by Ian Morson
His eyes dropped to the end of the ancient text.
Prepare for my coming.
If the Grand Master truly believed that the Tartars were the armies of Prester John, then who was he to cavil? And it was true that many of the great leaders in the Tartars' extended empire were baptized Christians. If they wished to enlist the aid of the Templars in crushing the Saracen armies in the Holy Land, then their goals were complementary, ringing true to the legend of Prester John. De Beaujeu's conversations with Guchuluk had almost borne fruit, and now what Falconer had asked him could jeopardize it all. He had thought of showing Falconer the second document the Grand Master had entrusted to him. It would have saved a deal of time, but he was not empowered to show it to anyone, unless it would serve as a bargaining counter in the last resort. He opened it slowly, as though fearful of letting a demon out of a bottle. It was a translated copy of a letter intercepted in Cyprus. It had been intended for someone in Chimbai's entourage, but the courier had died under clumsy torture before revealing to whom he was entrusted to deliver the letter. Its text was much more terse than the Prester John letter:
I am sending this letter by two different routes to ensure you receive this instruction. One at least should get to you in time. Know that Chimbai is allied with Mangku-Temur of the Golden Horde in support of Kaidu. If they should strengthen their position in the east, then Kublay could be in danger. Abaka has empowered us to do all that we can to stifle this alliance … so make sure that Chimbai does not return alive from England. I repeat in case the order is not clear enough for you – Chimbai must die.
No matter how many times he had read it, de Beaujeu could not extract from the words any sense of whom it had been intended for. That the other copy of the letter had got through to its intended recipient was testified to by Chimbai's death. Now Falconer reckoned he knew who it was had killed the Tartar, and had craved de Beaujeu's assistance in exposing him. The Templar just hoped it was not Guchuluk.
Falconer watched as they dragged the great beast out of the barn in which it had died. It took ten men to load it on a hurdle and pull it along Great Bailey. There had then ensued an argument as to whether it should be dragged openly through the market in Fish Street and so out of South Gate, or into Pennyfarthing Lane and surreptitiously out of the little gate in the south wall of the city. This gate had been cut by the Franciscan brothers of the friary outside the walls, and was their private way to and fro. It was not until Falconer pointed out that the bulky body would not fit through the Franciscans' gate, made as it was for human beings, that the matter was settled. The elephant would go out through South Gate in full view of everyone. In the end, there had been hardly anyone to witness the procession. Crowds had seen the beast enter the university city, but only the curious and the idle passer-by saw its exit. A deep pit had been dug below the walls, the bottom of it now filled with muddy water because of the lowlying situation. The interment had been ordered by Peter Bullock, as the massive body had begun to putrefy in the hot and sticky weather, carrying stinking odours up to Bullock's own chamber. At first the elephant-keeper had refused, as though by not carrying out this final act, he could stave off the fact of its demise. He would certainly have some difficulty explaining the loss of his charge to the king, but possessing a rotting body would not help in any case. Finally, gagging on the stench, Bullock had simply taken matters into his own hands, and had ordered the town grave-diggers to excavate a pit of the dimensions required. More used to the lesser proportions of a human body, they had toiled at their task for most of the previous day. Now, in the early hours of the following morning, the beast was tumbled into the hole. There it lay wallowing in the muddy bottom – a parody of its behaviour in life. Bullock paid off the pall-bearers, who were unlikely to officiate at such a strange funeral again, then he and Falconer left the grave-diggers to their grumblings, and the unpleasant task of shovelling the earth back over the mound of rotting flesh.
‘A depressing business.’
Bullock had expected the burial of the beast to add to Falconer's woes. The Nestorian priest had disappeared as if by magic, and the murder hunt had apparently come to a dead halt. But, perversely, Falconer seemed almost cheerful. Bullock wanted to know why.
‘Anyone would think you knew where the priest was.’
Falconer smiled enigmatically. ‘I do.’
Bullock exploded in frustration at his friend's calm assertion: ‘Then tell me, and I will take him. I am not afraid of the Tartars, you know. Once David is under lock and key in the tower, his comrades can howl at the city gates like the scavenging dogs they are. They will not gain admittance.’
