by Paul Doherty
‘No, no.’ Montebard shook his head. ‘God rest Tremelai. What he did sometimes was very stupid; he could be arrogant and impetuous, but he had a high opinion of you, Master Edmund. You were sent to Nisam first because you were in Tripoli, and second as a mark of respect: your name is held in great honour not only by Christians but by our foes.’
‘But there was a blood feud,’ Parmenio declared, ‘between Nisam and the de Payens family. Tremelai knew that.’
‘Yes, he did, and that is another reason why he sent Edmund. He knew the full story of that blood feud: how Lord Hugh in those forays had spared Nisam’s wife and unborn child. He knew that de Payens would be safe in Hedad, that no harm would befall him. It was a token of trust. Edmund, your family, for whatever reason, never discussed the blood feud with you. Tremelai must have sensed that, and he would not reveal it lest you refused to go. In the end, he knew you would be safe.’
The chamber fell silent. They sat half listening to the sounds drifting from outside: the call of a horn, the neigh of a horse, the clatter of hooves, servants shouting, laughter from around the well, where water was being drawn. De Payens stared at Montebard. The Grand Master looked haggard and tired. How much of this was true? de Payens thought. Had Walkyn been a witch, a warlock, a sorcerer? Had he tried to lie his way out of the charges against him but, when arrested, revealed his true self? What Berrington said made sense. Very few people would dare attack a Templar convoy, certainly not a knight with two serjeants. Walkyn must have had followers in the city, men and women dedicated to him as the Fedawi were to Nisam. And Parmenio, what was his true role? Why had Tremelai, and now Montebard, accepted the Genoese into their secret councils? Was he responsible for that crossbow bolt outside Ascalon? Yet, on reflection, that bolt had clearly been aimed high, whilst Parmenio had saved his life in the city. And Berrington, Mayele and Walkyn? They shared so much. All three were English knights who had fought in the civil war against King Stephen, enrolled in the comitatus of this Mandeville, Earl of Essex. De Payens voiced this. Berrington smiled; Mayele just shrugged.
‘Edmund,’ he almost drawled, ‘I have made no secret of my past. I fought for Mandeville, as did Berrington for a while, and Walkyn. Three names amongst thousands. Remember, Mandeville was driven into rebellion by King Stephen’s injustice, not that we care about that. We fought as mercenaries. Many did. In the end, only the Temple tried to defend the earl’s name and give him honourable burial.’
‘But Walkyn seems different. He talks of a blood feud against King Stephen.’
‘You know me, Edmund. I watch and smile, but men like Walkyn nursed a deep personal loyalty to Mandeville. They view King Stephen as guilty of the earl’s death, a king with the blood of their lord on his hands. Wouldn’t you agree, Richard?’
Berrington nodded, tapping the table. ‘Many English knights fought for Mandeville,’ he agreed. For most, such knight service is a routine task; for a few, well, it is different, unique. Indeed, once Walkyn began to reveal his true self, such allegiance was not just a memory but a burning issue. He even called King Stephen an assassin who should pay for his crimes.’
‘Enough of that for the moment.’ Montebard spoke up. ‘The affairs of England concern me, but for the moment, Edmund, what you have heard here: has it resolved your anxieties and those of your comrades?’ The Grand Master drew a deep breath before continuing. ‘You and Mayele were sent to Tripoli to guard Count Raymond because that lord had heard rumours that he was under threat. He reported these to our Grand Master, asking for his help. Tremelai, anxious about the whereabouts of Walkyn and the disappearance of Berrington, sent you as a gesture of confidence: the descendant of the great Lord Hugh. You, Mayele, were also sent because you might recognise Walkyn. In the end we do not know who truly organised that assassination, but our Grand Master, God rest his soul, was still perturbed. He decided on dispatching you three to Hedad to extract guarantees that the Assassins were not involved, as well as to receive pledges from the caliph that such interference would never take place.’
‘And Ascalon?’ de Payens asked, clearing his throat. ‘The Grand Master’s desire to break into the city: was that connected with you, Berrington?’
‘Yes, it was,’ Montebard intervened. ‘Rumour was its own messenger. Gossips chattered in the bazaars and markets how a Templar had been captured and sold on; such news reached Jerusalem. Tremelai may have suspected that Master Richard, or even Walkyn, was imprisoned in Ascalon. Perhaps that could explain our Grand Master’s impetuosity, his desire to break in, the foolish, very foolish risk he took.’
