The Templar Magician

Chapter 12

Parmenio obeyed. De Payens hastened forward, snatched up the parchment and withdrew. The vellum was of the highest quality. The purple wax seal boasted the crossed keys of the papacy, the Bishop of Rome, whilst the elegant, cursive script proclaimed: ‘Eugenius III, by God’s favour and the grace of the Holy Spirit, Servant of the Servants of God, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus’. The letter declared that Thierry Parmenio, citizen of Genoa, was legatus a latere, the Pope’s personal envoy; malleus Maleficorum, the hammer of sorcerers, ‘God’s chosen instrument for the extirpation and destruction of warlocks, witches, sorcerers, necromancers and all who dealt in the black arts, contrary to the teaching of Holy Mother Church’.

De Payens glanced up in astonishment. Parmenio stared sadly back. De Payens re-read the papal writ; it gave Parmenio totam potestatem in omnibus casibus — total power in all circumstances.

‘Why?’ De Payens put down the arbalest. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Let me do so now.’ The Genoese made himself comfortable. ‘Edmund, I’m a clerk in the Secret Papal Chancery. I answer to the Pope alone. The Church,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘faces many problems; witchcraft is one of them.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I believe, and I shall repeat it here in the Lord’s House, that what we call the black arts, the devil’s Sabbath, witchcraft, is in most cases nothing more than chicanery, counterfeit, stupid mummery. Trust me, Edmund, it’s nothing. Men and women hinting that they have dark powers to threaten others, or,’ he laughed sharply, ‘just an excuse to strip naked, drink like topers and revel in every form of filth.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If they want to dance naked in a moonlit glade or worship some ancient rock,’ he smiled, ‘what is that? Nothing really, silliness, children’s games. Then, of course, there are a few who are masters of illusion or the potion. Believe me, Templar, I can give you a drink that in your mind’s eye would have you flying on eagle’s wings just beneath the sun.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘Finally there are the few, the real masters of eternal darkness. These make no boast; show no sign of who they really are. They are not clod-breakers or mummers but men and women who don masks as clever and as subtle as any. They are to be found not in the dirty hovel, the dingy garret or out on the wild heathland, but in the chancery, the priory, the abbey, the monastery, the moated manor house, the castle, the palace. They are educated and erudite, openly devoted sons and daughters of the Church. In truth they are devil-worshippers, very dangerous.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they really call on the dark, and use all their power and will to achieve their nefarious ends, and, to do that, they will kill. This is not a matter of dancing in the moonlight, but blasphemy, sacrilege and murder. They truly believe that if they kill a human being, slit their victim’s throat as you would a pig’s, pluck out the heart, offering it to the powers of darkness, there will be a response.’

‘And is there?’

‘As the old proverb says: “When you call into the darkness, something, someone always replies.”’

‘And you hunt them down and arrest them?’

‘No, Edmund, I hunt them down and I kill them. They are finished. There is no turning, no repentance. The only thing I can do is send them to God for judgement.’

‘And here?’

Parmenio pursed his lips. ‘I have been to England before, you probably realise that. This island is a haunt of sorcery. They say that William the Red, King of England, was caught up in such witchcraft and was murdered whilst hunting in the New Forest. Or William, son of the great Henry I: he was drowned when the royal cog, the White Ship, was wrecked; his death caused the present war and the rise of men like Mandeville. Rumour has it that the shipwreck was caused by witchcraft.’

‘Was Mandeville a sorcerer?’

‘No, I don’t think so, but he was their protector. He plundered monasteries and abbeys for their wealth and used them as his strongholds. The real practitioners of the black arts were given their opportunity to use and abuse the sacred. Mandeville attracted these souls of deepest darkness to his company. They could hide behind his shield and carry out their abominations. You’ve seen what they can do in all its horror. Who cares if a young peasant woman goes missing? Who would dare investigate deserted, desecrated churches flaming with light at the dead of night?’

‘Yet you went first to Outremer, not England?’

‘I was sent there, Edmund, for the same reasons. Over fifty years ago, your great-uncle and others stormed Jerusalem and took it. After centuries of loss they regained all the Holy Places of Christendom. The devout and the pious flocked to worship there.’

‘And so did others?’

