by Angus Donald
I heard Marie-Anne give a sharp cry and out of the corner of my eye I saw her slip from the saddle and run over to Hugh. But before she could reach him and take him into her arms, Sir Aymeric raised a commanding hand, palm faced forward, that stopped her in her tracks. And I saw that one of the sergeants was now holding a knife to little Hugh’s throat. ‘Surrender yourself, unarmed,’ said the knight, over Marie-Anne’s head directly to Robin. But Robin was already moving, sliding off his horse with easy grace. My master lifted his arms wide to show he carried no weapon and advanced to the Temple Gate. I dismounted from Ghost as quickly as I could, and Tuck and I, both of us unarmed, went over to join Robin in the entrance to the Templar’s court. Marie-Anne was fussing over little Hugh, kissing him and murmuring endearments, and she barely had time to cast her husband a grateful glance before Robin, Tuck and I were surrounded by the Templar men-at-arms and marched down the dark, narrow corridor and into the Outer Court.
As we tramped away from Marie-Anne and Hugh and Robin’s well-armed troopers, I had the strongest impression that we were marching through the portals of Hell. Behind us, I heard the gate slam shut with a hollow boom.
The Outer Court of the New Temple compound was a large area with a packed-earth floor, with low wattle-and-daub buildings – a granary, a brewery, various storehouses, barracks and servants’ quarters – dotted about here and there. To the south was a neatly kept orchard of apple and pear trees, extending down to a scatter of huts and a wooden wharf on the River Thames. We saw little of it, however, as we were almost immediately hustled to the left, heading east through a covered walkway along the side of the Grand Master’s house and into the Temple Church itself. I had never been inside it before, and, in spite of my anxiety for Robin, I was struck by the grave beauty, even majesty, of the building. We passed through a heavy iron-bound door set in a round arch at its western end and into the main chamber. Some twenty paces across, filled with pale yellow sunlight and perfectly round, it was said to have been built in imitation of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the site of the tomb of Christ, which, alas, despite my long sojourn in the Holy Land, I’d never had the good fortune to visit.
Six huge black pillars formed a ring at the centre of the space; these supported a circular upper storey. I peered up towards the domed roof, where six vast windows allowed the sparse February sunshine to pour in. On the ground floor, a couple of dozen men were milling around, talking quietly amongst themselves; many wore white surcoats with the red breast cross of Templar knights, others were clad in the more colourful attire of secular noblemen. A few men had already taken their places on the stone bench that ran around the outer wall. Over in the north-eastern quadrant of the church I caught sight of Richard FitzNeal, the silver-haired Bishop of London, looking worried as he took his seat.
Straight ahead of me, due east, was the chancel, a twenty-yard-long rectangular chamber, which extended off the circular main space and housed the altar and an enormous golden crucifix bearing the figure of Our Lord twisted in His Passion. Crossing myself, I muttered a quick prayer before we were ushered to our places on the stone bench, just to the right of the main door, by the font, in the southern quadrant. Robin sat in the middle, between Tuck and myself, and two Templar sergeants sat flanking Tuck and me. The other men-at-arms who had escorted us inside disposed themselves around the church and leaned on their spears, occasionally glancing over at our little group with narrow gaolers’ eyes.
I gazed around at the church in awe, marvelling at the walls that glowed like precious jewels in the sunlight, decorated with vivid paintings of Jerusalem and King Solomon’s Temple, and rich hangings of gold and blue and scarlet thread that depicted scenes from the Bible, and wondrous carvings of human faces set in carved arches around the inner wall, just above the stone benches – some grotesque, some kindly, some fearsome, some saintly – all seemingly waiting to witness the proceedings that were about to take place.
This was the beating heart of the English Order of the Temple, a chamber of purity and goodness and Christian strength, and I did not feel worthy to be inside such a place. I closed my eyes once again in prayer, beseeching God to give me strength through the coming trial; and asking that he might see fit to protect my master from the righteous wrath of these holy knights.
