by Paul Doherty
‘Now God be thanked. Michael the Archangel, standard-bearer of the heavenly host, must have protected you.’
De Payens held the bleary, watery eyes of John Hastang, coroner of the City of London, who had swept into the Temple buildings three days after what he called the Great Battle of Queenshithe to finish his inquiries. De Payens leaned back against the bulky bolster of the narrow cot bed pushed into a corner of the infirmary.
‘How is the warrior now?’
‘Tired but better.’ De Payens glanced to where Mayele, Berrington, Isabella and Parmenio clustered just near the doorway.
‘Nothing but a slicing cut,’ Mayele grinned. ‘Another victory for the champion knight, not pinned this time beneath his horse on a forest trackway to be rescued by wood elves. No, no, Edmund, you confronted your enemies like a master swordsman.’
‘And no chantry priest,’ Isabella teased, ‘no forest people who arrived just in time. All down to your own mighty sword arm.’
Mayele and Isabella continued with their teasing until Hastang held a hand up for silence.
‘This is the domain of the Temple,’ he intoned formally, fingering the ave beads around his neck before taking a generous slurp from the wine goblet Isabella had pushed into his hands.
‘Dominus de Payens, you are the toast of all the taverns from Queenshithe to Galley Gate, to the Tower and beyond.’ He leaned forward in a gasp of rich claret. ‘Do you realise you killed eleven men?’
‘Who were they?’
‘Oh, my ruling as coroner,’ Hastang smiled, ‘is that their deaths were other than natural, but,’ he sniffed ‘they were richly deserved, richly deserved. You have, Master Templar, the grateful thanks of the City council. You were tricked, baited and trapped, or so they thought. The man who came here as Martin Fitzosbert? Nonsense! He was no clerk, but Peter the Pious, a natural counterfeit who could pose as a holy chantry priest or a devout monk. He was well known to me, the sheriffs and the beadles. He had a gift for lying beyond all others.’ Hastang stretched out a hand and touched de Payens gently on the side of his face. ‘Do not be ashamed. He has tricked and deceived many. He was the lure. He’ll pretend no more. You smashed his face and crushed his cunning brain. Morteval the murderer has been sought by my office for many a year. A professional assassin, Master Edmund, a knifeman, a sicarius, a creature of the night, responsible for more deaths than I have had hot suppers. Ah well, he’ll kill no more. Your blade emptied his throat.’ Hastang was clearly enjoying himself. ‘As for the dwarf, mine host in the Light in the Darkness? He was the purveyor of much unadulterated wickedness in this city; now he is gone to his eternal reward with a broken neck. Oh yes,’ the coroner smiled bleakly, ‘we have much to thank you for. Yet at the same time you are most fortunate.’
‘I was tricked, deceived.’
‘Undoubtedly. The proclamation against Walkyn has stirred the hearts of many.’
‘So why kill me?’
‘Now that I don’t know.’ Hastang, with his back to the others, suddenly narrowed his eyes, and de Payens realised the coroner was not the fool he pretended to be. ‘Whatever, Master Templar, somebody with a great deal of wealth wanted you dead. Any other swordsman would not have fared as well.’
‘But why?’ de Payens repeated.
‘Because we are hunting them,’ Berrington called out. ‘You and Parmenio are responsible. Our enemy now knows that.’ He came and crouched beside the bed, his narrow, high-cheekboned face all serious. ‘An elaborate strategy, Edmund. Walkyn hired counterfeit men and assassins to kill you because you are hunting him.’ He paused. ‘Mayele was also attacked outside London. Ribauds, hooded and masked, tried to unhorse him on the road through Woodford. I have been followed in the city. Walkyn must be furious. The king’s proclamations have turned every man against him. I’m sure he decided to strike first.’
Berrington patted de Payens on the shoulder and got to his feet. De Payens glanced at Isabella, radiantly beautiful, her fair hair hidden by a wimple and a gauze veil. She smiled through her tears of joy.
‘They failed.’ Parmenio, standing apart from the rest, walked forward and stared down at de Payens. ‘Nevertheless, Master Coroner is correct. Someone with great cunning and considerable wealth plotted that attack at Queenshithe.’
