by Paul Doherty
‘So you never knew about the blood feud?’ Mayele insisted.
‘No!’ de Payens retorted. ‘Both my parents died when I was no higher than a flower. Grandfather Theodore and the Lady Eleanor lectured me day and night about the glories of the Temple. Only God knows what Uncle actually did. Tremelai must know, yet never once has he referred to a blood feud with the leader of the Assassins.’ He paused. ‘And neither has Trussell, who has advised me so much. Is it just a coincidence that I’m here … ?’ De Payens deliberately didn’t finish his sentence, but stared around his chamber, where they’d met for the evening meal. They had been four days in Hedad, and still Nisam hadn’t asked to see them again. Uthama remained their ever-smiling, generous host, but de Payens was distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. The Assassin was a blood-lover, a violent man who would be very much at home in the retinue of some great Frankish lord or the Temple barracks. De Payens glanced across at Mayele, carefully chewing on highly spiced shreds of lamb; Parmenio, staring moodily into his wine cup. Since their arrival, the Genoese had taken to wandering the fortress, adopting the guise of the curious traveller eager to learn. He had become more open with Mayele, who in turn began to reveal a little more about his past, especially his fighting in the civil war between King Stephen and Henry Fitzempress.
‘I was in the comitatus of Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex,’ he declared, when he and de Payens climbed to the top of the keep to admire the view. ‘A grim war leader, Edmund. We fought in the cold, dark fens of East Anglia. We seized the Abbey of Ramsey and fortified it. Oh, the priests issued excommunication against us, damning us in our eating, our shitting, our sleeping and our waking! A time of bitter war.’ He paused.
‘And what happened?’
‘We were besieging a castle at Burwell on the Essex coast. Earl Geoffrey took an arrow to the head, a minor wound, but it became infected and grew malignant. He died listing his sins, but the Church refused to grant him holy burial. The Templars heard of this. They graciously collected the earl’s corpse and took it to their house in London near the Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn. Again the Church refused burial, because Mandeville had died in peccatis – in his sins – so the Templars hung his coffin from a yew tree in their cemetery.’ Mayele laughed sharply. ‘So he’s in God’s Acre but not buried in it! Ah well,’ he continued, ‘my sins are just as numerous, and deep as scarlet. The Templars were the only ones to show charity, so …’ He leaned against the crenellations, allowing the mountain breeze to sweep his rugged, fierce face. ‘When penance was imposed, I became a postulant in the order and was dispatched to Outremer.’ He turned and grasped Edmund by the shoulder. ‘But enough of the past! Let us deal with the present. Master Uthama gave us a display of archery; let us return the compliment.’
They went down to the exercise yard behind the keep, where the Fedawis and the blue-liveried guards practised their arms. Mayele insisted on his own display. He called for his horse and provided a brilliant tourney: the joust, the charge; sword- and dagger-play at close quarters, as well as archery and javelin casting. De Payens, used to watching the cream of his order clash on the jousting field, was deeply impressed, as were Uthama and his retinue. Mayele was a superb horseman; knight and steed become one, swift and relentless. He guided his horse with his knees whilst grasping shield, lance, mace or sword. Some of the Fedawis volunteered to act as his opponents. Mayele then showed the terrible beauty of a knight in combat, twisting and turning, using his horse to break his opponents whilst he lunged with blade and kite-shaped shield to scatter, isolate then deal with the enemy. When he had finished, Uthama himself led the hymn of praise. Mayele simply shrugged, winked at de Payens and made the droll observation that he and his host would hopefully never meet in combat.
Mayele’s cunning demonstration of how the Templars were also warriors was not lost on the Fedawis: it eased the tension caused by Uthama’s brutal display of power and brought the three men closer together. Parmenio confided to his companions what he’d learned about the castle; how he had studied every postern door and sally port just in case they had to leave earlier than their hosts expected. De Payens remained suspicious that Parmenio was also searching for something else, something he wouldn’t mention. Nevertheless, he realised it was important to maintain good relations with his comrades. Every morning they met the Provençals, and in the evening the three would gather again to discuss the events of the day or listen to Mayele’s stories about his campaigns in the gloomy fens of eastern England. Perhaps it was boredom, the realisation of how futile it was to speculate about Tremelai’s secret plans or the hints that the Grand Master was thinking of sending them to England, but de Payens became eager to learn more about the civil war raging there. Mayele needed little encouragement. He described how Stephen and his son Eustace were locked in mortal combat with the Angevin Henry Fitzempress; how the latter, young, ruthless and bounding with energy, was determined to seize the English throne and crush the great barons whose bitter rivalries prolonged the war. Edmund suspected that Mayele’s loyalty lay with Henry Fitzempress, as his old master, Geoffrey de Mandeville, had been King Stephen’s resolute opponent. In the end, however, as on every evening, the conversation returned to the reasons for being in Hedad, and Tremelai’s secret intentions. Since leaving Tripoli, de Payens had accepted it as gospel truth that the Assassins had been involved in Count Raymond’s murder. He believed that the Grand Master had his own secret evidence to prove it. Such a conviction was soon vigorously shaken.
