The Templar Magician

Chapter 8

They spent three more days at Wallingford Priory. Eustace gathered his troops, hundreds of ribauds, rifflers from London, Flemish mercenaries, whoremongers, looters, hard men who had battened fat on almost twenty years of civil war. They flaunted the royal livery, but in truth, de Payens concluded, they were wolves in wolves’ clothing. He realised how a great lord like Mandeville could attract rapists, murderers, thieves, warlocks and witches to his standard. No wonder the likes of Berrington, sickened by what he saw, sought to cleanse his soul by admission to the Temple. For the rest, Baiocis’s death remained a mystery. All they could do was supervise his funeral rites. A requiem mass was sung in the gloomy, shadow-filled priory chapel. The death psalms were chanted amidst the glow of candlelight and gusts of smoke. The corpse was sprinkled with holy water, incensed and blessed and taken out in a makeshift coffin, fashioned out of an old arrow chest, then laid to rest in the Potter’s Field, the yew-shrouded corner of the priory cemetery reserved for strangers.

An hour later, as the bells chimed nones, Prince Eustace took leave of his father, and with his three-hundred-strong retinue, left Wallingford in a flurry of dust, lowing horns and fluttering banners. De Payens rode at the rear with his companions, Isabella mounted on a palfrey especially loaned from the royal stables. Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton, together with Murdac of York were to act as Prince Eustace’s advisers. He pointedly ignored them. The prince’s cavalcade moved swiftly through the summer countryside along rutted trackways and on to the old Roman roads, dried hard by the summer sun. Beautiful weather. The fields were primed for the harvest. Orchards hung heavy with fruit. Watermills stood freshly repaired and painted for the autumn crop. Eustace transformed all that. The black banners of war were unfurled as he swept through the shires towards Cambridge, burning, pillaging and looting the manors and estates of his father’s enemies. Barns were fired, granges left smoking black ruins, harvest fields ravaged, orchards plundered, stew ponds and streams polluted. Any who resisted were cut down or hanged from the nearest oak, sycamore or elm. Peasants, farmers and merchants heard of this devil storm and fled to churches, monasteries, castles and fortified manor houses.

After six days of such ravaging, Eustace’s cavalcade reached Bury St Edmunds, a stately abbey built of light grey stone, set behind its own lofty walls and well stocked with granges, fish ponds, orchards, barns and outhouses. A place of peace and harmony, with its sun-washed cloister garth, a garden filled with luxurious rose bushes in full bloom, their fragrance hanging heavy in the afternoon air. The abbot had the good sense to meet Eustace on the road leading up to the main gatehouse. Flanked by cross-bearers, thurifers and acolytes all garbed in white, he delivered a short homily in Latin, welcoming the young prince but tactfully pointing out that his retinue would have to stay in the fields and meadows outside. Eustace, drunk in the saddle, agreed. He and his immediate household, the Templars included, were escorted into the abbey and apportioned chambers in the grey-stone guesthouse. De Payens lodged in a narrow room. He immediately took off his armour, arranged his few possessions and demanded that he and his companions meet in the small rose garden below. He was saddle-sore, weary and furious: he and Parmenio soon clashed with Berrington over what was happening.

‘Outlaws!’ de Payens shouted, giving way to the anger seething within him. ‘We are no more than outlaws, burning farms and watermills, for the love of God!’

Parmenio nodded vigorously in agreement. Since leaving Wallingford, he’d become even more secretive and withdrawn.

‘Well?’ de Payens demanded.

Mayele simply smiled, as if savouring some secret joke. Isabella sat on a turf seat, examining the bracelets on her wrist.

‘Why?’ de Payens yelled at Berrington. ‘Why are we here? This marauding? We are Templars, not gregarii, ribauds!’

Again Parmenio agreed. Mayele turned away. Isabella put her face into her hands.

‘We have no choice, Edmund, you know that.’ Berrington walked over and grasped de Payens’ shoulder. ‘As I said before, we brought a hideous warning to the king. We could not ignore his request; to refuse to accompany his brutal son would have damaged our interests.’

