by Paul Doherty
‘I think all three goblets contained poison,’ the leech declared. ‘The jug is drained, so it’s difficult to tell.’
‘Domine?’
De Payens turned. The captain of the mercenaries had taken off his helmet and pushed back his mailed coif to reveal a narrow scarred face, his red hair shaven on all three sides.
‘Yes?’ the Templar asked.
‘Domine, the jug was brought by a lay brother; he is outside. I tasted the wine before it was taken in.’ He spread his hands. ‘I feel no ill effects.’
‘And the goblets?’ Berrington asked.
‘They must have been here before,’ the captain replied, ‘but surely if such noxious potion was in them, His Grace the Archbishop would have noticed. Once I had tasted the wine,’ he continued, ‘I allowed the lay brother in. His Grace took the flagon and filled all three goblets. The prince and the earl were already seated. They say,’ the captain’s voice turned ugly as he pointed at the abbot, ‘that the prince was cursed by St Edmund for plundering his abbey, in which case …’
‘In which case,’ de Payens intervened quickly, ‘we’d best leave St Edmund alone. Bring in the lay brother.’
The old abbey retainer could add little to what they already knew. Trembling with fright, he announced that he worked in the buttery. He had drawn the wine in the presence of the cellarer, who could confirm this. He had then immediately carried the flagon to the prince’s chamber. No one had approached him. The captain on guard outside had taken a generous sip, then he had brought the jug in. The prince had immediately demanded a goblet; the archbishop had obeyed, and as he poured the wine, the lay brother had withdrawn. The captain confirmed this, adding that no one else had entered the chamber.
Berrington took the goblets and put them on a tray. He picked this up and bowed to the abbot.
‘Reverend Father, I will take these to the infirmary, where His Grace the Archbishop lies. He may be able to tell us more. Captain, I order you on your loyalty, tell your men to remain settled. Further disturbance will not help. Father Abbot, once we have talked to His Grace, I will need the use of your chancery, the abbey messengers and the fastest horses from your stables. The captain here will provide an escort. They are to leave, search out the king and advise him about what has happened here. Now …’
Carrying the tray, Berrington led them down to the dark-beamed, white-walled infirmary. The leeches’ assistants were busy in the principal chamber, tending the archbishop. Berrington put the tray of goblets down and they all went in, except for a pale-faced Isabella, who simply sank down on a bench outside. Mayele saw this and went back to her. The rest gathered around Murdac’s bed. The archbishop had been purged and fed with a concoction of herbs and salted water to make him retch; the room stank of vomit. The archbishop, his ghost-white face sheened with sweat, was conscious, eyelids fluttering. The abbot crouched on a stool by his bed and talked softly; the archbishop, voice weak, murmured his replies, which the abbot translated.
‘He filled both goblets and his own. The prince declared that he was thirsty, as did Northampton. They drained the wine and demanded the goblets be refilled. His Grace obeyed, then sipped his own. A short while later, even as he felt the first symptoms, the prince and the earl became violently ill. Both claimed they were choking.’
The abbot patted the cold, vein-streaked hand; Murdac whispered some more.
‘He tells the same story of how the wine was served.’ The abbot sighed. ‘He smelled nothing remarkable. He now wants to be away from here, to be taken back to his favourite manor in Dorset.’
That day and the succeeding ones were filled with frenetic activity. De Payens, with the help of the abbey coffers, negotiated with the prince’s mercenaries to withdraw south and join the king in London, leaving a small retinue to guard the dead. The two corpses were washed, embalmed and blessed, then laid out in state before the abbey high altar. Couriers were dispatched and received. The king, both distraught and angry, was careful not to allocate any blame; his letter explained how he was now involved in complicated negotations with Henry Fitzempress. He gave detailed instructions about how the Templars were to supervise his son’s corpse, which was to be taken with all solemnity to the family mausoleum at Faversham Abbey in Kent, where Eustace’s mother lay buried.
