The Templar Magician

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And why should my brother be so keen to take Walkyn?’ Isabella asked, regaining her composure.

  De Payens secretly marvelled how easily she could replace one mask with another, so skilled in deceit! ‘You know that already,’ he retorted. ‘You and Berrington must have discussed it often enough. You’d been out of England for some time. You were tired of Jerusalem, wary of how close and narrow a place it was. How dangerous it was for you, vulnerable to capture. You wanted to return to your old haunts. You were now in a position of power. Berrington and Mayele were Templars. Once you returned to England, you could remove Baiocis, which you did, and exploit his death for your own secret purposes: chief amongst these was your deep, fervent desire for revenge against King Stephen, who’d brought about the downfall of Mandeville, your protector.’

  ‘Brother!’ Mayele scoffed.

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ De Payens gestured at Berrington. ‘Tremelai was only too pleased to commit Walkyn to you, to see him disappear back to England. You left Jerusalem. Walkyn, manacled and chained, was guarded by two serjeants.’ He glared at Berrington. ‘Was that your idea? To ask for two guards, a fairly paltry escort? Easier to kill? Your sister was left behind in Jerusalem. She would follow you to Tripoli and join you there, or so you publicly proclaimed. Everything was planned, safe enough. Who would dare to attack the Temple?’ He waved at Isabella. ‘You would! Once out in the lonely wasteland, you, Berrington, turned on those serjeants. You murdered both of them, as well as Walkyn. Afterwards, Isabella hurried back to Jerusalem to act the lonely sister, whilst her brother remained free to continue his plotting.’

  ‘So I followed my brother?’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘I wandered the desert?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ de Payens retorted. ‘I can imagine that camp: Walkyn by himself, the two serjeants busy. Were all three given some opiate, a poison? You’re skilled in physic, my lady, you proved that on our journey to England. Were they drugged before their throats were slit and the lady Isabella, accompanied by Mayele, entered the camp to check all was well? To remove weapons, clothes and horses? Ensure that Berrington was ready to move on to the next part of your plan?’

  ‘I was in Chastel Blanc!’ Mayele shouted.

  ‘No you weren’t – you would have been on one of your many journeys as a messenger. Who would suspect if you took a day or two longer?’

  ‘But why kill Walkyn?’ Berrington jeered. ‘He was supposed to be my reason for returning to England.’

  ‘Oh, for a number of reasons. Walkyn was innocent. I wonder if Tremelai had his doubts. The old Englishman William Trussell definitely did. What would Walkyn say if he was put on trial? He’d certainly had enough time to reflect on what had happened. Perhaps he too nourished his own suspicions about being used as a catspaw. He had to die. Second,’ de Payens spread his hands, ‘that’s why we are here, isn’t it? Henry Walkyn was the warlock, the sorcerer, the assassin who’d fled his captors and had a hand in the murder of Count Raymond before fleeing back to England to exact vengeance against the crown. Oh yes, Walkyn dead was much more valuable than Walkyn alive. He became the devil incarnate, the sinister will-o’-the-wisp who had to be hunted down. Tremelai, once he’d heard the news of Walkyn’s alleged escape, realised the terrible danger confronting him. A rogue Templar loose in this misty island, summoning up his coven to assist in the destruction of the king. Think of the damage that would do to the order’s reputation!’

  ‘And Tripoli?’ Parmenio asked.

  ‘Edmund, Edmund!’ Mayele still believed he could bluff his way out. ‘You were with me in Tripoli.’

  ‘So was Berrington,’ de Payens countered. ‘Here, your plot became more intricate. Walkyn and the two serjeants were dead. Berrington, you and your coven are against all authority. You had no love for the Temple. Tremelai had brought your refuge in Jerusalem to an abrupt end. You wanted to cause chaos, you would like that, but there were other more pressing reasons.’

  Berrington’s sneer could not hide his fear.

  ‘Some people are so evil,’ Parmenio interrupted, ‘that all they want to see is the world on fire. Everything turned upside-down! The flames of destruction all-consuming.’

  ‘Certainly you wanted revenge against the Temple,’ De Payens declared. ‘More importantly, you needed gold and silver.’

  Berrington opened his mouth for some jeering remark. Isabella made to rise. Hastang, fascinated by these revelations, shifted the primed arbalest. She and Berrington sat back in their chairs.

