by Ian Morson
The western end of Torold's Lane gave on to the street that ran along the inner edge of the north walls. A few yards to the left was Smith Gate, and it was here that de Beaujeu was heading. Falconer hung back at the end of Torold's Lane to see what the Templar was up to. The area round the gate was lit by the flames from the watchman's torch, and de Beaujeu strode confidently into the circle of light. He bent over the watchman where he sat at his post, but no conversation ensued. All Falconer heard was a soft jangle of keys, and then he saw de Beaujeu stepping over to the gate. In a moment he had inserted the heavy key, turned it and had left the city unobserved. Or so he assumed. Falconer hurried over to the watchman, expecting to find him dead. But when he got close enough for his weak eyes to see clearly, it was obvious the old fool was merely fast asleep, his misshapen bald head bobbing on his chest. Falconer tried the little wicket door set in the larger Smith Gate through which the Templar had gone, but it was locked. De Beaujeu had secured it from the outside.
Falconer had to think quickly. The way the Templar had approached the watchman suggested he knew the man would be asleep. If that was the case, it was likely he had used this means of sneaking out of the city before – possibly even on the night before Chimbai was killed. And if he still intended his activity to be a secret, he would return the same way before the old man ended his watch at dawn. Falconer could wait for him, but in the mean time, what was he doing? Was he carrying out another murder? Was Guchuluk to be his victim this time? He would check with Peter Bullock to see if the Tartar was still in his tent.
He hurried up the steps to the top of the walls where he hoped to find the constable. He was disappointed – the ramparts were devoid of life. He then thought that perhaps he would be able to spot de Beaujeu crossing the meadow, and call out a warning. He leaned out over the rough stone surface of the ramparts, pulling his eye-lenses out of his crumb-filled purse. The landscape was still blurred, and he cursed in frustration when he realized the glass was covered in fatty smears from his impromptu food parcel. Wiping the lenses on his sleeve, he decided the night was too dark anyway. Anything that moved on the meadow was invisible, and the Tartar tents were simply black cloth in a black field. He slumped into the embrasure with a sigh, then the breath was knocked from his body by an attack from behind. Someone was pressing him flat against the battlements, lifting his whole weight up, and putting him off balance. It was impossible for the Templar to have fooled him, and stayed inside the city, wasn't it? But he couldn't think who else his attacker might be. At any moment he felt he was going to be pitched over the wall, and, though he had worked hard at understanding the flight of birds, he had not mastered it yet. So he didn't relish the thought of an abrupt and hopeless experiment being forced on him now. The gruff voice of the constable came as a relief.
‘Oh, it's you, William. I thought it was Gutch-a-look doubling back on me.’
Falconer felt his feet being lowered back to the ground, and he almost sank to the floor in his relief at not having to emulate Balthazar so soon. Then he realized what Bullock had said.
‘Guchuluk? Has he been on the move, too?’
Bullock nodded. ‘He sneaked out of the camp some time ago. But I saw him – got my night eyes, you see, from being up here since dusk. He was obviously up to no good, so I followed his progress from up here, until he went into the hovels around Beaumont, outside North Gate. I reckoned if I got down there quickily enough, I could track him. But by the time the watchman had let me out of the gate, he was gone. He might have seen me on the ramparts, of course, and deliberately gone out of his way to lose me. Or tried to stalk me. That's why I thought you were him.’ He sighed. ‘So I've got a wild Tartar, an anthrofo … what did you say that word for cannibal was?’
‘Anthropophagus.’ Falconer knew there was no point in protesting the Tartar's innocence of this particular accusation. Bullock was determined to label them all cannibals.
‘I've got a … cannibal loose in the stews of Beaumont.’
Falconer smiled to himself. ‘Perhaps he just wanted the services of one of the whores down there.’
Bullock snorted. ‘Yes, and to eat her for dessert. Anyway, what are you doing up here? Aren't you supposed to be following our friendly Templar?’
