The Templar Magician Read online

  ‘Edmund? Edmund?’

  ‘Here.’

  Parmenio whirled around. De Payens moved swiftly to the door, pulling across the bolts at top and bottom.

  ‘Edmund, for the love of God.’

  ‘Undo your sword belt.’ De Payens walked forward, the arbalest lowered. ‘We first met in a church. We may well part in a church!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your death, perhaps.’

  ‘Why, Edmund? What is this?’

  ‘You are a creature of the night.’ De Payens strove to curb his temper. ‘Do you see yourself as a hawk, Parmenio, gliding over the meadow, whilst I, like some wary rabbit, scuttle from one bush to the next, fearful of your shadow, the plunging talons?’

  ‘Edmund?’ Parmenio took a step forward.

  ‘Stay!’ De Payens didn’t flinch. He was surprised at his own anger and frustration. ‘Alienora – you know she is dead?’

  ‘Yes, I saw you meet, but there again, so might others have done. Rumour flits like a bird along the alleyways. I went to investigate myself. I saw you and Hastang.’ Parmenio’s voice faltered. ‘Edmund, please, put down the arbalest. I am not your enemy.’

  ‘You tried to kill me in Tripoli. I am sure it was you who loosed a crossbow bolt at me outside Ascalon; it must have been. Mayele was alongside me. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘In Tripoli I was mistaken. Outside Ascalon I was trying to alert you.’

  ‘You almost killed me.’

  ‘No. If I’d wanted it to, that bolt would have crushed your skull. I wanted to alarm you, alert you and awake you.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the danger all around you, be it Tremelai or anyone else: Walkyn, his coven.’ Parmenio smiled thinly. ‘I succeeded. You are a most dangerous man, Edmund de Payens. You are an idealist, a visionary. You thought the world was the stuff of your dreams when in truth it’s the work of the bleakest nightmare. I think you now realise that. Your order is changing. It is no longer a legion of pure, simple knights, but men doing business with the lord of this world. There’s nothing more dangerous than an idealist who’s wakened to the harsh reality of life.’

  ‘And that includes you, meeting visitors from Venice and elsewhere. Strangers who slink into London to consort with you in the shadowy corners of taverns?’

  ‘Ah well.’ Parmenio stretched out his hands. ‘Lower the arbalest, Edmund, and let me show you something.’ He sighed as de Payens just gazed bleakly back at him. The Genoese undid his doublet, fished beneath and drew out a folded piece of parchment from a secret pocket in the padded lining.

  ‘Put it on the floor,’ de Payens ordered, ‘along with your war belt. Then take three paces back and kneel with your arms crossed.’

  Chapter 12

  The realm of England was in this miserable state of lawlessness.

  Parmenio obeyed. De Payens hastened forward, snatched up the parchment and withdrew. The vellum was of the highest quality. The purple wax seal boasted the crossed keys of the papacy, the Bishop of Rome, whilst the elegant, cursive script proclaimed: ‘Eugenius III, by God’s favour and the grace of the Holy Spirit, Servant of the Servants of God, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus’. The letter declared that Thierry Parmenio, citizen of Genoa, was legatus a latere, the Pope’s personal envoy; malleus Maleficorum, the hammer of sorcerers, ‘God’s chosen instrument for the extirpation and destruction of warlocks, witches, sorcerers, necromancers and all who dealt in the black arts, contrary to the teaching of Holy Mother Church’.

  De Payens glanced up in astonishment. Parmenio stared sadly back. De Payens re-read the papal writ; it gave Parmenio totam potestatem in omnibus casibus – total power in all circumstances.