Common gossip around the abbey and amongst the prince’s retainers maintained that Stephen’s second son, William of Boulogne, would succeed as heir apparent. A few days later the proclamation of a lasting peace between Stephen and Henry Fitzempress dispelled such rumours. Both leaders had sworn great oaths. Stephen would remain king, whilst Henry Fitzempress would be solemnly adopted as his heir presumptive. Speculation grew rife. Berrington, lean face all puckered with concern, convened a meeting of his entourage to discuss the news. Mayele remarked ironically how Eustace’s death could not have occurred at a more favourable time; nor that of the fervent royalist Northampton, not to mention the grievous sickness of the Archbishop of York, who now lay at death’s door. All grudgingly conceded that the secretive, mysterious Walkyn had carried out a most successful revenge against Stephen and his family. Already the swift change of fortune was making itself felt. The abbot had dispatched couriers to congratulate Prince Henry. Berrington said he would do likewise, so as to win the new ruler’s approval for the Temple.
‘We are finished here,’ he proclaimed.
‘Finished?’ Mayele barked back.
‘I have reflected upon what Edmund said earlier,’ Berrington declared. ‘What more can we do? I could continue the hunt for Walkyn. I propose that Edmund and Parmenio be dispatched back to Outremer, bearing letters to our masters in Jerusalem describing what has happened here. I shall stay to reorganise the Temple holdings, contact the various preceptories and,’ he smiled thinly, ‘join everyone else in paying my respects to the new star rising in the east.’
‘And me, brother?’ Isabella asked. ‘If you wish, I could join Edmund …’
De Payens remained silent, lost in thought. He was tempted to accept what Berrington said, yet he felt irked at being used as a messenger boy.
‘I could leave as well,’ Isabella repeated.
‘If I want to go,’ de Payens retorted.
‘If he should go,’ Parmenio added.
They were sitting in the Petit Paradis; now the Genoese rose swiftly to his feet, clearly agitated.
‘Brother?’ Berrington demanded.
‘I am not your brother,’ Parmenio retorted. ‘I, we, you, Edmund, we all hold a commission to hunt down Walkyn and whatever malignants have joined his coven and kill them all; those are the orders of our Grand Master.’
‘But,’ Berrington interrupted, ‘I can continue the hunt. Mayele can assist. Earlier, both you and de Payens said you wanted to leave. I thought this would be an honourable compromise.’
‘That was before,’ Parmenio repeated heatedly. ‘We wondered if Walkyn had come to England. Now we know the truth. We have witnessed at first hand his mischief. Moreover, Stephen is still king. We have told him why we are here. Should some of us leave now and give up the task because Walkyn has succeeded? I do not think King Stephen would reconcile himself to that. The situation is now more serious. If we had left before these murders, that would have been tolerable, but now we are committed. The king may not even give us licence to leave. Whatever, I will not return, not yet.’ He glanced at de Payens. ‘Edmund,’ he pleaded, ‘at Ascalon I saved your life. On this matter, I beg you: we must stay, at least for a while.’
De Payens, intrigued by the Genoese’s passionate appeal and convinced by his logic, nodded in agreement. Deep in his heart he also felt resentment at the way Berrington had decided how matters should be. True, earlier he had wished to return to Outremer, but that had been anger. Now Eustace and Northampton were dead, whilst Murdac was dying. Surely such deaths should be avenged? It was too late to leave now. Berrington looked as if he wanted to argue the case, but then he pulled a face and passed on to other matters, such as supplies, an
d the need to return to London to collect revenues from the Templar coffers. The meeting ended, each going their different ways. De Payens tried to draw Parmenio into conversation, but the Genoese simply murmured that he had said enough for a while.
The days flew by. In the middle of September, the Templars, with full panoply, escorted the embalmed corpses of the prince and Northampton to Faversham Abbey for their solemn interment. The king was present, as was Henry Fitzempress. The Angevin was red-haired, florid-faced, heavily built, with the long arms of a born swordsman. One hand rested on his dagger, the other on a very tall, pale-faced, dark-haired cleric whom Berrington whispered was Thomas à Becket, a clerk well known in both London and Kent. King Stephen met them in the Galilee porch of Faversham abbey church. He welcomed them coldly, though he thawed as Lady Isabella expressed her own compassionate condolences. He declared that they’d done enough to protect his son, but added that they must be in London around the Feast of the Confessor, in the middle of October, when they could account for what had truly happened before the Great Council.