De Payens protested, yet in the end he had no choice but to agree. Back in his narrow whitewashed chamber, he sat on the edge of his cot bed and stared at the coloured hanging celebrating the martyrdom of St Edmund.

‘Illusions,’ he whispered, recalling Nisam’s accusation, ‘we are just chasing illusions. What is the reality? Is it Walkyn, or something else?’ He stripped, lay on the bed and drifted into sleep, still wondering about what should be done. He was wakened later in the day. The light through the lancet window had dimmed. For a brief while he ignored the pounding on the door, Parmenio yelling his name. Then he recalled where he was and hastily donned his long tunic, put on his boots, grasped his sword belt and drew back the bolts. The Genoese, breathing hard, beckoned him out.

‘For the love of St Edmund, come. The prince …’

De Payens followed Parmenio out of the guesthouse and round into the cloisters, where Eustace, sword drawn, was screaming at the abbot, who stood defiantly before him, shaking his head, now and again crossing himself in protection against the prince’s torrent of blasphemy. Berrington and Mayele stood to the right of the abbot. Isabella, sitting on the cloister wall, got up and approached de Payens, finger to her lips.

‘The prince,’ she whispered, ‘wishes to empty the abbey’s granaries.’

‘God’s teeth!’ Eustace bellowed, shaking his fist at the abbot. ‘I will have my purveyance, my rights in this matter.’ He stormed off, mouthing threats, yelling for Murdac and Northampton, standing in the shadows of the cloisters, to follow him. Then he paused and spun around, fingers falling to the hilt of his sword in its brocaded scabbard, and stormed back to the abbot. De Payens half drew his own sword; Parmenio caressed the hilt of his dagger, while Berrington hastened forward as the prince advanced threateningly. The abbot stood his ground, one hand grasping his pectoral cross. Eustace stopped, glared at the abbot, then abruptly burst into laughter. He tapped the abbot on the shoulder, stepped back and sketched a mocking blessing in the air. Northampton and Murdac came hastening over, but Eustace’s mood had changed.

‘No trouble, my lords,’ he shouted. ‘We shall take close counsel in my chamber later.’ He waved a hand at them to withdraw, then linked his arm with that of the abbot, walking him through the cloisters, talking softly, as if they were the closest of brethren.

De Payens watched them go, hand still on the hilt of his sword. Berrington and the others sauntered across.

‘The prince is mad,’ de Payens whispered. ‘In heaven’s name, Berrington, Mayele, what a tangle we have ourselves in. Every bush is a bear. Every word is a possible curse. Black smoke against blue sky. Houses and cottages burning like bonfires on a sea of green.’

‘That is why we left England.’ Isabella spoke up softly. ‘Edmund, what you see is not as malignant as what we witnessed.’

‘Homo diabolus homini — man is a devil to man,’ Berrington murmured. ‘It was no better in the other shires: storm-riders, night-prowlers, fire and iron …’

‘Here we are,’ de Payens shook his head, ‘supposed to be pursuing a warlock who seems no more real than a marsh wisp. We should leave. Baiocis is dead, murdered. We should return and tell the Grand Master what has happened. This is impossible.’

‘And Montebard will reply,’ Berrington observed, ‘that we did not carry out his orders. Indeed, we jeopardised the Templar cause in England. Remember, Edmund, we are only here because he asked us to be.’

De Payens glanced at Parmenio. The Genoese stood, hands on hips, staring at the ground.

‘What shall we do?’ murmured the Templar.

‘What shall we do?’ Parmenio echoed. ‘Little wonder the Holy Father in Rome and many of the English bishops do not want Eustace crowned as king-in-waiting. We follow a wild man with a violent past and little future.’ He glanced up. ‘I hear what you say, Berrington, yet Edmund is correct. We cannot ride the trackways of England for ever and a day searching for Walkyn.’

‘But he must be close,’ Berrington declared. ‘Baiocis’s death proves that.’

‘It proves nothing,’ de Payens snapped, ‘except that someone poisoned Baiocis.’

