The Templar Magician

Chapter 9

Eventually de Payens reached another glade, and on the breeze came the distant tolling of the heavy abbey bells. He decided to return following the same path back. The sun was in his eyes, sparkling through the interlaced canopy of trees. He reached the place where he’d fed the children, reined in and looked down just as a burst of bird wing alerted him. His hand went to his sword even as the crossbow bolt whirled by his face, its feathered quarrel almost brushing his skin. Another skimmed over his head. He pulled on his reins, and his horse reared. A third bolt, whirring like some deadly bird, plunged into the animal’s neck, sending it squealing and kicking before collapsing in agony. De Payens pulled his feet out of the stirrups, crawling away as the horse lashed out in its death throes. He gazed around. His left leg was hurting, his back and arms bruised by the fall. He drew both sword and dagger and glanced pityingly at the horse, a good mount now sprawled in a pool of blood, limbs twitching. He stared ahead and glimpsed shadows moving. These were no common outlaws, who’d be too poorly armed to attack an armed knight. Moreover, the ambush had been carefully prepared. They had waited for him to return, with the sun in his eyes. Professional assassins, hired killers, probably four or five of them, because the bolts had all been loosed in swift succession. As he tried to reach a tree, so that he could at least protect his back, the bracken crackled and snapped. The assassins were drawing close. Abruptly a horn sounded, a long, carrying blast. The undergrowth behind him rustled. Arrows sped over his head in the direction of his hidden attackers. Again the horn blast. Men armed with spears and clubs were threading through the trees on either side of him. One turned and hurried towards him, hand up in the sign of peace.

‘Pax et bonum, Templar.’

By his dark brown robe, the cross on a cord around his neck and the clean-cut tonsure, de Payens recognised a priest. He came and crouched beside the Templar, his weathered face wrinkled in concern, kindly green eyes searching for any wound.

‘You certainly have enemies, Templar.’ He spoke the lingua franca of the Middle Seas. ‘Oh yes.’ He grinned. ‘I was a chaplain in the retinue of Lord Balian. I have worshipped in the Holy Sepulchre, but now, for my sins and in reparation for my pride, I am parish priest of St Botulph’s-in-the-Wood, a benefice of St Edmund’s. Well,’ he patted de Payens’ leg, ‘you’re injured?’

‘No, just bruised and humbled,’ de Payens replied, pulling himself up. ‘Otherwise I’m sound. My horse?’

‘Poor beast.’ The priest extended a hand, and de Payens clasped it. ‘I am John Fitzwalter, as I said, priest and former chaplain.’ He helped de Payens up, and they went and stood over the dead horse. The forest people emerged, shaking their heads, talking quickly to the priest in their guttural tongue. ‘My beloveds,’ Priest John translated, ‘say that your attackers were assassins skilled in forest-lore.’

‘Who could hire such men?’ de Payens asked.

The priest pulled a face. ‘We’ve heard the gossip about you and the other Templars at the great abbey. How you were in the retinue of Prince Eustace. As for your question, this is England; the shires are full of such men. They only believe in one verse from scripture: They fear neither God nor man. Thank the Lord you were kind to the children. They glimpsed your assailants and hurried back to the village with the news. Now, your poor horse.’ He patted de Payens on the arm. ‘You’ve read the great Anselm? He said that cruelty to animals comes directly from the Evil One. Ah well.’ He crouched and helped de Payens loosen the saddle and bridle. ‘Leave the animal here, Templar. The poor will eat it. Some good will come from this evil. Small recompense for your saviours.’

De Payens stood up. One of the villagers gently took the saddle from him, another the harness. The Templar opened his wallet, shook out the remaining coins and medals and pressed them into the priest’s hands. He then stared closely at his rescuers, forest people dressed in shabby green and brown tunics bound around the waist with rope; rough sandals and leggings protected their ankles and feet. A few were young; others looked indistinguishable, with their mass of dark hair, bushy beards and moustaches. They smiled at him and spoke quickly to the priest.

