The Templar Magician

Chapter 10

They climbed the steep steps built into the corner near the door. Fitzosbert went first, de Payens and the two serjeants behind, Morteval at the rear. They reached a shabby stairwell, its needle-thin window covered by a strip of dry horn. Morteval pushed himself to the front and, finger to his lips, pointed at the door. De Payens leaned his head against it; he heard the clink of cups and the murmur of voices. Morteval whispered to be careful, but de Payens was now very wary. Morteval and Fitzosbert had slipped behind him, so to go back down the stairs might be dangerous. Without warning, de Payens raised his boot and kicked at the leather-covered door. It opened with a crash. The room beyond was in darkness, except for a fiery lantern blazing angrily in its centre. Suddenly de Payens was back in that forest outside the abbey, the sunshine dazzling his eyes through the trees. He shouted a warning and fell to his knees as the cross-bolts whirled through the air. One of the serjeants screamed as a feathered quarrel shattered his face; the other, struck in his chest, staggered forward into the darkened room. De Payens drew his dagger and lunged swiftly at a shape moving towards him, plunging the blade deep into the man’s belly. He then threw himself back into the stairwell. Morteval, surprised by the sheer swiftness of the Templar, was too slow. De Payens slicked his throat with his knife, and the thief-taker died in a frenzied whirl of arms and legs. De Payens crashed down the stairs, hurling himself on to the fleeing Fitzosbert. He grasped the hair on the back of the man’s head, threw him to the floor and pounded his face until Fitzosbert stopped screaming and lay still. De Payens staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. The dwarf came rushing at him. The Templar smashed him aside with a sweep of his mailed arm. Figures appeared through the tavern doorway; dark shapes crept down the steps behind him.

De Payens made a decision. Keeping to the shadows, he ran at the door, crashing into the men gathering there, his dagger gashing hooded, visored faces. He felt the full fury of battle engulfing him, the sheer joy of lashing out with his sword. Kicking and swearing, he was out into the square, his assailants following. He did not give them time to gather, but closed with them, and when he broke off, gasping for breath, three more corpses lay sprawled jerking in their own life blood. Other assassins massed in the doorway, but its very narrowness constricted their movement. De Payens charged, screaming his war cry, confusing them even more as they tried to fend off the whirling, jabbing steel of his long war sword. For the Templar, this was joy and elation, his blade cutting and slicing the flesh of his enemy. No more reflection. No brooding. Nothing but the sheer fury of battle, of crushing his foes.

His assailants now realised their mistake: they were confronting a Templar knight, a master swordsman, who was using the narrow tavern entrance to trap them as a farmer would a horde of rats in a barn. They edged the Templar out across the dirt-strewn cobbles, trying to outflank him then attack him from behind. Two of them succeeded. The madcap, still whirling his firebrand and mallet, danced across to meet them, shaking the flames in their faces, then screamed as one of the assassins drove his sword deep into the poor fool’s throat. De Payens, alerted, darted sideways, jabbing swiftly with the tip of his sword, skewering the assailant in his right eye, then backed away, moving across the cobbles until he felt the statue behind him. His opponents, now spread out in an arc, followed cautiously. The cobbles ran with blood, as if the very ground was wounded. Yells and groans rang out. Wounded men fought to staunch deep slashes in their limbs, chests and bellies. One man, his eyes and face smashed by de Payens’ sword, crawled like a blind dog on all fours, pleading for assistance. Doors and shutters were being flung open. A horn sounded, followed by shouts of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ as the hue and cry was raised.

‘Non nobis, Domine,’ de Payens shouted. ‘Non nobis. Deus Vult! Deus Vult!’

The attackers closed again, desperate to bring him down. One slid to his knees and slashed at de Payens’ leg. The Templar cleaved his skull, splitting it like a log, then brought his blade up so that it scythed to the right and left, slashing the arm of another attacker, who moved back too late. De Payens felt his breath choke. He was sweat-drenched, his eyes were blurred, his strength was failing, arms growing heavy, wrists aching, whilst the cut in his leg was bubbling blood. Four assassins were still edging forward. De Payens glanced past them; more were emerging from the tavern, one of them carrying a crossbow. The Templar mustered his strength as the four charged in a whirl of clashing steel, darting swords and snaking daggers. He used every trick, swaying slightly, blade moving constantly, twisting like a sheet of glancing light. Nevertheless, he was weakening. He fought for breath and began to chant a psalm, even as the first cross-bolt whirled past his head to strike an attacker, hurling him back. Suddenly a horn brayed, and the Templar war cry rang out. Parmenio was beside him. Templar serjeants were pursuing the remaining attackers, who fled like shadows into the darkness of the alleyways. De Payens fell to his knees, then tumbled in a faint against the statue.