  ‘Yes, wealth!’ de Payens snapped. ‘You are a poor knight, a wanderer who wanted to return to England. Out in Outremer there are no abbeys to plunder or monasteries to attack. To do anything openly, such as ambush a caravan or a wealthy merchant, would be too dangerous; it would expose you. Tripoli, however, is wealthy; it is also a city bubbling with factions. Any disturbance might provide opportunities. How else could you acquire the wealth you’d need once you returned to England, to assemble your coven, pay assassins, buy potions, dress Isabella to be so appealing to the king? The hiring of barges, boats, horses and messengers, not to mention the purchase of weapons and food, all these cost money. You were determined to cause an uprising in Tripoli and create chaos, which you would exploit. You also wanted to continue the pretence that Walkyn was the villain, deepen Tremelai’s fears, make our Grand Master more amenable to pursuit, which would bring you into England.’ De Payens paused. Mayele had moved slightly, eyes hungry for his sword belt. De Payens sensed this would end in violence. Mayele would never surrender.

  ‘The murder of Count Raymond would be the cause of this chaos,’ de Payens continued. ‘Then, Berrington, you did something very audacious. You needed assassins, so, head and face shaved, you went to Hedad to speak to Nisam. You pretended to be Walkyn. The caliph would not know the difference, while you could sustain the pretence of being the rogue Templar on the prowl.’

  ‘Very dangerous,’ Mayele intervened. ‘I visited Hedad, remember?’

  ‘Not dangerous at all,’ de Payens retorted. ‘The Assassins, for all their reputation, are honourable. Berrington would be accepted as a guest, a petitioner. He offered them no threat. He was protected by the strict rules of hospitality. More importantly …’

  Parmenio held his hand up and glanced at de Payens, no longer distrustful but rueful, as if conceding to his own admiration. ‘You are a Templar.’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘Nisam would be very interested in your chatter, though he was also determined not to offend the Grand Master.’

  ‘Nisam refused you.’ De Payens took up the charge. ‘Nevertheless, once again you had blackened Walkyn’s name. You had linked Count Raymond’s murder with the rogue Templar. You started that rumour as part of your plot. After you were refused, you travelled on to Tripoli and decided on a more dangerous task: to hire your own assassins, lure them in with promises of plunder. You would use whatever wealth you had, the monies given to you by the Temple. You could hide behind a disguise; nevertheless, it was a perilous undertaking. Rumours began to drift about a knight, possibly a Templar, being involved in a hideous conspiracy, Parmenio heard these whispers and hastened into the city. Tremelai also learned of them and became more anxious, desperate about the escaped Walkyn, sick with worry about you, Berrington, and where you might be. More importantly, Count Raymond also suspected mischief.’ De Payens collected his thoughts. ‘I have no proof of this, but the count probably demanded the Temple’s protection against any threat. Who better to send than Philip Mayele, an English knight, and Edmund de Payens, scion of the noble founder of the Templar order, a mark of respect, an assurance of the Temple’s good wishes?’

  ‘Yet Count Raymond still died?’ Hastang spoke up.

  ‘Of course, there was nothing I could do to protect him. Mayele was part of the conspiracy. Mayele, my so-called brother knight, the messenger who often travelled between Chastel Blanc and Jerusalem. A man who undoubtedly,’ he ignored Mayele’s muttered curse, ‘used such occasions to meet secretly with his fel
low conspirators, especially the Lady Isabella.’

  Isabella gazed back stony-eyed. De Payens peered at the window. The day was fading. He gestured at Hastang.

  ‘Send one of your men outside to see that all is well.’

  The coroner obeyed. De Payens waited for the serjeant to return and nod his reassurance.

  ‘Count Raymond was murdered,’ de Payens continued, ‘and a massacre ensued, undoubtedly helped by you, Mayele. Berrington had chosen his intended victims: wealthy merchants, their coffers and caskets full of gold, silver and precious stones easily seized and secretly hidden away.’

  ‘And the assassins?’ Mayele asked.

  ‘You know what happened to them. You hunted them down. Those three men you silenced before the church where I was sheltering? They were the assassins, used then killed before they could prattle.’ De Payens stretched out his hand for a goblet brimming with wine, then remembered and drew back. ‘Nothing of course runs smoothly. You, Berrington, fled Tripoli. You decided to take refuge in the Turkish-held town of Ascalon, where you hoped to prepare the next part of your plot.’ De Payens shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that was, but you were busy. Meanwhile you, Lady Isabella, had already struck. You visited William Trussell. The old veteran had anxieties and suspicions of his own. He certainly doubted Walkyn’s guilt. You, madam, have a midnight soul, black and hard, a true slayer. You probably fed him some noxious potion …’

