by Ian Morson
‘The man has jealousies and hatreds of his own. And he is capable of magic – you saw it for yourself, when he made the cups fly, and cut himself to pieces up the rope, only to reappear whole. Why, I wouldn't put it past him to have murdered my Lord Chimbai himself.’
Falconer snorted. He didn't believe in magic, and knew that Yeh-Lu's tricks were effected by sleight-of-hand. Startling and mystifying they were, but in the end nothing more than illusions. Anyway, Yeh-Lu would truly have had to have been a necromancer to have killed Chimbai, because it would have required him to be in two places at once. The one fact that Falconer was sure of was that when Chimbai was being shot with bow and arrow Yeh-Lu had been in his own company. David's envy, and Yeh-Lu's secretiveness, did, however, assist him in their own way. If David were so keen to blame the innocent Yeh-Lu, whom he couldn't have known was with Falconer at the time of the murder, then what was he himself trying to conceal?
It could yet prove useful that the priest was his only way of communicating with the Tartar party. His constant presence while interrogating the others could be a way of verifying David's truthfulness and whereabouts during the murder and the fireraising. He grasped David's arm firmly, and felt the man flinch.
‘Come. I must speak with Guchuluk, and you must translate.’
David paled, and stammered over pronouncing the name of his new master. ‘Guch-Guch-uluk?’
‘What's the matter? Are you afraid of what he might say?’
David, who knew Guchuluk was not in the camp, and feared that he might not want it known, anxiously cast about for an excuse to give to this persistent Englishman.
‘By Tengri, if you were a bahadur of my obok, then you would be dead by now.’
Guchuluk's voice was chilling, and David stiffened at its sound, thanking God that he was not a knight in the Mangkhut clan. He was a Kerait Mongol – his ancestors had betrayed the great Chinghis, and were still made to pay for it by those of the royal household. That was why he was here – as their eyes and ears. But David was not a born spy, and the unexpected return of Guchuluk caused him to break out into a sweat, and his heart to feel sick.
Falconer took note of this exchange, and though he understood not a word, he could guess what was being said by the young warrior. The priest was clearly frightened – his face was green and clammy – but Falconer could discern something about Guchuluk that David couldn't, scared as he was. The young man was trying to maintain a haughty air, but there was a shiftiness about his eyes that Falconer, used to the guilt of erring youths, could easily see. Where had he been when the fire had been set? Was his unease to do with the fact that the figure Bullock had seen near the tent before it went up in flames was Guchuluk himself? Falconer took a decision.
‘David, translate for me. Ask Guchuluk where he was when the fire broke out.’
Sir Hugh Leyghton had a problem. The king had not been able to make his mind up about the Tartar envoys. One moment Henry was swayed by his son, Edward, who saw advantage for crusading in the Holy Land if the Tartars were persuaded to enter on the side of the Christian armies. The next moment he told Sir Hugh to prevaricate, recalling that it was but eight years since Pope Alexander had excommunicated the Count Bohemund for creating an alliance with the Tartars. Finally, Sir Hugh, himself filled with a crushing hatred of the Tartars, had been pleased to leave the court at Shrewsbury, ordered to talk and nothing else – in effect to string the Tartars along, but give them nothing. It was only on the third day of his return journey, just short of Witney, that he had been overtaken by a messenger bearing a sealed note.
Perplexed, the knight had taken it, and as he broke the seal and read the contents, the messenger rode off whence he had come. The letter urged Sir Hugh to cobble together some sort of agreement with the Tartars that could be used in the future – he could promise any level of armed provision he chose, as, like any pact, it was unlikely to be honoured. The message was clearly in Prince Edward's hand, but it was unsigned, and therefore deniable. Sir Hugh had sighed deeply, and wished for the guidance of his brother, Geoffrey, who he felt sure would have known what to do. Hugh constantly tried to match himself against his saintly brother, but knew he was always doomed to fail. He had schooled himself in the knightly skills, proud as his scrawny child's body had developed into the powerful weapon it now was. But, try as he might, he always felt dwarfed by Geoffrey, whose intellect matched his physical stature. Presented with a knotty problem, Hugh was always tempted to use his strength to cut through it. And that always seemed to go wrong. Geoffrey also had one great advantage over him – he would never grow old, nor have his reputation sullied.