The coroner, slurping from his goblet, nodded vigorously.
‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Men were bought and bribed, promises made, threats issued.’
‘But we took no prisoners.’
‘None,’ the coroner agreed. ‘Your two serjeants, God rest them, were killed. The malefactors were butchered; those who survived died shortly afterwards, gabbling in their pain. Now it would take years, if ever, to discover who planned such a cunning trap. Peter the Pious was London’s most skilled counterfeit man. He would not have come cheaply. Anyway,’ the coroner pointed at Parmenio, ‘how did you know? If you had not arrived when you did …’
‘Observation.’ Parmenio chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Peter the Pious was advised that we were strangers, foreigners who would be deceived by his clerkly ways and innocent prattle, and we almost were. After you left,’ he fiddled with the gold ring on the little finger of his right hand, then pulled at the wooden cross around his own neck, ‘I recalled how English clerks always wore a cross or a set of ave beads around their necks. Above all, they wear a chancery ring emblazoned with the royal or city arms. After you had gone, I reflected. Peter the Pious had none of these; he’d dismissed us as ignorant foreigners. Now we’d all been very cautious, rarely leaving the Temple precincts, so it was logical that our enemy would have to lure us out. It was skilfully done. The charlatan had been carefully apprised about who we were searching for.’ He shrugged. ‘I concluded that if I’d made a mistake then nothing was lost, but if my suspicions were correct …’ He smiled. ‘I summoned the serjeants; thank God I arrived in time.’
Hastang got to his feet. Isabella pushed past him and sat on the stool the coroner had just vacated.
‘Leave Edmund alone.’ She spoke over her shoulder. ‘Let me have a few words with him.’ She grasped his hands, rubbing his fingers gently, smiling at him, waiting for the others to leave. Once they had gone, she began to chatter about her days spent at court, the beauty of St Peter’s Abbey and the elegance of the nearby royal hall. De Payens realised she was trying to distract him, and teased back about how he’d heard the king was much taken with her beauty and grace. He hid his own spasm of jealousy and listened carefully to her descriptions, studying her hair and her beautiful face.
‘Why?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Why what?’ she mocked back.
‘You’re not married,’ he declared. ‘You wander the face of God’s earth like a pilgrim.’
‘What am I, Edmund?’ She leaned forward. ‘Well, when you left Jerusalem for Hedad, going down the Streets of Chains, I saw you dressed in your white mantle, felt cap on your head, Parmenio going before you, Mayele riding behind. You sat on your horse like a man, determined, dedicated and purposeful. The same is true of my brother and others in the Temple.’ She leaned closer. ‘I am no different. My brother and I were raised in the manor of Bruer in Lincolnshire. As with you, our parents died when we were young. We were brought up together. Richard always wanted to be a knight, a paladin. Above all, he and I wanted to escape the flat green landscape of Lincolnshire, the boring meetings of the manor, shire and guildhall. You’ve seen this country, Edmund. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes cold and wet, riven by civil war. Richard and I were restless, and once we began to wander, we could not stop.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Now, listen to this. It’s a minstrel song I learned at court.’ And without further ado, she began to sing in a sweet, melodious voice.
De Payens looked forward to such visits, though they became rare as the weeks passed. Winter in all its bleakness set in. Advent came. The Temple prepared for the great feast of Christmas. Green boughs, sprigs of holly and mistletoe, alongside Christmas roses, decorated the walls and
doorways. A chantry priest from the nearby church of St Andrew came every morning to lead them in the haunting O antiphons, whilst a wandering troupe of players was hired to re-enact the story of the Annunciation and the birth of Christ. De Payens’ leg healed quickly enough, and he busied himself with walking about, going down to the smithies and carpenters with his sword, dagger and hauberk, all damaged after the ferocious fight in Queenshithe. The scabbard had to be replaced, his sword given a new grip, its pointed edge sharpened, links in the chain-mail hauberk repaired. The hunt, now led by Parmenio and Mayele, continued, but Walkyn proved elusive. Hastang, the coroner, was also zealous in his pursuit of the malefactors. He’d taken a great liking to de Payens and was a constant visitor to the Temple precincts. On one occasion, Hastang and Parmenio visited the Sanctuary of St Mary at Bow, near Cheapside. A wolfshead who’d taken sanctuary was suspected of being involved in the attack on de Payens at Queenshithe, but the outlaw who gripped the edge of the altar was a common malefactor who could tell them nothing.