  ‘Why?’ De Payens put down the arbalest. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Let me do so now.’ The Genoese made himself comfortable. ‘Edmund, I’m a clerk in the Secret Papal Chancery. I answer to the Pope alone. The Church,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘faces many problems; witchcraft is one of them.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I believe, and I shall repeat it here in the Lord’s House, that what we call the black arts, the devil’s Sabbath, witchcraft, is in most cases nothing more than chicanery, counterfeit, stupid mummery. Trust me, Edmund, it’s nothing. Men and women hinting that they have dark powers to threaten others, or,’ he laughed sharply, ‘just an excuse to strip naked, drink like topers and revel in every form of filth.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If they want to dance naked in a moonlit glade or worship some ancient rock,’ he smiled, ‘what is that? Nothing really, silliness, children’s games. Then, of course, there are a few who are masters of illusion or the potion. Believe me, Templar, I can give you a drink that in your mind’s eye would have you flying on eagle’s wings just beneath the sun.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘Finally there are the few, the real masters of eternal darkness. These make no boast; show no sign of who they really are. They are not clod-breakers or mummers but men and women who don masks as clever and as subtle as any. They are to be found not in the dirty hovel, the dingy garret or out on the wild heathland, but in the chancery, the priory, the abbey, the monastery, the moated manor house, the castle, the palace. They are educated and erudite, openly devoted sons and daughters of the Church. In truth they are devil-worshippers, very dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they really call on the dark, and use all their power and will to achieve their nefarious ends, and, to do that, they will kill. This is not a matter of dancing in the moonlight, but blasphemy, sacrilege and murder. They truly believe that if they kill a human being, slit their victim’s throat as you would a pig’s, pluck out the heart, offering it to the powers of darkness, there will be a response.’

  ‘And is there?’

  ‘As the old proverb says: “When you call into the darkness, something, someone always replies.”’

  ‘And you hunt them down and arrest them?’

  ‘No, Edmund, I hunt them down and I kill them. They are finished. There is no turning, no repentance. The only thing I can do is send them to God for judgement.’

  ‘And here?’

  Parmenio pursed his lips. ‘I have been to England before, you probably realise that. This island is a haunt of sorcery. They say that William the Red, King of England, was caught up in such witchcraft and was murdered whilst hunting in the New Forest. Or William, son of the great Henry I: he was drowned when the royal cog, the White Ship, was wrecked; his death caused the present war and the rise of men like Mandeville. Rumour has it that the shipwreck was caused by witchcraft.’

  ‘Was Mandeville a sorcerer?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but he was their protector. He plundered monasteries and abbeys for their wealth and used them as his strongholds. The real practitioners of the black arts were given their opportunity to use and abuse the sacred. Mandeville attracted these souls of deepest darkness to his company. They could hide behind his shield and carry out their abominations. You’ve seen what they can do in all its horror. Who cares if a young peasant woman goes missing? Who would dare investigate deserted, desecrated churches flaming with light at the dead of night?’

  ‘Yet you went first to Outremer, not England?’

  ‘I was sent there, Edmund, for the same reasons. Over fifty years ago, your great-uncle and others stormed Jerusalem and took it. After centuries of loss they regained all the Holy Places of Christendom. The devout and the pious flocked to worship there.’

  ‘And so did others?’

  ‘Oh yes, they did. Jerusalem, the Holy Land, with its sacred sites and Holy Places, attracts both angels and demons. Rumours began to gather. The Pope received letters from the patriarch and others about witchcraft and sorcery being rife in Jerusalem. I was sent to investigate. I arrived too late. Tremelai, for God knows what reason, had moved swiftly. Erictho the witch, about whom I’d heard, had escaped. Then Walkyn was arrested and committed to Berrington to be brought to England. In the meantime, Boso Baiocis had been su
mmoned from London.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Tremelai was deeply concerned about the Templars protecting Mandeville’s unconsecrated corpse, as well as the reception of characters like Walkyn into the order.’ Parmenio pulled a face. ‘I have spoken in confidence with Berrington: the records about recruits to the English bailiwick are very sparse.’

  ‘And Baiocis was responsible for that?’

  ‘Yes, he either pruned the records to cover his own stupidity or he brought them to Outremer, where,’ Parmenio shrugged, ‘they were lost or stolen.’

  ‘And in Outremer?’

  ‘I protected you in Ascalon, Edmund. I thought you’d come to trust me, but there again, why should you? To be honest, I never trusted you. Members of the coven are clever, they hide. They act one way in the light and become another creature after dark. I suppose I’m no different. I’m a master of tongues. I act in disguise, I pretend. I can mingle with the worst and gossip with the best. Anyway, my spies in Tripoli talked of assassins being gathered by a mysterious Frankish knight, perhaps a Templar. I heard about Walkyn’s escape.’ He stared down the church. ‘The shadows are leaving their corners, Edmund, we must be careful.’