Now, back in Oxford, and trapped between the Scylla and Charybdis of royal father and son, Sir Hugh Leyghton had walked straight into the mystery of Bernard's disappearance. Well, a mystery to Brother Adam Grasse anyway. If what Leyghton suspected were true, the friar was hiding because of the bloody deed in which Sir Hugh himself had played no small part. If the friar had carried on as normal, no suspicion would have been attracted towards him – or Sir Hugh. But instead he had left a bloodied bed as evidence, and gone into hiding, precisely as though he had something to conceal. Sir Hugh's conversation with the friar immediately after the disastrous Tartar feast had gone seriously awry, and he was not about to be dragged down with the fool. He stared in frustration at the blank walls of his lodgings as if expecting de Genova to materialize before him. The guest house in the Trill Mill friary was small and depressing, making no allowances for the opulent lifestyle to which Sir Hugh was accustomed. He began to pace the miserable cell, and pondered his next action.
‘And Gutch-a-look stormed off without answering your question!’ Bullock roared with laughter. ‘Are you surprised?’
Falconer grinned self-consciously. ‘No really. But, if he had replied, I would have something more to add to my paltry collection of facts. And, besides, he was so full of his own importance, I just had to annoy him.’
The two men sat in Bullock's chamber high in the castle keep, sopping up with their trencher bread the gravy of stew provided by the mistress of the Golden Ball Inn. The room was spartan where Falconer's was cluttered; clean and neat where Falconer's was dusty and smelling of owl droppings. It betrayed Bullock's life as a foot soldier in the interminable skirmishes that raged back and forth across the baronies of England, and over the sea in France, Aquitaine, Burgundy, and any number of other petty fiefdoms deemed worth fighting over. That he had survived into old age was testimony to Bullock's fighting skill, given that the infantry were mere fodder for soaking up the strength of the enemy, before the gallant knights on horseback safely entered the fray. Bullock would deprecate any suggestion that skill was involved, however – merely guile and a knack for self-preservation. Now his fighting days were over, he would not have liked to incur the wrath of a Tartar. Still, he chortled at the thought.
‘These inhuman creatures have decimated the might of the West's armies, and savaged Templar knights by the score. They have employed suicide tactics to draw men into traps, and deflowered innocent maidens and sliced off their lily-white breasts as food for their overlord …’
Falconer had to intervene. ‘Now, we do not know that is true.’
But Bullock was not to be stopped in his amused summation of the Tartars' evils. ‘They ate the old and ugly women – though I dare say that was a mercy – and drank mares' blood. They are reckoned at a thousand thousand in number. And Regent Master William Falconer has the temerity to poke this wild beast with a meteorical pike.’ He raised his mug in mock salute, slopping dregs of beer across his well-scrubbed table.
Falconer, knowing that the constable meant metaphorical, but not caring to correct him, dropped his head in amused acknowledgement. Then, suddenly, he looked up at Bullock. The spark of a thought had entered his ale-fuddled head, and almost extinguished itself immediately. He squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to keep it alight.
‘Suicide tactics?’
‘Yes. They'd send a
troop of horsemen into the centre of a battle. They would appear to be weakened, and turn tail. Our bold knights would give chase, and fall into a trap from which they could not escape. A killing ground of arrows.’ Bullock shivered at the vision he had conjured up, and suddenly felt sober. He narrowed his eyes, and peered at Falconer. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Falconer shook his head, because he didn't quite know himself. But there was some connection to Guchuluk there, and he would fit it together eventually. In the mean time, he would get Bullock to help him keep an eye on the new Tartar commander. ‘If you see our mutual friend sneaking about, while you are on your nightly vigil on the walls, perhaps you could follow him.’
Bullock grunted in disbelief. ‘No Tartar has entered this city, day or night. Nor ever will.’
Falconer thought of Yeh-Lu's clandestine journeys to the hovels outside the walls, and his own complicity in whisking him undiscovered from South Gate to North Gate. ‘I am sure you are right. But if you do see any activity, let me know.’
