The Templar Magician Read online

  ‘My blessing?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve knelt in the Lord’s Sepulchre, yes? You’ve kept your vows. Your blessing, Templar; few priests will approach me.’

  De Payens, slightly embarrassed, recalled the verses often used by Grandmother Eleanor. He lifted his hand.

  ‘May the Lord bless you and protect you,’ he murmured. ‘May He show you His countenance and have mercy on you. May He turn His face to you and give you peace. May the Lord bless you for ever.’

  The Keeper bowed. ‘And now I will give you my blessing, Templar. Act justly. Love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God.’ Then he was gone, disappearing into the blackness through the doorway.

  Hastang and de Payens left the church, two of their escort going before them with torches. They slipped along the deserted alleyways and narrow trackways, the night hawks and dark wanderers fleeing at their approach. Only the occasional beggar whined for alms from some shabby doorway. They’d almost reached the Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn when they heard the sound of the tocsin ringing from the Templar compound. De Payens hastened on to find the main gates thrown open, torches burning, serjeants, their swords drawn, patrolling the entrance. He hurried in, followed by the coroner, and glimpsed a splash of blood on the steps to the guesthouse. Inside the refectory, Mayele was nursing a cut hand, while Berrington had a bruise on his face. The infirmarian was tending to both of them. The smell of vinegar, aloes and balm hung heavy. Hastang sent three of his bailiffs up the stairs to check the guest chambers for intruders. De Payens bent down to inspect the splash of blood on the paved floor.

  ‘Assassins.’ Mayele came across. He crouched down and stirred the blood with his finger. ‘Six of them.’ He pointed further down the refectory, where a trestle table lay tipped, food and wine scattered about.

  ‘Berrington and I were having our supper here. A knock at the door; I went and opened it.’ He smiled in that cynical way. ‘Sheer good fortune. I should have stepped on their swords, but one of them was slow. He hesitated. I did not. I slammed the door shut and shouted for Berrington. I tried to bolt the top, but they were pushing hard. Berrington arrived and tried to help. We decided to spring the same trap. We stepped back abruptly, swords drawn, and met them blade to blade.’

  ‘Six in all.’ Berrington spoke up, but paused as Isabella came into the room, face all fearful. She hurried across to her brother, who simply embraced her and whispered. She turned and thanked the servant who had accompanied her from the Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn, then slumped down on a stool, blonde hair falling about her face.

  ‘All cowled,’ Berrington declared. ‘City ribauds, roaring boys hired for a few pence. Two were wounded; the rest collected them, threatened us with their swords and withdrew …’ He paused as Parmenio came up into the refectory. The Genoese, still swathed in his cloak, soon became disconcerted by Mayele’s blunt questions as to where he’d been, mumbling that he’d been unwell and needed to buy medicines. The coroner, who’d been walking around noting the chaos, the sword cuts to the tables and pews, tapped the heel of his boot hard against the floor.

  ‘This is an affair in the bailiwick of the Temple. It does not fall under my jurisdiction. Masters, my lady, I must be gone. Edmund?’

  De Payens followed him out into the darkness. Hastang stopped and glanced over the Templar’s shoulder.

  ‘Be alert, Edmund! Tomorrow, try to discover how those assassins gained entry and left. In the meantime …’ And the coroner sauntered off, humming the tune of his favourite hymn: ‘O puella vera et pulchra’.

  De Payens returned to the refectory, where Parmenio had righted the table stools. Berrington dismissed the serjeants and bolted the door behind them. He leaned against it and gestured at the table.

  ‘Let’s eat, drink, reflect and decide. We cannot stay here where Walkyn, God curse him, can lurk in the runnels and alleyways to plot his attacks.’

  ‘So what do you propose?’ de Payens asked.

  ‘Draw him out!’ Mayele banged his goblet on the table. ‘Leave London. Let’s go where the malignant came from, the manor of Borley in Essex. Edmund, you’ve recovered; the worst of the winter is over. Where we go, I am sure Walkyn will follow.’

  De Payens glanced at Parmenio, who nodded his head. Berrington also seemed in agreement.

  ‘It’s logical, feasible,’ he murmured. ‘The king is leaving London for Dover. As regards Walkyn, we are making no progress here. We have finished our outstanding Templar business in London. Isabella and I must settle certain family matters. So, we’ll move to Borley, and then,’ he smiled, ‘we must return to our family manor at Bruer in Lincolnshire.’

