.’

  ‘Your notoriety was growing,’ de Payens continued, returning to his seat, ‘but Essex became dangerous. You could not continue your secret life as royal armies swept through the shire. You decided to leave. You, Berrington, approached Boso Baiocis, the master of the English Temple. Mayele also, acting the penitent sinner, the knight who’d killed a cleric and been ordered to take the cross in reparation. You were veteran knights with no impediment, eager to serve the cross in Outremer. Baiocis would be only too keen to recruit you. Isabella, as your devoted, pious sister, would also accompany you. Your wish was granted. You reached Jerusalem, a haven for so many of your kind. Tremelai accepted you with open arms. He was eager for recruits, desperate to strengthen the order, zealous to expand its influence in this island. You were admitted into the brotherhood, whilst your so-called sister took lodgings in a convent, but of course, in time, like any dog, you returned to your vomit. Erictho the witch emerged, a grotesque figure with her straggling wig, masked face and bizarre clothes, glimpsed but never really seen.’ Isabella laughed sharply, then glared at Berrington and Mayele as if urging them to do something. ‘You returned to your heinous rites, choosing victims for your bloody sacrifices …’

  ‘An easy task.’ Parmenio, realising the drift of de Payens’ allegation, was eager to intervene. ‘An easy task in Jerusalem, with its sacred places, its beggar children, hordes of young girls and women, vagrant and vulnerable, but,’ the Genoese spread his hands, ‘Jerusalem is not the wilds of Essex. No Mandeville emerged to protect you, no horde of mercenaries to shield you, just a legion of spies and informers who swarm around what in truth is a very small city. Rumours began to drift. Tremelai told me about Erictho being glimpsed with a Templar, as well as entering the Temple precincts.’ Parmenio ignored de Payens’ glare of accusation. ‘Peace, brother. Until now, I dared not trust any Templar. I did not really know who was in the coven and who was not. During our journey to
Hedad I tried to draw Mayele, to discover more about his past; hence my closeness with him.’ He smiled. ‘But as we now know, that was his best defence! The cynical mercenary, with little faith or none. The rebel who would find slight cause with either God or the devil. He simply acted according to character, though he hid his blasphemous, murderous ways.’ He turned back to the accused. ‘Rumour certainly whispered that Templars were involved in satanic rites, not for the first time in your order’s history. Tremelai grew highly anxious, as did the Patriarch of Jerusalem. I was summoned from Rome, but …’ Parmenio gestured at de Payens to continue.

  ‘You, Berrington, decided to act. The rumours were thickening. You decided that Henry Walkyn would be your sacrificial lamb, a man intoxicated with fleshly pleasure, who had often been seen around the brothels and houses of disrepute in Jerusalem. He was English, lord of the deserted manor at Borley. You and your coven had undoubtedly used both that place and his name to perpetrate your abominable practices. A toper given to loose living, Walkyn was vulnerable. You placed those artefacts in his room, helped spread the malicious whispers. The conclusion was inevitable. Walkyn was arrested.’

  ‘But why should Tremelai turn to me?’ Berrington asked.

  ‘First, because you are English. Second, I suggest you played a prominent part in detecting Walkyn. Third, you must have exploited Tremelai’s fears that a coven existed within the order, perhaps comprised of English knights. You would argue how it might be best to get Walkyn out of Jerusalem, stifle a scandal, send the miscreant back to the bailiwick of England for judgement. How Tremelai could trust you and your fellow countryman Philip Mayele. Who else could the Grand Master turn to, other than English knights? How many of them are there? How many of those could be trusted? Tremelai would rise like any fish to the bait. He’d get Walkyn out of Jerusalem, kill the rumours and prevent a scandal. At the same time, however, he must have been secretly furious about what had happened. Perhaps at your instigation he decided to hold Boso Baiocis to account. Little wonder Tremelai summoned the English master back to Jerusalem, to be questioned about how the likes of Walkyn were admitted to the order in the first place.’