Uthama eventually summoned them to appear before his father and his advisers. Once the usual courtesies were observed, Nisam leaned over, pointing at de Payens. He spoke slowly in the lingua franca, emphasising his points on his fingers.
‘You understand,’ his gaze took in Mayele and Parmenio, ‘that we had nothing to do with Raymond of Tripoli’s murder? True, true,’ he nodded, ‘we did have our difficulties with the count, our misunderstandings, but we sent him no warning – did we?’
De Payens could only agree.
‘And you found no corpses?’
Again de Payens and his companions nodded in assent.
‘But we were there.’ Mayele spoke up. ‘We heard the cries. We saw the daggers decorated with your red ribbons. Two of these were found, as was one of your medallions.’
‘And any fool can cry to God!’ came the cutting reply. ‘Daggers, red ribbons and copper medallions can be bought in any bazaar or market. Just because a woman has strumpet eyes doesn’t make her a whore.’ Nisam breathed in deeply. ‘What proof do you have?’ he insisted. ‘Indeed, if we were involved, we Assassins as you call us, why not Templars?’
‘Impossible,’ de Payens countered. ‘We were sent to guard him.’
‘And you failed.’ Nisam smiled. ‘Master Edmund, I ask you to reflect carefully. What do you remember?’
De Payens quietly conceded the point. He had not really reflected on those few heartbeats of time: the killers surging forward in their long robes, the knifemen rushing towards him, the bloody, dusty swirl, Count Raymond drooping from his horse, the daggers rising and falling.
‘Not the Temple!’ he whispered, as Mayele loudly voiced his own objections.
‘Masters,’ Nisam lifted his goblet of sherbet in solemn toast, ‘I did not say the Temple, but Templars. Has not one of your company been expelled? We are aware of a great scandal in Jerusalem, hideous murders, allegations of witchcraft, how some Templars were paying service to the dark lords of the air.’ He smiled at their silence and pointed to the gorgeous fresco of a bird on the wall to his left. ‘The Peacock of Gabriel,’ he explained, ‘has a thousand eyes; he sees everything.’
‘And you, lord, have a thousand pigeons,’ de Payens retorted.
Nisam put his cup down and joined in the laughter of his comrades, clapping his hands in appreciation. ‘Very good, very good, Master Edmund; you are waking from your dream. We know what goes on in the Temple precincts and in the sacred city itself. More precisely,’ he chewed o
n his lip, ‘we know all about the expulsion of Walkyn, and Berrington’s disappearance. I know this not only because of Gabriel’s Peacock, oh no,’ he stared solemnly at de Payens, ‘but because Walkyn came here. He asked for my help. I refused. Is it possible he had a hand in the count’s murder?’
‘He asked for your help?’ Mayele interrupted. ‘For what?’
‘Magister,’ Nisam retorted, ‘we are no different from one of your monasteries or Templar houses. We are not mountain cut-throats. You’ve seen how we live in our own community. True, we execute those who wish to do us harm. However, don’t your lords and abbots have the power of the axe, noose and tumbril, the authority to execute outlaws on their gallows? Many come here seeking help. Our code of hospitality is most strict. Such guests are welcome. Your brother knight was no different. Indeed, where else could he go? Your order had turned its face against him.’
‘What did he want?’ de Payens asked quickly. ‘What did he say?’
‘He was a beggar,’ Uthama spoke up, ‘ragged, dirty and hunted. He made no pretence. He needed food, money and clothing. We were obliged to help. He explained how he’d been expelled from the order for unspecified crimes. He did not tell us what, but protested his innocence. He was determined to reach Tripoli, seek help and take ship back to his own country. He mentioned a port, Dov …’ He stumbled on the word.
‘Dover,’ Mayele offered.