‘They thank you. They always follow you when you come here.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain.’ The priest added grimly, ‘Those children were a lure, but you were very kind. Come.’ He grasped de Payens’ arm. ‘We will escort you back to the abbey gatehouse.’

They went back along the path. The priest described his village church, how he’d repaired it, the vivid wall painting he was preparing to illustrate themes from the bible, especially the Final Judgement.

‘God knows what will happen on that day. Now listen.’ He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. ‘As I said, we knew about the prince. We heard about his death and those of the others. We are also concerned, Templar. Men have appeared in our woods, strangers, dangerous nighthawks, dark wanderers, well armed, visored and hooded. They camp here and watch the abbey.’

‘Does anyone come out to meet them?’

‘I cannot say. We only see their fires at night, smell their woodsmoke. Indeed, one of my parishioners has met them.’

‘What?’

The priest paused, shouting at the forest people, who drifted back.

‘Thurston,’ he called. A young man stepped forward, spear in one hand, club in the other. The priest spoke to him; Thurston replied, his gaze never leaving that of the Templar.

‘What did he say?’ de Payens asked. ‘I recognise the name Walkyn.’

‘Thurston is a skilled poacher,’ the priest murmured. ‘There is not a rabbit alive he cannot catch. Now there’s a warren deep in the forest, a source of fresh meat. Thurston was there; he trapped three or four, enough food for my parish. He was returning when two strangers slipped out from the trees. They were courteous enough, but asked him to hand over the meat. Thurston of course could not refuse, but in the forest fashion, he asked their names. One of the men replied that his name was Walkyn, that all he wanted was the meat, then Thurston could go on his way.’

‘Walkyn?’ De Payens stared at the villager. ‘You are sure of that?’

The priest translated, but Thurston was stubborn and kept repeating the name, nodding vigorously.

‘The strange thing is,’ the priest smiled at de Payens, ‘Thurston asked what his companion’s name was, and the same name was given. And that is not all.’ The priest indicated that they should walk on, calling to his parishioners to do likewise. ‘All kinds of men flee here, outlaws from the towns and villages. A few join us. Many do not survive, but these strangers certainly have. In the main they leave us alone, as we do them. Very rarely do we clash, but recently, in the last month, things have changed.’

‘How?’

‘Young girls,’ he murmured, ‘well, young women; at least three in the last weeks have just disappeared. Now that is not so surprising. Some of our young men and women get tired of forest life and flee to the towns and villages, but these were different. They had families, lovers; one was betrothed to be married. They just disappeared like frost under the sun.’

De Payens repressed a shiver as he recalled the stories about similar macabre disappearances in Jerusalem.

‘And no corpses have been found?’

‘Templar, look around. You could bury the cadavers of an entire city in this forest and never find a grave. But to answer your question bluntly, we do not think these young women ran away. Something hideous has happened to them.’

‘And you think these strangers could be responsible?’

‘Perhaps.’ The priest shook his head. ‘We even wondered about you. We watched you ride out, hence those three children. My parishioners,’ he added drily, ‘were watching you all the time. Deo Gratias, they also saved you.’

‘How long have you been here, Father?’

‘Oh, at least fourteen summers in all. Why?’

‘You know about the great rebel, Mandeville, Earl of Essex?’

‘Oh yes, that demon.’

‘Why do you call him that?’

