by Paul Doherty
‘We were also attacked.’ Mayele leaned down like a magister in a school confronting a clod-witted scholar.
‘Lies!’ De Payens smiled. ‘What attack? Self-inflicted petty wounds? Pig’s blood splashed on the floor of the guesthouse? Yet,’ he spread his hands, ‘not a drop of blood after that, no bloodstains up to the walls the assassins must have fled over. Stupid.’ He pushed his face closer, ‘You wanted to confuse me. Your arrogance had grown! Poor de Payens, he will accept whatever he is told. Well,’ he smiled, ‘you made other mistakes as well. Berrington underestimated Nisam at Hedad. As an act of deep friendship the caliph gave me a message, complex and hidden. I only understood it much later. It was enclosed in a verse about it being difficult to kick against the goad, followed by a question about who will guard the guards. He urged me to wake up, to be alert, to look at the Temple more closely. Above all he was urging me to reflect on someone who was on guard. Nisam, who sifts the gossip and the chatter of Outremer, did not believe your story. God knows why! Did he have you followed from Hedad? Did he make careful enquiries in Jerusalem about Walkyn’s description, about yours? He had his messenger pigeons, his horses of the air. The Assassins pride themselves on their knowledge of other men’s affairs. I have no proof, but I suspect Nisam learned the real truth about Walkyn and turned the entire story on its head. If Walkyn had been killed, who was this pretending to be him? It could be none other than the man who’d guarded Walkyn.’ He sighed. ‘As for evidence, we could search your belongings. We could put your hired assassins to torture. We could bribe and threaten.’ He smiled thinly. ‘All it will take is one confession, one loose thread, and your tapestry of lies would unravel. You thought you were safe. You wanted me out of the way; instead I’m here for revenge. One final matter.’ De Payens glanced quickly at Parmenio. ‘My prying Genoese friend has received information that Walkyn’s remains may have been found.’
‘Impossible!’ Isabella screamed, and then paused, hands going to her mouth.
‘You see,’ de Payens smiled at Mayele, ‘you see, Judas, how it will go?’
Mayele moved closer. ‘I should have killed you, Edmund.’ He leaned back as if to get up, then brought his right hand round so swiftly that no one could stop him, and struck de Payens across the mouth. ‘There,’ he smiled, ‘a challenge! Come, little Edmund, you talk of evidence and proof. I challenge you to ordeal by battle. Let us settle this by the sword.’
De Payens felt his lip swell, blood seep into his mouth. His temper raged. He ignored Hastang’s warning, Parmenio’s shouted advice. His world was nothing but Mayele’s taunting smile, the blood trickling over his tongue, hands desperate for his sword. He lunged to his feet and struck Mayele’s cheek.
‘À l’outrance – to the death!’
Hastang and Parmenio shouted caution. The coroner’s comitatus brought up crossbows; others drew swords and daggers. Mayele was already across the chamber, taking down his war belt, unsheathing his sword, letting his cloak drop. Berrington and Isabella were also on their feet. Hastang shouted at them to sit down. They did so, Isabella smiling secretly to herself.
‘Let it be.’ De Payens drew his own sword. ‘Trial by battle, ordeal by combat. If I lose, Hastang and Parmenio will leave?’
‘Agreed!’ Berrington taunted. ‘Little Edmund, you have had your day in the sun.’
