The Templar Magician

Chapter 7

‘Set, lock, loose!’

Edmund de Payens flinched as the catapult cups flew forward, casting their fiery missiles across the swollen waters of the Thames. A few fell short. Others smashed into the hordes of men massing on the far bank or, better still, engulfed portions of the pontoon bridge Henry Fitzempress’s men were trying to build. If successful, they could then destroy the fortress of Castle Gifford, which King Stephen had hastily constructed where the Thames flowed narrow around the town and dark mass of Wallingford Castle.

‘Once more.’ The knight banneret, his royal livery of red and gold all dirty, raised his sword and roared at the sweating men-at-arms. ‘Once more before sunset. Give the bastards a bloody compline, then first thing tomorrow, wake them for matins!’

The men laughed and cheered. Once again the catapults were primed and released their dreadful song; a scorching arc cut the dark-blue sky already shot red by the setting sun. De Payens leaned against the heavy wooden stockade and stared across the river.

‘All the same,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Killing and death! We love it, it’s in our blood, the very core of our being.’

‘To whom are you speaking?’

De Payens whirled around and stared down at Isabella Berrington, who stood, her lovely face almost hidden by the ermine-lined dark-green hood.

‘My lady, you should not be here.’ De Payens hastened down the ladder.

‘Nonsense, Edmund!’ She stepped closer, those beautiful, laughing eyes bright with mischief. ‘Richard says the enemy will never find our range. We are like children, aren’t we, standing around a mill pond taunting and teasing each other but doing no great harm.’

As if mocking her words, a massive boulder hurled by a catapult on the far bank crashed into the water, whipping spray up against the towering stockade fence. Isabella laughed and drew closer, clutching at de Payens as if frightened. He grasped her hand, kissed her fingers, then let her go.

‘Four months.’ He turned as if embarrassed, staring across the bailey at the long hall of plaster and wood. ‘Four months since we left Outremer. I never thought we’d reach safety, yet now here we are …’

They walked across the bailey, reminiscing for a while about the journey from Ascalon to Cyprus across the Middle Sea, journeying along road, river and mountain path. The weather had been good, high summer with only a few storms, whilst the letters sealed by Montebard had ensured comfortable lodgings and fresh food at Templar houses or Cistercian monasteries. Their two servants had fallen sick and had been left in a hospital outside Avignon. Parmenio had also contracted a fever, tossing and turning, shouting in Latin, babbling nonsense. Lady Isabella, with the help of a leech in a Benedictine infirmary, had nursed him back to health. In the main they had travelled as strangers to each other, often separating depending on passage aboard ships or delays caused by horses and ponies casting a shoe. When they did meet they concentrated on the daily tasks facing them rather than what was to happen in England. Now that they were here, they seemed at a loss.

Isabella and de Payens paused by the main gate leading out of the castle. Torches were being lit. Scullions, servants and grooms hastened about, preparing the evening meal or settling the horses for the night.

‘Edmund?’

He blinked and stared down at that lovely face, as he had done often through their journey. He was fascinated by her strange violet-blue eyes, the constant smile. Isabella was full of sunlight and joy. Indeed, he conceded, she was the true fair lady of the legend: beautiful, enticing, formidable, but locked in her own silver tower, its doors sealed not only by herself but by his vows of obedience and chastity. The tension her presence caused often irked his waking hours and plagued his sleep.

‘My lady, I’m sorry.’

‘You’re always dreaming.’ She stood on tiptoe and tapped his cheek with one gloved hand. ‘Master Baiocis and my brother sent me. You are not part of this war, Edmund; the house of the Temple is not to become involved.’

‘We are involved,’ de Payens retorted, ‘simply because we are here. I had to see, but in truth, war here is no different from war elsewhere. Anyway,’ he tried to brighten his mood, ‘why send a lady?’

‘Because I wanted to come, and I do have an escort: the ever-watchful Mayele,’ she added impishly. ‘He now awaits us.’

De Payens collected his horse from the stables and, wrapping the reins around his hands, led his mount under the makeshift gateway across the fetid-smelling moat and down the ramp where Mayele slouched on his horse, Isabella’s palfrey busy cropping the grass beside it. There was the usual banter and teasing, before de Payens helped Isabella into the saddle, then mounted his horse as Mayele listed the news. Master Baiocis, whom Mayele secretly called ‘the Toad’, needed them in the refectory of Wallingford Priory. Apparently King Stephen, his son Eustace and two of his leading advisers — Henry Murdac, Archbishop of York, and Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton — would join them for a splendid feast now being prepared by the priory kitchens.