The priest paused, looking up at the sky. ‘I’ve heard the stories about him being a warlock, a sorcerer, but that is not true. Mandeville was like the rest of the great lords, greedy for wealth and lands. He committed hideous blasphemies, occupying monasteries and abbeys, despoiling holy places. By doing so he attracted a host of dark spirits, men who dabbled in all sorts of wickedness. I am a pastor, Templar. I deal with the care of souls. Do you know what I think?’ He glanced sideways at de Payens. ‘We human beings, our souls are like manor houses, haunted by angels and demons. We all make a choice about which should dominate. Whatever,’ he sighed, ‘we heard the stories about Mandeville’s followers. Some of them were steeped in wickedness; they carried out bloodthirsty rites, revelling in what they did. Look at Prince Eustace. We heard about his wild ride through the shires. What chance do my parishioners have against mailed men on horse, armed with swords and crossbows? They ride into a village and can do what they want; no sheriff, no bailiff can object. The king’s peace is shattered. It’s so good to hear that King Stephen and Henry Fitzempress have been reconciled.’

They reached the forest edge, and approached the abbey gatehouse. The priest took the saddle and harness from his parishioners; only he went forward with de Payens. He paused at the small drawbridge across the narrow ditch.

‘Templar,’ he handed over the harness, ‘God be with you.’ Then he was gone.

De Payens’ dramatic return to the abbey provoked consternation amongst the good brothers. Parmenio, Mayele and Isabella came hurrying down. Once de Payens had assured the brethren that he’d suffered no real hurt, they all gathered in the guesthouse refectory, and he gave his companions a cursory description of the attack, even as he studied their faces, particularly that of Parmenio, who looked troubled. On his return, de Payens had immediately asked the porters and doorkeepers if any of his companions, or indeed anyone else, had left the abbey, only to be assured that they had not. On reflection, he concluded, it wasn’t possible for a malignant to leave St Edmund’s, thread through the woods, then lurk to kill him within such a brief space of time. Nevertheless, he did not wish to remain beetle-blind. He could have died in the forest. And had not a similar attack occurred outside Ascalon, when Parmenio had been with him? He deliberately did not tell them about the forest children or the details of his meeting with the priest, but he did mention the strangers in the forest, hooded and visored, all calling themselves Walkyn.

‘Perhaps it’s the name they have taken for themselves,’ Parmenio observed. ‘It’s quite common to assume the title or designation of the leader of a group. The retainers of great lords do likewise.’

Berrington and Mayele agreed.

‘Edmund,’ Berrington declared, ‘while you were gone, we received information, a messenger from Essex: rumour has it that Walkyn landed on the Colvasse peninsula near Orwell, a lonely estuary not far from his manor at Borley. He would want to avoid port reeves and harbourmasters, and it would be easy in some foreign port to hire passage on a cog, a pirate ship, which could land him and any others on a lonely strip along the Essex coast.’

‘But how could he do that?’ de Payens countered.

‘What do you mean?’ Parmenio demanded.

‘Well,’ de Payens stretched out his hand, ‘look at me, a poor Templar knight. You, Berrington, and the rest have come to England paid by monies drawn from the exchequer in Jerusalem. We are dependent on what we receive from our order, the hospitality of the good brothers, the kindness of the king in loaning horses. Where did Walkyn get such wealth? He was a poor Templar knight.’

‘He was also leader of a coven.’

‘Yes, but he was captured,’ de Payens insisted. ‘He was seized, held captive by you, Berrington, bound as a prisoner, manacled, seated on a poor horse, I presume. He had nothing on him, did he?’

‘Of course not,’ Berrington agreed. ‘But remember, his coven attacked us. They stripped us of our armour and whatever wealth we carried, and stole our horses. They would also have brought whatever wealth they had from Jerusalem.’

‘And Tripoli?’ Mayele observed. He gestured at Berrington not to interrupt. ‘Remember, brothers, Count Raymond was killed, then the rioting and massacre began. Part of the city was plundered; wealthy merchants had their houses stripped of all possessions. If Walkyn was responsible for that, he may have amassed a small fortune, true?’

‘Yes,’ Parmenio leaned his elbows on the table, ‘yes, that would make sense.’ He talked as if speaking to himself. ‘It’s been mentioned before. Perhaps that was the reason for the attack in Tripoli: to kill the count and cause chaos and mayhem as a guise, a cloak. Walkyn’s real intention was to plunder the houses of the rich to acquire the wealth he needed.’