A sharp-tongued, keen-eyed hawk of a man, Hastang hid his busy wits beneath a mask of diffidence. He and de Payens became firm friends. The coroner was openly delighted at what he referred to as ‘the extirpation of a deadly nest of hell’s residents’. He openly rejoiced that the Light in the Darkness had now been seized by the city for its own profits.
‘A Light in the Darkness!’ he scoffed. ‘More like a darkness deeper than the rest. Believe me, Edmund,’ he wagged a finger, ‘that tavern was the root of a great deal of evil. More murder and mayhem were plotted there than in the very heart of hell.’ He shook his head. ‘Whoever organised that attack on you had a great deal of gold.’ He rubbed his face, then winked at the Templar. ‘They hired the best. Morteval was killed, as were assassins wanted in at least fifteen shires, men with rewards on their head, professional killers.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘I tell you this, Edmund, if you were to walk back into Queenshithe, no one would dare approach you.’
De Payens grew to trust Hastang, and was flattered when the coroner invited him to supper in his narrow townhouse, which stood squeezed between two splendid mansions fronting Cheapside, the main trading thoroughfare of the city. Domina Beatrice, the coroner’s wife, was comely, much younger than her husband, the proud mother of two little girls. She became fascinated by the Templar. At their regular suppers she would question him constantly about Outremer, Jerusalem, the sacred sites, the customs and dress of various people. In turn, Hastang would regale de Payens with stories about the twilight world of the city, the strumpet-mongers, pimps, night-roamers, ruffians and ribauds who swarmed like rats along the alleyways of London. He described in detail the evening chepes, the illegal markets that flourished after curfew had been sounded. A time of bartering and selling in the garrets and tenements of the night-dwellers, who offered stolen goods for sale, then gambled and whored from compline to the bell for the first mass at dawn.
‘I have raided such places,’ the coroner confided to de Payens. He held up a warning hand. ‘I have shaved the heads of harlots, forced them to wear striped hoods and carry white wands to Cock Lane. I have pilloried their pimps, locked them in a cage at the Tun or at the Compter near Newgate. Even more telling, I offered to pardon all their crimes if they could tell me about Walkyn. Yet,’ he shook his head, ‘nothing! Oh, that malignant and his coven may well lurk here in the city, but no one knows anything about them.’ He pulled a face. ‘Your Genoese friend? The one who saved you? That’s a different matter.’ He leaned across the table and filled de Payens’ goblet, his sharp face illuminated by one of the glowing candles. He paused, as if listening to Dame Beatrice laughing with their daughters in the small solar above them. De Payens quickly glanced around the room, with its neatly stacked chests and coffers, a small fire under a mantled ledge, its coloured wall cloths, the shelves and pewter pots fastened against the pink-plastered walls, the thick turkey rugs on the floor. A most comfortable chamber, its narrow, horn-filled windows firmly shuttered against the cold; chafing dishes and copper braziers proving resolute defenders against the bitter night air.
‘Oh yes.’ The coroner tapped the side of his nose. ‘The Genoese is a foreigner who has been noticed, his appearance carefully scrutinised. London is not so large as to forget the likes of him, and the whispers float from ward to ward.’
‘What are you saying?’ De Payens was aware that the coroner was preparing an accusation. ‘Master Hastang,’ he lifted his cup in toast, ‘I travel with my companions; that doesn’t mean I trust them.’
‘I may have it wrong, Edmund, but your Genoese friend slips in and out of the Temple like a ghost. He is sometimes seen along the wharves, particularly when a cog or carrack, usually Venetian, has completed its long, arduous voyage from Outremer. On occasion he has been glimpsed deep in conversation with a monk, a Cistercian.’