‘The King, His Grace,’ Mayele made a mocking flourish with his hand, ‘wants to question us and, I suppose, find answers. None of which we will be able to give.’

De Payens half listened to Mayele’s biting criticism of the anxious busyness of the Toad. They’d had little time to speculate during their arduous journey. Baiocis had been plagued with fears that Walkyn might already have reached England and be carrying out his malicious mischief. In fact, despite their haste and the bone-jarring crossing on board the cog that had brought them safely into Dover, they had discovered nothing about the malignant they were pursuing. The constable and harbourmasters at Dover held no record of Walkyn entering the kingdom. Baiocis, using his authority, had sent letters to other ports and harbours. They had waited at Dover for a reply whilst they all recovered from crossing the Narrow Seas, a terrifying experience. A summer storm had swept the waves, spinning the cog, making its timbers creak and groan in protest. Once ashore, they rested at a pilgrims’ tavern, the Good Samaritan, drying out their possessions, eating, and hiring horses. The lack of news about Walkyn depressed them, but Baiocis proudly announced that as he was now back in his own English bailiwick of the Temple, he had authority over the small preceptories throughout the kingdom, the principal one being the moated fortified manor of the Temple in the parish of St Andrew’s, Holborn, just north of the Thames. Accordingly messengers were also dispatched to London and elsewhere demanding information on Walkyn. The replies arrived after they’d left Dover, intent on joining King Stephen as swiftly as possible. No one reported anything about the man they were hunting. This only heightened Baiocis’ anxieties as they became immersed in events happening around them.

The civil war between King Stephen and his kinsman Henry Fitzempress was intensifying, as each strove to bring his opponent to battle and utterly destroy him. Stephen had chosen to attack the Fitzempress fortress at Wallingford, a strategic stronghold controlling both the Thames and the main roads through the kingdom. He had laid siege, building Castle Gifford to block all routes, hoping to provoke Henry to march to Wallingford’s relief and so decide matters in a set battle. ‘Tired swordsmen circling each other’ was how Mayele described the conflict. The signs of war were obvious as they rode north: burned villages, deserted fields and sinister bands of armed men who quietly melted away at the sight of the piebald standard and pennants of the Temple. Troops trudged the roads, war carts and siege machines rattling behind them. Black columns of smoke dirtied the blue summer sky. Distant red smudges of flickering fires lighted the darkness of the night. Scaffolds and gibbets were commonplace, well stocked with rotting corpses. Even so, de Payens was much taken with the strange new countryside, a blessed cool relief after the ever-scorching fly-blown heat of Outremer. Berrington and Mayele were delighted to be home, revelling like pilgrims who had reached their chosen shrine. Parmenio, about whom de Payens had remained suspicious, acted the surprised traveller, though now and again the Genoese made mistakes, mere slips of the tongue, which made de Payens wonder if he had not visited this island of mist before. For the rest, de Payens secretly marvelled at the dark coolness, the abrupt change of sun to rain, the clouds that swept the sunshine across open fields of brown and gold, the well-stocked, clear streams, the forests and woods stretching like an ocean of green to the far horizon.

On one occasion after leaving Dover, he tried to count the different shades of green alone and became lost in their beauty. Uncle Hugh had visited these islands some thirty years before, and de Payens realised why the Temple was so eager to stretch its roots deep in such a rich and fertile land. Nevertheless, the kingdom also possessed a haunting eeriness, particularly in its woods and forests, which recalled the stories of Grandmother Eleanor: mysterious places of sudden noises, of bracken and grass moving as if some silent terror crawled beneath them. Trees, ancient as the world, their branches curling up above him to stretch black against the sky. Flower-filled glades where birds of every colour swooped, and beyond these, marshes, swamps and stagnant pools quiet as the grave, as if some noonday horror had swept over them. Ancient rocks and ruins where priests had once worshipped sinister gods were commonplace. Mayele heightened the mood with stories about the wild woodland being the haunt of goblins, sprites and other phantasms, legends about the grotesque gargoyles who lived deep in these woods, ever ready to prey on the weary traveller. He told these tales winking at Lady Isabella whilst watching de Payens’ face. The Templar carefully hid his own fears, but at night the stories darkened his sleep, and nightmares surfaced about being lost in such a place without horse or arms, having to flee through darkening glades pursued by midnight shadows.