‘Which he would use,’ Mayele declared, ‘once he began his travels. Silver and gold in foreign ports would soon buy passage on a private cog, whilst in Essex he would use the same to recruit and summon up members of his coven and hire assassins.’

The discussion about Walkyn’s intentions grew heated. Isabella slipped on to the bench beside de Payens, face all worried. She rested a hand on his arm, shaking her head.

‘Edmund, Edmund,’ she whispered in a return to her old flirting. ‘I could have accompanied you on your rides.’ She grinned impishly. ‘A fair maid on the green sward …’

‘Sister!’ Berrington got to his feet. ‘Edmund, you cannot go out alone again.’ He walked up and down. ‘It’s possible that armed men, cowled and masked, are gathering in the woods, a natural place for Walkyn to hide. He may even have followers here in the abbey. We’ve outstayed our welcome here. Tomorrow we leave for London. Walkyn might follow us, and there we can trap him.’

Edmund de Payens stood in God’s Acre, a plot of land stretching between the wall of St Andrew’s, Holborn, and the Templar enclosure with its rounded church, half-timbered hall, barracks, guesthouses, forges, storerooms and other outbuildings. He stared in astonishment at the great oaken casket hanging by stout chains from the branches of an ancient, gnarled yew tree. All around him rose the memorials of dead Templars and those who had served them, but this was unique: the coffin of a great earl who had died excommunicate, a body refused burial in consecrated ground until the Pope in Rome lifted the sentence of eternal damnation. The ox-hide covering, blood red in colour, was fading and weathered, the huge chain links rusting. The coffin swayed slightly, creaking as if the corpse inside housed a blackened soul still struggling to begin its journey towards the light.

De Payens whittled at the stick he’d picked up as he studied the ground beneath the coffin. Someone had taken great care over this plot; no nettles or weeds, their roots matted like basketwork, thrived here. The ground had been torn with a tooth-rake, reaping out the crawling, snake-like roots and breaking up the clods of earth, and a meadow plot planted of green grass jewelled with lilies of the wood, daffodils, daisies, forget-me-nots and speedwells. De Payens crouched down, relishing the flower scent. Even though it was October, autumn had arrived late here and the full glory of summer was not yet spent. He thanked God for the clement weather and crossed himself. He and his companions had left St Edmund’s following, where possible, the old Roman road south. They had bought horses, palfreys and sumpters as well as whatever harness they needed. Each day they’d travelled immediately after the dawn mass until the hour of vespers, when they’d sought shelter in some monastery, church, hostelry or pilgrim tavern. They’d ridden into London from the east, close to the soaring white donjon built by William the Norman, making their way along the north bank of the Thames, past the castles of Montfichet and Baynard, through Newgate, into the Temple enclosure. They’d arrived nine days ago. Berrington, acting very much the master, had summoned the seneschals, clerks and bailiffs. He’d inspected the Templar buildings and allocated them chambers, except for Isabella, who took lodgings in the nearby Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn, a fortified manor house within walking distance of the Templar manse.

Two days later they had been summoned to the king’s house at Westminster. They’d heard mass at St Paul’s, leaving even as the masons, stone-cutters and carpenters swung themselves up on to the scaffolding around the still unfinished cathedral. They’d ridden through the strengthening morning light and entered the north gate of the palace. The great bailey beyond was already busy with falconers, hooded hawks on their wrists. Hunters were fussing with wolfhounds and wiry vulperets. Grooms and ostlers grouped around horses, destriers and palfreys. They’d left their mounts and pushed their way through a throng of clerks, men-at-arms and serjeants, and along vaulted passageways into the royal chamber, hung with canvas newly dyed a deep crimson, the gaps between emblazoned with the king’s arms. A grand table under a gold-fringed canopy stood on a dais at the far end of the chamber; this was ringed with high-backed chairs and stools. On each side stood small trestle desks holding parchment rolls, tubs of sealing wax, vellum, bound books and steel-ringed coffers. Sconce torches flickered, candles glowed and brazier baskets crackled and smoked; the chamber was very warm and full of fragrances.