‘A Cistercian?’ De Payens scratched his chin with his thumb. ‘Someone from Outremer?’
‘More likely from Normandy. The information I received was that the monk may have slipped into Dover then travelled north. Now, why should the Genoese be meeting such people? Somebody is sending him messages. I thought you should know.’
On that particular evening, Hastang made the Templar reflect not just on the mysterious Parmenio but about the whole sinister world he had entered. He could not break the oath he’d sworn to the Grand Master in the council chamber at Ascalon and divulge the full truth behind his mission to England, yet he could describe the heinous slayings at Wallingford and Bury St Edmunds. The coroner proved to be a shrewd observer. Now and again he interrupted with the odd question, which made it clear that he had always suspected the Templars were involved in secret machinations, though he kept his own counsel on that. He listened fascinated as de Payens described the poisonings of Baiocis, Eustace, Northampton and Murdac. Once the Templar had finished, the coroner pointed to a slender beeswax candle burning brightly on its copper spigot.
‘When I was a boy, a lad no taller than a flower, my father used to set me a puzzle in our church during Lent. Twelve candles were placed before the rood screen – they represented the Apostles. Eleven of them were pure beeswax; the twelfth, depicting Judas the traitor, was false. To the naked eye, each was a fresh column of wax, but one of them was counterfeit. My father used to instruct me on how to discover the Judas candle.’
‘And did you?’
‘Eventually, yes. Simply by close scrutiny and examination, a slight flaw in the whiteness, the curl of the wick …’
Hastang lifted his cup.
‘So it is with the Sons of Cain, Edmund. In this city, wives poison husbands, husbands kill rivals, if not in hot blood then through a great deal of craft and guile. They hide behind an illusion, a pretence; they bring about a mishap that really masks hideous murder. It is the same with these deaths. Ask yourself what truly happened. Did Baiocis drink the poison at that meal? Ah,’ he grinned, ‘I see you already have suspicions about that. And the prince? If the jug of wine wasn’t tainted, was it something else? The cups? And those attacks on you in the forest and at Queenshithe? Use your wits, Edmund! Reflect. Who knew you were going there? God did not intend you to be a dumb ox.’
On his return to the Temple, de Payens carefully recalled everything that had happened, listing events whilst trying to curb his own growing disquiet. He dared not confide in anyone. Indeed, Berrington and his sister were often absent at Westminster, whilst Mayele had been dispatched on business here and there. Berrington was keen to collect all monies and rents due to the Temple exchequer, and Mayele’s task was to journey to the various holdings to remind the bailiffs of their obligations and demand immediate payment. On one matter de Payens agreed with Berrington and Mayele. Two serjeants had been killed at Queenshithe, and the remainder were needed elsewhere, so Berrington hired a comitatus of mercenaries, hard-bitten veterans, to serve as Mayele’s escort.
The days passed. Candlemas came and went, and on the morrow of the great feast, Hastang and his retinu
e of burly city bailiffs swept into the Temple. Berrington and Isabella had gone to join the court at Baynard’s Castle, whilst Parmenio had yet again disappeared on one of his mysterious errands. The coroner, cowled and muffled against the biting cold, whispered how that was just as well, and would de Payens accompany him? The Templar immediately agreed, even though the coroner remained tight-lipped about their destination. He asked de Payens not to wear any Templar insignia, offering the heavy brown cloak worn by the rest of his retinue. De Payens put this on, pulling the hood over his head, and they left the Temple precincts, hurrying along the murky lanes down to the riverside. The sharp breeze made de Payens flinch; though his leg wound had healed, he limped slightly. He glanced up: the rib of sky between the overhanging buildings was a dull grey. For a brief while he pined for the sun and heat of Outremer, his home for the last twenty-six years, yet at the same time he was elated at the feeling of being close to a friend, a comrade he truly trusted. He felt as if he had come home, no longer the obedient servant sent here and there with little or no explanation offered. Yet he must remember that this place too was dangerous. London was a trap, and in the shadows lurked his enemies.