‘After Berrington’s disappearance,’ Parmenio spoke up, ‘surely the Grand Master sent out scouts, an expedition, to discover what had truly happened? They must have followed the same route?’
‘They did,’ Montebard replied. ‘Unbeknown to anyone, Tremelai dispatched a convoy of knights and serjeants. At the oasis near Jacob’s Well they found a few remnants of the conflict but no corpses. Tremelai was a proud man. A Templar knight and two serjeants had disappeared. An apostate Templar was on the loose. It was not a matter he’d wish to boast about. Little wonder he was determined to break into Ascalon.’
‘And Walkyn?’ de Payens asked.
‘Gone, disappeared like some mirage in a desert,’ Montebard replied, ‘but we think … Well, let me voice my suspicions. I believe that Walkyn, and possibly the witch Erictho, fled from Tripoli by sea. At this moment they are journeying back to England, or may have even reached those shores. There is a risk, a real danger, that they may try and inflict hideous damage against King Stephen or his cause. As you know, the civil war in England between Stephen and his kinsman Henry Fitzempress is like an open sore on the body of that kingdom.’ Montebard paused. He glanced quickly at Boso. ‘Dominus Tremelai was very, very anxious that the House of Temple increase its power and influence in England. King Stephen has proven to be a good friend, granting us properties in London and elsewhere. You can see the path I am following? I do not want the Templar name besmirched by some assassin. To put it succinctly,’ Montebard pointed down the table, ‘Magister Boso here will be travelling back to England. You, Edmund de Payens, Philip Mayele, Richard Berrington, and yes, you, Master Parmenio, will accompany him. Your task will be twofold. First,’ he held up a hand, ‘to warn King Stephen of the danger. And second, to search out Walkyn, and execute him.’
PART TWO
ENGLAND AUTUMN 1153
Chapter 7
First of all he arrived at Wallingford with a great army …
‘Set, lock, loose!’
Edmund de Payens flinched as the catapult cups flew forward, casting their fiery missiles across the swollen waters of the Thames. A few fell short. Others smashed into the hordes of men massing on the far bank or, better still, engulfed portions of the pontoon bridge Henry Fitzempress’s men were trying to build. If successful, they could then destroy the fortress of Castle Gifford, which King Stephen had hastily constructed where the Thames flowed narrow around the town and dark mass of Wallingford Castle.
‘Once more.’ The knight banneret, his royal livery of red and gold all dirty, raised his sword and roared at the sweating men-at-arms. ‘Once more before sunset. Give the bastards a bloody compline, then first thing tomorrow, wake them for matins!’
The men laughed and cheered. Once again the catapults were primed and released their dreadful song; a scorching arc cut the dark-blue sky already shot red by the setting sun. De Payens leaned against the heavy wooden stockade and stared across the river.
‘All the same,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Killing and death! We love it, it’s in our blood, the very core of our being.’
‘To whom are you speaking?’
De Payens whirled around and stared down at Isabella Berrington, who stood, her lovely face almost hidden by the ermine-lined dark-green hood.
‘My lady, you should not be here.’ De Payens hastened down the ladder.
‘Nonsense, Edmund!’ She stepped closer, those beautifu
l, laughing eyes bright with mischief. ‘Richard says the enemy will never find our range. We are like children, aren’t we, standing around a mill pond taunting and teasing each other but doing no great harm.’
As if mocking her words, a massive boulder hurled by a catapult on the far bank crashed into the water, whipping spray up against the towering stockade fence. Isabella laughed and drew closer, clutching at de Payens as if frightened. He grasped her hand, kissed her fingers, then let her go.
‘Four months.’ He turned as if embarrassed, staring across the bailey at the long hall of plaster and wood. ‘Four months since we left Outremer. I never thought we’d reach safety, yet now here we are …’
They walked across the bailey, reminiscing for a while about the journey from Ascalon to Cyprus across the Middle Sea, journeying along road, river and mountain path. The weather had been good, high summer with only a few storms, whilst the letters sealed by Montebard had ensured comfortable lodgings and fresh food at Templar houses or Cistercian monasteries. Their two servants had fallen sick and had been left in a hospital outside Avignon. Parmenio had also contracted a fever, tossing and turning, shouting in Latin, babbling nonsense. Lady Isabella, with the help of a leech in a Benedictine infirmary, had nursed him back to health. In the main they had travelled as strangers to each other, often separating depending on passage aboard ships or delays caused by horses and ponies casting a shoe. When they did meet they concentrated on the daily tasks facing them rather than what was to happen in England. Now that they were here, they seemed at a loss.