They had to wait for a while until a blare of trumpets and the shouts of chamberlains announced the arrival of the king. Stephen entered garbed in a short mantle of russet fastened at the right shoulder by a large jewel brooch over a long red tunic flowered with gold and fastened at the throat by a silver clasp. His tight-fitting scarlet hose and boots of black leather, still spurred, were splattered with the blood and mud of the hunt. He was accompanied by a whey-faced clerk dressed in black, which only emphasised the cleric’s pinched features beneath a mop of neatly tonsured hair. Other courtiers and officials followed, but they stayed near the door. Stephen swept to the chair in the centre of the table, the chancery clerk to his right. Berrington and the rest were told to approach and take their seats. The king was pale, thinner. The death of his son had clearly shaken him, but he did not indulge in recriminations.

‘My son was murdered,’ he whispered once Berrington had finished speaking. His face lightened when he caught Isabella’s smile of compassion. ‘Yes, yes,’ he waved a hand, ‘my lady, you and your brother must dine with me in the hall, but for now …’ He beckoned at de Payens, who felt a stab of jealousy and frustration at not being invited as well. ‘Please,’ the king insisted, ‘tell me again. Tell me what happened.’

De Payens described the deaths of Senlis and Eustace, and then added a short description of the murderous assault on him in the forest outside the abbey. Once he’d finished, Stephen nodded and whispered to the chancery clerk, then raised a hand for silence.

‘We have done fresh searches.’ The king rubbed his face. ‘The harbourmasters and port reeves have not reported Walkyn’s entry into the kingdom, though,’ he added wistfully, ‘there are a legion of deserted coves such as Orwell. Our recent troubles have certainly not helped matters. Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘without specifying his crimes, Henry Walkyn, former Templar, is to be put to the horn as utlegatum, beyond the law. By order of king and council, he can be killed on sight. A reward of a hundred pounds sterling is posted on his head; two hundred if brought in alive. This proclamation will be issued to every sheriff and port reeve, and pinned to the cross outside St Paul’s and that in Cheapside. Dead or alive,’ he mumbled, ‘dead or alive — wolf’s-head.’

Afterwards, de Payens, Mayele and Parmenio had returned to the Temple, where they had to wait until early evening before Berrington and Isabella returned, full of chatter about the king and the favour he’d shown them. That evening held a further shift in events. Once again Berrington raised the possibility of leaving Walkyn to the bounty-hunters and reward-seekers. De Payens, however, recalling the murderous attack on him, stood his ground. So it was decided that Berrington would continue as master of the Temple in England. He would be assisted by Mayele, who’d act as his envoy to the other preceptories. Parmenio and de Payens meanwhile would continue their hunt for Walkyn.

De Payens threw away the stick he was whittling and walked carefully around the yew tree and its grisly burden. Berrington and Mayele often came here, either to view this gruesome sight or to pay their respects to the great lord, he did not know which. The two men still believed that Mandeville had been a formidable war leader. As they stoutly maintained, the dead earl could not be held responsible for some of the people who served him. Parmenio also visited here, though de Payens noticed how he kept his distance, never drawing too close. On the other hand the Genoese had become friendlier, actually seeking de Payens out. He heard a sound and turned. Parmenio stood there, hand on the hilt of his dagger.

‘What is the matter?’ De Payens walked towards him. ‘Do you fear attack even here? Why do you caress your dagger hilt?’

The Genoese lifted both hands and grinned.

‘In the presence of the devil,’ he tapped the cross hilt of his dagger, ‘I ask God and his angels to protect me.’

‘From what?’ de Payens demanded. ‘Why, Parmenio?’ He leaned in, his face close to that of the Genoese. ‘Why are you so stubborn, so faithful in all of this? Here you are in a strange country, a foreign place. You are like a lurcher who won’t be thrown from the scent.’