  Isabella simply stared at the goblet, and de Payens wondered if she’d intended him to die here. ‘Meanwhile,’ he cleared his throat, ‘Berrington in Ascalon prepared his own story in readiness for his return to Jerusalem. How he had escaped Walkyn’s murderous assault but been captured by desert wanderers, perhaps? Or forced to hide? Some fable for poor Tremelai that would, of course, precede a demand that Walkyn be pursued, even if it was to England.’ De Payens stopped talking as Hastang’s captain entered the hall. He stooped and whispered into the coroner’s ear. Hastang, surprised, murmured back and the man left. The coroner glanced at de Payens, gesturing that it could wait. Isabella glanced in alarm at Berrington. Mayele shifted on his chair. De Payens caught a tension, a real fear. These warlocks were trapped; it was best to leave matters in God’s hands and move to a conclusion. Judgement was waiting. He felt the ghosts cluster around him; all those murdered by these devil’s assassins had come to witness that judgement.

  Chapter 14

  The King caught a mild fever, sickened and so departed this life.

  ‘Nothing under God’s sun goes as we wish,’ de Payens declared. ‘You, Berrington, were plotting your next move on the chessboard, only to have everything upset. Baldwin III besieged Ascalon; Tremelai was there, urging on the attack. I wonder if the Temple, with its myriad of spies and legion of informers, had learned how a Templar was in Ascalon. Did Tremelai know that? Did he wonder if it was Walkyn, or perhaps Berrington, who had mysteriously disappeared? The rest you know. Ascalon fell, but Tremelai was killed. You, Berrington, emerged from the chaos, eager to carry on your mission by other means. An opportune moment! The Grand Master was dead, Trussell too. You could spin your tale, weave your lies. You had to leave for England. You were determined to bring Mayele and me with you. Mayele could keep me under your scrutiny, to ensure I suspected nothing about Tripoli and Hedad, and when the time was right, kill me. In your eyes I was a coney in the grass, a fool to be flattered by Isabella, patronised by Mayele and ordered about by you. My presence on the embassy to England would enhance your status. And if I was to die here, then it would be some unfortunate accident, or perhaps the work of the fugitive Walkyn.’

  ‘Berrington said you should leave,’ Mayele scoffed. ‘You wanted to journey back to Outremer, you and the prying Genoese.’

  ‘I was disgusted by Prince Eustace’s raids,’ de Payens countered. ‘A matter of hot temper rather than cold resolve. Oh,’ he gestured at Parmenio, ‘the prying Genoese as you call him must have been a thorn in your side. You didn’t know who he truly was – and why our masters had such confidence in him. I’m sure if an accident had befallen me he would have suffered a similar mishap. In the meantime, you could see I was not his true comrade. Parmenio was useful to you, a distraction for me, perhaps? True, you did want both of us to leave for Outremer, and why not? You had reached England. You had met with great success. You no longer needed either of us.’ De Payens laughed abruptly. ‘If we had left, I doubt we would have reached Dover alive. Your assassins would have seen to that.’ His gaze drifted around the hall. He noticed the tapestries, the paintings, some coloured canvas nailed to a piece of wood. He could see no crucifix, nothing of the Church. He also wondered what Hastang’s mercenaries had discovered in this temple of darkness.

  ‘What de Payens said is true.’ Parmenio spoke up. ‘I heard rumours about a conspiracy in Tripoli, about a Templar being involved. I saw what happened in that city, and was so angry I almost did what you would have liked: struck at de Payens. On reflection, it was remarkable how certain merchants’ houses were pillaged within a short while of Count Raymond’s death. Of course that was planned.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ de Payens continued, ‘Montebard was only too willing to send envoys to the English king. Baiocis would also be eager to leave. On our journey you were cunning; nothing happened. We landed in England and the pursuit of the mysterious, elusive Walkyn began. You, Berrington, furnished us with a fable about Walkyn landing at Orwell in Essex.’ He shook his head. ‘Nonsense! You became busy. Baiocis was the first to die; he had to! God knows what he might know or suspect, what secret records he kept.’

  ‘Edmund, Edmund!’ Mayele tapped the table. ‘You have missed one very important fact. You and I were sent to Hedad to question the caliph about the assassination of Count Raymond. Why would Tremelai do that if a Templar was suspected of being involved?’

