The Templar Magician Read online

  ‘You have made the earth quake, torn it open …’ the monks chanted.

  Yes, Walkyn had certainly shattered the peace of the Temple. De Payens and Mayele had failed Count Raymond, whilst Tremelai had had no choice but to send them to Hedad to find out the truth about possible Assassin involvement. They were the logical emissaries. They’d both witnessed Count Raymond’s murder, whilst de Payens’ presence would be a mark of honour to Nisam, who had a special relationship with the founder of the Temple. The same was true of their presence in Tripoli: again a logical gesture of respect to the count, whilst Mayele might have recognised a fellow countryman.

  ‘You have made us drink wine that has confused us …’

  Payens smiled to himself. Perhaps his own confusion might thin. His presence in Tripoli may have been intended as a deterrent to the conspirators. Surely they would not strike at a Frankish lord protected by Templars, one of whom belonged to the de Payens family? In the end this had been proved wrong.

  ‘Glory be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ the monks chanted.

  And the rest of the plot? de Payens wondered. Berrington had been captured and found himself in Ascalon. He had been responsible for Walkyn; it was logical that he’d be sent back to England with Baiocis to hunt Walkyn down, and that Mayele and de Payens should join him. Mayele was an Englishman, whilst again, the name of de Payens would be a way of conveying to the English crown how seriously the Templars regarded this situation.

  ‘Oh God, visit your holy temple,’ the good brothers chorused. The monastic choir was now moving on to the next psalm, but de Payens remained lost in his own thoughts, staring at the face of a woodwose enshrined in foliage, a striking carving on top of a pillar opposite. He resolved to put the past aside and concentrate on what was happening now. Two problems remained. First, where were Walkyn and the witch Erictho? No evidence of their presence in England had yet been found. Second, the secretive Genoese, Thierry Parmenio – who was he really? Why had he been in Tripoli? Why had Tremelai trusted him so much?

  ‘They have poured out blood like water in Jerusalem,’ the lector chanted. ‘We have no one to bury the dead.’ De Payens recalled Jerusalem and quickly struck his breast in sorrow. He felt guilty about Tremelai. The Grand Master had been both foolish and arrogant, but there was no proof of any bad faith. Moreover, if Tremelai had trusted Parmenio, why shouldn’t he? Finally that secret cipher: why had he been given it? Why had Nisam striven so hard to tell him something but concealed it in a form he could not translate? De Payens stared around. The hour candle on its great bronze spigot at the entrance to the choir caught his eye. He quickly crossed himself and genuflected. The flame had nearly reached the next hour ring. It was time to be gone.

  The priory refectory, a long whitewashed chamber dominated by huge black crucifixes fixed on either end wall, had been specially prepared. Soft rushes powdered with herbs covered the floor. The trestle tables had been draped in thick white cloths and a silver carved statue of the Virgin and Child placed in the centre. The prior had supplied the best plate of his house. Copper herb casks positioned beneath the windows exuded a fragrant warmth. King Stephen, his pale face peaky under a mop of red hair, green eyes constantly blinking, his fingers forever stroking his neatly clipped moustache and beard, had arrived with little ceremony. He’d taken off his half-armour and thrown this at a grinning squire, stretching and yawning before noisily washing his hands and face in the proffered bowl of rosewater. Eustace, his son, similarly dressed, was the very image of his father, though sullen and more reserved. A truly ruthless man, de Payens reflected, betrayed by the set of his mouth, lower lip slightly jutting out, eyes constantly squinting as if Eustace was making a judgement about everything he saw and heard. The King’s leading ecclesiastic, Henry Murdac, Archbishop of York, was clean-shaven, grey-faced, his black hair neatly tonsured. He was garbed in the white robes of a Cistercian monk, a silver tasselled cord around his plump stomach, black sandals on his feet. Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton, the King’s principal adviser, was a white-haired, bearded man, his blunt soldier’s face furrowed and lined, eyes red-rimmed with the smoke from the fires at the nearby siege. As soon as he arrived, Northampton roared for wine, and when that was not served swiftly enough, he grabbed a tankard from a tray in the window recess and downed it in one gulp, the yellow drops staining his moustache, beard and the top of his gold-lined cotehardie.