‘Oh yes, they did. Jerusalem, the Holy Land, with its sacred sites and Holy Places, attracts both angels and demons. Rumours began to gather. The Pope received letters from the patriarch and others about witchcraft and sorcery being rife in Jerusalem. I was sent to investigate. I arrived too late. Tremelai, for God knows what reason, had moved swiftly. Erictho the witch, about whom I’d heard, had escaped. Then Walkyn was arrested and committed to Berrington to be brought to England. In the meantime, Boso Baiocis had been summoned from London.’

‘For what reason?’

‘Tremelai was deeply concerned about the Templars protecting Mandeville’s unconsecrated corpse, as well as the reception of characters like Walkyn into the order.’ Parmenio pulled a face. ‘I have spoken in confidence with Berrington: the records about recruits to the English bailiwick are very sparse.’

‘And Baiocis was responsible for that?’

‘Yes, he either pruned the records to cover his own stupidity or he brought them to Outremer, where,’ Parmenio shrugged, ‘they were lost or stolen.’

‘And in Outremer?’

‘I protected you in Ascalon, Edmund. I thought you’d come to trust me, but there again, why should you? To be honest, I never trusted you. Members of the coven are clever, they hide. They act one way in the light and become another creature after dark. I suppose I’m no different. I’m a master of tongues. I act in disguise, I pretend. I can mingle with the worst and gossip with the best. Anyway, my spies in Tripoli talked of assassins being gathered by a mysterious Frankish knight, perhaps a Templar. I heard about Walkyn’s escape.’ He stared down the church. ‘The shadows are leaving their corners, Edmund, we must be careful.’

De Payens glanced at the arbalest, still primed, lying beside him. Parmenio followed his gaze.

‘Edmund, I’m no killer, no assassin. I went to Tripoli. I searched and I failed. Count Raymond was murdered. As for the massacre and looting that followed, I did wonder if there was a reason for that. Perhaps I ignored the obvious. Count Raymond was killed to create confusion and chaos, an excuse to loot and plunder.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, I fled to that Greek church. I saw you, a Templar, astride your horse, gazing bleakly out. I’d just come from a house where a young woman had her throat cut and her baby’s head dashed against the wall. My anger welled over. I thought you were involved in similar butchery; of course you were not. Such confusion was deliberately plotted. As for the rest,’ he spread his hands, ‘Tremelai had to trust me. I showed him my commission; he had no choice. He believed that Walkyn had a hand in Count Raymond’s murder and that the plunder the renegade Templar had looted in Tripoli would be used for his return to England. The Grand Master had one hope …’

‘About a Templar possibly sheltering in Ascalon?’

‘Of course; one of the reasons why he was so ardent in his support for the assault on that city. He wondered if Walkyn, or even Berrington, who had disappeared, was still in Ascalon. Tremelai really believed the Temple had to put its own house in order. If he had survived Ascalon, undoubtedly we would still have been dispatched to England.’

‘Why?’ De Payens moved to ease the cramp in his leg. ‘Why would Walkyn want to return to England?’

‘It’s his country, his coven lurks here. Above all, he and his kind have a deep blood feud against King Stephen, whom they hold responsible for the death of Mandeville; their protector. Really it was just a matter of coming home and settling scores.’

‘And at Hedad?’

‘I’d heard of a Templar visiting the Assassins. Remember, Edmund, the isolated communities of Outremer: Catholic, Orthodox, Jewish, Muslim and the rest. If a stranger appears in their midst, he is noticed. We were fortunate to survive in Ascalon. Think of Nisam and Tremelai busy collecting all the chatter and gossip of Outremer. Walkyn must have done his share of spreading the whispers in order to cause confusion, to bring the Templar order into disrepute. I listened to the chatter at Hedad. I was intrigued, but in the end, I discovered nothing.’

‘And so where is Walkyn?’

‘Only God knows.’

‘And you will travel to Borley?’

‘Of course. What choice do we have?’

De Payens rose to his feet. He leaned down and picked up the arbalest but kept it lowered. Parmenio heaved a sigh of relief, swiftly cut off as de Payens raised the crossbow.

‘And the strangers you meet in taverns? Messengers from Outremer?’

Parmenio glanced behind de Payens as if studying the wall painting. The Templar watched and waited. He was sure the Genoese was telling the truth, but not all of it. Something vital was missing.

‘What if,’ Parmenio pursed his lips, ‘what if,’ he repeated, ‘we are chasing shadows, Edmund? Is Walkyn really here?’

‘Berrington believes he is.’

‘But truly here? What if he has not left Outremer but sends messages to his coven in England whilst he lurks elsewhere.’

‘And?’