‘Now God be thanked. Michael the Archangel, standard-bearer of the heavenly host, must have protected you.’

De Payens held the bleary, watery eyes of John Hastang, coroner of the City of London, who had swept into the Temple buildings three days after what he called the Great Battle of Queenshithe to finish his inquiries. De Payens leaned back against the bulky bolster of the narrow cot bed pushed into a corner of the infirmary.

‘How is the warrior now?’

‘Tired but better.’ De Payens glanced to where Mayele, Berrington, Isabella and Parmenio clustered just near the doorway.

‘Nothing but a slicing cut,’ Mayele grinned. ‘Another victory for the champion knight, not pinned this time beneath his horse on a forest trackway to be rescued by wood elves. No, no, Edmund, you confronted your enemies like a master swordsman.’

‘And no chantry priest,’ Isabella teased, ‘no forest people who arrived just in time. All down to your own mighty sword arm.’

Mayele and Isabella continued with their teasing until Hastang held a hand up for silence.

‘This is the domain of the Temple,’ he intoned formally, fingering the ave beads around his neck before taking a generous slurp from the wine goblet Isabella had pushed into his hands.

‘Dominus de Payens, you are the toast of all the taverns from Queenshithe to Galley Gate, to the Tower and beyond.’ He leaned forward in a gasp of rich claret. ‘Do you realise you killed eleven men?’

‘Who were they?’

‘Oh, my ruling as coroner,’ Hastang smiled, ‘is that their deaths were other than natural, but,’ he sniffed ‘they were richly deserved, richly deserved. You have, Master Templar, the grateful thanks of the City council. You were tricked, baited and trapped, or so they thought. The man who came here as Martin Fitzosbert? Nonsense! He was no clerk, but Peter the Pious, a natural counterfeit who could pose as a holy chantry priest or a devout monk. He was well known to me, the sheriffs and the beadles. He had a gift for lying beyond all others.’ Hastang stretched out a hand and touched de Payens gently on the side of his face. ‘Do not be ashamed. He has tricked and deceived many. He was the lure. He’ll pretend no more. You smashed his face and crushed his cunning brain. Morteval the murderer has been sought by my office for many a year. A professional assassin, Master Edmund, a knifeman, a sicarius, a creature of the night, responsible for more deaths than I have had hot suppers. Ah well, he’ll kill no more. Your blade emptied his throat.’ Hastang was clearly enjoying himself. ‘As for the dwarf, mine host in the Light in the Darkness? He was the purveyor of much unadulterated wickedness in this city; now he is gone to his eternal reward with a broken neck. Oh yes,’ the coroner smiled bleakly, ‘we have much to thank you for. Yet at the same time you are most fortunate.’

‘I was tricked, deceived.’

‘Undoubtedly. The proclamation against Walkyn has stirred the hearts of many.’

‘So why kill me?’

‘Now that I don’t know.’ Hastang, with his back to the others, suddenly narrowed his eyes, and de Payens realised the coroner was not the fool he pretended to be. ‘Whatever, Master Templar, somebody with a great deal of wealth wanted you dead. Any other swordsman would not have fared as well.’

‘But why?’ de Payens repeated.

‘Because we are hunting them,’ Berrington called out. ‘You and Parmenio are responsible. Our enemy now knows that.’ He came and crouched beside the bed, his narrow, high-cheekboned face all serious. ‘An elaborate strategy, Edmund. Walkyn hired counterfeit men and assassins to kill you because you are hunting him.’ He paused. ‘Mayele was also attacked outside London. Ribauds, hooded and masked, tried to unhorse him on the road through Woodford. I have been followed in the city. Walkyn must be furious. The king’s proclamations have turned every man against him. I’m sure he decided to strike first.’

Berrington patted de Payens on the shoulder and got to his feet. De Payens glanced at Isabella, radiantly beautiful, her fair hair hidden by a wimple and a gauze veil. She smiled through her tears of joy.