Berrington, face drawn, eyes even more narrowed, shook his head.

‘How else was Baiocis murdered? Did anyone see any of us lean over and pour that noxious potion into his wine? If we had, someone would have noticed. No, he was killed in a subtle, clever way, by Walkyn or one of his minions.’ Berrington paused. ‘Walkyn might well be responsible. We are here, however, to prevent mischief to the crown.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If that happens and we fail, then perhaps we should think of leaving. Even so, Baiocis’s death creates fresh problems. I cannot leave the bailiwick of England in such confusion.’

De Payens walked off across the cloister garth. He stopped and stared up at a carving of a lizard, a two-legged serpent crawling up a lily stem towards the petals, each of which represented a human soul. Next to this peered a gargoyle with the face of a pig and the ears of a monkey. On the breeze floated the faint plucking of a lyre and a young, clear voice chanting a hymn to the Virgin.

‘We should wait,’ Berrington called out, ‘we should wait a little longer. The prince must return to London, to Westminster; by then we may have finished our duty.’

De Payens just shrugged in agreement. He left the cloisters and visited the abbey church, admiring its treasures, especially a sombre wall painting describing the fifteen signs of God, which, according to St Jerome, would precede the Last Judgement. Dramatic, soul-searing events painted in vivid colours: mountains tumbling, tidal waves surging, stars dropping from heaven, crashing to an earth engulfed in the fires of hell. He then visited the Lady Chapel and the chantry dedicated to St Anne. He spent some time there before leaving and going down the tree-lined path into the Petit Paradis, a little garden arranged in concentric circles full of flowers in all their glory and colour. He sat on a turf seat before a small fountain carved in the shape of a luxuriously feathered pelican striking its breast, from which water gurgled. He heard a sound. Lady Isabella, dressed in a tawny robe fringed with white bands at cuff and neck, her lovely face hidden under a coupe de mail, came sauntering down the path. She sat next to him and grasped his fingers, tightening her grip as he tensed.

‘Edmund, Edmund.’ Her lips were so close he could smell the mint on her breath. ‘In heaven’s name,’ she teased, ‘fair knight, be at ease. I’m no belle dame sans pitié.’

He turned.

‘We all want this finished,’ she murmured. ‘Soon it will be. Walkyn will be hunted down and killed.’ She turned to face him squarely, her fingers white and delicate, the cuff of her sleeve soft against his neck.

‘Never trust a soldier …’

De Payens whirled round as Berrington and Mayele came into the paradise.

‘Sirs, are you spying on me?’ Isabella teased.

‘No, sister, but the good brothers of St Benedict are; they told me where you’d be.’

‘Where is Parmenio?’ asked de Payens, eager to divert attention.

‘Gone wandering, as he always does.’ Mayele crouched down and squinted up at de Payens. ‘You know, Edmund, I don’t trust the Genoese. He appeared like some sprite in Tripoli and since then he has never really explained his presence here.’ He paused as the abbey bell clanged noisily, booming out the tocsin.

De Payens sprang to his feet. Above the tolling of bells, shouts and cries of alarm drifted across the walls of the paradise. Berrington raced back up the path, de Payens and the rest following. They left by the wicket gate and paused as a lay brother, sweaty-faced and out of breath, clutched Berrington’s arm and gasped out the news in a tongue difficult to understand.

‘It’s the prince, Northampton, Murdac,’ Parmenio called, hastening over, jerkin undone, the shirt beneath sweat-soaked. ‘All three,’ he gasped, ‘murdered!’

‘All three!’ de Payens exclaimed.

‘God pardon them,’ Parmenio gasped. ‘The prince and Northampton have been poisoned. They are already dead.’ He waved his hands. ‘Murdac is barely alive and has been taken to the infirmary. The abbey leech is examining the wine goblets. You’d best come.’