  De Payens glanced at the arbalest, still primed, lying beside him. Parmenio followed his gaze.

  ‘Edmund, I’m no killer, no assassin. I went to Tripoli. I searched and I failed. Count Raymond was murdered. As for the massacre and looting that followed, I did wonder if there was a reason for that. Perhaps I ignored the obvious. Count Raymond was killed to create confusion and chaos, an excuse to loot and plunder.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, I fled to that Greek church. I saw you, a Templar, astride your horse, gazing bleakly out. I’d just come from a house where a young woman had her throat cut and her baby’s head dashed against the wall. My anger welled over. I thought you were involved in similar butchery; of course you were not. Such confusion was deliberately plotted. As for the rest,’ he spread his hands, ‘Tremelai had to trust me. I showed him my commission; he had no choice. He believed that Walkyn had a hand in Count Raymond’s murder and that the plunder the renegade Templar had looted in Tripoli would be used for his return to England. The Grand Master had one hope …’

  ‘About a Templar possibly sheltering in Ascalon?’

  ‘Of course; one of the reasons why he was so ardent in his support for the assault on that city. He wondered if Walkyn, or even Berrington, who had disappeared, was still in Ascalon. Tremelai really believed the Temple had to put its own house in order. If he had survived Ascalon, undoubtedly we would still have been dispatched to England.’

  ‘Why?’ De Payens moved to ease the cramp in his leg. ‘Why would Walkyn want to return to England?’

  ‘It’s his country, his coven lurks here. Above all, he and his kind have a deep blood feud against King Stephen, whom they hold responsible for the death of Mandeville; their protector. Really it was just a matter of coming home and settling scores.’

  ‘And at Hedad?’

  ‘I’d heard of a Templar visiting the Assassins. Remember, Edmund, the isolated communities of Outremer: Catholic, Orthodox, Jewish, Muslim and the rest. If a stranger appears in their midst, he is noticed. We were fortunate to survive in Ascalon. Think of Nisam and Tremelai busy collecting all the chatter and gossip of Outremer. Walkyn must have done his share of spreading the whispers in order to cause confusion, to bring the Templar order into disrepute. I listened to the chatter at Hedad. I was intrigued, but in the end, I discovered nothing.’

  ‘And so where is Walkyn?’

  ‘Only God knows.’

  ‘And you will travel to Borley?’

  ‘Of course. What choice do we have?’

  De Payens rose to his feet. He leaned down and picked up the arbalest but kept it lowered. Parmenio heaved a sigh of relief, swiftly cut off as de Payens raised the crossbow.

  ‘And the strangers you meet in taverns? Messengers from Outremer?’

  Parmenio glanced behind de Payens as if studying the wall painting. The Templar watched and waited. He was sure the Genoese was telling the truth, but not all of it. Something vital was missing.

  ‘What if,’ Parmenio pursed his lips, ‘what if,’ he repeated, ‘we are chasing shadows, Edmund? Is Walkyn really here?’

  ‘Berrington believes he is.’

  ‘But truly here? What if he has not left Outremer but sends messages to his coven in England whilst he lurks elsewhere.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Before I left Ascalon, I asked the Grand Master and the patriarch to make careful search for Walkyn; hence the messengers.’ Parmenio’s voice, slightly raised, betrayed his nervousness. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. ‘Edmund, I am not your enemy.’

  De Payens did not respond. He studied this secretive Genoese.

  ‘You listen to the chatter,’ he murmured at last. ‘You’ve admitted as much. So tell me, the old English Templar Trussell? He confided in me. He was growing frail but he trusted me. He died suddenly while we were at Hedad. Was his death a natural one? What do the gossips say?’

  ‘Trussell died.’ Parmenio shrugged. ‘He did not like Tremelai, whilst the Grand Master hated him. Trussell was a thorn in his side. I heard a little gossip. How Trussell sickened and died within the day. Tremelai, of course, hurried him to his grave. He must have been relieved to be free of such a venerable critic.’ Parmenio paused. ‘But yes, Edmund, such a death, at such a time, in such circumstances, might be suspicious. You are now suspicious. Good!’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s why I loosed that crossbow bolt at you outside Ascalon. I wanted to rouse you. I did.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Edmund, I repeat, I am not your enemy.’