‘They failed.’ Parmenio, standing apart from the rest, walked forward and stared down at de Payens. ‘Nevertheless, Master Coroner is correct. Someone with great cunning and considerable wealth plotted that attack at Queenshithe.’

The coroner, slurping from his goblet, nodded vigorously.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Men were bought and bribed, promises made, threats issued.’

‘But we took no prisoners.’

‘None,’ the coroner agreed. ‘Your two serjeants, God rest them, were killed. The malefactors were butchered; those who survived died shortly afterwards, gabbling in their pain. Now it would take years, if ever, to discover who planned such a cunning trap. Peter the Pious was London’s most skilled counterfeit man. He would not have come cheaply. Anyway,’ the coroner pointed at Parmenio, ‘how did you know? If you had not arrived when you did …’

‘Observation.’ Parmenio chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Peter the Pious was advised that we were strangers, foreigners who would be deceived by his clerkly ways and innocent prattle, and we almost were. After you left,’ he fiddled with the gold ring on the little finger of his right hand, then pulled at the wooden cross around his own neck, ‘I recalled how English clerks always wore a cross or a set of ave beads around their necks. Above all, they wear a chancery ring emblazoned with the royal or city arms. After you had gone, I reflected. Peter the Pious had none of these; he’d dismissed us as ignorant foreigners. Now we’d all been very cautious, rarely leaving the Temple precincts, so it was logical that our enemy would have to lure us out. It was skilfully done. The charlatan had been carefully apprised about who we were searching for.’ He shrugged. ‘I concluded that if I’d made a mistake then nothing was lost, but if my suspicions were correct …’ He smiled. ‘I summoned the serjeants; thank God I arrived in time.’

Hastang got to his feet. Isabella pushed past him and sat on the stool the coroner had just vacated.

‘Leave Edmund alone.’ She spoke over her shoulder. ‘Let me have a few words with him.’ She grasped his hands, rubbing his fingers gently, smiling at him, waiting for the others to leave. Once they had gone, she began to chatter about her days spent at court, the beauty of St Peter’s Abbey and the elegance of the nearby royal hall. De Payens realised she was trying to distract him, and teased back about how he’d heard the king was much taken with her beauty and grace. He hid his own spasm of jealousy and listened carefully to her descriptions, studying her hair and her beautiful face.

‘Why?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Why what?’ she mocked back.

‘You’re not married,’ he declared. ‘You wander the face of God’s earth like a pilgrim.’

‘What am I, Edmund?’ She leaned forward. ‘Well, when you left Jerusalem for Hedad, going down the Streets of Chains, I saw you dressed in your white mantle, felt cap on your head, Parmenio going before you, Mayele riding behind. You sat on your horse like a man, determined, dedicated and purposeful. The same is true of my brother and others in the Temple.’ She leaned closer. ‘I am no different. My brother and I were raised in the manor of Bruer in Lincolnshire. As with you, our parents died when we were young. We were brought up together. Richard always wanted to be a knight, a paladin. Above all, he and I wanted to escape the flat green landscape of Lincolnshire, the boring meetings of the manor, shire and guildhall. You’ve seen this country, Edmund. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes cold and wet, riven by civil war. Richard and I were restless, and once we began to wander, we could not stop.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Now, listen to this. It’s a minstrel song I learned at court.’ And without further ado, she began to sing in a sweet, melodious voice.

De Payens looked forward to such visits, though they became rare as the weeks passed. Winter in all its bleakness set in. Advent came. The Temple prepared for the great feast of Christmas. Green boughs, sprigs of holly and mistletoe, alongside Christmas roses, decorated the walls and doorways. A chantry priest from the nearby church of St Andrew came every morning to lead them in the haunting O antiphons, whilst a wandering troupe of players was hired to re-enact the story of the Annunciation and the birth of Christ. De Payens’ leg healed quickly enough, and he busied himself with walking about, going down to the smithies and carpenters with his sword, dagger and hauberk, all damaged after the ferocious fight in Queenshithe. The scabbard had to be replaced, his sword given a new grip, its pointed edge sharpened, links in the chain-mail hauberk repaired. The hunt, now led by Parmenio and Mayele, continued, but Walkyn proved elusive. Hastang, the coroner, was also zealous in his pursuit of the malefactors. He’d taken a great liking to de Payens and was a constant visitor to the Temple precincts. On one occasion, Hastang and Parmenio visited the Sanctuary of St Mary at Bow, near Cheapside. A wolfshead who’d taken sanctuary was suspected of being involved in the attack on de Payens at Queenshithe, but the outlaw who gripped the edge of the altar was a common malefactor who could tell them nothing.