  Agreement was reached. De Payens made his good nights and returned to his own chamber. He felt a biting anxiety. Hastang’s words about studying everything carefully created deeper suspicions, especially about Parmenio’s mysterious errands. Moreover, once again they were going to tramp along muddy trackways to some bleak manor house. He stared at the crucifix on the wall and, not for the first time, reflected on his vows and his life as a Templar. Agitated by such thoughts, he undressed, took his small, battered psalter, a legacy from Lord Hugh, from his saddle bag and knelt on the hard floor. He stroked the calfskin cover, tracing the silver-embossed cross, which was gradually fading. The pages inside were yellowing, black and greasy, well thumbed. He moved closer into the glow of candlelight and opened the book to the compline of the day. He chanted aloud the first line of the psalm: ‘The Lord turns his face against the wicked, to destroy their remembrance from the earth …’

  ‘Does he?’ whispered de Payens, recalling the gruesome corpse of that young woman, the revelations of the Hunter of the Dead. He stifled his doubts and tried to read, even as his mind drifted back to that sombre sacristy and the dreadful corpse it held.

  The next morning de Payens woke early. He attended the Jesus mass, meditated for a while, then broke his fast in the buttery, where the cooks were serving bowls of oatmeal laced with milk and nutmeg, followed by white loaves smeared with butter and honey. He drank a stoup of watered ale, then wandered out to stand in the cobbled yard. A servitor, armed with a bucket and cloth, was washing the bloodstains from the steps of the guesthouse. De Payens walked over, nodded at the man, then followed the trace of blood out across the yard. He stopped abruptly. He could find no further bloodstains between the inner courtyard and the curtain wall. Mystified, he searched about until he heard his name called. A serjeant hurried over, his breath clear in the ice-cold air.

  ‘Domine, there’s a woman at the gate asking to meet you and you alone.’

  De Payens followed him out under the gatehouse. The woman the serjeant pointed out was standing close to the stall of an enterprising pedlar, who’d set up shop near the curtain wall selling spools, thimbles, needles, pins and thread. She was bartering over a silver-chased thimble. She paid and turned as de Payens approached, a pale, lovely face, jet-black hair tightly braided with red-gold cord. Earrings glittered from her lobes, a silver torque circled her slim throat, bracelets clinked as she moved her hands. The hood and cloak she wore was of dark-blue wool lined with vair. She spoke swiftly in English, then smiled in apology.

  ‘Mon seigneur,’ she lapsed into Norman French, ‘if you follow me, I will talk about Walkyn.’ She glimpsed the alarm in his eyes. ‘I am not taking you to Queenshithe,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about that. No, only a short distance, a tavern in Paternoster Alleyway, the Lady of the Sun.’ She shrugged. ‘I shall be there until the Angelus bell. Well, sir?’ She gently tapped him on the chest. ‘Perhaps you wish to collect your sword belt. However, I will speak only to you.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are the one hunting Walkyn? Yes? The Genoese? The others?’ She shrugged prettily. ‘I listen to the gossip. The Genoese is elusive. Your companions, well, they are English knights; they may have fought with Walkyn. Moreover,’ she gestured back at the Temple, ‘your servants watch. They say you are an honest man, though lonely. Can you not spare me a little tim
e? I shall be at the tavern. My name is Alienora.’ She walked away, her elegant high-soled shoes tapping the cobbles.

  De Payens closed his eyes, whispered a prayer for protection, then hastened back up to his chamber. He strapped on his sword belt, swung a heavy cloak about himself and hurried out of the Temple. He knew Paternoster Alleyway; it was only a short distance, a place reputed to house the better sort. He pushed his way through the throng, knocking away beggars, drunks, the importunate apprentices with their mantles lined with dormouse fur. Fishwives offered mullet, lampreys, mackerel, herring and lobster. Traders bawled how they had sauce dishes, salt cellars, candlesticks, baskets, basins and cups for sale. A beadle stood on a cart, loudly proclaiming that charcoal was not to be bought to be stored or produce sold that had not paid the market toll. A busy, bell-filled morning, with the cookshops and bakeries offering pies and eel, chopped ham, cheese and garlic; a swirl of colour and a tangle of smells from the foul to the sweetest of beeswax.