‘Before I left Ascalon, I asked the Grand Master and the patriarch to make careful search for Walkyn; hence the messengers.’ Parmenio’s voice, slightly raised, betrayed his nervousness. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. ‘Edmund, I am not your enemy.’

De Payens did not respond. He studied this secretive Genoese.

‘You listen to the chatter,’ he murmured at last. ‘You’ve admitted as much. So tell me, the old English Templar Trussell? He confided in me. He was growing frail but he trusted me. He died suddenly while we were at Hedad. Was his death a natural one? What do the gossips say?’

‘Trussell died.’ Parmenio shrugged. ‘He did not like Tremelai, whilst the Grand Master hated him. Trussell was a thorn in his side. I heard a little gossip. How Trussell sickened and died within the day. Tremelai, of course, hurried him to his grave. He must have been relieved to be free of such a venerable critic.’ Parmenio paused. ‘But yes, Edmund, such a death, at such a time, in such circumstances, might be suspicious. You are now suspicious. Good!’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s why I loosed that crossbow bolt at you outside Ascalon. I wanted to rouse you. I did.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Edmund, I repeat, I am not your enemy.’

‘Parmenio,’ de Payens clasped his hand, ‘the real question is, are you my friend?’

The Genoese just smiled, bowed and walked past the Templar. He loosened the bolts on the chapel door and went outside. De Payens sat down and reflected on what he’d been told, sifting through the various strands before returning to Parmenio’s question: was Walkyn truly in England, or were they hunting someone else?

De Payens became engrossed with the problem as Berrington and the others prepared to leave for Borley. They discussed Alienora’s murder, but no one could offer any solution, whilst Berrington was adamant that they must continue with their own business. He was confident that Walkyn and his coven would follow them out into the countryside, where it might be easier to trap and kill them.

Four days after Alienora’s murder, Coroner Hastang slipped into the Temple accompanied by a watery-eyed, winter-faced old man dressed in the blue and green garb of an inmate of St Bartholomew in Smithfield. They met in de Payens’ chamber. Hastang introduced the old man, whom he virtually carried up the stairs, as Fulbert of Hythe, former Chief Clerk to the Crown in the Secret Chancery. For all his venerable ways, Fulbert was sharp as pepper, appreciative of the Rhenish wine and the platter of sweetmeats de Payens brought up from the buttery. The old man chomped toothlessly, then slurped the wine, his eyes, bright as a sparrow’s, never leaving de Payens’ face. While Fulbert feasted himself, Hastang gave his news.

‘In civil strife, precious metal becomes rare. Well …’ The coroner dug into his purse and took out a pure gold coin, which de Payens recognised as one minted in Jerusalem. He studied the inscription and handed it back to Hastang. ‘Coins like this, silver and gold, are in the London marketplace.’

‘Walkyn?’ de Payens asked.

‘Perhaps, and there is something else.’ Hastang tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘We searched the records of the Chancery. Mayele certainly fought for Mandeville, but there’s hardly any mention of Berrington.’

‘So Mayele may have been one of Mandeville’s henchmen, whilst Berrington …?’

‘Perhaps just a knight who fought for a while under Mandeville’s banner, tired of it and left.’

‘I know of you,’ Fulbert interrupted, spluttering out a mouthful of sweetmeat. ‘I met your uncle, Lord Hugh. Oh yes,’ he chirped merrily, ‘oh yes, I met them all, Godfrey of Bouillon, Bohemond …’

De Payens glanced at Hastang, who smiled.

‘Master Fulbert was at the storming of Jerusalem some fifty years ago.’

‘Nearly became a priest, I did,’ Fulbert continued in a rush. ‘I worked in the Chancery. I wanted to be a black monk, fat and cheery.’ He paused. ‘But I couldn’t.’ He tapped the goblet. ‘Wine and a lust for women, especially plump ones, round and juicy, ripe for the squeezing.’

Hastang winked at de Payens.

‘Ah well,’ Fulbert sighed. ‘So now we come to your cipher. Tell me more about it. When you’re old, stories fill your days, one of the great riches of being alive.’

He listened, eyes closed, as de Payens described what had happened at Hedad. The old man sat rocking backwards and forwards, giving the odd grunt of agreement. When the Templar had finished, Fulbert opened his eyes and whispered to Hastang, who handed over the battered chancery pouch. Fulbert shook out its contents and handed de Payens the Assassins’ script.