A sharp-tongued, keen-eyed hawk of a man, Hastang hid his busy wits beneath a mask of diffidence. He and de Payens became firm friends. The coroner was openly delighted at what he referred to as ‘the extirpation of a deadly nest of hell’s residents’. He openly rejoiced that the Light in the Darkness had now been seized by the city for its own profits.

‘A Light in the Darkness!’ he scoffed. ‘More like a darkness deeper than the rest. Believe me, Edmund,’ he wagged a finger, ‘that tavern was the root of a great deal of evil. More murder and mayhem were plotted there than in the very heart of hell.’ He shook his head. ‘Whoever organised that attack on you had a great deal of gold.’ He rubbed his face, then winked at the Templar. ‘They hired the best. Morteval was killed, as were assassins wanted in at least fifteen shires, men with rewards on their head, professional killers.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘I tell you this, Edmund, if you were to walk back into Queenshithe, no one would dare approach you.’

De Payens grew to trust Hastang, and was flattered when the coroner invited him to supper in his narrow townhouse, which stood squeezed between two splendid mansions fronting Cheapside, the main trading thoroughfare of the city. Domina Beatrice, the coroner’s wife, was comely, much younger than her husband, the proud mother of two little girls. She became fascinated by the Templar. At their regular suppers she would question him constantly about Outremer, Jerusalem, the sacred sites, the customs and dress of various people. In turn, Hastang would regale de Payens with stories about the twilight world of the city, the strumpet-mongers, pimps, night-roamers, ruffians and ribauds who swarmed like rats along the alleyways of London. He described in detail the evening chepes, the illegal markets that flourished after curfew had been sounded. A time of bartering and selling in the garrets and tenements of the night-dwellers, who offered stolen goods for sale, then gambled and whored from compline to the bell for the first mass at dawn.

‘I have raided such places,’ the coroner confided to de Payens. He held up a warning hand. ‘I have shaved the heads of harlots, forced them to wear striped hoods and carry white wands to Cock Lane. I have pilloried their pimps, locked them in a cage at the Tun or at the Compter near Newgate. Even more telling, I offered to pardon all their crimes if they could tell me about Walkyn. Yet,’ he shook his head, ‘nothing! Oh, that malignant and his coven may well lurk here in the city, but no one knows anything about them.’ He pulled a face. ‘Your Genoese friend? The one who saved you? That’s a different matter.’ He leaned across the table and filled de Payens’ goblet, his sharp face illuminated by one of the glowing candles. He paused, as if listening to Dame Beatrice laughing with their daughters in the small solar above them. De Payens quickly glanced around the room, with its neatly stacked chests and coffers, a small fire under a mantled ledge, its coloured wall cloths, the shelves and pewter pots fastened against the pink-plastered walls, the thick turkey rugs on the floor. A most comfortable chamber, its narrow, horn-filled windows firmly shuttered against the cold; chafing dishes and copper braziers proving resolute defenders against the bitter night air.

‘Oh yes.’ The coroner tapped the side of his nose. ‘The Genoese is a foreigner who has been noticed, his appearance carefully scrutinised. London is not so large as to forget the likes of him, and the whispers float from ward to ward.’

‘What are you saying?’ De Payens was aware that the coroner was preparing an accusation. ‘Master Hastang,’ he lifted his cup in toast, ‘I travel with my companions; that doesn’t mean I trust them.’

‘I may have it wrong, Edmund, but your Genoese friend slips in and out of the Temple like a ghost. He is sometimes seen along the wharves, particularly when a cog or carrack, usually Venetian, has completed its long, arduous voyage from Outremer. On occasion he has been glimpsed deep in conversation with a monk, a Cistercian.’

‘A Cistercian?’ De Payens scratched his chin with his thumb. ‘Someone from Outremer?’

‘More likely from Normandy. The information I received was that the monk may have slipped into Dover then travelled north. Now, why should the Genoese be meeting such people? Somebody is sending him messages. I thought you should know.’