A fanfare of trumpets interrupted my devotions, and when I opened my eyes heralds were striding through the doorway to my left, their trumpets adorned with the red and gold of the royal standard. We were ordered to our feet by a gesture from the Templar sergeant, and into the church strode Prince John himself, apparently deep in conversation with Sir William de Newham, the English Provincial Master of the Temple. Behind him came Sir Aymeric de St Maur, who was chatting to a companion; I realized with a heavy heart but no real sense of surprise that the Templar knight’s companion was Sir Ralph Murdac.
The Master, William de Newham, took his seat at the eastern end of the round church in an imposing high-backed chair. He was a portly, irritable-looking, red-faced man with large eyes shot with blood, now flanked on either side by his two wardens, senior knights who acted as his officials. Together with the Master, these were the men who would pass judgement this day on the Earl of Locksley. The great wooden door was slammed shut, with one man-at-arms posted outside to see that we were not disturbed, and another, an inner guard, posted inside, his sword drawn in readiness, to be doubly sure that the proceedings of the inquisition would not be interrupted. Prince John was ushered to a position of honour on the opposite side of the church from Robin, Tuck and me – the north side – and on taking his seat he immediately began making a fuss, demanding cushions to ease the hardness of the stone bench. Sir Ralph Murdac, after lending his voice to the demand for more cushions, shouting at several of the Templar sergeants and urging them to be quick about bringing his master’s comforts, finally settled himself and looked over to our side with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
As always, when I looked on Ralph Murdac’s features, I felt a surge of hatred in my guts. But that day it was particularly strong, and I worried for an instant that I might disgrace myself by vomiting my bile on the smooth, grey flagstone floor. Somehow I mastered my stomach and forced myself to make a careful study of my enemy. Apart from that glimpse in the firelight outside Kirkton Castle, I had not had the misfortune to look upon his loathsome features for several years. He was clean shaven and bareheaded, his black hair cut into a neat bowl shape – clearly he had had a barber visit him that day. His clothes were of fine black silk, well cut, expensive and cared for; his face was handsome, though his lips were faintly too red for my taste, giving him an air of petulance and secret vice. His light blue eyes, cold as frost, glittered as he stared straight back at me. I was struck, once again, at how similar he was to little Hugh, in looks at least; I could only pray that Hugh would not turn out to share the same blackness of heart. He was too far away for me to catch his scent, but I wondered if he still favoured that revolting lavender perfume which had always made me sneeze.
Then I noticed something that made a spark of joy leap in my heart: Murdac was holding one shoulder awkwardly, slightly higher than the other. At first I thought it was just a peculiar way of sitting, but then he moved, turning sideways to whisper something to his master, Prince John, and I realized what it was. He was crippled, a hunchback. Robin’s arrow, fired into the darkness on that night of fire and blood outside Kirkton Castle, might not have killed the man, but it had certainly spoiled his posture.
I smiled broadly at Murdac now, meeting his gaze, looking pointedly at his high shoulder, grinning at him like a monkey. And I looked sideways at Robin, hoping he had noticed it too, but my master was staring serenely into the middle distance, humming softly to himself under his breath, as if he had not a care in the world. If things went badly for Robin, he was but a few short hours away from an agonizing, fiery end. But then I have never met a man who was calmer in the face of death.
It was Prince John who started the he
aring, in his typically ungracious way. Giving a jerk of his dark-red curly head to the Master of the Temple, he waved one finger of his beringed right hand and croaked: ‘Well, shall we get on with it, then? I don’t wish to be here all day.’
The Master, who had been conferring earnestly with one of his wardens and a clerk brandishing a clutch of curling parchments, looked up, surprised to have his authority usurped in his own church.
To his credit, he resisted what had, in effect, been a royal command. ‘In a moment, Your Highness,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Try to possess yourself with a just little more patience.’ His tone had the slightest edge to it; a note of condescension, as if talking to an impetuous child.