‘Every cipher … my apologies, most ciphers are based on the alphabet, with a number for each letter. There are many variations. The number one can stand for A, two for B and so on. Of course these can be jumbled but still easy to translate. This cipher was both very difficult and different, because Nisam used not one but four languages: Greek, Latin, Norman French and the lingua franca. Very clever; then he jumbled the numbers!’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was following his own code of hospitality and fidelity, yet, Domine, I think, based on what you’ve told me, he had a great softness for you. He wanted to warn you whilst not betraying the confidence of others. In the end he voiced his own suspicions through that cipher but made it as difficult as possible for you to translate.’

‘And so,’ de Payens replied, ‘if I translated it, then that would be the will of Allah?’

‘Precisely. A riddle not resolved by you but through God’s own favour.’ Fulbert picked up a piece of parchment from his lap. ‘The first sentence is in the Greek Koine, a quotation from the Acts of the Apostles. I discovered it through the word ketra, which means “goad”. The verse is from the description of the conversion of St Paul. It reads: “Is it so hard to kick against the goad?”’ He peered up. ‘That, I suppose, is a reference to your own doubts and uncertainties. The second sentence, in Latin, from the poet Juvenal, was used by the great Augustine in his Sermon on the Resurrection. The guards at Christ’s tomb were told to report that his body had been stolen and that he had not risen from the dead. Augustine ridiculed such a story with a question. The text goes: “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who shall guard the guards?” The third part is a mixture of both Norman French and the lingua franca. This time it’s a quotation from the Book of the Apocalypse: “Rise up and measure the Temple of God.”’ Fulbert stretched out and stroked de Payens’ cheek gently with the icy tips of his fingers. ‘Only you, Domine, will know what that means …’

‘You are sure?’

Richard Berrington, cloaked and cowled, moved his powerful destrier a little to the left and leaned down so that de Payens could grasp his gauntleted hand.

‘I’m sure, Richard.’ De Payens smiled back, then nodded at Isabella, seated on a grey palfrey.

‘We will miss you, Edmund.’ Mayele, his face almost hidden by the broad nose-guard of his war helmet, handed the piebald standard to the captain of mercenaries and moved his horse closer. ‘We’ll miss you,’ he repeated.

‘No you won’t.’ De Payens grasped his brother knight’s hand. ‘You’ll just miss mocking me.’ He peered up at Berrington. ‘You’ll go straight to Borley — yes? Then on to your home manor at Bruer in Lincolnshire?’

Berrington nodded.

‘I’ll stay here with Parmenio.’ De Payens gestured to where the Genoese stood in the doorway, muffled against the cold. ‘I’ll use Hastang to search the tenements along the river. I am sure Walkyn still lurks here. If he doesn’t, I will call off the hunt. This island, its weather! It’s time I returned to Jerusalem.’ He grinned. ‘Our Grand Master cannot expect miracles.’ He nodded at Berrington. ‘But we shall meet again.’

The cavalcade left, hooves sparking the cobbles to the jingling and creak of harness and mail. Isabella lifted one gloved hand in farewell, then they were gone towards the gate, the thick morning mist boiling up around them, dark figures in the shifting grey light. De Payens listened to the fading sounds, then walked over to Parmenio.

‘You’ll break your fast, Edmund?’

‘No. I shall retire to my own chamber. Say that I am sickly. I want no visitors, no interruptions.’

‘Why have you stayed, the true reason?’

‘I want to remain here and continue my hunt for Walkyn. I think I can trap him.’

‘Do you trust me, Edmund?’

‘As you do me.’

Parmenio bit his lip. ‘For how long will we stay?’

‘A few days. If you wish, you can always accompany Berrington …’ De Payens did not finish his sentence. He glanced across the mist-strewn bailey. ‘A little more time,’ he murmured. ‘In the meantime, I do not want to be disturbed. I have done this before, in preparation for my knighthood. I want to be alone, to fast for three days, pray, reflect and meditate.’ He caught the look on Parmenio’s face. ‘Yes, the three-day fast. It’s necessary.’

De Payens stayed in his chamber, never leaving except to use the nearby garderobe or attend the dawn mass. He refused all food and visitors, including Hastang. He knelt on his prie-dieu in his narrow closet and recited the psalms. He sipped water and chewed hard bread. He murmured the words of the Veni Creator Spiritus, begging for help in reaching the truth, the evidence to turn the suspicions milling in his mind into facts. He asked for pen, ink horn and vellum. He listed the main events, from the attack at Tripoli to that murderous assault on himself and Alienora and the translation of the cryptic message from the Assassins. Every sign pointed to the one path he must follow, with all its consequences. Again he prayed, emptied himself of all illusions, concentrating on the problem. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, now and again drifting into a fitful sleep. He’d wake, splash his face with water and study the crucifix nailed to the wall. One conclusion he could not escape.