Bullock nodded, then, still a little drunk, leaned forward, beckoning Falconer closer with a beefy finger. ‘I can tell you of some clandestine activity that is already taking place within the city. A certain Templar of our acquaintance has been here for days without revealing himself to anyone. He's staying at that hovel of an inn in Torold's Lane. Which is cause for great suspicion in itself.’
Falconer, surprised at this revelation, cut the constable off in mid-flow: ‘Guillaume de Beaujeu, in Oxford now? Peter – why didn't you tell me sooner?’ Falconer shot up from the table, tipping his stool over behind him. The startled Bullock jerked backwards and almost toppled from his own perch. His ale mug landed in his lap, spilling what was left in it over his shabby tunic.
‘Why? Does it matter?’
‘Does it matter that one of the Templars' own knights, skilled at silent killing, was in Oxford when the Tartar commander was murdered? When hundreds of Templar knights and soldiers have been slaughtered in battle against the Tartars? I have probably been running down blind alleys all this time. I must go to Torold's Lane immediately.’
Abashed, Peter Bullock looked on as Falconer dashed out of the room.
Chapter Eleven
You will expect to come plundering, spoiling, and stripping bare the ruins where men now live again, a people gathered out of the nations, a people acquiring cattle and goods, and making their home at the very centre of the world.
Ezekiel 38: 12–13
The unexpected coolness of the evening air – the first time it had been so for days – halted Falconer's intemperate rush down Great Bailey. And by the time he reached the High Street, lit by the flaming torches of the tavern fronts, he had reduced his progress to a stroll. There was, after all, no point in confronting Guillaume de Beaujeu with an accusation of murder. The Templar was both devious and imperturbable. He could either deny the murder, whether he had committed it or not, or even admit it, and defy Falconer's efforts to prove it. No – by far the best course of action would be for Falconer to do with de Beaujeu what he had requested Bullock to do with Guchuluk. Merely observe, and hope for some betrayal through either party's actions.
Resolved on a long, sleepless night, Falconer made a detour to Aristotle's Hall to scavenge for some provisions that might sustain him through the long hours to dawn. In the kitchen he found a scrap of cold, fatty pork, and folded it inside a hunk of dark, gritty manchet bread, thrusting the resulting package into the purse at his waist. Striding back through the hall, he was halted by a call from the gallery above. It was Richard Youlden, the lad who had seen Yeh-Lu on his foolish visit to the hall, and he seemed anxious to speak to his master.
‘Yes, Richard, what is it? I am in a hurry.’
Richard looked abashed, but carried on: ‘Thomas said you want to know of a good archer amongst the students. Well, there are several I know of – Philip Metcalf, Walter Colnet, John Stone and Benedict Tunstede are amongst the best.’
Falconer, intent on more important matters now, went to cut the youth off. But Richard was determined to speak his mind.
‘But there is one who is as accurate with a longbow as all of those I have mentioned, and he has been talking recently of, as he put it, showing those Tartars a thing or two. I just thought you might like to know.’
Falconer realized that Richard Youlden had a mind sharper than his stolid, farm-boy appearance led everyone to believe. He had obviously put together Falconer's interest in archery, and the death of Chimbai, and provided a suspect. Falconer would not, however, confirm the lad's suspicions yet as to what he was pursuing. Still, he marvelled how one day he could be despairing of finding anyone with cause and opportunity to kill Chimbai, and the next day he had an embarrassment of riches. He might as well add this name to his growing list. ‘And who is this paragon of the archer's skill?’
‘Miles Bikerdyke.’
As night fell, and the stench of stale beer drifted up from the tavern below, Guillaume de Beaujeu prepared himself for the next act in his strategem. So far, with Chimbai's death, the plan that the Grand Master of the Templars had laid before him was unrolling perfectly. The old man had impressed upon him the need for absolute secrecy, and when he had heard what the master proposed, he was not surprised at this. At first, it had seemed like madness – the world turned upside down – but then the old man had unfolded the ancient parchment and revealed the truth that lay behind the events of the last thirty years. Although it had all begun much earlier than that – in the age of Alexander Magnus.