‘You’re the same.’

‘I’m a Templar. This is Temple business. You are Genoese, far from home. Why bother? Why not go back?’

‘He was the devil.’ Parmenio ignored the questions and pointed at the hanging casket. ‘He used to send his searchers out at night to discover where rich men dwelt, so that he could seize them, throw them into dungeons and demand heavy ransoms. He took his coven by barge through the slimy fens at night and seized the monastery at Ramsey, surprising the brothers in their beds just after they’d sung matins. He turned them out and filled their monastery with soldiers. He seized sacred treasures, relics and vestments. He turned such places into a fort.’

‘Others have done the same.’

‘Old Mandeville did worse,’ Parmenio retorted. ‘He turned Christ’s church into a robber’s den, the sanctuary of the Lord into the devil’s abode. He attracted the worst amongst the warlocks and witches, blood-drinkers and demon-worshippers. Hideous abominations were carried out, so intense that even the walls of the church sweated blood.’

‘These children of Satan?’ de Payens asked. ‘They murdered?’

‘Oh yes, they took prisoners, innocents who were never seen again: those who hid in the fens nearby heard the cruellest screams.’

‘You seem well versed in their practices,’ de Payens retorted. ‘But to return to my question, which you never answered, why are you really here, Parmenio? You appeared like the Angel of Vengeance in that church in Tripoli. Since then you have dogged our footsteps like a hungry mastiff. You face battle, hunger, thirst, a perilous journey — why?’

‘Like you, Edmund,’ Parmenio’s reply was swift, ‘a task has been entrusted to me. I will complete it.’

De Payens was tempted to confront him with a litany of questions, then he recalled the Genoese protecting him in Ascalon.

‘Anyway,’ Parmenio beckoned him forward, ‘someone is here to see you. He says he will only speak to a Templar.’

‘Where is Mayele?’

‘On errands for Berrington.’ Parmenio’s reply was sarcastic. ‘And before you ask, our noble master and the beautiful Isabella are at Westminster again. Our king is much taken with them.’ He grinned. ‘Especially the charms of la belle dame. Ah,’ he smiled ironically, ‘the sorrows and pain of widowhood, eh, Edmund?’ He turned on his heel and led de Payens back into the Templar manse. They went down the flagstoned corridor that cut past the chambers on either side. Just before they reached the entrance hall, Parmenio paused. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered over his shoulder, ‘she’s back, your secret admirer.’

De Payens closed his eyes in exasperation. Over the last few days a young woman — the porters claimed she was a courtesan, a high-priced one — had been glimpsed near the main gate. On one occasion she had approached Parmenio and asked to see de Payens.

‘Well?’ the Genoese asked.

De Payens opened his eyes.

‘You see,’ Parmenio smiled, ‘she won’t see any other Templar, just you!’

‘She will have to wait. Now who’s this?’

The man waiting for him in the hall rose as they entered. De Payens gestured at the two serjeants to withdraw.

‘Well?’ he asked.

The stranger was a young man, clean-shaven, with an honest face. He was neatly attired in a bottle-green tunic down to his knees over brown hose pushed into soft clean boots. The mantle on his shoulders had a hood; this was pushed back over sandy hair.

‘I speak Norman French.’ The stranger’s voice was low and cultured. ‘I’m a clerk in the Guildhall, Martin Fitzosbert.’ He licked his lips, and lifted ink-stained fingers.’

‘And what do you want, clerk?’

‘The reward for Henry Walkyn alive, or at least part of it.’

‘What?’