‘Edmund?’

He startled. Mayele and Isabella had reined in. They were almost through the royal camp pitched outside Castle Gifford, a sprawling collection of bothies and ox-hide tents around glowing fires. It was bat-winged time, and the night air was thick with the smell of cooking, and the rank odours from the latrine pits and horse lines.

‘Edmund,’ Isabella’s mocking tones recalled those of Nisam, ‘you’re dreaming again.’ She gestured at the camp. ‘Mayele believes this turmoil cannot last much longer. Henry Fitzempress must make peace. What do you think?’

They were still discussing the war when they passed under the cavernous fortified gate of Wallingford Priory into the great cobbled bailey housing the stables, forges, kitchens, sculleries and butteries. De Payens dismounted, ensured that an ostler tended his horse and found his way back to the narrow chamber allocated to him in the guesthouse. The bells of the priory tolled for vespers. He stripped off his armour, washed, put on his cloak and joined the brothers in the shadow-filled stalls of the church, a hallowed sanctuary of Caen stone full of pillars and arches, statues and gargoyles, where candlelight flickered eerily on the polished oak lectern and other furnishings. A bell chimed and the prior began the divine office: ‘Oh God, come to our aid …’

The brothers, cowled and hooded, chanted the reply: ‘Will you totally reject us? Will you no longer march with our armies …?’

De Payens’ mind drifted back to that council chamber in Ascalon. Since then he had, as if learning a psalm, been through the logic of what he’d been told. The macabre murders in Jerusalem; the sightings of Erictho; the accusations against Walkyn and the evidence that proved them correct; Walkyn’s arrest and intended deportation to England; his escape and consequent attempts to ingratiate himself with the Assassins. De Payens pondered the possibility that Walkyn had been responsible for the murder of Count Raymond. It was logical: he could have stolen that medallion and those daggers from Hedad, all part of his plot to kill a great lord so as to stir up chaos for Tremelai, who, despite providing an escort, had been unable to prevent Count Raymond’s murder.

‘You have made the earth quake, torn it open …’ the monks chanted.

Yes, Walkyn had certainly shattered the peace of the Temple. De Payens and Mayele had failed Count Raymond, whilst Tremelai had had no choice but to send them to Hedad to find out the truth about possible Assassin involvement. They were the logical emissaries. They’d both witnessed Count Raymond’s murder, whilst de Payens’ presence would be a mark of honour to Nisam, who had a special relationship with the founder of the Temple. The same was true of their presence in Tripoli: again a logical gesture of respect to the count, whilst Mayele might have recognised a fellow countryman.

‘You have made us drink wine that has confused us …’

Payens smiled to himself. Perhaps his own confusion might thin. His presence in Tripoli may have been intended as a deterrent to the conspirators. Surely they would not strike at a Frankish lord protected by Templars, one of whom belonged to the de Payens family? In the end this had been proved wrong.

‘Glory be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ the monks chanted.

And the rest of the plot? de Payens wondered. Berrington had been captured and found himself in Ascalon. He had been responsible for Walkyn; it was logical that he’d be sent back to England with Baiocis to hunt Walkyn down, and that Mayele and de Payens should join him. Mayele was an Englishman, whilst again, the name of de Payens would be a way of conveying to the English crown how seriously the Templars regarded this situation.

‘Oh God, visit your holy temple,’ the good brothers chorused. The monastic choir was now moving on to the next psalm, but de Payens remained lost in his own thoughts, staring at the face of a woodwose enshrined in foliage, a striking carving on top of a pillar opposite. He resolved to put the past aside and concentrate on what was happening now. Two problems remained. First, where were Walkyn and the witch Erictho? No evidence of their presence in England had yet been found. Second, the secretive Genoese, Thierry Parmenio — who was he really? Why had he been in Tripoli? Why had Tremelai trusted him so much?

‘They have poured out blood like water in Jerusalem,’ the lector chanted. ‘We have no one to bury the dead.’ De Payens recalled Jerusalem and quickly struck his breast in sorrow. He felt guilty about Tremelai. The Grand Master had been both foolish and arrogant, but there was no proof of any bad faith. Moreover, if Tremelai had trusted Parmenio, why shouldn’t he? Finally that secret cipher: why had he been given it? Why had Nisam striven so hard to tell him something but concealed it in a form he could not translate? De Payens stared around. The hour candle on its great bronze spigot at the entrance to the choir caught his eye. He quickly crossed himself and genuflected. The flame had nearly reached the next hour ring. It was time to be gone.