Eustace’s chamber was on the ground floor. The great double shutters over the arched window had been flung open to allow in more light to reveal the grim horror. Both Eustace and Northampton lay sprawled on the floor. The prince was dead, eyes staring, his face contorted, a frothy foam trickling from his open mouth. Northampton sprawled nearby on his side, face all ugly in death. It seemed as if the earl, in his last agonising throes, had tried to creep towards the great crucifix nailed to the wall. Berrington asked for the chamber to be cleared except for the abbot and the leech. The prince’s captain of mercenaries, face flushed in anger, did so, beating at the brothers and servitors with the flat of his sword. He fastened the door behind them and went and stood over his dead master. De Payens stared around. The chamber was luxurious, with gleaming walls, well-polished stools and benches, a great chair with padded leather backing and a huge four-poster bed hung with drapes. Dominating it was a long trestle table, most of which was covered with scrolls, rolls of parchment, scraps of sealing wax and ink horns. Next to these stood three goblets and platters of unfinished food. The high-legged stools thrown back on their sides told their own macabre story. De Payens walked across and picked up the wine jug. It was empty. He sniffed but could detect nothing and put it down. The prince was a toper, a lover of wine, and Northampton was no better. Two of the goblets, one of which was Eustace’s, at the top of the table, were drained even of their dregs. The third, which stood to the right of the prince’s chair, was almost full. De Payens, heeding the warning of the leech, picked this up and smelled the strong tang, like that of an empty skillet left over a fire. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and glanced towards the window. The sunlight was dimming. He went across and looked up at the sky, where clouds massing dark and low threatened a sudden summer storm.

‘I think all three goblets contained poison,’ the leech declared. ‘The jug is drained, so it’s difficult to tell.’

‘Domine?’

De Payens turned. The captain of the mercenaries had taken off his helmet and pushed back his mailed coif to reveal a narrow scarred face, his red hair shaven on all three sides.

‘Yes?’ the Templar asked.

‘Domine, the jug was brought by a lay brother; he is outside. I tasted the wine before it was taken in.’ He spread his hands. ‘I feel no ill effects.’

‘And the goblets?’ Berrington asked.

‘They must have been here before,’ the captain replied, ‘but surely if such noxious potion was in them, His Grace the Archbishop would have noticed. Once I had tasted the wine,’ he continued, ‘I allowed the lay brother in. His Grace took the flagon and filled all three goblets. The prince and the earl were already seated. They say,’ the captain’s voice turned ugly as he pointed at the abbot, ‘that the prince was cursed by St Edmund for plundering his abbey, in which case …’

‘In which case,’ de Payens intervened quickly, ‘we’d best leave St Edmund alone. Bring in the lay brother.’

The old abbey retainer could add little to what they already knew. Trembling with fright, he announced that he worked in the buttery. He had drawn the wine in the presence of the cellarer, who could confirm this. He had then immediately carried the flagon to the prince’s chamber. No one had approached him. The captain on guard outside had taken a generous sip, then he had brought the jug in. The prince had immediately demanded a goblet; the archbishop had obeyed, and as he poured the wine, the lay brother had withdrawn. The captain confirmed this, adding that no one else had entered the chamber.

Berrington took the goblets and put them on a tray. He picked this up and bowed to the abbot.

‘Reverend Father, I will take these to the infirmary, where His Grace the Archbishop lies. He may be able to tell us more. Captain, I order you on your loyalty, tell your men to remain settled. Further disturbance will not help. Father Abbot, once we have talked to His Grace, I will need the use of your chancery, the abbey messengers and the fastest horses from your stables. The captain here will provide an escort. They are to leave, search out the king and advise him about what has happened here. Now …’

Carrying the tray, Berrington led them down to the dark-beamed, white-walled infirmary. The leeches’ assistants were busy in the principal chamber, tending the archbishop. Berrington put the tray of goblets down and they all went in, except for a pale-faced Isabella, who simply sank down on a bench outside. Mayele saw this and went back to her. The rest gathered around Murdac’s bed. The archbishop had been purged and fed with a concoction of herbs and salted water to make him retch; the room stank of vomit. The archbishop, his ghost-white face sheened with sweat, was conscious, eyelids fluttering. The abbot crouched on a stool by his bed and talked softly; the archbishop, voice weak, murmured his replies, which the abbot translated.