‘Listen,’ Fitzosbert gabbled, ‘the entire city knows about the proclamation. I work at the Guildhall. I help transcribe the documents putting men to the horn. It’s common enough.’ He spread his hands. ‘We clerks have a sharp eye to a quick profit. Around the sheriff’s chamber cluster the bounty-hunters and professional thief-catchers. They swim in the same dirty pools as their prey: vagabonds, sturdy beggars, counterfeit men of every ilk, outlaws, sanctuary-seekers, night hawks and dark wanderers.’ He paused. ‘Morteval the Welshman is the best in London. He came into the Chancery after the Jesus mass this morning. He claims to have knowledge about the Radix Malorum.’

‘The what?’ De Payens half laughed. ‘The Root of all Evil?’

‘A notorious sorcerer, a seller of philtres and potions,’ Fitzosbert declared. ‘A self-confessed member of many covens, who consorts with witches and their like. Morteval believes the Radix will know the true whereabouts of Walkyn and his coven.’

‘How, why?’ Parmenio asked sharply.

‘Because the Radix knows all about such matters.’

‘So why not abduct him and bring him here?’

‘Ah, he will do that, Domine,’ Fitzosbert smiled thinly, ‘but first he keeps the Radix under close scrutiny. He lurks at a tavern, the Light in the Darkness, in the slums near Queenshithe, a place haunted by ribauds and other malefactors. Morteval believes that today, after the Angelus bell, the Radix is to meet someone important. He has hired an upper chamber and the tavern cooks are very busy. Morteval believes that if we enter, we may find Walkyn and his ilk. All he wants is a substantial portion of the reward, as do I.’ Fitzosbert paused as de Payens lifted a hand. ‘I will not go there by myself.’

‘Oh no.’ Parmenio voiced his agreement.

‘Your two serjeants.’ Fitzosbert pointed at them.

De Payens glanced at Parmenio, who nodded in agreement. The Templar hurried up to his own chamber. He put on his mailed hauberk, covered by a dark cloak; beneath this he strapped on his war belt with its sword and dagger sheaths.

A short while later, accompanied by the two serjeants, Parmenio’s farewells ringing in his ears, he followed Fitzosbert out through the great double gate of the Temple into the streets and alleyways leading down to the river. De Payens had not wandered London. Berrington had warned him that after the attack in the forest, he must be more prudent and cautious. Certainly the narrow lanes and runnels they now entered were as dangerous as any lonely forest trackway. The ground was pitted and holed. An arrow-slit sewer, crammed with steaming dirt, ran down the middle. Signs bearing all kinds of garishly painted symbols swung dangerously close above their heads, whilst the doors and shutters of the tenements on either side kept opening and shutting in a never-ending clatter. The constant stench from the midden heaps was as rich as any in Jerusalem, the noise and babble just as strident as the bazaars of the Holy City. The lack of colour, though, was strikingly different. The breeze was turning cold, and passers-by were swathed in dark cloaks and hoods. The roofs were drenched by recent rain; their thatch of reeds, straw and shingles poured down a wetness that soaked the timbers of the upper storeys, thickening the wooden shutters and rusting the hinged lattices of iron. Under this drizzle hens, geese, goats and pigs roamed aimlessly. Scavenger dogs plundered the grease-coated heaps of rubbish, fighting off the yellow-ribbed, amber-eyed cats whilst blocking the passage of carts, horses and pack ponies.

Fitzosbert led them past stalls set up in front of houses supervised by traders and their legion of apprentices, who darted about like imps from hell. Cookshops, pie stalls, wine taverns and alehouses did a thriving business with those eager to escape from the thronging, filthy streets. Now and again the line of houses would break to reveal an open space, where skinny cows grazed on meagre grass, or some little church, with dirty steps and narrow windows, desperate to catch the attention of passers-by with the clanging of its bells or the preaching of its parson from an outside pulpit.