The priory refectory, a long whitewashed chamber dominated by huge black crucifixes fixed on either end wall, had been specially prepared. Soft rushes powdered with herbs covered the floor. The trestle tables had been draped in thick white cloths and a silver carved statue of the Virgin and Child placed in the centre. The prior had supplied the best plate of his house. Copper herb casks positioned beneath the windows exuded a fragrant warmth. King Stephen, his pale face peaky under a mop of red hair, green eyes constantly blinking, his fingers forever stroking his neatly clipped moustache and beard, had arrived with little ceremony. He’d taken off his half-armour and thrown this at a grinning squire, stretching and yawning before noisily washing his hands and face in the proffered bowl of rosewater. Eustace, his son, similarly dressed, was the very image of his father, though sullen and more reserved. A truly ruthless man, de Payens reflected, betrayed by the set of his mouth, lower lip slightly jutting out, eyes constantly squinting as if Eustace was making a judgement about everything he saw and heard. The King’s leading ecclesiastic, Henry Murdac, Archbishop of York, was clean-shaven, grey-faced, his black hair neatly tonsured. He was garbed in the white robes of a Cistercian monk, a silver tasselled cord around his plump stomach, black sandals on his feet. Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton, the King’s principal adviser, was a white-haired, bearded man, his blunt soldier’s face furrowed and lined, eyes red-rimmed with the smoke from the fires at the nearby siege. As soon as he arrived, Northampton roared for wine, and when that was not served swiftly enough, he grabbed a tankard from a tray in the window recess and downed it in one gulp, the yellow drops staining his moustache, beard and the top of his gold-lined cotehardie.

De Payens had glimpsed the royal entourage earlier, near Castle Gifford. The king had personally directed the catapults after studying the movements of the enemy on the far bank. Now he and his companions were hungry, thirsty and impatient for food. The prior delivered a short blessing then withdrew, closing the refectory door behind him, and the banquet was served. One course swiftly followed another: quail soup, venison in spices, suckling pig garnished with fruit and vegetables, beef cooked in ginger and thyme. Despite his hunger and tiredness, Stephen was courteous, smiling at de Payens and his companions, paying special attention to Isabella. She had dressed magnificently for the occasion in a high-necked blue gown with a brocaded front, her long blonde hair braided with green ribbons, a silver circlet around her forehead. Murdac and Northampton were equally courteous, but Eustace was as foul-tempered as a rutting boar. He had apparently been quarrelling with his father and his councillors and was intent on continuing this during the meal. Henry Fitzempress was marching with great force to the relief of Wallingford. The king, uncertain about his own troops, had decided to break off his attack on the town and seek a peace with his rival, a decision Eustace violently disagreed with. Northampton and Murdac tried to calm Eustace’s fiery invective, loudly declaring that the king had no choice, that his barons were tiring of the fight and wished to withdraw. Moreover, Henry Fitzempress might be amenable to peace talks. Eustace would not accept this, threatening to disengage his own forces and harass the enemy in East Anglia.

The king was half minded to agree to this, and opened a debate with de Payens and the assembled company. The Templars were reluctant to be drawn in. Stephen, eyes blinking, pleaded with Berrington, de Payens and Mayele: if Eustace did withdraw, would they at least accompany him into the eastern shires? Murdac and Northampton had already agreed to do this. De Payens was confused. He stared at Baiocis for advice, but the English master sat silently, anxious, as if nursing some secret pain. Berrington tactfully pointed out that the Temple had remained neutral during the civil war. Eustace yelled that there was no such thing, whilst Stephen, eloquently assisted by Murdac, pleaded that all he wanted the Templars to do was act as intermediaries with his son and give him good advice on strategic matters.