Isabella and de Payens paused by the main gate leading out of the castle. Torches were being lit. Scullions, servants and grooms hastened about, preparing the evening meal or settling the horses for the night.
‘Edmund?’
He blinked and stared down at that lovely face, as he had done often through their journey. He was fascinated by her strange violet-blue eyes, the constant smile. Isabella was full of sunlight and joy. Indeed, he conceded, she was the true fair lady of the legend: beautiful, enticing, formidable, but locked in her own silver tower, its doors sealed not only by herself but by his vows of obedience and chastity. The tension her presence caused often irked his waking hours and plagued his sleep.
‘My lady, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re always dreaming.’ She stood on tiptoe and tapped his cheek with one gloved hand. ‘Master Baiocis and my brother sent me. You are not part of this war, Edmund; the house of the Temple is not to become involved.’
‘We are involved,’ de Payens retorted, ‘simply because we are here. I had to see, but in truth, war here is no different from war elsewhere. Anyway,’ he tried to brighten his mood, ‘why send a lady?’
‘Because I wanted to come, and I do have an escort: the ever-watchful Mayele,’ she added impishly. ‘He now awaits us.’
De Payens collected his horse from the stables and, wrapping the reins around his hands, led his mount under the makeshift gateway across the fetid-smelling moat and down the ramp where Mayele slouched on his horse, Isabella’s palfrey busy cropping the grass beside it. There was the usual banter and teasing, before de Payens helped Isabella into the saddle, then mounted his horse as Mayele listed the news. Master Baiocis, whom Mayele secretly called ‘the Toad’, needed them in the refectory of Wallingford Priory. Apparently King Stephen, his son Eustace and two of his leading advisers – Henry Murdac, Archbishop of York, and Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton – would join them for a splendid feast now being prepared by the priory kitchens.
‘The King, His Grace,’ Mayele made a mocking flourish with his hand, ‘wants to question us and, I suppose, find answers. None of which we will be able to give.’
De Payens half listened to Mayele’s biting criticism of the anxious busyness of the Toad. They’d had little time to speculate during their arduous journey. Baiocis had been plagued with fears that Walkyn might already have reached England and be carrying out his malicious mischief. In fact, despite their haste and the bone-jarring crossing on board the cog that had brought them safely into Dover, they had discovered nothing about the malignant they were pursuing. The constable and harbourmasters at Dover held no record of Walkyn entering the kingdom. Baiocis, using his authority, had sent letters to other ports and harbours. They had waited at Dover for a reply whilst they all recovered from crossing the Narrow Seas, a terrifying experience. A summer storm had swept the waves, spinning the cog, making its timbers creak and groan in protest. Once ashore, they rested at a pilgrims’ tavern, the Good Samaritan, drying out their possessions, eating, and hiring horses. The lack of news about Walkyn depressed them, but Baiocis proudly announced that as he was now back in his own English bailiwick of the Temple, he had authority over the small preceptories throughout the kingdom, the principal one being the moated fortified manor of the Temple in the parish of St Andrew’s, Holborn, just north of the Thames. Accordingly messengers were also dispatched to London and elsewhere demanding information on Walkyn. The replies arrived after they’d left Dover, intent on joining King Stephen as swiftly as possible. No one reported anything about the man they were hunting. This only heightened Baiocis’ anxieties as they became immersed in events happening around them.