‘He filled both goblets and his own. The prince declared that he was thirsty, as did Northampton. They drained the wine and demanded the goblets be refilled. His Grace obeyed, then sipped his own. A short while later, even as he felt the first symptoms, the prince and the earl became violently ill. Both claimed they were choking.’

The abbot patted the cold, vein-streaked hand; Murdac whispered some more.

‘He tells the same story of how the wine was served.’ The abbot sighed. ‘He smelled nothing remarkable. He now wants to be away from here, to be taken back to his favourite manor in Dorset.’

That day and the succeeding ones were filled with frenetic activity. De Payens, with the help of the abbey coffers, negotiated with the prince’s mercenaries to withdraw south and join the king in London, leaving a small retinue to guard the dead. The two corpses were washed, embalmed and blessed, then laid out in state before the abbey high altar. Couriers were dispatched and received. The king, both distraught and angry, was careful not to allocate any blame; his letter explained how he was now involved in complicated negotations with Henry Fitzempress. He gave detailed instructions about how the Templars were to supervise his son’s corpse, which was to be taken with all solemnity to the family mausoleum at Faversham Abbey in Kent, where Eustace’s mother lay buried.

Common gossip around the abbey and amongst the prince’s retainers maintained that Stephen’s second son, William of Boulogne, would succeed as heir apparent. A few days later the proclamation of a lasting peace between Stephen and Henry Fitzempress dispelled such rumours. Both leaders had sworn great oaths. Stephen would remain king, whilst Henry Fitzempress would be solemnly adopted as his heir presumptive. Speculation grew rife. Berrington, lean face all puckered with concern, convened a meeting of his entourage to discuss the news. Mayele remarked ironically how Eustace’s death could not have occurred at a more favourable time; nor that of the fervent royalist Northampton, not to mention the grievous sickness of the Archbishop of York, who now lay at death’s door. All grudgingly conceded that the secretive, mysterious Walkyn had carried out a most successful revenge against Stephen and his family. Already the swift change of fortune was making itself felt. The abbot had dispatched couriers to congratulate Prince Henry. Berrington said he would do likewise, so as to win the new ruler’s approval for the Temple.

‘We are finished here,’ he proclaimed.

‘Finished?’ Mayele barked back.

‘I have reflected upon what Edmund said earlier,’ Berrington declared. ‘What more can we do? I could continue the hunt for Walkyn. I propose that Edmund and Parmenio be dispatched back to Outremer, bearing letters to our masters in Jerusalem describing what has happened here. I shall stay to reorganise the Temple holdings, contact the various preceptories and,’ he smiled thinly, ‘join everyone else in paying my respects to the new star rising in the east.’

‘And me, brother?’ Isabella asked. ‘If you wish, I could join Edmund …’

De Payens remained silent, lost in thought. He was tempted to accept what Berrington said, yet he felt irked at being used as a messenger boy.

‘I could leave as well,’ Isabella repeated.

‘If I want to go,’ de Payens retorted.

‘If he should go,’ Parmenio added.

They were sitting in the Petit Paradis; now the Genoese rose swiftly to his feet, clearly agitated.

‘Brother?’ Berrington demanded.

‘I am not your brother,’ Parmenio retorted. ‘I, we, you, Edmund, we all hold a commission to hunt down Walkyn and whatever malignants have joined his coven and kill them all; those are the orders of our Grand Master.’

‘But,’ Berrington interrupted, ‘I can continue the hunt. Mayele can assist. Earlier, both you and de Payens said you wanted to leave. I thought this would be an honourable compromise.’

‘That was before,’ Parmenio repeated heatedly. ‘We wondered if Walkyn had come to England. Now we know the truth. We have witnessed at first hand his mischief. Moreover, Stephen is still king. We have told him why we are here. Should some of us leave now and give up the task because Walkyn has succeeded? I do not think King Stephen would reconcile himself to that. The situation is now more serious. If we had left before these murders, that would have been tolerable, but now we are committed. The king may not even give us licence to leave. Whatever, I will not return, not yet.’ He glanced at de Payens. ‘Edmund,’ he pleaded, ‘at Ascalon I saved your life. On this matter, I beg you: we must stay, at least for a while.’