Eustace was eager to hear the Templars’ reply. The argument with his father had raged all day, and if the Templars acquiesced, the king would give him his blessing. Berrington finally agreed, and only when this matter was settled did the king broach the Templars’ mission to England. He reminded Baiocis of his many grants to the order in London and the outlying shires, and asked why a Templar would wish to do him harm. Baiocis, white-faced, clutched his stomach and gestured at de Payens and Berrington to explain. De Payens nodded to his comrade, as he still found the Norman French at the English court slightly different from that of Outremer. It was more precise and clipped, not pitted with the lingua franca of the Middle Seas. Parmenio had informed them that this reflected the isolation of the English court, and in doing so had also revealed that he was conversant with the common Saxon tongue and amused them with his imitation of it. Now the Genoese sat stony-faced as Berrington explained what had happened. The refectory stilled at the story. Even Eustace stopped his drinking for a while, the wine glistening on his lower lip. He protested that the Templars enjoyed a reputation as ferocious as that of the Assassins, and if an apostate was scouring the kingdom intent on murder, this was more dangerous than any enemy arrow. Northampton was quick to support the Prince, pointing out how assassination was now rife in this mist-strewn kingdom. Parmenio had mentioned that three of the great Conqueror’s offspring had died mysteriously in the New Forest, one a crowned king; whilst the present civil war had erupted because Mathilda’s only brother, Prince William, had perished in the mysterious wreck of the White Ship out in the Narrow Seas. According to the Genoese, many claimed that the Prince’s death, and those of others, had been the work of the Angel of Darkness. Eustace’s constant interruptions reminded the assembled company of this. Once Berrington had finished, the king sat tapping his fingernails against his goblet.

‘My father,’ he began quietly, ‘joined the First Crusade. You’ve heard the story? He abandoned the cross-bearers at Antioch and returned home. Perhaps this is part of some curse …’

‘Nonsense, Your Grace,’ Murdac intervened. ‘Your father made reparation. He died a true Christian warrior at the Battle of Ramlah. Now, Mandeville, he was cursed.’

De Payens glanced at Mayele, who simply smiled and winked back.

‘Mandeville,’ Murdac repeated, ‘self-styled Earl of Essex, perjurer, blasphemer, warlock …’

‘Children’s tales,’ Mayele broke in.

‘Black sacrifices,’ Murdac insisted. ‘You, Mayele, fought for Mandeville.’

‘As did I for a short while,’ Berrington declared, ‘as well as many knights now camped outside Castle Gifford. True, Your Grace?’

Stephen nodded in agreement. ‘True, true,’ he murmured. ‘Mandeville won a fearsome reputation. He plundered monasteries and abbeys.’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘So you fought for him for a while but left in disgust. Yes?’

Berrington smiled his agreement.

‘I remember now,’ Stephen continued. ‘You won the name of being a most honourable knight. The monks of Ely claimed that you defended them against the earl. But,’ the king lifted his goblet, ‘some of the others were fiends incarnate.’

‘Half of my retinue,’ Eustace joked, ‘are Satan’s men. They fear neither God nor man. Your Grace,’ he gestured at the archbishop, ‘you know that. Mandeville was a great earl, a warrior. Thousands flocked to his standards.’

‘And so did many wizards, sorcerers and witches.’

‘Mandeville was once my most fervent and loyal supporter,’ the King intervened. ‘I made a dreadful mistake. I arrested him for alleged conspiracy against me. Mandeville rose in rebellion.’

‘He plundered churches.’ Murdac lapsed into Latin. ‘He pillaged great monasteries like Ramsey and Ely in the wetlands of the Fens. Your Grace, he died excommunicate, body and soul damned to hell, which is why his coffin still hangs in chains from a tree in that cemetery at Holborn. The Temple should be careful.’ Murdac, his grey face hard, froth flecking his lips, was no longer the pious churchman.

‘Your Grace, Your Grace,’ Northampton soothed, eager to dissipate the tension, ‘many fought for Mandeville or some other great lord. Walkyn is now the danger. He nourishes bitter grudges against both the crown and his own order. The Templars regard him as a renegade. Our guests are here to hunt him down. Now,’ he tapped the table, ‘the clerks of the Exchequer and Chancery have made careful search but have discovered little about Walkyn, except that he owned the manor of Borley in Essex …’

‘Go away!’ Eustace shouted at a servant who had opened the door. The prince sprang to his feet, seized a platter strewn with bones and hurled it at the door.

The king’s dogs, nestling close to one of the braziers, immediately lurched forward to squabble noisily over the bones. Eustace, snatching up his war belt, went amongst them, lashing out, until Senlis caught him by the arm, spoke quietly and gently guided him back to the chair on his father’s right. De Payens watched intently. Eustace was violent; a sickness of the mind? He recalled the stories about how though King Stephen enjoyed great popularity, churchmen, particularly the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Holy Father, had issued strict instructions that Eustace was never to be crowned as his heir apparent. The papacy was obdurate on this, determined to bring the civil war to an end. If Stephen won, then perhaps Eustace might be crowned, but if he was defeated, the spoils of war, the crown of victory would go to Henry Fitzempress. Studying the prince’s face, mottled with anger, white froth staining his lips, the speed with which he downed cups of wine, de Payens could understand the reluctance of the great lords to serve such a master. Eustace might have a fearsome reputation in battle, but …

Mayele touched his arm. ‘Baiocis?’ he whispered.