‘Dover,’ Uthama agreed. ‘Walkyn was no threat to us. Why should we have Templar blood on our hands? We gave him what we could, provided him with an escort down to the plains, so …’ Uthama rocked himself backwards and forwards. ‘Could such a man have killed Count Raymond? Did he ask for the count’s help, only to be refused? So he decided to take revenge? Master Mayele, we have seen your prowess with arms. Wasn’t your former brother a swordsman, a warrior?’
‘There was more than one assassin,’ de Payens declared.
‘True,’ Nisam agreed, ‘but in the cities of the plains, murderers flock like flies on a turd. They call themselves scorpion men, or some other title, for the same sinful crime. Did your former brother join these? No matter.’ Nisam’s voice turned more decisive. He glanced at his Fedawi, who sat alongside him, close-faced, eyes watchful. ‘In the end,’ he declared, ‘we had no hand in the murder of Count Raymond. We had no motive, no reason; there is no evidence. However …’ He drew from beneath the cushion beside him the empty chancery pouches of the Grand Master. He handed these to de Payens, followed by an exquisite casket fashioned out of cedarwood and ribbed with jewelled enamel strips. The domed lid was clasped shut with three locks and sealed along the rim with greenish-blue wax. A small leather pouch containing the keys was also handed over. The casket weighed heavy; de Payens concluded it must contain either coins or precious stones. He gave it to Mayele; the keys he slipped into his own wallet.
‘A gift for your Grand Master. The coffer contains my response. Masters,’ Nisam spread his hands, his eyes holding de Payens’ gaze, ‘you shall not look upon my face again.’ He grinned. ‘At least, not here. Rest and refresh yourselves. In two days you must depart. My son Uthama will see you safely down to the plains.’
The meeting ended. De Payens, Mayele and Parmenio murmured their thanks, then returned to their own quarters, where they engaged in fierce and rather fruitless debate about what had truly happened to Berrington and Walkyn and, once again, about how much the Grand Master knew. De Payens muttered his excuses and withdrew to his own chamber to reflect upon what Nisam had said, trying to recall all the details of that attack on Count Raymond. The Assassins leader was correct: apart from the blood-curdling cries, the medallion and the red-ribboned daggers, there was no real evidence that the Fedawi had been involved. So why had the Grand Master decided that they had? Sitting on the edge of his bed, he startled at the soft knock on his door. He thought it would be Mayele, but Uthama stood there with two of his escort.
‘Come,’ whispered the Assassin. ‘My father wishes to speak to you alone.’
De Payens had no choice but to follow him out of the keep, turning left into the outer bailey. Uthama led him across to the walled enclosure. He tapped the gate; it opened, and de Payens was ushered into the paradise. The gate shut with a click behind him. No Uthama, no guards; at least none he could see. On either side rose a boxed hedge. He took a step forward, boots crunching on the white pebbled path.
‘Come, Templar, awaken! Do not be afraid.’ Nisam’s voice carried powerfully.
De Payens walked forward and reached the end of the path. He stared around. The garden was truly exquisite, a perfect square bounded on three sides by trees and bushes of every kind: sycamore, terebinth, myrtle, pine and palm, dark ilex, rhododendron, and hibiscus with its dull red blossoms. A rich green lawn stretched in front of him. In the centre was a fountain intricately carved in the shape of a peacock, inlaid with gold, silver, gems and coloured glass, all blended together to catch the light then reflect it in a blaze of glory. Through the peacock’s mouth bubbled the purest water, splashing into a gilt-edged bowl beneath. To the right of the fountain stood a tent-shaped pavilion of polished cedar, with coloured glass windows. Nisam was waiting on the steps leading up to it, garbed in a red gown, one hand clutching a jewelled goblet. He beckoned at de Payens. The Templar took off his boots and, rather self-consciously, crossed the lawn and ascended the steps into the sweet-smelling pavilion. The inside walls were studded with miniature tiles of electrum, gold and silver, each with its own exotic designs. The floor was carpeted with the finest rugs from Persia. On each side of the entrance, large round drums, neatly perforated, gave off a richly fragrant warmth. Nisam gestured to the heap of cushions in the centre. Once de Payens had taken his seat, Nisam sat to his right at the end of a long polished table on which glittered goblets, platters and bowls.
‘The finest wines and fruits.’ Nisam filled the goblet in front of de Payens so that the wine winked at the jewel-chased rim. He then lifted his own in toast. De Payens responded, sipping so carefully Nisam grinned. ‘Drink, Templar, drink deep of both wine and life.’