De Payens, intrigued by the Genoese’s passionate appeal and convinced by his logic, nodded in agreement. Deep in his heart he also felt resentment at the way Berrington had decided how matters should be. True, earlier he had wished to return to Outremer, but that had been anger. Now Eustace and Northampton were dead, whilst Murdac was dying. Surely such deaths should be avenged? It was too late to leave now. Berrington looked as if he wanted to argue the case, but then he pulled a face and passed on to other matters, such as supplies, and the need to return to London to collect revenues from the Templar coffers. The meeting ended, each going their different ways. De Payens tried to draw Parmenio into conversation, but the Genoese simply murmured that he had said enough for a while.

The days flew by. In the middle of September, the Templars, with full panoply, escorted the embalmed corpses of the prince and Northampton to Faversham Abbey for their solemn interment. The king was present, as was Henry Fitzempress. The Angevin was red-haired, florid-faced, heavily built, with the long arms of a born swordsman. One hand rested on his dagger, the other on a very tall, pale-faced, dark-haired cleric whom Berrington whispered was Thomas à Becket, a clerk well known in both London and Kent. King Stephen met them in the Galilee porch of Faversham abbey church. He welcomed them coldly, though he thawed as Lady Isabella expressed her own compassionate condolences. He declared that they’d done enough to protect his son, but added that they must be in London around the Feast of the Confessor, in the middle of October, when they could account for what had truly happened before the Great Council.

The following day they returned to Bury St Edmunds. Berrington became busy over their departure for Westminster. Isabella helped him, Mayele being used as a courier. De Payens, left to his own devices, wandered the abbey. He became accepted by the good brothers as a royal guest, a fellow monk from a different order. De Payens worked hard to make himself at home in that cavernous, sprawling house of prayer. He often strolled through the great cloisters, reciting his beads. He visited the long dark nave of the church, and joined the monks in the library or scriptorium, where their precious manuscripts were chained to polished lecterns. He chattered to the abbey chroniclers, who sat with sharpened quills and freshly brushed vellum, ink horns at the ready, their great writing benches littered with parchment knives, wax, pots of paints and curls of ribbon. He assembled with the good brothers in their stalls for matins, lauds and the rest of the sacred hours. He immersed himself in the daily horarium in the abbey, even helping where he could in the stables and forges, whilst using such occasions to probe events around the death of the prince. In the end he discovered nothing new. The brothers whispered behind their hands how Eustace’s death was the work of St Edmund, who had inflicted punishment on the prince for his sins. They also murmured about Parmenio: how the Genoese was prying into the murderous affray that had taken place in their abbey, though keeping himself very much aloof from them.

De Payens had to agree. Parmenio had grown estranged from his companions, often absenting himself from the guesthouse refectory. Berrington and Mayele commented on that, but ignored Parmenio, as if he were no longer a member of their retinue, resentful at his opposition to Berrington’s wishes. Isabella grew cooler, whilst her brother concentrated on Templar business, being visited day and night by couriers and messengers. Berrington voiced his suspicion that Walkyn might have hidden himself in London, and announced that they would journey there as soon as possible to resume the hunt. In the meantime, other business demanded his attention.

De Payens considered spying on Parmenio, but dismissed this as dishonourable. The Genoese had his own business, and de Payens decided that little could be done until they moved to London. Instead, struck by the beauty of the countryside, he took to riding out along the trackways, turning off into the nearby forest to admire the gradual change of the riot of greenery to a feast of brown and gold as autumn swept in. He was fascinated by the constant turmoil of life: the bracken snapping and crackling as fox, hare, rabbit, squirrel and other creatures burst their way through, hunting for food or each other; the ever-present canopy above him, always alive with the fluttering and calls of birds; the darkness on either side of the trackway where the great trees clustered so close, only to abruptly open on to sun-washed glades sprinkled with wild flowers; swift, narrow streams that bubbled vigorously into meres, pools and ponds.