The following day they returned to Bury St Edmunds. Berrington became busy over their departure for Westminster. Isabella helped him, Mayele being used as a courier. De Payens, left to his own devices, wandered the abbey. He became accepted by the good brothers as a royal guest, a fellow monk from a different order. De Payens worked hard to make himself at home in that cavernous, sprawling house of prayer. He often strolled through the great cloisters, reciting his beads. He visited the long dark nave of the church, and joined the monks in the library or scriptorium, where their precious manuscripts were chained to polished lecterns. He chattered to the abbey chroniclers, who sat with sharpened quills and freshly brushed vellum, ink horns at the ready, their great writing benches littered with parchment knives, wax, pots of paints and curls of ribbon. He assembled with the good brothers in their stalls for matins, lauds and the rest of the sacred hours. He immersed himself in the daily horarium in the abbey, even helping where he could in the stables and forges, whilst using such occasions to probe events around the death of the prince. In the end he discovered nothing new. The brothers whispered behind their hands how Eustace’s death was the work of St Edmund, who had inflicted punishment on the prince for his sins. They also murmured about Parmenio: how the Genoese was prying into the murderous affray that had taken place in their abbey, though keeping himself very much aloof from them.
De Payens had to agree. Parmenio had grown estranged from his companions, often absenting himself from the guesthouse refectory. Berrington and Mayele commented on that, but ignored Parmenio, as if he were no longer a member of their retinue, resentful at his opposition to Berrington’s wishes. Isabella grew cooler, whilst her brother concentrated on Templar business, being visited day and night by couriers and messengers. Berrington voiced his suspicion that Walkyn might have hidden himself in London, and announced that they would journey there as soon as possible to resume the hunt. In the meantime, other business demanded his attention.
De Payens considered spying on Parmenio, but dismissed this as dishonourable. The Genoese had his own business, and de Payens decided that little could be done until they moved to London. Instead, struck by the beauty of the countryside, he took to riding out along the trackways, turning off into the nearby forest to admire the gradual change of the riot of greenery to a feast of brown and gold as autumn swept in. He was fascinated by the constant turmoil of life: the bracken snapping and crackling as fox, hare, rabbit, squirrel and other creatures burst their way through, hunting for food or each other; the ever-present canopy above him, always alive with the fluttering and calls of birds; the darkness on either side of the trackway where the great trees clustered so close, only to abruptly open on to sun-washed glades sprinkled with wild flowers; swift, narrow streams that bubbled vigorously into meres, pools and ponds.
On his rides, de Payens became aware of other sights, dark, fleeting figures. The good brothers laughingly assured him that these were only forest people – charcoal-burners, poachers from nearby villages, woodsmen – not the hags, elves and gargoyles of popular legend. De Payens found such outings comforting, as he reflected on what had happened since that dies irae in Tripoli almost a year ago. It provided him with an opportunity to probe the dogging sense of unease about the search for a warlock whom he had never known or seen.
On the feast of St Dionysius, he decided to ride out again. He attended the dawn mass for that illustrious martyr, then broke his fast at the ale table in the buttery, where Brother Grimaldus cheerfully provided sustenance for his journey with a linen bag containing bread, cheese, apples, some dried meat and fresh plums. De Payens collected his horse from the stables, and within a short while was deep in the dense copse of trees, broken by glades ringed by ancient stones. He had grown accustomed to the forest sounds, and became deep in thought about the tangle of mysteries. He wondered if the abbey library could help translate the cipher still in the small leather pouch on a cord around his neck. Memories from the past came and went: Parmenio in that Greek church in Tripoli, darting forward with a dagger; Mayele loosing arrows so deadly against his chosen victims; Nisam in his garden pavilion staring at him sadly; Baiocis dying in the refectory. The Templar recalled how the master had looked ill from the beginning of that meal, clutching his goblet as if already anticipating his death. Then Eustace and Northampton struck down so swiftly, but how? The abbey leech had later reported that the archbishop’s goblet was definitely laced with some noxious potion, but the other cups, drained even of the dregs, were a mystery as he could detect no real taint.