  De Payens had glimpsed the royal entourage earlier, near Castle Gifford. The king had personally directed the catapults after studying the movements of the enemy on the far bank. Now he and his companions were hungry, thirsty and impatient for food. The prior delivered a short blessing then withdrew, closing the refectory door behind him, and the banquet was served. One course swiftly followed another: quail soup, venison in spices, suckling pig garnished with fruit and vegetables, beef cooked in ginger and thyme. Despite his hunger and tiredness, Stephen was courteous, smiling at de Payens and his companions, paying special attention to Isabella. She had dressed magnificently for the occasion in a high-necked blue gown with a brocaded front, her long blonde hair braided with green ribbons, a silver circlet around her forehead. Murdac and Northampton were equally courteous, but Eustace was as foul-tempered as a rutting boar. He had apparently been quarrelling with his father and his councillors and was intent on continuing this during the meal. Henry Fitzempress was marching with great force to the relief of Wallingford. The king, uncertain about his own troops, had decided to break off his attack on the town and seek a peace with his rival, a decision Eustace violently disagreed with. Northampton and Murdac tried to calm Eustace’s fiery invective, loudly declaring that the king had no choice, that his barons were tiring of the fight and wished to withdraw. Moreover, Henry Fitzempress might be amenable to peace talks. Eustace would not accept this, threatening to disengage his own forces and harass the enemy in East Anglia.

  The king was half minded to agree to this, and opened a debate with de Payens and the assembled company. The Templars were reluctant to be drawn in. Stephen, eyes blinking, pleaded with Berrington, de Payens and Mayele: if Eustace did withdraw, would they at least accompany him into the eastern shires? Murdac and Northampton had already agreed to do this. De Payens was confused. He stared at Baiocis for advice, but the English master sat silently, anxious, as if nursing some secret pain. Berrington tactfully pointed out that the Temple had remained neutral during the civil war. Eustace yelled that there was no such thing, whilst Stephen, eloquently assisted by Murdac, pleaded that all he wanted the Templars to do was act as intermediaries with his son and give him good advice on strategic matters.

  Eustace was eager to hear the Templars’ reply. The argument with his father had raged all day, and if the Templars acquiesced, the king would give him his blessing. Berrington finally agreed, and only when this matter was settled did the king broach the Templars’ mission to England. He reminded Baiocis of his many grants to the order in London and the outlying shires, and asked why a Templar would wish to do him harm. Baiocis, white-faced, clutched his stomach and gestured at de Payens and Berrington to explain. De Payens nodded to his comrade, as he still found the Norman French at the English court slightly different from that of Outremer. It was more precise and clipped, not pitted with the lingua franca of the Middle Seas. Parmenio had informed them that this reflected the isolation of the English court, and in doing so had also revealed that he was conversant with the common Saxon tongue and amused them with his imitation of it. Now the Genoese sat stony-faced as Berrington explained what had happened. The refectory stilled at the story. Even Eustace stopped his drinking for a while, the wine glistening on his lower lip. He protested that the Templars enjoyed a reputation as ferocious as that of the Assassins, and if an apostate was scouring the kingdom intent on murder, this was more dangerous than any enemy arrow. Northampton was quick to support the Prince, pointing out how assassination was now rife in this mist-strewn kingdom. Parmenio had mentioned that three of the
great Conqueror’s offspring had died mysteriously in the New Forest, one a crowned king; whilst the present civil war had erupted because Mathilda’s only brother, Prince William, had perished in the mysterious wreck of the White Ship out in the Narrow Seas. According to the Genoese, many claimed that the Prince’s death, and those of others, had been the work of the Angel of Darkness. Eustace’s constant interruptions reminded the assembled company of this. Once Berrington had finished, the king sat tapping his fingernails against his goblet.

  ‘My father,’ he began quietly, ‘joined the First Crusade. You’ve heard the story? He abandoned the cross-bearers at Antioch and returned home. Perhaps this is part of some curse …’

  ‘Nonsense, Your Grace,’ Murdac intervened. ‘Your father made reparation. He died a true Christian warrior at the Battle of Ramlah. Now, Mandeville, he was cursed.’

  De Payens glanced at Mayele, who simply smiled and winked back.