‘I will tell you where he is, I promise. But first he has to play his part in a little experiment I have arranged.’
‘And the purpose of this experiment?’ Sullen doubt that this experiment would serve any useful purpose was clear in Bullock's every word.
‘Why, to furnish you with all the proof you need about the recent murders, of course.’
Chapter Seventeen
Come, assemble, gather from every side to my sacrifice, the great sacrifice I am making for you on the mountain of Israel.
Ezekiel 39: 17
The Dominican friary had not seen such activity since it had first been built and occupied twenty years before. Standing hard by Grandpont, it had often witnessed the comings and goings of lord, bishop and monarch from a distance, but today it was to host a unique assembly. Representatives of Christendom were to meet with those of the heathen Tartars to talk of alliances under the sponsorship of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple, guardians of the Holy Land. Guillaume de Beaujeu had laboured hard to get the agreement of all those who were to attend. Guchuluk had reluctantly agreed – he was still eager, despite the difficult circumstances, to forge alliances. That Nicholas de Ewelme, to be accompanied by Falconer himself, had taken no persuading was no surprise. The chancellor of the university would not have absented himself from such a table for the world. Curiously, it had been Sir Hugh Leyghton who was the most reluctant, even though he was charged with treating with the Tartars on behalf of King Henry. De Beaujeu had put it down largely to the intelligence from Templar spies that King Henry and his son were at loggerheads over the Tartars. The old man would have nothing to do with them, while Edward saw them as useful allies in Christendom's vain attempts to stem the disastrous loss of territory in Outremer. The Templar assumed that Sir Hugh was left in a quandary as to how to behave. The knight had at first argued he could not meet with men, one of whom was the murderer of his former secretary, Bernard de Genova. The Templar had had to use all his persuasive powers to convince Sir Hugh that nothing was proven, and, if his accusations did turn out to be true, the killer would not escape justice. Sir Hugh's second cavil – that he had no secretary – was quickly resolved by appointing one of Adam Grasse's friars to the position. A thin and scholarly man, of middle years, he gave the reassuring impression that he would perform his task with accuracy and humility. Thus armed, the knight, though grumbling at the imposition, was brought to the negotiating table with the Tartar bahadur, Guchuluk, accompanied this time by the man from Cathay, Yeh-Lu, and two of his guards. Only Falconer knew that Yeh-Lu spoke English, and de Beaujeu accordingly presented himself as interpreter, depending on his and Guchuluk's mutual understanding of the tongue of the Turks. David, of course, was still missing as far as everyone present was concerned.
As he oversaw everyone's arrival, the Templar puzzled over what Falconer hoped to achieve by this meeting. For though de Beaujeu had assumed the role of instigator, he had only acted on Falconer's request. The scholar, however, was clearly not interested in the grand plans of those who sat around the table, more in their peccadilloes which might reveal who was a murderer. But how he was going to winkle them out was still a mystery to de Beaujeu. He was already beginning to wonder if anyone was going to talk at all.
Sir Hugh Leyghton had glowered at Guchuluk when the Tartar contingent was ushered into the stark room that norm
ally served as the refectory for the friary, and now studiously ignored him. The room still smelled of the friars' morning repast, and de Beaujeu's stomach grumbled at the enticing aroma of fresh wastel bread and pottage. His own breakfast had consisted of coarse rye bread and thin beer. He had to rouse himself from his dreams of good food when, recalling his role as interpreter, he heard Guchuluk offer a formal greeting to Henry's ambassador. He translated the words, but Sir Hugh's response was no more than a grunt. Unperturbed, Guchuluk sat down at the refectory table, with Yeh-Lu and his guards remaining standing close behind him. Sir Hugh pointedly sat at the opposite end of the long table, keeping the greatest distance he could from the Tartars. Finally, de Ewelme bustled into the room, apologizing for the absence of Regent Master Falconer, who, it appeared, had other business in the friary and would attend shortly. He was red-faced at such a lack of respect from the regent master, but had had no choice other than to leave him to his mysterious errand if he were to arrive on time himself. De Ewelme was eager to establish his position in the university town, and was petrified that the meeting would start without him, indicating his insignificance in the eyes of those present. He need not have worried – de Beaujeu was having great difficulty in getting Sir Hugh Leyghton even to speak. In lieu of any meaningful dialogue, de Beaujeu himself summarized the positions of both parties as he saw them, stretching out the meandering monologue with meaningless formalities. Having nearly exhausted his repertoire, and having repeated it in both English and Turkish for the benefit of both sides, he was silently cursing Falconer for putting him in this position and then failing to appear, when suddenly, behind him, the refectory doors swung open.