  The Templar reached Paternoster. He walked warily, as the alleyway was paved at an angle either side of a narrow sewer, which cut through the middle. Even at that early hour the runnel was crammed with stinking filth, which the scavengers were covering with shovelfuls of acrid saltpetre. He reached the double doors leading into the Lady of the Sun, and entered the broad dining hall, its floor coated with rushes, its narrow windows and white-plastered walls draped with red and green cloths.

  ‘A cup of raisin wine?’ The tavern master waddled across wiping podgy fingers on an apron. He spoke Norman French fluently, his small sharp eyes taking in de Payens’ cloak and sword. ‘Raisin wine has the clarity of the tears of a penitent,’ he proclaimed. ‘It strikes like lightning, and is tastier than almonds; it makes you quick as a squirrel, frisky as a kid at milk.’

  ‘Alienora?’ de Payens demanded.

  Mine host bowed, hands sweeping towards the stairs.

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  The chamber de Payens entered was spacious, its beams painted a smart black and decorated with coloured signs of the zodiac; the cream-plastered walls were clean and hung with cloths. One small casement window stood open; the other was shielded by a thick yellow cloth. The chamber held some elegant furniture; thick woollen rugs covered the floor, whilst it was well lit by candelabra. Alienora was sitting on the bed, draped in a coverlet of marten’s fur embroidered with birds, beasts and flowers. On a stool next to her stood a gilded birdcage with a linnet on a perch. She was feeding the bird morsels from a dish; she finished this and rose as mine host closed the door behind de Payens after loudly announcing: ‘A grand and noble visitor.’

  ‘Are you noble, Dominus de Payens?’ She smiled.

  A funeral horn brayed from the alleyway below. Alienora crossed to the open window, beckoning him to stand next to her. Her mittened hands clasped a bowl of smouldering charcoal as she stared down at the funeral procession below.

  ‘A knight.’ She pointed to the riderless horse, all saddled and harnessed, the dead man’s helmet, shield and war belt hanging from the saddle horn. Behind the destrier walked a priest carrying a stoup of holy water, accompanied by thurifers with their smoky censers and acolytes carrying candles and crosses. The mourners processed next, all swathed in black, each holding a green bough, softly chanting the psalms for the dead.

  ‘In media vitae sumus in morte,’ Alienora whispered.

  ‘I do not know if I am noble,’ de Payens retorted, ‘but life is certainly two-edged, and death is part of it. My lady, you asked to see me about the outlaw Walkyn?’

  ‘The outlaw Walkyn?’ She laughed. ‘Domine, I’m a courtesan, the daughter of a good family. In my green days I was closeted in a convent as a novice until, well …‘She shrugged. ‘Each soul has its own story. Now I live here, Templar. I know the world of men. I recognise the souls of my visitors. I entertain priests, clerics, yes, even Templars, including Henry Walkyn, lord of the manor of Borley in the king’s shire of Essex. Walkyn was a tortured man, a Templar who fought the lusts of the flesh. He often failed, which is why he visited me in the weeks before he took ship to foreign parts.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A warlock?’ she mocked, passing the bowl for de Payens to warm his fingers. ‘A sorcerer, a wizard? Is this the same man?’ Her voice rose. ‘Nonsense! Walkyn was nothing but a man torn by fleshly appetites.’

  She smiled at de Payens as he handed back the bowl. He looked out of the window; a shadow across the street darted back into the mouth of a runnel. Alienora went to sit on the edge of the bed, gesturing at de Payens to do likewise. He sat down, blushing with embarrassment as his sword became entangled with the folds of the coverlet. He stood up to unbuckle his belt. A knock on the door startled him.

  ‘Mistress,’ boomed the voice of mine host. ‘Some wine?’

  ‘Wait …’ She walked across.

  De Payens recalled that shadow across the street, the empty taproom below. He’d not asked for wine!

  ‘No, stop!’ He flung himself down.