De Payens broke from his reverie and tightened his reins at sounds behind him different from the rest. He paused, staring around as if studying the trees, then he glimpsed them: three small, dark shapes moving on the other side of the glade. He rode into the trees and slipped from his horse, quietly urging it on as he slid into the tangled undergrowth. He undid his war belt, drew his dagger and waited, motionless. Three small figures came darting down the path. De Payens lunged and caught one, grasping the small body around the waist. Despite the screams and yells, he held his prisoner fast, then grinned at the bright eyes and dirty face glaring at him through a tangle of black hair. He laughed and put the little girl down. She backed away, eyes rounded in fear, then paused at the sight of the silver medal, a likeness of the Virgin, which de Payens always carried in the wallet on his belt.
‘Come,’ he beckoned, ‘take.’
The girl chattered back. De Payens couldn’t understand what she said. He beckoned her again, crossed himself and leaned over. She grasped the medal and he let her take it. Then he got to his feet, strapped on his war belt and walked slowly down the snaking path to where his horse was cropping the grass. He undid the pannier, took out the linen parcel of food and turned. Three children now stood on the trackway with the sunlight behind them, little black shadows holding each other’s hands. De Payens felt a stab of self-pity tinged with envy. He had never experienced that; no brother or sister, just Theodore and the formidable Eleanor. He quickly murmured a prayer of thanksgiving for that, undid his wallet and took out two more of the shining medals. Then he unclasped his cloak, spread it on the trackway, put the medals in the middle and undid the linen bag. The children, dirty faces almost hidden by tousled black hair, came and knelt opposite him. He pointed to the medals, then quietly drew his dagger, and ignoring their gasps cut the food into four portions. Little arms snaked across, each seizing their portions as well as the medals. De Payens closed his eyes, crossed himself and murmured the Benedicite. When he looked again, all three children were pushing the food, a mixture of apple, bread, cheese and meat, into their mouths, large eyes rounded in pleasure. De Payens laughed. He talked to them but they couldn’t understand. Instead they made the sign of the cross and crammed the plums into their mouths. Once finished, they wiped their mouths on the back of their hands and patted their stomachs. De Payens rose. He sketched a blessing, put on his cloak, remounted and ro
de on. When he turned in the saddle to wave, all three had disappeared.
Chapter 9
King Stephen returned in great glory to London.
Eventually de Payens reached another glade, and on the breeze came the distant tolling of the heavy abbey bells. He decided to return following the same path back. The sun was in his eyes, sparkling through the interlaced canopy of trees. He reached the place where he’d fed the children, reined in and looked down just as a burst of bird wing alerted him. His hand went to his sword even as the crossbow bolt whirled by his face, its feathered quarrel almost brushing his skin. Another skimmed over his head. He pulled on his reins, and his horse reared. A third bolt, whirring like some deadly bird, plunged into the animal’s neck, sending it squealing and kicking before collapsing in agony. De Payens pulled his feet out of the stirrups, crawling away as the horse lashed out in its death throes. He gazed around. His left leg was hurting, his back and arms bruised by the fall. He drew both sword and dagger and glanced pityingly at the horse, a good mount now sprawled in a pool of blood, limbs twitching. He stared ahead and glimpsed shadows moving. These were no common outlaws, who’d be too poorly armed to attack an armed knight. Moreover, the ambush had been carefully prepared. They had waited for him to return, with the sun in his eyes. Professional assassins, hired killers, probably four or five of them, because the bolts had all been loosed in swift succession. As he tried to reach a tree, so that he could at least protect his back, the bracken crackled and snapped. The assassins were drawing close. Abruptly a horn sounded, a long, carrying blast. The undergrowth behind him rustled. Arrows sped over his head in the direction of his hidden attackers. Again the horn blast. Men armed with spears and clubs were threading through the trees on either side of him. One turned and hurried towards him, hand up in the sign of peace.