De Payens unclasped his cloak and let it fall. Mayele, swift on his feet, came forward, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword as he turned slightly sideways. A consummate swordsman, a warrior confident of his own skill and strength, he lifted the blade in a mocking salute, then closed, his sword spinning like a farmer’s flail, wicked, glittering arcs that de Payens blocked clumsily. Stepping back, he almost tripped over his own sword belt, which provoked a sharp laugh from Isabella. Mayele grinned. De Payens let his temper surge. He heard himself roaring defiance as he stepped back, shifting slightly, his blade snaking out as he swayed on his feet. He felt his hands grip the wide hilt, comfortable, sure. All he was concentrating on was shattering his opponent’s defence. His blade scythed the air, twisting and turning, seeking an opening that would allow either point or edge to pierce or gash flesh. He was moving forward, the sweat streaming down his face. The glow of candlelight and the flare of cresset torch shimmered back through his fury. Mayele’s face was drawn, chest heaving, his sword blows no longer fast and furious. De Payens was driving him back: the man who had mocked, patronised, betrayed and tried to kill him. His fury deepened. A voice screamed, ‘Deus Vult! Deus Vult!’ Something hot splashed his face; he could no longer move forward, could do nothing except slice and cut. He felt a tug on his arm, hands pulling him away. He stopped, sword lowered, tip hard against the ground, and stared blindly at Hastang’s mercenaries, who gazed fearfully back. Chest heaving, hot and sweat-drenched, he was aware of Mayele sliding slowly down the wall. The gushing wounds in his opponent’s right shoulder and the side of his neck stained the white plaster crimson. Blood bubbled between Mayele’s lips. He slouched to the floor, eyelids flickering. Isabella was screaming; Berrington had tried to escape and was now held fast. Mayele, breath panting, lifted his head and glanced up at de Payens.
‘I never knew,’ his voice came as a croak, ‘brother, I never knew. Forgive me, eh?’
‘No.’ De Payens moved forward and thrust the tip of his sword deep into the exposed neck. ‘No,’ he repeated watching the life dim in his enemy’s eyes. ‘But God might, so go to him.’ He withdrew his sword, stepped back and watched Mayele die. Hastang clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Berserkers,’ the coroner whispered back, ‘ancient warriors,’ he explained, ‘consumed by the fury of battle. I’ve heard of them, but until today never seen one.’
De Payens nodded and pointed his sword at Berrington and Isabella.
‘God waits for them as well.’
‘As he does for all of us,’ Parmenio replied.
‘And you?’ de Payens muttered. ‘You, Genoese?’
‘Edmund, Edmund,’ Hastang intervened, ‘you’d best see this.’
The coroner ordered the prisoners to be kept fast and, accompanied by Parmenio, led the still sweating, still panting de Payens from the hall. Outside in the yard, Berrington’s six mercenaries stood disarmed, manacled together. Close by were the few servants who also had been hired. De Payens glanced at these; their faces betrayed them. He was sure they were all members of Berrington’s coven, men and women who’d served with him during the glory days of Mandeville. The coroner urged him on across the bailey into a barn-like stone chamber. Torches flared to reveal a long, sombre room. Hastang led them across to where a raised flagstone was propped against the wall. One of his mercenaries stood on guard nearby, holding a cresset torch. At Hastang’s orders he led them down narrow, steep steps into an ice-cold, airless dungeon. The man, gabbling a prayer, raised the torch. Five corpses, a man, a woman, two youths and a maid, hung by their necks from hooks driven into the roof beams, faces grotesque in their death agonies. A dreadful sight, arms and legs dangling, bodies turning slightly as the ropes creaked and twisted. De Payens pinched his nose at the foul smell. He touched the cheek of one of the corpses; it was hard, cold as ice.
‘Who?’ he whispered. ‘Who are these?’
‘I suspect,’ Hastang murmured, covering his mouth and nose, ‘that they must have been a family sheltering here in this deserted manor. The roads are crammed with such unfortunates.’ He took his hand away from his mouth and swallowed hard. ‘This manor,’ he muttered, ‘probably enjoys the same malevolent reputation as Borley; few local peasants would even dare come here. I suppose these wanderers did.’
‘But why kill them?’
‘Why not?’ Hastang retorted. ‘Berrington could not afford to let them leave. God knows what they found. Mayele would have enjoyed the killing. Edmund, what shall we do?’
The Templar stared at the corpses, all twisted and grotesque. Hastang repeated his question. De Payens just shook his head and, his body now cold with dryi
ng sweat, led the way back up the steps. At the top he stared at the flagstone, the great bolts and clasps that held it fast.