On his rides, de Payens became aware of other sights, dark, fleeting figures. The good brothers laughingly assured him that these were only forest people — charcoal-burners, poachers from nearby villages, woodsmen — not the hags, elves and gargoyles of popular legend. De Payens found such outings comforting, as he reflected on what had happened since that dies irae in Tripoli almost a year ago. It provided him with an opportunity to probe the dogging sense of unease about the search for a warlock whom he had never known or seen.

On the feast of St Dionysius, he decided to ride out again. He attended the dawn mass for that illustrious martyr, then broke his fast at the ale table in the buttery, where Brother Grimaldus cheerfully provided sustenance for his journey with a linen bag containing bread, cheese, apples, some dried meat and fresh plums. De Payens collected his horse from the stables, and within a short while was deep in the dense copse of trees, broken by glades ringed by ancient stones. He had grown accustomed to the forest sounds, and became deep in thought about the tangle of mysteries. He wondered if the abbey library could help translate the cipher still in the small leather pouch on a cord around his neck. Memories from the past came and went: Parmenio in that Greek church in Tripoli, darting forward with a dagger; Mayele loosing arrows so deadly against his chosen victims; Nisam in his garden pavilion staring at him sadly; Baiocis dying in the refectory. The Templar recalled how the master had looked ill from the beginning of that meal, clutching his goblet as if already anticipating his death. Then Eustace and Northampton struck down so swiftly, but how? The abbey leech had later reported that the archbishop’s goblet was definitely laced with some noxious potion, but the other cups, drained even of the dregs, were a mystery as he could detect no real taint.

De Payens broke from his reverie and tightened his reins at sounds behind him different from the rest. He paused, staring around as if studying the trees, then he glimpsed them: three small, dark shapes moving on the other side of the glade. He rode into the trees and slipped from his horse, quietly urging it on as he slid into the tangled undergrowth. He undid his war belt, drew his dagger and waited, motionless. Three small figures came darting down the path. De Payens lunged and caught one, grasping the small body around the waist. Despite the screams and yells, he held his prisoner fast, then grinned at the bright eyes and dirty face glaring at him through a tangle of black hair. He laughed and put the little girl down. She backed away, eyes rounded in fear, then paused at the sight of the silver medal, a likeness of the Virgin, which de Payens always carried in the wallet on his belt.

‘Come,’ he beckoned, ‘take.’

The girl chattered back. De Payens couldn’t understand what she said. He beckoned her again, crossed himself and leaned over. She grasped the medal and he let her take it. Then he got to his feet, strapped on his war belt and walked slowly down the snaking path to where his horse was cropping the grass. He undid the pannier, took out the linen parcel of food and turned. Three children now stood on the trackway with the sunlight behind them, little black shadows holding each other’s hands. De Payens felt a stab of self-pity tinged with envy. He had never experienced that; no brother or sister, just Theodore and the formidable Eleanor. He quickly murmured a prayer of thanksgiving for that, undid his wallet and took out two more of the shining medals. Then he unclasped his cloak, spread it on the trackway, put the medals in the middle and undid the linen bag. The children, dirty faces almost hidden by tousled black hair, came and knelt opposite him. He pointed to the medals, then quietly drew his dagger, and ignoring their gasps cut the food into four portions. Little arms snaked across, each seizing their portions as well as the medals. De Payens closed his eyes, crossed himself and murmured the Benedicite. When he looked again, all three children were pushing the food, a mixture of apple, bread, cheese and meat, into their mouths, large eyes rounded in pleasure. De Payens laughed. He talked to them but they couldn’t understand. Instead they made the sign of the cross and crammed the plums into their mouths. Once finished, they wiped their mouths on the back of their hands and patted their stomachs. De Payens rose. He sketched a blessing, put on his cloak, remounted and rode on. When he turned in the saddle to wave, all three had disappeared.