  ‘Mandeville,’ Murdac repeated, ‘self-styled Earl of Essex, perjurer, blasphemer, warlock …’

  ‘Children’s tales,’ Mayele broke in.

  ‘Black sacrifices,’ Murdac insisted. ‘You, Mayele, fought for Mandeville.’

  ‘As did I for a short while,’ Berrington declared, ‘as well as many knights now camped outside Castle Gifford. True, Your Grace?’

  Stephen nodded in agreement. ‘True, true,’ he murmured. ‘Mandeville won a fearsome reputation. He plundered monasteries and abbeys.’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘So you fought for him for a while but left in disgust. Yes?’

  Berrington smiled his agreement.

  ‘I remember now,’ Stephen continued. ‘You won the name of being a most honourable knight. The monks of Ely claimed that you defended them against the earl. But,’ the king lifted his goblet, ‘some of the others were fiends incarnate.’

  ‘Half of my retinue,’ Eustace joked, ‘are Satan’s men. They fear neither God nor man. Your Grace,’ he gestured at the archbishop, ‘you know that. Mandeville was a great earl, a warrior. Thousands flocked to his standards.’

  ‘And so did many wizards, sorcerers and witches.’

  ‘Mandeville was once my most fervent and loyal supporter,’ the King intervened. ‘I made a dreadful mistake. I arrested him for alleged conspiracy against me. Mandeville rose in rebellion.’

  ‘He plundered churches.’ Murdac lapsed into Latin. ‘He pillaged great monasteries like Ramsey and Ely in the wetlands of the Fens. Your Grace, he died excommunicate, body and soul damned to hell, which is why his coffin still hangs in chains from a tree in that cemetery at Holborn. The Temple should be careful.’ Murdac, his grey face hard, froth flecking his lips, was no longer the pious churchman.

  ‘Your Grace, Your Grace,’ Northampton soothed, eager to dissipate the tension, ‘many fought for Mandeville or some other great lord. Walkyn is now the danger. He nourishes bitter grudges against both the crown and his own order. The Templars regard him as a renegade. Our guests are here to hunt him down. Now,’ he tapped the table, ‘the clerks of the Exchequer and Chancery have made careful search but have discovered little about Walkyn, except that he owned the manor of Borley in Essex …’

  ‘Go away!’ Eustace shouted at a servant who had opened the door. The prince sprang to his feet, seized a platter strewn with bones and hurled it at the door.

  The king’s dogs, nestling close to one of the braziers, immediately lurched forward to squabble noisily over the bones. Eustace, snatching up his war belt, went amongst them, lashing out, until Senlis caught him by the arm, spoke quietly and gently guided him back to the chair on his father’s right. De Payens watched intently. Eustace was violent; a sickness of the mind? He recalled the stories about how though King Stephen enjoyed great popularity, churchmen, particularly the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Holy Father, had issued strict instructions that Eustace was never to be crowned as his heir apparent. The papacy was obdurate on this, determined to bring the civil war to an end. If Stephen won, then perhaps Eustace might be crowned, but if he was defeated, the spoils of war, the crown of victory would go to Henry Fitzempress. Studying the prince’s face, mottled with anger, white froth staining his lips, the speed with which he downed cups of wine, de Payens could understand the reluctance of the great lords to serve such a master. Eustace might have a fearsome reputation in battle, but …

  Mayele touched his arm. ‘Baiocis?’ he whispered.

  The English master had half risen, as if troubled by Eustace’s violence. He clutched the table, hand moving from belly to chest. He was grey-faced, beads of sweat lacing his brow, eyes popping, mouth gasping for air. He was breathing noisily, half coughing, as if clearing his throat. De Payens watched in horror as Baiocis flailed his hands, gagging and choking.

  ‘In God’s name!’ Eustace bawled.

  The other guests moved even as Baiocis fell to the ground, convulsing violently, arms and legs jerking as his head banged against the floor. The confusion spread. Servants hurried in. The priory apothecary was summoned, but Baiocis was beyond all physical help. The prior arrived even as the master of the English Temple suffered his last convulsion. Cowl pulled up, a stole around his neck, he swiftly anointed the dying man, loudly whispering the words of absolution from the sacrament of extreme unction. Parmenio moved to Baiocis’s leather-backed chair. He picked up and sniffed both the wine goblet and the water cup, then wrinkled his nose and pushed the goblet away. He sat watching as Baiocis died, just as the prior finished his ministrations.