The wine was delicious, as was the soft sugar bread and sliced fruit Nisam insisted on serving to de Payens. The Templar ate and drank, relishing the exquisite tastes. A sense of deep comfort and peace swept through him as he stared at the Peacock of Gabriel pouring out its life-giving water.
‘Drink,’ Nisam urged again.
De Payens did as he was told, fascinated by the way the peacock was now moving in all its gorgeous splendour. He felt his eyes grow heavy, his body nestling in the alluring warmth of a comfortable bed, swathed in the blankets that Lady Eleanor was pulling close about him. Other memories returned. He was drifting in that small boat Grandfather Theodore had built, The Cog of War, he called it. Then he was in Tripoli, turning his horse, moving to meet those darting assassins, whilst from a tree close by hung a coffin swinging gently on ropes lashed to the branches.
‘Templar, Magister!’
De Payens startled. He was back in the pavilion, staring out at the fountain.
‘You have been sleeping, Templar, dreaming. I suspect that that is what you have been doing for most of your life: dreaming about being the perfect paladin, or of following in the footsteps of your great and illustrious ancestor Sir Hugh.’
‘With whom you had a blood feud.’ De Payens shook himself. He felt refreshed, strengthened and slightly resentful at Nisam’s implied criticism.
‘Magister,’ Nisam smiled, ‘I mean no offence. I am trying to help. I do not want you to sleepwalk to your death.’
‘What do you mean?’ De Payens grew fully alert.
‘Look around you, Edmund. The world you live in is not that painted by your grandmother, the formidable Eleanor. Beware of illusions. The house of the Temple is no longer comprised of poor knights vowed to poverty, dedicated to protecting pilgrims. The Temple now owns cities, towns, castles and estates. They have a fleet of ships. A Templar can travel from here to the ends of Christendom and beyond and still
meet fellow Templars. Your order has power, wealth and influence.’
‘The blood feud?’ de Payens insisted.
‘I shall come to that by and by. Your Grand Master, Bertrand Tremelai, is a great lord with bounding ambition. He intends to spread his roots deep,’ Nisam pulled a face, ‘and to become a church within a church, a kingdom within a kingdom. He dreams of imperium: an empire, a power to rival anything in the West. What I told you earlier about the Templar who came here,’ he shrugged, ‘I did not tell the truth.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I trust you, but not your companions. Mayele is a dark soul, Parmenio a host of secrets who scurries around my fortress like a rat seeking food. He searches for something; what, I do not know. Of course,’ he breathed out noisily, ‘he might even suspect the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘Walkyn certainly came to Hedad, but he was no ragged beggar. He had shaved his head and face and was dressed in Arab clothes. When my son escorted him out of the mountains, he was sure that Walkyn intended to meet other people. Walkyn did not come to beg for food or alms. He came to ask for my help in assassinating Count Raymond of Tripoli.’
‘What?’
‘He argued that since the count had attacked caravans coming to Hedad and plundered them, I should have a grievance against him. He talked of revenge, and invited me to carry that out.’
‘And you refused?’
‘Of course I did.’ Nisam chuckled. ‘Not because I had any love for Count Raymond – indeed, we did have debts to settle with him – but we Assassins, as you call us, make our own decisions. We choose our own victims. We do not allow others to dictate what we do.’
De Payens stared hard at this cunning old man.
‘Why didn’t you kill Walkyn? After all, he was a Templar. You have no love for us.’
‘Why do you persist in thinking that we are a gang of cut-throats? Walkyn came here with hands outstretched in peace. He ate our bread, drank our wine; he was a guest, a merchant with a business proposition. He was protected by our strict code. I admit, we were intrigued. I asked him why. He said, to cause chaos, create mayhem, but also that he had his own private reasons. After he left Hedad,’ Nisam sipped from his goblet, ‘we decided to watch what would happen. When I met you and your companions, I raised the possibility that a Templar may have been involved in Count Raymond’s murder. Now you know why, and not just because of Walkyn’s request. My pigeons, my horses of the air, nest in Tripoli. There were rumours before the count was killed, as well as afterwards, that a Templar, or at least a Frankish knight, may have been involved. Indeed, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps you and Mayele were accomplices of Walkyn, at least until I met you, but, Edmund, you are an honourable soul. You must also be wondering,’ he toasted de Payens with his cup, ‘why your Grand Master sent you here. I mean the blood feud between our two families. Do not be harsh on Tremelai! Perhaps he sent you not only because you witnessed Count Raymond’s murder, but because he knows the full truth about our blood feud, as does your great friend William Trussell.’