On that particular evening, Hastang made the Templar reflect not just on the mysterious Parmenio but about the whole sinister world he had entered. He could not break the oath he’d sworn to the Grand Master in the council chamber at Ascalon and divulge the full truth behind his mission to England, yet he could describe the heinous slayings at Wallingford and Bury St Edmunds. The coroner proved to be a shrewd observer. Now and again he interrupted with the odd question, which made it clear that he had always suspected the Templars were involved in secret machinations, though he kept his own counsel on that. He listened fascinated as de Payens described the poisonings of Baiocis, Eustace, Northampton and Murdac. Once the Templar had finished, the coroner pointed to a slender beeswax candle burning brightly on its copper spigot.

‘When I was a boy, a lad no taller than a flower, my father used to set me a puzzle in our church during Lent. Twelve candles were placed before the rood screen — they represented the Apostles. Eleven of them were pure beeswax; the twelfth, depicting Judas the traitor, was false. To the naked eye, each was a fresh column of wax, but one of them was counterfeit. My father used to instruct me on how to discover the Judas candle.’

‘And did you?’

‘Eventually, yes. Simply by close scrutiny and examination, a slight flaw in the whiteness, the curl of the wick …’

Hastang lifted his cup.

‘So it is with the Sons of Cain, Edmund. In this city, wives poison husbands, husbands kill rivals, if not in hot blood then through a great deal of craft and guile. They hide behind an illusion, a pretence; they bring about a mishap that really masks hideous murder. It is the same with these deaths. Ask yourself what truly happened. Did Baiocis drink the poison at that meal? Ah,’ he grinned, ‘I see you already have suspicions about that. And the prince? If the jug of wine wasn’t tainted, was it something else? The cups? And those attacks on you in the forest and at Queenshithe? Use your wits, Edmund! Reflect. Who knew you were going there? God did not intend you to be a dumb ox.’

On his return to the Temple, de Payens carefully recalled everything that had happened, listing events whilst trying to curb his own growing disquiet. He dared not confide in anyone. Indeed, Berrington and his sister were often absent at Westminster, whilst Mayele had been dispatched on business here and there. Berrington was keen to collect all monies and rents due to the Temple exchequer, and Mayele’s task was to journey to the various holdings to remind the bailiffs of their obligations and demand immediate payment. On one matter de Payens agreed with Berrington and Mayele. Two serjeants had been killed at Queenshithe, and the remainder were needed elsewhere, so Berrington hired a comitatus of mercenaries, hard-bitten veterans, to serve as Mayele’s escort.

The days passed. Candlemas came and went, and on the morrow of the great feast, Hastang and his retinue of burly city bailiffs swept into the Temple. Berrington and Isabella had gone to join the court at Baynard’s Castle, whilst Parmenio had yet again disappeared on one of his mysterious errands. The coroner, cowled and muffled against the biting cold, whispered how that was just as well, and would de Payens accompany him? The Templar immediately agreed, even though the coroner remained tight-lipped about their destination. He asked de Payens not to wear any Templar insignia, offering the heavy brown cloak worn by the rest of his retinue. De Payens put this on, pulling the hood over his head, and they left the Temple precincts, hurrying along the murky lanes down to the riverside. The sharp breeze made de Payens flinch; though his leg wound had healed, he limped slightly. He glanced up: the rib of sky between the overhanging buildings was a dull grey. For a brief while he pined for the sun and heat of Outremer, his home for the last twenty-six years, yet at the same time he was elated at the feeling of being close to a friend, a comrade he truly trusted. He felt as if he had come home, no longer the obedient servant sent here and there with little or no explanation offered. Yet he must remember that this place too was dangerous. London was a trap, and in the shadows lurked his enemies.

The light was fading. Lamps glowed from hooks on doorposts as well as huge poles erected at the entrance to certain streets. Chains were being stretched across to prevent horsemen and carts clattering through. Church bells chimed the hour of evening prayer. Beacon flames flickered in the huge lantern horns set up in steeples. Stalls had been taken down, goods packed and stored away. Dung carts collected the rubbish, the rakers and street scavengers attacking the sprawling heaps of refuse. Shutters clattered closed. Doors slammed. Here and there a voice called. Incense from a church floated across to mingle with the fading odours from the cookshops, pie stalls and makeshift grills of itinerant traders. Bailiffs and beadles poured buckets of freezing water over those in the stocks to clean their filth before releasing them with a spate of curses. Half-opened tavern doors provided shafts of light and warmth. Around these, desperate beggars clustered for a crust or a piece of meat. Nobody accosted the coroner and his group as they swept along the alleyways. Hastang was very well known, while his retinue, armed with mace, club and sword, was protection enough.