  ‘A seizure?’ Eustace asked.

  ‘Poison!’ Parmenio lifted the goblet. ‘Tainted and foul-smelling.’

  De Payens walked over and picked up the goblet. It was half empty. He noticed the fine grains of powder amongst the dregs, and sniffed. The rich claret was strong, but there was a more subtle tang, very like a medicine he had once been given when he had a fever. He pushed the goblet away. Royal retainers, alarmed by the news now sweeping the priory, burst into the refectory, only to be screamed at by Eustace, who ordered them out.

  ‘What poison?’ Stephen had not moved from his chair.

  ‘What poison?’ the prior repeated, wiping his hands on a napkin from the nearby lavarium. He gestured at Parmenio and the apothecary, examining each goblet, flagon and jug on the table. ‘Your Grace, our infirmary stocks every herb. Our gardens are rich with crocuses, nightshade, Solomon’s seal, foxglove …’

  ‘Who could have done this?’

  Both the prior and the apothecary shrugged and shook their heads. Eustace angrily gestured at them to leave. Once they’d gone, the prince repeated his question.

  ‘In heaven’s name,’ Mayele declared, ‘if we knew who it was …’

  ‘I sat on Baiocis’s left,’ the Prince continued as if he hadn’t heard Mayele. ‘You,’ he nodded at Isabella, ‘to his right.’

  ‘He never left his seat,’ the Genoese replied. ‘He had his hand constantly on his goblet. No one approached him.’

  ‘Except servants,’ Mayele declared. ‘I was sitting opposite him. I swear no one approached so close as to poison his goblet.’

  ‘And that is the only one?’ Berrington asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Parmenio picked up his own goblet, sniffed and drank from it.

  Eustace hastened to the door, shouting for the prior. Parmenio shook his head.

  ‘Whoever was responsible,’ he whispered, ‘is long gone, I’m sure.’

  ‘We must have the corpse removed,’ Berrington declared.

  Was Baiocis the intended victim? de Payens thought. Or had there been a mistake? Was it the king or the prince who was supposed to have drunk that poison, or was Baiocis murdered because of who he was?

  ‘Our order.’ De Payens voiced his anxiety. ‘The bailiwick of England. Who will be its master now?’

  ‘I shall be.’ Berrington shrugged. ‘I am the most senior knight. It will take time for the chapter of the bailiwick to assemble; even longer to inform the Grand Master in Jerusalem.’

  He took a cloak from a peg on the
wall. De Payens helped him drape this over Baiocis’s corpse. Never handsome in life, Baiocis’s face was contorted by the rictus of a gruesome death, eyes half shut, yellow stumps of teeth in a gaping mouth, a lacy froth trickling down his chin.

  The prior, summoned by Eustace, re-entered. A frightened man, he could offer little help about which servants served what. The king brought the interrogation to an end and ordered the corpse to be removed. De Payens glanced quickly at Isabella. She sat clutching her goblet, face white and tense, lips moving as if in silent prayer. He went over and placed a hand on her shoulder. She smiled shyly up at him, but he was struck not so much by her fear as her determination. ‘Courage here,’ she whispered up at him, ‘has to be harder, spirits stouter, hearts sterner. Here lies our lord brought low, our best man lies in the dust. If any warrior thinks of leaving the battle, he can howl for ever.’

  ‘My lady?’

  She blinked and stared up at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  ‘Edmund, my apologies. I quote from an old Essex poem about a famous battle.’ She lifted her hands, fingers fluttering. ‘What is to be done here, what is to be done?’

  De Payens moved to his seat.

  ‘What is to be done,’ the king declared loudly, echoing her words, gesturing at Eustace to retake his seat, ‘is to decide what was intended here. Berrington?’

  ‘Your Grace?’ The Templar shrugged. ‘Baiocis lies dead. Was he secretly dosing himself with a physic that proved noxious? Has he been murdered by Walkyn and his coven? Was he the intended victim, or was that someone else? As for the perpetrator? Your Grace, this priory teems with men, violent souls, men of war, steeped in blood …’