Falconer remembered why he was on the ramparts in the first place. ‘I was – he went out of Smith Gate. I'm afraid your watchman wasn't being very observant.’
‘Walter was asleep again, I suppose.’ Bullock clearly knew about the weakness of his watchman. ‘He's useless, but he needs the money, poor old boy, and Smith Gate is as safe as houses, whether he is awake or not.’
Falconer reckoned the ‘poor old boy' was a decade younger than Bullock himself, but refrained from pointing out the fact. ‘At least if the Templar's target tonight was Guchuluk, then he wasn't in camp to be murdered. And, as it will be dawn soon, I imagine a frustrated de Beaujeu will be trying to sneak back into the city. I think I'll arrange to welcome him back.’
‘And I'll join you. He has made a fool of my watchman, after all.’
Bellasez the Jew had hardly set foot outside the Domus Conversorum in two years. That the Black Friars had taken him in when his daughter died had been a great surprise to him. He had feared he would starve, with no one to support him in his old age, and then along came a Christian friar in his black robes, and offered him accommodation in a house on Fish Street. And a very comfortable house it was, too, where he was waited on not by some surly servant girl, but by the friar himself. In return, all the man asked was the pleasure of religious debate. The Dominican had expounded the Christian faith clearly and concisely. Bellasez had frequently tried to explain the Jewish faith to the friar, but he feared his mental powers were now waning. He could no longer sustain a convincing argument concerning his older and wiser faith, and now had resorted to the strategy of at least not disagreeing with the friar. It seemed to please him, and that pleased Bellasez, as he didn't want to offend his host and benefactor.
Now he was glad he could help the friar in a more positive way. The man had come to the house in a sorry state some days ago. He couldn't remember exactly when – one day was very much like another, and time seemed to fly by of late. It must have been a number of days, for he had arrived at the house bleeding and sore, and now his wounds were scabbed and healing. He had tried to conceal a weapon under his cloak, but had fainted away; Bellasez had removed the nasty thing, and put it somewhere safe. It was typical of his memory that he couldn't quite remember where that was at the moment. Not that it mattered, for neither he nor the friar had need of it.
As he shuffled along the streets, stirring with life in the early morning light, he half-closed his eyes and recited his instructions again. If he repeated them regularly enough, he was sure he would not forget what he was meant to do. The last time he had gone on an errand for his daughter – of blessed memory – he had got no farther than Carfax, only to find himself in the centre of the crossroads with not an idea why he was there. He had had to return to incur the sharpness of Saphira's tongue. This errand was too important for that to happen again. He was going to meet his brethren – members of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, who had abandoned the Law of Moses and worshipped the Golden Calf, and whom God had enclosed beyond the Caspian Mountains – who now had once again come forth into the world.
The Christian traders setting up their stalls looked with amusement at the pale, spectre of a Jew shuffling along North Gate Street. His head was no more than a skull stretched with grey parchment skin, devoid of hair. His robe was patched and stained, and he had nothing on his feet but woollen buskins. He was walking along mumbling some Jewish hocus-pocus to himself, over and over again. Clearly he was mad, and they soon ignored him and returned to their work.
Bellasez, oblivious to their derision, continued reciting his litany as he progressed: ‘Go to the Tartars. Find the priest David. Bring him back to the Domus. Go to the Tartars. Find the priest … David, yes, David. Bring him back. And what was
the other bit? Oh, yes – tell him I have a confession to make.’
Falconer and Bullock decided not to wait for de Beaujeu at Smith Gate. Oxford was beginning to rouse, and there would soon be people on the streets. They would be busy, but everyone had time to poke their noses into other people's business, and a confrontation at the gate would have quickly gathered an audience. What they had to say to the Templar required privacy, and the two men decided to accost him in his lodgings.
They reached the inn just as the first rays of sun poked exploratory fingers down the dusty lengths of Torold's Lane. The greyish hovels that lined the lane rejected the warmth, and only appeared dirtier and more ramshackle in the sun's pale light. If de Beaujeu had intended to remain unrecognized in Oxford, he should have stayed in this quarter. No one who knew his face would have walked through these shabby alleys. But he had made the mistake of carrying out his clandestine activity just where Peter Bullock had chosen to carry out his sentry duty. An unfortunate coincidence that had led to his exposure.