They passed under the dark mass of Baynard’s Castle, turning into an alleyway leading down to the quayside, the cold breeze heavy with the smell of salt, fish and tar. Hastang abruptly stopped and knocked at a shop door, above which hung the gaudy sign of a ship’s chandler. The door opened, and the owner, displaying the guild insignia, ushered them across the sweet-smelling shop and up some stairs into the solar, where his wife and children clustered around a table. The merchant ignored his family, leading the coroner’s group across to the shuttered window. He opened this slightly, and Hastang gently pushed de Payens forward so that he could peer through the gap down into the street below. He whispered at the Templar to watch the doorway of the tavern opposite, a spacious three-storey building that rejoiced in the name of the Prospect of Heaven.

‘The Genoese has been there for some time,’ the chandler murmured. ‘I know he hasn’t left. Gilbert, my apprentice, is still within. He’s been there for at least an hour.’

De Payens secretly marvelled at the coroner’s cunning. He needed no legion of spies; just tradesmen, craft and guild members who knew the streets and who could recognise a stranger, especially one whose description had been given them. Hastang was determined to discover who Parmenio truly was and what he was about. They waited. The chandler’s wife took her children up to the bedchamber. In the street below, shadows slunk in and out of the light. Cats squealed. A large sow, broken loose from its lead, charged down the street, pursued by a butcher and his dogs. A horse-drawn hurdle, some malefactor lashed to it, trundled by. The tavern door became busy, then Parmenio stepped into the light. He paused, glanced furtively around and slipped into the darkness. A short while later, Gilbert the apprentice darted across the street and into his master’s house. He ran breathless up the stairs and slumped on a stool, gabbling about what he had seen. De Payens could not understand his tongue, but he passed the boy a coin. Hastang heard him out, then led the Templar away.

‘Apparently Parmenio was with a Venetian. Gilbert later made enquiries. A carrack from that city lies at Queenshithe and will leave on the morning tide. Parmenio and his guest sat in a corner; chancery pouches were exchanged. The Genoese seemed disappointed, worried, but what they were talking about,’ Hastang pulled a face, ‘we do not know.’

‘Venetian?’

‘They own the swiftest ships, Edmund; they do business with the ports of Tripoli and elsewhere. It’s not the first time Parmenio has met such strangers. Someone from Outremer is definitely sending him messages and he is replying, but why?’ The coroner turned away. He thanked the chandler and led de Payens downstairs and out into the darkness. Instead of taking him back up into the City, he led his retinue through a tangle of stinking alleyways and runnels, nothing more than murky tunnels, bereft of any light except the solitary chink or glimmer from a shutter, or someone armed with a hooded candle or lantern horn darting across the street in front of them. De Payens, one hand on his sword hilt, the other pinching his nostrils at the stench, glimpsed the occasional figure lurking in the mouth of an alleyway, only to disappear deeper into the murk. A door opened. Women carrying a funeral bier, the corpse on top covered by a shabby shroud, came out and hastened past them into the night. Abruptly a voice called through the darkness.

‘Hastang and his bailiffs! They come, they come!’

‘On your guard!’

‘On your watch.’ Other voices echoed eerily through the blackness.

‘Night-watchers,’ Hastang whispered.

Abruptly a door crashed open as a slattern came out to empty a pot. De Payens glimpsed inside and startled with surprise. Only a glance before the door was slammed shut, but it revealed a great feast being held: tables arranged in a square and laden with platters of steaming meats, bowls of fruit, jugs, flagons and goblets. The scene was lit by a host of flaring candles. Men and women, all garbed in garish clothes, sat around eating and drinking, their goblets raised in toast to a white-clad man in the centre, his black hair wreathed with a holly crown.

‘A beggars’ banquet,’ Hastang whispered. ‘Our city holds stranger sights.’

They cleared the alleyways and reached a stretch of wasteland, silverish in the light of the moon. Far across it a lantern winked high in the air like a beacon light.

‘More of my men,’ Hastang declared. ‘They are guarding what’s been found. You must see it, Edmund. I am sure it’s Walkyn’s work.’