De Beaujeu could tell, even before he looked round, that Falconer had done something startling. He could see thunder clouds rolling across Sir Hugh's face, and his whole body was tensed. Even Guchuluk's normally impassive features betrayed his mystification as his eyes narrowed. Sir Hugh half-rose and cried out in strangled tones.:
‘Are you going to fill this room with murderers?’
Wearily, the Templar looked over his shoulder. Falconer stood in the doorway with a pallid Tartar priest at his elbow. David was markedly reluctant to enter, and Falconer held him firmly by the arm. The priest nervously scanned the men seated around the long trestle table, his eyes betraying his fear of each and every one there. Ushered forward by Falconer, he stumbled into the room, looking as though he might vomit up whatever repast he had last eaten. He allowed himself to be seated next to Beaujeu, and swallowed hard. Guchuluk gave him a long, hard look, before staring pointedly at de Beaujeu. He obviously thought this was some incomprehensible strategy on the part of the English to embarrass him, and looked to the Templar for an explanation. De Beaujeu only wished he knew what strategy was being played out here, and looked pleadingly at Falconer. The regent master had placed himself between Nicholas de Ewelme and Sir Hugh Leyghton, though the space barely accommodated his bulky frame. In the process, he had managed to ease Sir Hugh back down on to the bench.
‘Please excuse my tardiness, gentlemen. Only I chanced upon David in the cloister, and prevailed upon him to join us. He took some persuading, I fear.’
De Beaujeu was willing to bet that the last thing Falconer had done was ‘chanced upon' the Tartar priest. He must have worked out that he had sought refuge at the friary. Though whether he should do so for fear of being accused of murder, or for another reason, the Templar did not know. Falconer answered his unspoken question immediately.
‘Some think David guilty of the murder of the Dominican, Bernard de Genova, at the House of Converts. Though some …’ And here he turned his innocent gaze on Sir Hugh, on his right. ‘Some think that may be laid at the door of Bahadur Guchuluk.’ There was no need for de Beaujeu to translate for Guchuluk – he seemed to know precisely what Falconer was saying. His slit eyes bore into Sir Hugh, defying him to voice the accusation out loud. Falconer could feel Sir Hugh stirring at his side, and deliberately leaned against the poniard that hung at the knight's left hip.
‘David, on the other hand, has something to tell us that will shed new light on Bernard's death … and perhaps on the death of Chimbai also.’
A rumbling sound escaped Sir Hugh's lips, though it was difficult to say whether it was provoked by anger or by another sort of emotion entirely. Guchuluk cast a questioning glance at de Beaujeu, as he was now lost as to what was happening, and desired a translation. As de Beaujeu leaned over and muttered in the Tartar's ear, David began his stammering and uncertain recital.
‘It all began with the arrival of him who I now know as the Jewconvert Bellasez. I was not sure that the old man, when he came to our camp, really wanted me. He seemed confused over what he should call me, but I was persuaded to follow him back to the house where he lived. There I discovered it was I who was wanted. I found the man who had sent for me – Brother Bernard. He wanted to make a confession, and, for whatever reason, could not make it to those of his own order …’
‘A confession about the murder of the Tartar, no doubt.’ Sir Hugh seemed eager to conclude David's story for him.
The Nestorian priest looked nervously at the imposing, yellowhaired knight, but took some strength from the controlling presence at Sir Hugh's side.
‘Oh, no. Though he did say he had been part of a conspiracy to kill Chimbai, and that you, Sir Hugh Leyghton, had supplied him with a weapon.’