Falconer was all for waiting in the empty house across the lane from the inn that he had used as a hiding place in the night. But Bullock scorned this cautious approach, and went straight into the inn. The look of fear on the innkeeper's face at the sight of the constable on his premises soon assured the two men of access to the Templar's room – and a closed mouth from the innkeeper when de Beaujeu returned. He would be too fearful of the constable discovering his watered barrels of stale beer, if he did anything other than what Bullock demanded.
The Templar was not long in coming, for hardly had Bullock settled down on the creaking bed that was the room's sole item of furniture than Falconer heard footsteps on the stairs. They came towards the door of the room, then there was silence. As the moments passed, the two men exchanged puzzled glances. Had it been de Beaujeu, after all, or another lodger? But there were no other rooms on this upper floor – this one being squeezed into the space between the beams that formed the sharply angled eaves of the building. Bullock could contain himself no longer, and, despite Falconer's hissed protest, went over to the door and pulled it open.
‘Ahh. Master Bullock, as I live and breathe.’
Falconer recognized the amused tones of Guillaume de Beaujeu immediately. He had known there was someone in the room, and had merely tried their patience with a waiting game. Bullock turned away from the door in disgust, and the Templar followed him in, sheathing a dagger in the scabbard hidden beneath his peasant's rough woollen cloak.
‘And Regent Master William Falconer, too. I am honoured by your attendance. The setting could be more salubrious, but you know my order insists on poverty and humility.’
There was nothing humble about this man, in Falconer's estimation. He had realized his presence was uncovered, and yet was still in perfect control of the situation. It had been foolish to imagine they could catch him off his guard. He stood easily in the doorway, his feet set apart to brace himself, should the two men be mad enough to attack him. His face, smudged with dirt to conceal him in the night, was calm, but his eyes, brown pools with deep, dark centres, were alert. His thick, dark hair hung to his broad shoulders, and everything about his features belied the tattered clothes he was now dressed in. With no need for subterfuge, he had once again assumed the confident stance of Guillaume de Beaujeu, Knight Commander of the Templars.
Bullock was wearied by this posturing – it was for young men, who had time on their hands. He eased his aching back against the crumbling wall of the room and sighed, listening to the scurrying sound of rats above their heads in the rafters.
‘Just tell him we know everything, William.’
De Beaujeu cocked his head in apparent amusement.
‘Everything? What is this everything that you know?’
Falconer, too, felt tired of playing games, and was all for revealing what he knew – or thought he knew. But something he saw in the Templar's eyes stopped him. He reckoned he could discern a distant glint of some high purpose, a goal beyond mortal comprehension. And it was a spark he had not seen in the man's eyes before – de Beaujeu had seemed such a down-to-earth man, almost in spite of his spiritual vows. Now, he seemed to have found a purpose beyond simply battling for the Holy Land, and it scared Falconer a little. He decided to prevaricate some more.
‘We know that you have been in Oxford some days, and that you are here in disguise for some reason.’
De Beaujeu snorted in derision, holding his arms wide to display his peasant's rags. ‘It does not take a regent master of Oxford University to work that one out. What else do you know?’
‘Tell him, William.’ Bullock was getting impatient.
‘We have observed you sneaking out of Smithy Gate in the middle of the night. And it does not take a regent master –’ it was Falconer's turn to be sarcastic – ‘… to put your presence and your movements together with the arrival of the Tartar embassy which is accessible from both North and Smith Gates.’ He paused only for a moment, then plunged on. ‘Nor with the death of the ambassador, Noyan Chimbai.’
Falconer was not really expecting any response from the Templar, imagining he would face the accusation with impassive features. So he was surprised when de Beaujeu's calm features split into a broad grin, and was shocked when the man burst into uproarious laughter. Falconer and Bullock looked at each other in puzzlement, while the Templar struggled to regain his composure.