As I watched Aymeric de St Maur rise from his seat in the southern part of the church, not far from us, and cross to the Master’s chair, a thought struck me. I turned to Robin and asked: ‘Where is the Queen? Where is the Lady Eleanor? Surely she should come to your aid?’
Robin turned to me and smiled – he looked as cool as a summer breeze. Almost without moving his lips, he said, very quietly: ‘The Queen cannot come to my aid, Alan. She must stay aloof from this contest. She needs the English Templars to help her free Richard, or rather she needs their silver and their ability to arrange credit. We are all on our own here, Alan. Just play your part, and all will be well in the end.’
I must have looked uncertain, for he gave me a conspiratorial wink and muttered: ‘Do not trouble yourself too much, Alan. Everything is going to be just fine. Tuck assures me that the Almighty has a master plan; God has it all worked out, apparently.’ And he grinned at me, quite blasphemously, before saying: ‘And have you noticed Murdac’s crooked back?’ I could only smile back at him, heartened by his less-than-Christian pleasure in an enemy’s discomfort.
The Master of the Templars now rose to his feet, gave a brief signal to one of the sergeants, and led the whole church in a prayer asking God that the truth be uncovered and justice be done this day in His sacred house, before His eyes. Then the sergeant led Robin to the centre of the church, placing him in such a way that he stood directly before the Master but everyone in the round church would have a clear view of him.
The Master then held up a thick, curling piece of parchment and read aloud in Latin. It was a letter from His Holiness the Pope, adorned with the Papal seal, sanctioning this inquisition in the Temple Church in London on this day and naming the individual to be investigated as Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley. It was a long, dull document, which referred to a Papal Bull known as Ad abolendam that had been issued by Pope Lucius nearly ten years ago, urging the high churchmen of Christendom to actively seek out all heretics and those who sheltered or supported them, and bring them swiftly to justice.
His authority as an episcopal inquisitor thus established, the Master took his seat and the inquisition began.
‘Do you Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and in his only son Jesus Christ our Saviour?’ asked the Master in French, fixing Robin with his bloodshot eyes.
‘I do,’ said Robin gravely, in the same language. I knew that he was lying through his sinful teeth – but there was no other answer that he could make.
‘And do you believe that the word of God was made flesh as Jesus Christ and that by his suffering and death on the Cross this sinful world was redeemed?’
‘No question about it,’ said Robin, his face a picture of Christian innocence.
‘And do you believe that on the third day after He was crucified He rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven, and now sits at the right hand of God the Father?’
‘Absolutely … third day, right hand, all of that stuff,’ said Robin, his eyes seeming to shine with conviction.
‘And do you believe in the Holy Trinity of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost? And that Mary was a virgin before and after the birth of her son Jesus Christ?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do get on with it!’ Prince John’s harsh voice cut through the recitation of a well-known and much-loved formula. Though the Master ignored his interruption, his high colour became a little more pronounced.
‘I certainly do,’ said Robin jauntily. ‘I’m entirely sure Mary was a virgin, before and afterwards – oh, very much so.’
‘And do you swear by Almighty God, by Jesus Christ, by the Virgin Mary and all the saints, at the peril of your immortal soul if you prove false, that you will only speak the truth this day?’
‘Yes, indeed. I swear it; I swear it on my immortal soul,’ said Robin confidently, but somehow still managing to sound impossibly sincere.
The Master seemed a little flustered by Robin’s breezy tone. He looked back down at a roll of parchment in his hand: ‘You stand accused of the grave crimes of heresy, of necromancy, of demon-worship, of blasphemy, of taking the Lord’s name in vain …’
Robin interrupted him, talking over the Master’s words: ‘… of picking my nose on a Sunday, of whistling in church, of stealing sweetmeats from children, of refusing to share my toys … My lords, these charges are completely absurd. They’ve been invented by enemies who seek …’
There had been several shocked chuckles from the secular knights seated around the church at Robin’s lampooning of the Master’s list of grave charges, but most people were too surprised by the turn of events to react.