‘I acted like a child,’ he whispered. ‘No more than a child, suckled and left in the dark.’

On the morning of the fourth day, de Payens shaved his head, moustache and beard, then stared at his reflection in the shining disc of steel.

‘A new man.’ He smiled to himself. ‘When I was a child,’ he continued to quote St Paul, ‘I did the things of a child, but now that I’m a man …’

He attended the Jesus mass. Afterwards he sat on the ale bench in the buttery and slowly ate a delicious bowl of oatmeal, followed by soft loaves of white bread smeared with butter and honey. Then he sent a courier into the city and met with Parmenio, who, surprised by the Templar’s appearance, quickly agreed that he would accompany him. He went to ask questions, but de Payens turned away.

‘You still don’t trust me, Edmund,’ the Genoese accused.

‘And you, Parmenio, have you told me everything?’ De Payens turned and stood over him. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

The Templar returned to his chamber. He checked his weapons and armour. He undid the secret pocket on his war belt and took out the pure gold coins of Outremer. He put these in his wallet and sauntered down to the main gate. The usual traders thronged there, but so did strangers, dark-faced creatures from the alleyways, their pointed hoods thrown back, hanging down like loose flaps of lizard skin. De Payens deliberately walked past as if interested in the shabby stalls of the tinkers, then quickly turned and caught the glances of these men with hollow eyes and the stare of ghosts. Once his curiosity was satisfied, he returned to the Temple, where he waited for the coroner to arrive just before the Angelus bell. Hastang teased him about his monkish appearance, then listened intently as de Payens described what he wanted. The coroner heard him out and whispered his disbelief. Nevertheless, he took the gold coins de Payens pushed towards him and promised to hire a comitatus of trusted men. Once he had left, de Payens made his own preparations. He remained tight-lipped as regarded Parmenio, and kept his distance from the Genoese; it was the best way, the only way. He must rein in his anger, which was as intense against his own stupid foolishness as anyone else’s.

They left the Temple four days later. Hastang led the way out of the cobbled bailey, followed by de Payens, Parmenio, six city serjeants in their blue and mustard livery and about twenty mercenaries whom Hastang had hired with the Templar’s gold. These were veterans, well horsed and harnessed, with steel helmets over their chain-mail coifs, leather hauberks, sword belts draped over their saddle horns, the rest of their baggage heaped on sumpter ponies. They made their way north through the busy city, a babble of voices and a sea of shifting colour. De Payens realised that such an imposing cavalcade would be closely observed, but this did not worry him. He was about to enter the tournament. He now knew his enemy and, God willing, would ride him down. Before they left, he had attended the dawn mass; afterwards he had lit tapers before the lady altar and prayed earnestly for those unfortunates who had died, as well as others who would do so before this horror-inspired nightmare was brought to an end.

De Payens was glad to be busy, alert to everything around him. They passed the grim prison of Newgate, where a madman chattered to a corpse dangling from a scaffold. Next to him an old man and woman danced to a tune a boy piped, all anxious to earn a coin or crust. They passed the haunt of prostitutes and whores, who clustered at the mouths of alleyways aptly named Love Tunnel or the Runnel of Secret Moles. Pimps in rat-skin hoods stood, thumbs in belts, keeping an eye on their charges or any potential customers. An iron cage next to the Death Man tavern housed a lunatic, who, when poked by the warder, would dance for the amusement of passers-by. A water-carrier found selling dirty produce stood clapped in the nearby stocks with a cowbell around his neck. De Payens noted all these keenly, as he’d observed the face he’d glimpsed three streets away, or the figure lurking in the shadows as they left the Temple. He glanced up and saw a man with hooded eyes like those of an owl peering down at him from an open casement of the Death Man. He was sure he’d seen that face before, but there again, what was the danger? Matters were moving to a conclusion, whilst he was closely guarded and protected by Hastang and his comitatus.