‘They were probably killed after being held captive for a while,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps they did find something down there or elsewhere.’
‘Edmund, the prisoners?’
De Payens walked back into the hall. Berrington and Isabella, hands tied, sat slouched in chairs; Mayele’s corpse, awash in its own blood, still slumped against the wall. De Payens had both prisoners searched. He did not speak to them. He refused to even look at Isabella, but ordered Mayele’s corpse to be lifted and the prisoners brought out. Then he went back across the yard, ignoring Isabella’s screams, Berrington’s curses and a spate of questions from Hastang and Parmenio. In that eerie, sombre outhouse, he ordered Berrington and Isabella to be pushed down the steps, then Mayele’s corpse was thrown in, bundled down like a sack of refuse.
‘Go down!’ de Payens instructed. ‘Take two men, Master Coroner. Search the walls and floors; ensure there is no other entry.’ He drew his sword, resting its blade across his shoulder. ‘I am,’ he whispered, ‘senior knight of the English house of the Temple. I have the power.’
Hastang nodded. He beckoned at Parmenio and a few of his henchmen to follow. De Payens, sword still against his shoulder, stood guard at the top of the steps. He gazed at the other members of Hastang’s retinue, who, though hardened by war, stared fearfully back at this man of blood. This place held the same creeping, chilling horror as Borley, an evil haunt to be cleansed by fire. Isabella was still screaming, begging, but de Payens thought of the bloodstain at Borley, those hapless corpses, that poor girl in the deserted church outside London, Murdac spitting and gasping in agony. He closed his eyes. Hastang and the others rejoined him. No other entrance could be found. De Payens ordered the flagstone to be lowered, and insisted on personally fixing the bolts in their clasps. He left two men on guard and went out into the yard, where he summoned the five servants, three men and two women. He walked past these, studying their faces, not liking what he saw there.
‘Undoubtedly you served Berrington before.’ He could not understand their rushed, desperate answers, but Parmenio and Hastang translated their protestations of innocence. De Payens studied them closely, his battle fury now ebbing. He felt a twinge of compassion, yet these were minions, retainers, servants of their dark, malignant lords.
‘Strip!’ he ordered.
Parmenio repeated the order.
All five prisoners did as they were told until they stood naked except for loincloths and the shabby cloaks de Payens offered the two women.
‘Take them,’ he ordered, ‘and go!’
The five were pushed out through the gates, Hastang’s mercenaries beating their buttocks with the flat of their swords.
‘They can walk to the nearest village,’ de Payens murmured, ‘seek whatever shelter and consolation they can.’
‘And these?’ Hastang pointed to the six ruffians Berrington had hired in London, two of them nursing injuries.
‘Take them back to London,’ de Payens retorted. ‘Examine them. Perhaps they can betray others, root out more of their coven.’ He brought the flat of his sword down on one of the prisoner’s shoulders. ‘Find out who attacked me at Queenshithe. Were any of these in that bloody affray? Did they follow me to Alienora’s and kill her as ordered by their masters? A poor woman horribly murdered simply because of what she might tell me. Or,’ he lifted his sword, ‘turn them over to the sheriff. Let him hang them!’ He turned and walked back into the hall.
‘You cannot stay here,’ he warned Hastang. ‘You and yours must not eat or drink anything here. Now, let’s search the manor.’
It was dark before de Payens, now feeling tired, met Parmenio and Hastang back in the solar. Despite the crackling fire, the dancing candle flames and the coloured tapestries, it was still a macabre place with its own hidden yet watchful evil. One of the guards reported how Isabella was still screaming and begging. De Payens replaced the guards with others, then, with the point of his sword, sifted amongst the possessions he and the others had collected from various chambers. He crouched down and picked up a small coffer crammed with pearls, diamonds and other precious stones. He lifted the pouches and purses stuffed with the gold and silver coins of Outremer. He examined the tray of pots and phials from Isabella’s coffer; some were perfume, others exuded a noxious, baleful odour.