The Master was not one of them. ‘Silence!’ he roared, furious that anyone should have the temerity to interrupt him. His cheeks were glowing a dangerous dark red. ‘You are insolent, sir. You will not speak unless you are asked a direct question; if you interrupt me again I will have you gagged.’
Robin said nothing; he let out a long breath and stared into space above the Master’s head, smiling faintly. His expression was once more beatifically serene. Just then, as the church fell silent after the Master’s threat, Tuck let out an almighty fart, a resounding trumpet that seemed to last for several heartbeats and echo around the whole building.
‘Silence!’ screamed the Master. I noticed that his face was growing a deep purple and a vein seemed to be jumping in his forehead. ‘Who did that? I demand to know who made that disgusting noise.’
‘Forgive me, Master,’ said Tuck. ‘I had a little too much ale with my supper last night.’ And once again, he let blow an enormous, foul-smelling eructation. ‘I humbly beg your pardon.’
At least half the people in the church were laughing now. And the Master’s face had turned an even nastier shade of puce. ‘If I hear one more inappropriate … sound … of any kind … from anyone, I shall have that person removed from this court, bound, shackled and thrown in the crypt.’
It was obvious that the Master meant what he said: his face was still beetroot but, after a while, he had calmed himself enough to resume reading the charges from the parchment. It was a long list, but mostly seemed to consist of variations on the same theme – that Robin was a heretic, a godless Christ-denier, a worshipper of demons who conjured up foul spirits from the furthermost pit. When the Master had finished reading, he fixed Robin sternly with his gaze and said formally: ‘Earl of Locksley, you now stand accused. What answer do you make to these charges?’
‘They are all lies,’ said Robin simply, in a level, reasonable voice that carried to every part of the church. ‘They are lies invented by enemies who wish to see me destroyed. I deny all of these charges. Every single one.’
The Master stared at him for a few moments, as if expecting him to say more. Then he nodded once and said: ‘Then we shall hear the evidence against you.’
Escorted to his seat by the Templar sergeant, my Lord of Locksley took his place next to me, stretched out his long legs and sat back, evidently completely at his ease.
Ralph Murdac was next to take the position at the centre of the church. He walked forward with as much dignity as he could, his left shoulder wedged up high by his ear, and stood in front of the Master and his two wardens and made a sacred vow that he would tell only the t
ruth this day before this court.
‘That man,’ said Murdac, flinging out an accusing finger in Robin’s direction, ‘Robert Odo, the so-called Earl of Locksley, is so steeped in heresy and sin and blasphemy of the vilest kind that he besmirches this very church with his presence.’
I had half-forgotten his slithery, lisping tones, but it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck as I heard him speak about my lord in these terms.
‘Well spoken, that man; quite true, quite true,’ croaked Prince John loudly from his cushioned nest.
The Master fixed him with his blood-streaked eyes. ‘My lord Prince, may I beseech you, keep your counsel until we have heard the evidence.’
There was no mention of binding, shackling and imprisonment in the crypt, but the Master was still clearly determined not to cede authority in his own court. Prince John merely grunted and waved a languid hand indicating that Sir Ralph Murdac should continue.
Murdac half-bowed and picked up his thread: ‘When he was an outlaw, shunned by all decent law-abiding men and living wild in the woods like an animal, Robert Odo was known to practise the most disgusting diabolic acts in pursuit of a false religion, even going so far as to sacrifice live human beings to a bloodthirsty woodland demon. Since he has been foolishly allowed back into Christian society, his lands are renowned as a nest of witches and warlocks, of succubi, incubi and foul half-human creatures from the depths of Hell – ask any good man from the area of Kirkton, or Locksley or Sheffield itself and they will confirm that the Devil and his minions are abroad on many a dark night, in the shape of wild men with the heads of horses that breathe fire and can turn a man to stone with one look. A local witch, the Hag of Hallamshire – a hideously deformed crone who steals Christian babies to sacrifice for her dark arts – has been spotted many times in the area …’