They eventually skirted the grim fastness of Newgate. Before the massive iron-studded gates stood the pillory and thews, busy with its daily line of victims: men and women caught by the beadles and bailiffs, waiting to be fastened in the clamps to stand and be mocked in their own filth until justice was done. Fitzosbert described the list of offences as he came alongside de Payens, with the two serjeants trudging behind him. Life in London was certainly cruel, the Templar reflected. They passed Ludgate, down between the castles of Montfichet and Baynard, where the gallows stood, each scaffold bar decorated with its gruesome victim. Most of the cadavers were rotting, turning slightly on dirty ropes; beneath them, ragged children played their games. A barber, his bowl slopping a bloody froth, offered to cut hair, trim a beard or draw a diseased tooth. His shouting for business cut across the white-garbed Cistercian chanting the general absolution as three malefactors, death warrants pinned to their shabby tunics, were turned off the execution cart to swing and struggle against the ropes suspended from the stout branches of an elm tree. Great lords and ladies on their richly caparisoned horses trotted by, grooms and retainers hurrying alongside. They rode untouched and undisturbed by their surroundings, as if their ermine-lined cloaks, dark robes and thick furred hoods created an impenetrable barrier between themselves and the rest of humanity. Here and there guildsmen in the blue and mustard colours of the city kept a sharp eye on the various stalls. Aldermen, resplendent in their scarlet robes and glinting chains of office, also patrolled, faces full of their own importance. Around these clustered liverymen, eager to act on their every whim.

‘London means trade,’ Fitzosbert whispered, and de Payens nodded in agreement. Everything was for sale, from woollen hangings to Spanish boots, fine steel pins to brocaded cloths, eel pies to sugared manchet loaves, wine from Gascony or furs from the frozen north. Woe betide anyone who fell foul of the regulations proclaimed by criers and enforced by the market walkers. All transgressions were met with summary justice. Bakers who sold short were fastened to hurdles with a bundle of hay lashed to their backside and dragged through the city. Ale masters who conned their customers sat in a horse trough with a whetstone around their necks. Fishwives who freshened stale catches had to crouch chained to a post with the rotting produce slung under their noses. Whores caught touting for business were paraded to the noise of bagpipes to barber stools, where their heads would be roughly shaved and their faces smeared with dung. A priest caught with his leman was forced to ride a horse bareback facing the animal’s tail, much to the amusement of passers-by, as he kept falling off and had to be hoisted back on.

De Payens sensed the bustle, the violence of the streets, where landless men, beggars, mercenaries and the denizens of the alleyways moved in a swirling crowd. He and Fitzosbert entered a broad thoroughfare and went down past the stately, pink-plastered mansions of the wealthy into a tangle of alleyways and tunnels full of darting shadows. They twisted and turned, the houses leaning over them, until they reached a small square. In the middle a madcap performed a frenzied dance before the statue of some patron saint. In one hand the lunatic held a firebrand, in the other a wooden mallet, which he used to strike the flames to create a shower of sparks. Across the square stood the Light in the Darkness, a gloomy tavern of wood and plaster on a stone base. The door was guarded by ruffians holding cudgels, who stood aside and let them into the tavern room, which stank of onions and rancid cheese. The light was poor, the windows shuttered. Fat tallow candles smoked on the top of the overturned barrels and casks that served as tables. A dwarf, almost swathed in a grey apron, scurried across, his gargoyle face making him even more grotesque in the flickering light. He peered up at de Payens, then at Fitzosbert, who leaned down and whispered. The dwarf tittered behind his hand. De Payens curbed his own spurt of fear; the two serjeants were also uneasy, loosening their swords and daggers, peering through the murk. De Payens could not express his fear; it was like bile in the stomach, stench in the nostrils. He was making to turn away when another figure strolled softly as a cat across the rush-strewn floor.

‘Friends, greetings, my name is Morteval.’ He stepped into the pool of light, his pockmarked face redeemed by small, clever eyes. He ran a mittened finger through the long tendrils of his oily black hair, which framed bearded features.

‘Templar.’ He extended a hand. De Payens kept his own on the hilt of his sword. Morteval shrugged and pointed to the ceiling. ‘Our guests have arrived. Master Martin will lead the way.’