They walked across the wasteland. Here and there de Payens glimpsed the ruins of houses. Hastang explained how a fire, followed by an attack on London during the recent troubles, had laid waste this quarter north of Watling. It was a truly ghostly place: gaunt trees, branches stark and stripped of all leaves, wiry gorse and unseen dips and potholes. When the breeze shifted the mist, de Payens glimpsed the derelict church they were approaching. Owls hooted, the brooding silence broken as a ghost-winged bird came floating over the gorse, hunting for vermin, which scurried in panic through the bracken. A church bell deep in the city began to clang, as if tolling a warning.

‘St Blaise on the Heathland,’ Hastang murmured.

They crossed the tumbled cemetery wall, as the lychgate had collapsed, blocking the entrance to God’s Acre. A torch flared in its makeshift sconce on the door jamb leading into the nave. The baptismal font had been removed, as had the tiles on the floor, together with the wooden furnishings such as the rood screen, aumbries and even the pulpit. Some of Hastang’s men waited in the chancel. They’d fashioned rough torches and pushed these into cracks and crevices, and the juddering light made the shadows dance even more, as if lighting entry to a hall of ghosts. At the coroner’s approach, the men clambered to their feet from around the makeshift fire where the altar had once stood.

‘No one has moved it?’ barked Hastang as he strode down the nave.

‘No, sir,’ one of the men called back.

Hastang nodded and led de Payens off into the little sacristy to the left. A corpse lay under a makeshift shroud. At the head and feet glowed a lantern horn. De Payens caught his breath. Hastang knelt and peeled back the cloth to reveal a young woman perhaps no more than fourteen or fifteen summers old, her naked corpse a dirty white, coated and smeared with dried blood. Mercifully her long black hair hid her ravaged face, but the rest of the horror was plain to see: her throat had been slit, her chest ripped open and her heart plucked out. De Payens had seen enough and turned away, retching. He tried to murmur a prayer against such horror, the work of lost, damned souls.

‘Taken, she was.’ Hastang stood beside him. ‘Taken from the streets. Some poor wench; not the first, Edmund, to be seized and butchered. A pedlar found her corpse and hurried to tell me. She is not some harlot attacked for pleasure, and as I’ve said, she’s not the first. This is the work of witches and warlocks: a mutilated corpse stretched out in a deserted church.’

‘You are sure she was part of some black rite, the work of Walkyn?’

‘I suspect so.’ The coroner tapped his foot. ‘Such bloody business must be brought to an end, Edmund. We need firm rule here. The king must impose his peace. The chaos, the evil mayhem that is a violent cover for such nightmare souls must be brought to an end.’ He peered at de Payens. ‘Templar, you keep strange company. What is all this about, eh? Think, reflect and trust me.’

De Payens’ hand went to his throat, and he touched the small leather pouch containing the cipher of the Assassins. He stared at Hastang, at that lined face with its honest, clever eyes. He wanted to trust this man fully. He must. He took the cord off, undid the pouch, shook out the parchment and handed it to Hastang. ‘It’s a cipher,’ he explained.

The coroner inspected it as he walked out of the sacristy and back into the sanctuary, while de Payens stood staring down the nave: a hellish, macabre place of flickering light. Did this represent his church, his ideals, his order? He thought back to that day in Tripoli, turning his horse to confront those assassins; at that particular moment he had entered a bizarre twisting maze of intrigue and brutal murder. All was an illusion. He had suspected Tremelai of every kind of wickedness. Yet the Grand Master had simply been an arrogant fool who intrigued and dabbled in matters beyond him. Memories returned in a myriad of images: Mayele loosing those arrows; Parmenio stealing upon him with a knife; Isabella’s kindness; Berrington, the hard-faced administrator who seemed to revel in power; Nisam staring at him sadly; Montebard, brow all furrowed; Baiocis clutching his stomach at the beginning of the feast; the prince’s chamber with the windows wide open; Parmenio’s duplicity; the coroner’s questions …

‘Letters and numbers.’ Hastang came up beside him. ‘Letters and numbers.’ He squeezed de Payens’ shoulder. ‘I can make no sense of it, and neither would you, Edmund.’ He winked. ‘But I know some clerks — aged, yes, but still sharp-witted — scribes of the Chancery, who spend their days concocting mysteries like this. If you trust me?’

De Payens nodded.

‘Good,’ Hastang breathed. ‘Then let’s leave this. I’ll make sure the poor wench is churched and buried properly. As for you, Edmund, look to your companions, Parmenio in particular.’ He held up the parchment. ‘I’ll see to this. Now, I have one last person for you to meet. Bring him out,’ he shouted.