The English master had half risen, as if troubled by Eustace’s violence. He clutched the table, hand moving from belly to chest. He was grey-faced, beads of sweat lacing his brow, eyes popping, mouth gasping for air. He was breathing noisily, half coughing, as if clearing his throat. De Payens watched in horror as Baiocis flailed his hands, gagging and choking.

‘In God’s name!’ Eustace bawled.

The other guests moved even as Baiocis fell to the ground, convulsing violently, arms and legs jerking as his head banged against the floor. The confusion spread. Servants hurried in. The priory apothecary was summoned, but Baiocis was beyond all physical help. The prior arrived even as the master of the English Temple suffered his last convulsion. Cowl pulled up, a stole around his neck, he swiftly anointed the dying man, loudly whispering the words of absolution from the sacrament of extreme unction. Parmenio moved to Baiocis’s leather-backed chair. He picked up and sniffed both the wine goblet and the water cup, then wrinkled his nose and pushed the goblet away. He sat watching as Baiocis died, just as the prior finished his ministrations.

‘A seizure?’ Eustace asked.

‘Poison!’ Parmenio lifted the goblet. ‘Tainted and foul-smelling.’

De Payens walked over and picked up the goblet. It was half empty. He noticed the fine grains of powder amongst the dregs, and sniffed. The rich claret was strong, but there was a more subtle tang, very like a medicine he had once been given when he had a fever. He pushed the goblet away. Royal retainers, alarmed by the news now sweeping the priory, burst into the refectory, only to be screamed at by Eustace, who ordered them out.

‘What poison?’ Stephen had not moved from his chair.

‘What poison?’ the prior repeated, wiping his hands on a napkin from the nearby lavarium. He gestured at Parmenio and the apothecary, examining each goblet, flagon and jug on the table. ‘Your Grace, our infirmary stocks every herb. Our gardens are rich with crocuses, nightshade, Solomon’s seal, foxglove …’

‘Who could have done this?’

Both the prior and the apothecary shrugged and shook their heads. Eustace angrily gestured at them to leave. Once they’d gone, the prince repeated his question.

‘In heaven’s name,’ Mayele declared, ‘if we knew who it was …’

‘I sat on Baiocis’s left,’ the Prince continued as if he hadn’t heard Mayele. ‘You,’ he nodded at Isabella, ‘to his right.’

‘He never left his seat,’ the Genoese replied. ‘He had his hand constantly on his goblet. No one approached him.’

‘Except servants,’ Mayele declared. ‘I was sitting opposite him. I swear no one approached so close as to poison his goblet.’

‘And that is the only one?’ Berrington asked.

‘Yes.’ Parmenio picked up his own goblet, sniffed and drank from it.

Eustace hastened to the door, shouting for the prior. Parmenio shook his head.

‘Whoever was responsible,’ he whispered, ‘is long gone, I’m sure.’

‘We must have the corpse removed,’ Berrington declared.

Was Baiocis the intended victim? de Payens thought. Or had there been a mistake? Was it the king or the prince who was supposed to have drunk that poison, or was Baiocis murdered because of who he was?

‘Our order.’ De Payens voiced his anxiety. ‘The bailiwick of England. Who will be its master now?’

‘I shall be.’ Berrington shrugged. ‘I am the most senior knight. It will take time for the chapter of the bailiwick to assemble; even longer to inform the Grand Master in Jerusalem.’

He took a cloak from a peg on the wall. De Payens helped him drape this over Baiocis’s corpse. Never handsome in life, Baiocis’s face was contorted by the rictus of a gruesome death, eyes half shut, yellow stumps of teeth in a gaping mouth, a lacy froth trickling down his chin.

The prior, summoned by Eustace, re-entered. A frightened man, he could offer little help about which servants served what. The king brought the interrogation to an end and ordered the corpse to be removed. De Payens glanced quickly at Isabella. She sat clutching her goblet, face white and tense, lips moving as if in silent prayer. He went over and placed a hand on her shoulder. She smiled shyly up at him, but he was struck not so much by her fear as her determination. ‘Courage here,’ she whispered up at him, ‘has to be harder, spirits stouter, hearts sterner. Here lies our lord brought low, our best man lies in the dust. If any warrior thinks of leaving the battle, he can howl for ever.’