  ‘Parmenio,’ de Payens clasped his hand, ‘the real question is, are you my friend?’

  The Genoese just smiled, bowed and walked past the Templar. He loosened the bolts on the chapel door and went outside. De Payens sat down and reflected on what he’d been told, sifting through the various strands before returning to Parmenio’s question: was Walkyn truly in England, or were they hunting someone else?

  De Payens became engrossed with the problem as Berrington and the others prepared to leave for Borley. They discussed Alienora’s murder, but no one could offer any solution, whilst Berrington was adamant that they must continue with their own business. He was confident that Walkyn and his coven would follow them out into the countryside, where it might be easier to trap and kill them.

  Four days after Alienora’s murder, Coroner Hastang slipped into the Temple accompanied by a watery-eyed, winter-faced old man dressed in the blue and green garb of an inmate of St Bartholomew in Smithfield. They met in de Payens’ chamber. Hastang introduced the old man, whom he virtually carried up the stairs, as Fulbert of Hythe, former Chief Clerk to the Crown in the Secret Chancery. For all his venerable ways, Fulbert was sharp as pepper, appreciative of the Rhenish wine and the platter of sweetmeats de Payens brought up from the buttery. The old man chomped toothlessly, then slurped the wine, his eyes, bright as a sparrow’s, never leaving de Payens’ face. While Fulbert feasted himself, Hastang gave his news.

  ‘In civil strife, precious metal becomes rare. Well …’ The coroner dug into his purse and took out a pure gold coin, which de Payens recognised as one minted in Jerusalem. He studied the inscription and handed it back to Hastang. ‘Coins like this, silver and gold, are in the London marketplace.’

  ‘Walkyn?’ de Payens asked.

  ‘Perhaps, and there is something else.’ Hastang tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘We searched the records of the Chancery. Mayele certainly fought for Mandeville, but there’s hardly any mention of Berrington.’

  ‘So Mayele may have been one of Mandeville’s henchmen, whilst Berrington … ?’

  ‘Perhaps just a knight who fought for a while under Mandeville’s banner, tired of it and left.’

  ‘I know of you,’ Fulbert interrupted, spluttering out a mouthful of sweetmeat. ‘I met your uncle, Lord Hugh. Oh yes,�
� he chirped merrily, ‘oh yes, I met them all, Godfrey of Bouillon, Bohemond …’

  De Payens glanced at Hastang, who smiled.

  ‘Master Fulbert was at the storming of Jerusalem some fifty years ago.’

  ‘Nearly became a priest, I did,’ Fulbert continued in a rush. ‘I worked in the Chancery. I wanted to be a black monk, fat and cheery.’ He paused. ‘But I couldn’t.’ He tapped the goblet. ‘Wine and a lust for women, especially plump ones, round and juicy, ripe for the squeezing.’

  Hastang winked at de Payens.

  ‘Ah well,’ Fulbert sighed. ‘So now we come to your cipher. Tell me more about it. When you’re old, stories fill your days, one of the great riches of being alive.’

  He listened, eyes closed, as de Payens described what had happened at Hedad. The old man sat rocking backwards and forwards, giving the odd grunt of agreement. When the Templar had finished, Fulbert opened his eyes and whispered to Hastang, who handed over the battered chancery pouch. Fulbert shook out its contents and handed de Payens the Assassins’ script.

  ‘Every cipher … my apologies, most ciphers are based on the alphabet, with a number for each letter. There are many variations. The number one can stand for A, two for B and so on. Of course these can be jumbled but still easy to translate. This cipher was both very difficult and different, because Nisam used not one but four languages: Greek, Latin, Norman French and the lingua franca. Very clever; then he jumbled the numbers!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was following his own code of hospitality and fidelity, yet, Domine, I think, based on what you’ve told me, he had a great softness for you. He wanted to warn you whilst not betraying the confidence of others. In the end he voiced his own suspicions through that cipher but made it as difficult as possible for you to translate.’

  ‘And so,’ de Payens replied, ‘if I translated it, then that would be the will of Allah?’