  ‘It was logical.’ De Payens held Mayele’s gaze. ‘No one really knew who was responsible for the massacre in Tripoli. Tremelai still believed, indeed hoped, that he could lay the blame at the feet of the Assassins. After all, certain of their insignia, curved daggers, the red ribbons and the medallion, had been found. Of course, as Nisam said, such items can be purchased in any bazaar. Tremelai was also curious about the truth, and of course you would welcome that. There was nothing to lose and a great deal to gain by visiting Hedad.’

  ‘Baiocis?’ Hastang intervened. ‘You were talking about Baiocis?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was the first to die. He wasn’t poisoned at the banquet but sometime before. He was clutching his belly from the very start. In all that confusion in the priory refectory, one of you poisoned his goblet to create the impression that the poisoning occurred then. In one swift, ruthless blow you had what you wanted: Baiocis dead, a place at the royal board, as well as control over the English Temple. Prince Eustace, Senlis and Murdac were just as easy to kill. You followed them into your old haunts in the eastern shires. By now you were using your secret wealth to contact other members of your coven, hire assassins and buy poisons. At the abbey, Prince Eustace’s chamber overlooked the garden. One of you secretly entered through the window and smeared their goblets, a devastating blow against the crown: Stephen’s heir and two of the king’s most fervent supporters all murdered, the malicious work of Walkyn. Eustace and Senlis were wine-lovers; they drank swiftly. The second draught would clear all poison from their cups. Murdac of York was more temperate; his cup showed how it had been done. Eustace and Senlis died immediately; the archbishop didn’t die, but he was weakened, marked down for death. Don’t you remember, Berrington? You were so eager to remove that tray of cups and the flagon. You took it down to the infirmary. If Murdac had not been so moderate in his drinking, we might never have found the source of such dreadful poisonings.’

  De Payens thrust away the goblet on the table. ‘You continued your hunt. The king’s second son, William? I am sure your coven had a hand in his accident outside Canterbury. You could organise such a mishap: all those messengers supposedly dispatched
to the court, other Templar holdings or elsewhere, a marvellous device to communicate with members of your evil fraternity and plot further mischief, such as the attack on me in the forest.’ He pointed at Isabella. ‘As for you, fair of face and foul of heart, flirting with the king, sitting alone with him and, I am sure, poisoning his wine cup. What noxious potion did you feed him, a secret poison to rot his innards?’ He glanced quickly as Parmenio stirred. He was not finished with the Genoese, not yet, but that would have to wait. ‘The king will certainly die,’ de Payens continued, ‘in pain, great suffering, some malignancy in the gut or bowel, and then perhaps more civil war, which you can exploit. Or were you satisfied, Berrington? Your newfound status as master of the English Temple would certainly allow you to continue your secret life. I have witnessed your work in London and Borley: young wenches, poor souls! God knows what horrors they experienced. You are immersed in such practices, addicted to your secret rites. I doubt if you can help yourself, be it in London or on your journey to Essex …’

  Mayele began to clap, driving his hands together furiously. He sprang to his feet, the mocking applause echoing around the hall, and walked the length of the table. Hastang made to move, but de Payens made a sign to let it be. He suspected what Mayele intended, and welcomed it so as to give vent to his own rage. Mayele paused just before him and sat on the edge of the table.

  ‘And what proof, the evidence for all this?’ he jeered.

  ‘Really, Judas-brother,’ de Payens mocked back, ‘is that what it’s come to?’ He shrugged. ‘Proof enough. Walkyn is proof. A toper, a man given to wine and the joys of the flesh. Alienora was surprised at the proclamation issued against him. If he’d stood trial, others would have come forward to testify about his true character. So who is this Walkyn? Where is he? Can such a man really have the power and means to achieve what you three have done?’ He tapped the table. ‘Where is Walkyn, Mayele? Why did you kill those three men in Tripoli? And after the attack on me at Queenshithe, you and Isabella, as was your custom, were teasing me. You talked about my escape from that murderous assault in the woods outside the Abbey of St Edmund. You described my rescue. How did you know such details? I never told you. Which of you met with Baiocis before the banquet? Which of you poisoned that cup after Baiocis collapsed – when no one really cared to notice? And Isabella,’ he stared down at the witch, ‘how did you know which street I rode down as I left Jerusalem for Hedad? You actually mentioned the Streets of Chains. How could you know such a detail and remember it unless you were there, as you were, in your true guise as the witch Erictho, standing on the roof of that house glaring down at me? How would Walkyn know I was out in those woods, or journeying down to the Light in the Darkness at Queenshithe, or visiting Alienora? Strange: you three were always missing on such occasions. Moreover, who had the means, the knowledge, the wealth to hire assassins for such murderous assaults?’