  The door crashed back. Two figures, hooded and masked, hurtled in. They knelt and released the catches on their crossbows. Both bolts struck Alienora, one in the chest, the other shattering her face. De Payens scrambled for his sword belt and glanced up. Both felons had fled. He jumped to his feet and followed. Alienora was unrecognisable, killed instantly, her face a mass of pumping blood, shattered bone and ripped skin. One eye socket hung empty. He turned away, reached the door and raced down the blood-soaked stairs. The killers had shown no mercy. Throat slashed, the taverner lay jerking, eyes popping, halfway down. The taproom was still deserted. De Payens glimpsed frightened faces, like those of a host of ghosts, peering through the half-open door to the kitchen. He ran out into the street. Already passers-by were pausing to stare at the tavern entrance. He whirled to the left and right. He could see no assailant, no black-garbed assassin.

  ‘Did you …’ he shouted at a tinker, then paused. The man could not understand his tongue. He resheathed his sword and returned to the tavern, entering the sweet-smelling kitchen with its fleshing table, its pots bubbling merrily over the fire; beside this the half-open doors of the oven, from which a batch of freshly baked loaves peeked. Cooks, scullions, spit boys and maids crouched terrified. Eventually de Payens found one who understood him, and dispatched her to the Guildhall with an urgent summons for Coroner Hastang. Then he waited in the taproom, guarding the door, until the coroner and his posse of bailiffs arrived. They inspected the corpses. De Payens explained what had happened. He felt weary, sick at heart; he made no attempt to hide his mood. The coroner grasped him by the shoulder.

  ‘Edmund,’ he whispered, ‘Edmund, either attack or retreat.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you could leave for Outremer tomorrow or the day after.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Who in your company acts suspiciously? Someone followed you here.’

  De Payens reflected on his own disquiet. A nightmare possibility he’d glimpsed but rejected: that Parmenio might be his mortal enemy, a true wolf deep in the sheep fold.

  ‘Retreat,’ Hastang repeated, ‘or attack. You must choose! As for your cipher.’ He pushed his face even closer. ‘You tried to translate it. The numbers stand for letters, undoubtedly.’ He smiled.

  ‘Norman French?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘I showed it to a cipher clerk in the Chancery who now spends his days as a pensioner at the hospital of St Bartholomew in Smithfield. He says it is composed of at least three languages, one of them definitely Latin.’ He stepped back and looked down at the two mangled corpses being laid out on biers and covered with cloths. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. I shall rule that these two unfortunates met their deaths other than naturally at the hands of unknown assassins.’

  De Payens thanked Hastang, then informed him about his imminent departure to Borley. The coroner pursed his lips.

  ‘The devil’s country,’ he murmured, waving his hand. ‘The p
rowling place and constant haunt of that old demon Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville. Oh yes, I’ve heard the stories.’ He extended a hand. ‘Be prudent. Take care. I shall see you before you leave.’

  De Payens returned to the Templar enclosure. Berrington and Mayele had journeyed to Westminster to take their official leave of both king and court. De Payens went around to the Templar church and knelt before an ancient wooden statue of the Virgin and Child, allegedly carved out of wood from one of the trees in the garden of Gethsemane. He placed a winter rose at the base of the statue and knelt back staring at the candles as his mind drifted back to his meeting with Alienora: her memories of Walkyn, those assassins bursting in. Why hadn’t they attacked her before? He answered his own question: because they hadn’t realised what she wanted, that meeting with him? He felt a stab of fear. Was it Alienora who was meant to die, or him, or both? Had the assassins been waiting for them to meet? Their deaths could have been explained away as a Templar and a courtesan being caught by a jealous rival. He stared around the church. The smell of incense was faint; the glow of candles provided a little heat. He had sworn his oath as a Templar in a holy place like this; he had vowed to take the cross forward. So what should he do – attack or retreat?

  He murmured an ave, got to his feet and inspected the hour candle on its stand near a vivid wall painting depicting Christ’s visit to Hades. Yes, he had time. He hurried out to the barbican, the weapons store, and asked the serjeant for a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He checked these, returned to the church and placed them on the floor close to a wall painting of St Christopher. He then brought down his war belt, looped it over a bench just near the entrance and waited. Parmenio, to whom he’d sent a message, arrived almost immediately, pushing open the door and stepping cautiously into the darkened church. De Payens smiled. Parmenio was wary, one hand resting on the hilt of his dagger; he deliberately kept in the shadows. De Payens quietly picked up the primed arbalest.