‘Proof enough!’ Parmenio knelt down beside him. ‘No poor Templar knight could be so rich. This is what caused that hideous massacre in Tripoli.’
De Payens nodded and turned to the other artefacts: a black leather psalter, its yellowing pages full of strange symbols and incantations, a twisted cross, an ancient knife of obsidian stone, small carvings of winged, dragon-like creatures, amulets emblazoned with intricate carvings. He’d seen enough.
‘No doubt,’ Hastang whispered, ‘my boys kept a little of the money for themselves.’
‘They deserve it,’ de Payens replied. ‘Take the prisoners back to London, Master Coroner. Hand the treasure over to the next master of the Temple. Say it is a gift, a blood offering. Demand that masses be said.’
‘And you?’ Parmenio asked.
De Payens ignored the question as he picked up his sword. ‘Stay at some tavern, the one we passed on the road into the valley. Use some of this treasure to pay, stint for nothing, enjoy yourselves and wait until I join you.’
‘Which will be when?’
‘You will know. I shall stand vigil here until the Berringtons are dead.’
‘You were successful.’ Parmenio smiled. ‘The Holy Father, the Grand Master will be pleased. You truly are a warrior of God; also a clerk as sharp as any who serve in the Pope’s secret chancery.’
‘Am I?’ De Payens smiled.
‘Are you what?’ Parmenio abruptly stepped back as de Payens brought his sword blade down to rest on the Genoese’s shoulder, its sharp blood-encrusted edge almost brushing the side of Parmenio’s neck.
‘Am I really so successful?’
Hastang breathed in quickly. Parmenio made to move back. De Payens pressed down with his sword.
‘So, I am the scholar being praised by his master. Yes?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You clever Genoese! You followed the same path as I did and reached the same conclusion, but much sooner, much earlier, because you knew more than I did.’
‘I … I …’
‘Hush.’ De Payens smiled. ‘A matter of logic, Master Parmenio. In your eyes I was a sword but one that would have to wait to be used. You are under orders from the Pope to hunt down malefactors, but you have other, more secret instructions.’
Parmenio blinked. He opened his mouth and breathed out noisily as de Payens pressed on the sword.
‘Your secret orders brought you first to Outremer then here. Did our Grand Master Montebard really care about King Stephen?’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Did he, my friend? Or the Pope? Were they really concerned about Stephen and his arrogant, aggressive heir? Of course they wanted to see witches and warlocks sent to their just fate, but did they really care for Stephen or his son? After all, Henry Fitzempress is young and vigorous, a loyal son of Holy Mother Church. The powers in Rome and elsewhere want to end this savage, futile civil war. The bishops of England need to reclaim their own. The Temple is eager to expand. The papacy desires to see peace in a kingdom usually faithful and loyal to it. Holy Mother Church, in a word, both in England and Rome, wants peace, which will bring trade, money, revenues and a revival of learning. So think, my friend, as I have: who really cares if Stephen suddenly dies? If Eustace the drunk, the violent is silenced before he can wage his own civil war, beget an heir and pose a challenge? William, his younger brother, now injured and maimed, what threat can he now pose? Reflect, my friend. In the space of what, less than a year, Stephen is dying, Eustace is dead, William seriously injured. Murdac of York and Senlis of Northampton, Steph
en’s most loyal advisers, have also gone to their eternal reward. So no more division, no more strife, peace at last! The board has been swept clean. Young Henry Fitzempress can emerge and take all.’
‘Are you implying … ?’ Hastang asked.
‘Yes, I am. Parmenio knew the truth but he lacked the proof, the firm evidence, but what did that matter? Let the warlocks do their worst. Let them, through their lust for revenge, bring about a situation others are secretly praying for. What is that phrase, Parmenio? How God keeps evil men close to his right hand so he can use them for his own secret purposes? In a word, that is what has happened. Berrington and his coven have cleared the board for you, and now that is done, they too can be killed.’