The civil war between King Stephen and his kinsman Henry Fitzempress was intensifying, as each strove to bring his opponent to battle and utterly destroy him. Stephen had chosen to attack the Fitzempress fortress at Wallingford, a strategic stronghold controlling both the Thames and the main roads through the kingdom. He had laid siege, building Castle Gifford to block all routes, hoping to provoke Henry to march to Wallingford’s relief and so decide matters in a set battle. ‘Tired swordsmen circling each other’ was how Mayele described the conflict. The signs of war were obvious as they rode north: burned villages, deserted fields and sinister bands of armed men who quietly melted away at the sight of the piebald standard and pennants of the Temple. Troops trudged the roads, war carts and siege machines rattling behind them. Black columns of smoke dirtied the blue summer sky. Distant red smudges of flickering fires lighted the darkness of the night. Scaffolds and gibbets were commonplace, well stocked with rotting corpses. Even so, de Payens was much taken with the strange new countryside, a blessed cool relief after the ever-scorching fly-blown heat of Outremer. Berrington and Mayele were delighted to be home, revelling like pilgrims who had reached their chosen shrine. Parmenio, about whom de Payens had remained suspicious, acted the surprised traveller, though now and again the Genoese made mistakes, mere slips of the tongue, which made de Payens wonder if he had not visited this island of mist before. For the rest, de Payens secretly marvelled at the dark coolness, the abrupt change of sun to rain, the clouds that swept the sunshine across open fields of brown and gold, the well-stocked, clear streams, the forests and woods stretching like an ocean of green to the far horizon.
On one occasion after leaving Dover, he tried to count the different shades of green alone and became lost in their beauty. Uncle Hugh had visited these islands some thirty years before, and de Payens realised why the Temple was so eager to stretch its roots deep in such a rich and fertile land. Nevertheless, the kingdom also possessed a haunting eeriness, particularly in its woods and forests, which recalled the stories of Grandmother Eleanor: mysterious places of sudden noises, of bracken and grass moving as if some silent terror crawled beneath them. Trees, ancient as the world, their branches curling up above him to stretch black against the sky. Flower-filled glades where birds of every colour swooped, and beyond these, marshes, swamps and stagnant pools quiet as the grave, as if some noonday horror had swept over them. Ancient rocks and ruins where priests had once worshipped sinister gods were commonplace. Mayele heightened the mood with stories about the wild woodland being the haunt of goblins, sprites and other phantasms, legends about the grotesque gargoyles who lived deep in these woods, ever ready to prey on the weary traveller. He told these tales winking at Lady Isabella whilst watching de Payens’ face. The Templar carefully hid his own
fears, but at night the stories darkened his sleep, and nightmares surfaced about being lost in such a place without horse or arms, having to flee through darkening glades pursued by midnight shadows.
‘Edmund?’
He startled. Mayele and Isabella had reined in. They were almost through the royal camp pitched outside Castle Gifford, a sprawling collection of bothies and ox-hide tents around glowing fires. It was bat-winged time, and the night air was thick with the smell of cooking, and the rank odours from the latrine pits and horse lines.
‘Edmund,’ Isabella’s mocking tones recalled those of Nisam, ‘you’re dreaming again.’ She gestured at the camp. ‘Mayele believes this turmoil cannot last much longer. Henry Fitzempress must make peace. What do you think?’
They were still discussing the war when they passed under the cavernous fortified gate of Wallingford Priory into the great cobbled bailey housing the stables, forges, kitchens, sculleries and butteries. De Payens dismounted, ensured that an ostler tended his horse and found his way back to the narrow chamber allocated to him in the guesthouse. The bells of the priory tolled for vespers. He stripped off his armour, washed, put on his cloak and joined the brothers in the shadow-filled stalls of the church, a hallowed sanctuary of Caen stone full of pillars and arches, statues and gargoyles, where candlelight flickered eerily on the polished oak lectern and other furnishings. A bell chimed and the prior began the divine office: ‘Oh God, come to our aid …’
The brothers, cowled and hooded, chanted the reply: ‘Will you totally reject us? Will you no longer march with our armies … ?’
De Payens’ mind drifted back to that council chamber in Ascalon. Since then he had, as if learning a psalm, been through the logic of what he’d been told. The macabre murders in Jerusalem; the sightings of Erictho; the accusations against Walkyn and the evidence that proved them correct; Walkyn’s arrest and intended deportation to England; his escape and consequent attempts to ingratiate himself with the Assassins. De Payens pondered the possibility that Walkyn had been responsible for the murder of Count Raymond. It was logical: he could have stolen that medallion and those daggers from Hedad, all part of his plot to kill a great lord so as to stir up chaos for Tremelai, who, despite providing an escort, had been unable to prevent Count Raymond’s murder.