They journeyed on, only pausing when a line of mummers’ carts cut across their path as the travelling troupe made its way down to one of the parish churches to stage a Passion play. The actors were all garbed ready for their performance. Herod in his bright orange wig, moustache and beard. The soldiers in their leather tunics followed a cart full of angels all clothed in dirty white with gold cords around their heads and Salome holding the dripping severed head of John the Baptist. Once the mummers had passed, the cavalcade continued through Aldgate on to the old Roman road stretching north into Essex. A cold, hard, fast ride. The fields on either side were covered in dazzling ice. A swirling silver-grey mist curled through black-branched trees heavy with glossy-feathered crows. They cantered through villages damp and dark showing the ravages of war as well as the inclement weather. Grey-skinned villagers emerged hollow-eyed, begging for food. They passed churches with their doors rent off and glimpsed plumes of dark, threatening smoke against the sky. Yet there was also a change. De Payens sensed this not just in the weather, with its first clusters of sturdy spring flowers, but in a growing peacefulness. The roads were empty of marching troops. Merchants, traders, tinkers and pilgrims were on the move. Fields were being swiftly ploughed. Carts of produce trundled along trackways. Royal messengers thundered by on sturdy horses. Taverns and inns were open and welcoming. Henry Fitzempress’s peace was being proclaimed at crossroads, markets, on the steps of churches and at ancient shrines. Hastang whispered how King Stephen was sickening, even dying, whilst his surviving son William of Boulogne lay grievously ill with a leg injury, the result of a mysterious riding accident outside Canterbury. Henry Fitzempress was apparently growing stronger by the day.

They stopped the last night at a priory, the good brothers only too eager to sell food and lodgings in their guesthouse, and approached Borley late the following morning. The manor was built on a slight rise ringed by a palisade and a dry moat, the soil heaped on the inner edge. The main gate hung askew, whilst the bailey was littered with dirt and broken pots, shattered coffers and chests. Scrawny chickens pecked at the ground. Doves swooped and glided from their muck-encrusted cote. Geese strutted noisily around the slime-covered stew pond. The house itself had apparently been built on an old dwelling of stone, the foundation of which had been used as the base for a house of strong beams and thick plaster. It was now in decay. The door hung from its leather hinges, the window shutters were gone and the sloping thatched roof was rent and torn.

De Payens dismounted and went into the murky entrance hall. The rank smell and dirt-slimed walls were offensive. He suppressed a shudder. There was something about this place, a cloying horror, as if some malignancy lurked deep in its rotting darkness. Hastang and Parmenio also felt it. They didn’t want to stay here, so they walked back into the fresh cold air.

‘Strange,’ de Payens observed, ‘a deserted manor during a time of war. Surely people would flock here, peasants, outlaws?’ He asked his escort to search the outlying buildings.

‘What are we looking for?’ Hastang asked.

‘Anything strange,’ de Payens replied, ‘out of the ordinary.’

The retinue did as they were told, joking and laughing, glad to be off the ice-covered trackways, yet as they searched, the mood of these hard-bitten veterans changed. They became uneasy, eager to be gone, asking loudly where they would camp for the night. They searched the lonely yards and outbuildings, and eventually one came hurrying across to where de Payens waited in the door porch of the barbican.

‘Someone has stayed here recently.’ The man pointed back across the yard. ‘Fresh horse dung in the stables. They also ate in the small outhouse buttery.’

‘Berrington and Mayele,’ de Payens murmured. ‘They must have stayed the night.’

Parmenio hastened across and plucked at de Payens’ cloak.

‘Come! I want to show you something.’ He led him across the manor yard to the little chapel: no more than a stone barn with a bell tower built alongside. An ancient, dark place with high narrow windows and a heavy-beamed roof, its stone-flagged floor eaten by time. An abode of ghosts, sombre and echoing. Parmenio had lit candles and lanterns taken from their baggage. The light did little to soften the mood of the place, bathing in a meagre glow the peeling wall frescoes and paintings. The Genoese led them into the sanctuary, a semicircle of rough-hewn brick, though the floor was tiled. A wooden altar dominated the centre. Parmenio had pushed this away and set down two candles; the ring of light revealed how the floor was stained and blackened.

‘A fire,’ Parmenio whispered, ‘quite recent. Wood and charcoal were used, and look …’ He picked up a candle, moved to the side of the sanctuary and pointed a gloved finger at the dark splash on the paving stone. ‘Blood, I’m sure of it.’

De Payens squatted down.

‘Mayele and Berrington have been here,’ said Parmenio.

‘And so,’ de Payens smiled grimly ‘has Walkyn.’