As the insects of the night chirruped on that cold Parisian evening, the Grand Master spoke hypnotically of Alexander the Great's letter to Aristotle, where he wrote of Sun and Moon trees that prophesied his own death. The master also made reference to a passage from Iter ad Paradisum, that mystical text of Alexander's travels, where Alexander went in search of an earthly Paradise. It described how he sailed up a great river so large it resembled a sea, and came to a mighty city. There he sent a knight in a boat to demand tribute from the citizens and their submission. An old man opened a high window in a wall overlooking the river, and for tribute dropped a small stone in the knight's boat.
‘The meaning of the stone was explained to Alexander by a mystic,’ said the Grand Master. ‘He said it will outweigh any amount of gold, but sprinkle it with dust and it will be as light as a feather. So it was revealed by God that He favoured Alexander, but, like all men, he would come to a dusty death.’
De Beaujeu was puzzled, fearing that the old man was wandering, even losing his mind. ‘And what has this to do with the Tartars?’
A knowing smile flickered across the Grand Master's lips. ‘We therefore know from Alexander that there are more of God's wonders in the East.’ He stretched out a hand for the creased and ancient document lying on the table between them. ‘Now read this.’
De Beaujeu gently turned the dusty document round, and began to read the grey, indistinct letters. Soon his hands were trembling, and his heart fluttered in his chest.
By the power and virtue of God and the Lord Jesus Christ, King of Kings, know I am the greatest monarch under the Heavens. Seventy-two longs are under my rule, and my empire extends to the three Indias, including Farther India, where lies the body of Saint Thomas. In my dominions are the unclean nations whom Alexander Magnus walled up amongst the mountains of the North, and who will come forth in latter days. There are giant ants that dig for gold, the Fountain of Youth, pebbles that give out light, a Sea of Sand and Rivers of Stone. When I go to war I will be followed by ten thousand knights, and one hundred thousand foot. Twelve archbishops sit at my right hand, and twenty bishops at my left. I have now conceived a desire to visit the Holy Sepulchre, and fight the enemies of the Cross. Prepare for my coming.
‘But this is …’ De Beaujeu was not sure he dared say the name, so the Grand Master said it for him.
‘Prester John.’
De Beaujeu felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the col
dness of the room in which the two men sat.
Falconer was surprised that the normally circumspect de Beaujeu appeared distracted, almost careless, when he emerged from the cheap tavern in Torold's Lane. He had prepared himself for a long, dull, fruitless night hidden in the empty dwelling almost opposite the tavern. The ramshackle house, roofless and without any boards on the beams of the upper floor, was a fortuitous hiding place, and Falconer had settled down close to the narrow window looking out on to the lane. The shutters hung on broken hinges, but prevented the casual passer-by from seeing him. De Beaujeu was no casual observer, however, and Falconer was worried that following him unseen would be like trying to hide an elephant on the flat plain of Port Meadow.
Soon, his limbs felt stiff, and his back began to ache, but he dared not leave his post at the window for fear of missing de Beaujeu. The tavern was ill-frequented, with only the poorest forced to drink its badly brewed and often stale ale. So there was little happening in the lane to divert the bored and hungry Falconer. He watched a ragged individual enter, a hole in his breech-clout displaying his arse to the world. And then, after what seemed an eternity, he watched the same man leave, wiping his lips and spitting on the hard-packed earth of the lane as if trying to get the taste of the ale out of his mouth. There was no sound of revelry from inside the tavern – Falconer imagined the ale was not conducive to being cheerful. He was about to give in to hunger pangs and get the fatty pork parcel out of his purse when he saw another man emerge from the tavern. His clothes were patched and worn, but they hung from a well-built frame. As the man walked casually down the lane towards the teaching schools, Falconer could see he was a confident, self-assured individual entirely unlike anyone else he had seen in this quarter. His hair was long, dark and well-cut. It was de Beaujeu, and he was being unusually careless about blending in with his environment. Stuffing the soggy bread and pork back into his purse, Falconer eased some life into his aching limbs and followed the Templar.