‘My lady?’

She blinked and stared up at him as if seeing him for the first time.

‘Edmund, my apologies. I quote from an old Essex poem about a famous battle.’ She lifted her hands, fingers fluttering. ‘What is to be done here, what is to be done?’

De Payens moved to his seat.

‘What is to be done,’ the king declared loudly, echoing her words, gesturing at Eustace to retake his seat, ‘is to decide what was intended here. Berrington?’

‘Your Grace?’ The Templar shrugged. ‘Baiocis lies dead. Was he secretly dosing himself with a physic that proved noxious? Has he been murdered by Walkyn and his coven? Was he the intended victim, or was that someone else? As for the perpetrator? Your Grace, this priory teems with men, violent souls, men of war, steeped in blood …’

‘As well as witches and warlocks,’ Murdac broke in. The prelate quickly crossed himself. ‘I listened to your tale about the abominations in the Holy City. You think the name Erictho is not unknown here? My chancery is in York; Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, has his own records. Both would recognise the name Erictho.’ He waved a hand. ‘Oh, not much, just tittle-tattle.’

‘So it’s true?’ de Payens retorted. ‘Erictho is of English birth?’

‘Undoubtedly one of the many gregarii.’ Murdac used the term of contempt for those who wandered after armies. ‘She would have joined the devil horde who left for Jerusalem to seek out fresh victims.’ He crossed himself again. ‘What I know is only gossip from the villages and towns. Some say Erictho is a harridan; others that she is a great beauty, horribly disfigured for her sins. They have ascribed powers to her. How she can thicken the powers of the night, summon carrion birds and mix poisons from the froth of a dog or a snake-fattened badger.’

‘I would like to meet her.’ Eustace roared with laughter at his own joke.

‘She is a poisoner?’ Parmenio asked, ignoring the prince’s outburst.

‘One of the many accusations levelled against her.’

‘Children’s prattling,’ Northampton murmured. He sighed as he lurched to his feet, much the worse for drink. ‘She collects dragon’s eyes and eagle stones.’ He laughed sharply. ‘The likes of Erictho can be found, legion in number, along the filthy runnels of Southwark or on the devil’s land around St Paul’s. Your Grace,’ he turned to the king, who sat plucking at his lower lip, ‘these Templars have delivered a warning. Some madman has concocted a fey-witted scheme to kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Henry Fitzempress’s army has the same purpose, so why worry?’

The king smiled in agreement and rose, his son and councillors with him. He thanked the Templars courteously, and the royal party swept from the refectory, the king shouting at Eustace that they must have private words before they parted. De Payens listened as the footsteps faded in the corridor.

‘We are done.’ He sighed and stared around. ‘The king does not truly believe us, does he?’

‘His Grace is distracted,’ Berrington replied. ‘He is most concerned about his son, about the great lords withdrawing from the battle, the approach of Henry Fitzempress. He is surrounded by murder and intrigue. He has a son whom no one wants crowned, so why should he worry about one cut amongst many?’

‘He should.’ Parmenio sat down in the king’s chair. ‘Baiocis’s murder is a warning.’

‘Yet we cannot pursue Walkyn,’ Berrington declared, ‘because we do not know where he is, how he hides or where he goes. During the meal, His Grace assured us that his clerks had scrutinised the records of both Chancery and Exchequer. No trace of Walkyn was found, no sign of him entering or leaving the kingdom. Now,’ he rose to his feet, ‘we are to accompany the King’s son. We cannot refuse. To bring a warning to His Grace then decline his request to accompany the prince would be grave offence. Who knows, perhaps where we go, Walkyn will follow. He certainly made his presence felt here.’

‘Was Mandeville a warlock?’ de Payens asked abruptly.

Berrington leaned against the table and stared across, eyes hard, face resolute. ‘Mandeville was truly the rider on the pale horse mentioned in the Apocalypse; certainly all hell followed him. One of the reasons,’ he added brusquely, ‘why I left his company and journeyed to Outremer. Now,’ he pointed to the black wooden crucifix, ‘Baiocis’s corpse is to be laid out in the priory church. His body is past all help, but his soul still needs our prayers …’