‘Would you care to explain your hilarity at the accusation?’ Bullock was not as thick-skinned as Falconer, and flushed at being found so amusing. ‘You steal a key from my watchman …’
‘Who is so watchful he hardly stirs when I take it from his belt.’ De Beaujeu's grin reappeared, threatening to break out into laughter again.
Bullock pressed on: ‘You take a key, break the city curfew, and commit murder in the environs of the city for which I am responsible.’
‘And can you prove this accusation of murder?’ De Beaujeu was restored to his normal equanimity, though the creases as the corner of his eyes still betrayed his amusement. ‘Though I plead guilty to the other charges – and you should be grateful to me for exposing a weakness in your impregnable defences – I cannot see how you could find cause to say I killed the Tartar.’
Bullock, stubborn as ever, was losing his temper. ‘You are a renowned assassin, and you were wandering the night before it happened. And you were out there tonight again to continue your little crusade. That is enough for me.’
De Beaujeu winced at the word assassin, coined for the Eastern, drug-crazed murderers who killed at the instigation of the Old Man of the Mountain. It struck too close to the image he feared the Grand Master and fellow Templars had of him to be lightly tossed off.
‘You may care to know that it was a Tartar army that destroyed the Order of Assassins in their stronghold at Mulchet. So we have them to thank for that at least.’ He placed his hands against the rotten timber that crossed the room just above his head and leaned forwards, filling the room with his presence. ‘And we may have cause to thank them for a good deal more in the future.’
Bullock could see he was getting nowhere, and looked pleadingly at Falconer. Seeing his friend either could not, or would not, give him any further support, he stormed out of the room, brushing the younger man aside with the back of his hand. Falconer, too, made to leave, but, as he passed the Templar, de Beaujeu took his arm and whispered in his ear:
‘The Templars are not seeking the downfall of the Tartars – quite the opposite. I will say no more. But if you want to know of a man who hates them enough to kill, then you should talk to Sir Hugh Leyghton about his Templar brother, Geoffrey.’
Chapter Twelve
I will pour down teeming rain, hailstones hard as rock, and fire and brimstone, upon him, upon his squadrons, upon the whole concourse of peoples with him. Thus will I prove myself great and holy and make myself known to many nations.
Ezekiel 38:22
He knew it was going to be a dreadful day when he saw
the stone fall from the roof of the Church of St Mary and nearly strike Count Henry on the head. The ill omen was ignored by those who witnessed it, but its import would not go away. If he closed his eyes, he could see the four divisions of Henry's army drawn up on the plain beyond Leignitz. And in the centre were the Silesian and Moravian armies along with the Hospitallers and Templars. Standing out in their midst was Geoffrey, tall and handsome, his head unhelmed, with the sun striking off his golden hair. He wanted to cry out a warning, but no sound would come from his throat. And even if he had managed to call out, the jangling noise of the horse armour, and the chaotic cries of the army's commanders, would have drowned him out. He begged Geoffrey just to look back – to see him one last time – but their eyes didn't meet. Geoffrey only had eyes for the enemy, which was now ranged on the farthest edge of the plain. They were massed like a sea of ants – a hundred of them for every man in the Christian army – and a single, mournful sigh escaped the lips of the assembled knights at the sight. The Tartar vanguard advanced in close order, and Henry, on seeing their numbers were so small, sent in his own horsemen together with the Teutonic Knights. The Tartars began to retreat, and, to press home his advantage, Henry committed the Templars and Hospitallers to the fray. Waving his sword in the air, the bareheaded Geoffrey led the charge towards the fleeing Tartars. His hair streamed out behind him, and the black and white Templar banner fluttered above him. Then he was in the midst of battle, swinging his sword to left and right and carving a swathe through the little horsemen. Bernard gloried in his manliness, until a swirling mist suddenly enveloped the Christian army. It built into a thick cloud of noxious yellow fumes, and Geoffrey was gone from sight.