Denials and accusations broke out across the table, drowning out David's words. Sir Hugh was red-faced with anger; in contrast Guchuluk, upon receiving de Beaujeu's translation, looked as cold as winter ice on the Thames. Falconer allowed the swell of voices to subside before waving the Nestorian priest on.
‘Perhaps I did not fully understand him,’ he said, placatingly. ‘But he did say he felt responsible for Chimbai's death. Yes, that was the word he chose: responsible. But perhaps that was only because what he had fervently wished for had come about. I cannot now say.’
‘But …’ Sir Hugh still tried to intervene, and Falconer stayed his impatience with a firm hand on the knight's arm.
‘Hear him out, Sir Hugh.’
David licked his lips, and continued. ‘So, I cannot say for sure whether he did kill Chimbai or not. But it was certainly not what he wanted to confess. No, what he wanted to confess went back a lot longer than that, and had been preying on his mind for years. His meeting with our party only brought it more painfully to the fore.’ David took a deep breath. ‘He confessed to the sin of sodomy with a fellow Templar, Geoffrey Leyghton.’
‘Nooo.’ The wail that escaped Sir Hugh's mouth shocked everyone in the room into immobility. He surged from his seat, and, but for the solid oak table that stood between them, would have been at David's throat, silencing the accusation. The first to recover, Falconer grabbed a fistful of Sir Hugh's rich surcoat, and dragged him back down on to the bench. He circled his arms around the knight like bands of steel, and stared hard into his face.
‘We will listen to what David has to say, Sir Hugh.’
Leyghton squirmed in Falconer's grasp, shaking his head in horrified denial. But Falconer was implacable.
‘It's true, isn't it, Sir Hugh? Your brother and Bernard were discovered committing what their order called “the filthy and stinking sin that cannot be named”. And he killed himself rather than be expelled from the order. He didn't die honourably at Leignitz, and you have always known that. Ever since you eavesdropped on his former comrades telling your parents of his ignominious death. You can't deny it, because Guillaume de Beaujeu was in that contingent, and knew all about your brother. He also saw you in the passageway outside the door of your parents' chamber.’
Sir Hugh crumpled over the table, trying to stop his ears like some little child refusing to hear a rebuke. When he at last looked up at his accuser, his eyes were bloodshot, and he could only manage a whisper in reply to Falconer's words: ‘It's not true – Geoffrey died nobly at Leignitz. The bloodthirsty Tartars were his murderers.’
Falconer spoke more gently. ‘You know in your heart that's not so. The older brother you idolized as a child let you down, didn't he? And you could not admit it. And when Bernard filled your ears with the truth the other day, you killed him for it. And cut his ear off to mutilate him as you liked to imagine your brother had been mutilated by the Tartars. It was only when I saw this as indicating a Tartar presence in the Domus that you latched on to the idea of accusing Guchuluk.’
Sir Hugh's face turned into a cold, hard mask. ‘You can prove nothing. The only witness there might have been is dead.’ ‘Who? Bellasez – a frail, old man who you went back to kill, as soon as you had been told there was a possible witness to your murder of Bernard? I am happy to tell you that he lives, and, though still with a sore head, will be glad to point out his assailant to the constable.’
De Beaujeu now saw why Falconer had crowded Sir Hugh so close on the rigid and uncomfortable bench the friars used for their meals. Leyghton tried to rise and make a grab for the dagger at his side, but was virtually pinned down by the edge of the bench behind his knees and Falconer at his side. Still he attempted to escape, and the two men fell backwards from the bench, grappling on the floor. Falconer bellowed the constable's name at the top of his voice, and Peter Bullock burst in through the door, behind which he had no doubt been lurking all along. With Bullock's snaggle-tooth sword at his throat, Sir Hugh gave up the unequal struggle. Pulled to his feet by the constable, he shrugged the constable's rough hand off his arm, and straightened his surcoat.
‘You know you have no jurisdiction over me,’ he said, recovering his composure. ‘I will go with you, but don't forget I am the king's ambassador. He will reject these base accusations, and it will go ill for you in the end.’
With that, he swept out of the room, followed by an uncertain constable, who shot a questioning glance at Falconer as he left. It was de Ewelme who put the constable's worry into words, whispering in Falconer's ear:
