The Templar Magician

Chapter 13

De Payens inspected the dark, sticky stain, murmured a quiet prayer and walked down the nave, the heels of his boots echoing like the tap of a drum. In the poor light the babewyns carved on the top of the stout rounded pillars seemed to be leering and squinting at him. He stood in the shadow of the battered porch and stared across the cemetery, a wild, overgrown spot, the bracken and weeds almost smothering the tattered headstones and decaying wooden crosses. He was about to turn away when he caught a glimpse of movement in the cemetery. He stared again. Yes, he was sure: someone garbed in brown and green to blend in with the sombre colours of the ancient yews, hardy shrubs and creeping foliage. He glanced up at the sky, greying with the first touches of the night. Soon it would be owl time, and this place … He recalled a ghost story told by Theodore, how each cemetery was guarded by an earth-bound spirit, the soul of the last person to be buried there. Was he seeing visions? He smiled at the faint crackle amongst the undergrowth. A heavy-footed ghost? Parmenio came hurrying down the nave.

‘What is it?’ he murmured. ‘I sensed …’

‘A malignant place,’ de Payens replied. ‘Evil lurks here like some beast hungry at the door, famished for souls. I’m not too sure who it is,’ he turned to face the Genoese, ‘but someone hides in the undergrowth. I doubt if they’re hostile. No one would dare attack a company like ours. Ah well,’ he sighed, ‘perhaps a little honesty might dispel the gloom.’ And without waiting for a reply, the Templar walked into the cemetery. He came across an ancient table tomb, crumbling, gnawed by the years and the passing seasons, once a magnificent resting place, now nothing more than a derelict slab. He climbed on to it and unsheathed his sword.

‘Parmenio,’ he said, ‘if you could translate …’

The Genoese, fingering his face, reluctantly came alongside. De Payens held up his sword by the cross hilt.

‘Whoever you are,’ he called, ‘whatever you may fear, I am not your enemy. I wish you peace. I swear by the Holy Rood, by all that is sacred, that you are safe. Yes, even in this demon-infested place you are safe.’ Parmenio repeated his words in the harsh island tongue, then de Payens took one of the precious gold coins from his wallet and held it up to catch the light. ‘I swear by the Holy Face that this is yours if you come forward.’ He lowered his hands and stepped down.

The undergrowth stirred. Three men came out dressed in dark green jerkins and brown hose, hoods pulled well over their heads. They were armed with crossbows, daggers pushed through their belts. Two stayed where they were, while the man in the centre walked slowly forward, folding back his hood to reveal a narrow bearded face, eyes glistening from the cold, cheekbones chapped and weather-worn. He approached de Payens, one hand extended. The Templar clasped it.

‘Churchyard,’ the man declared in stumbling Norman French, ‘my name is Churchyard.’ He jabbed his thumb at his two companions. ‘If I, we, could have some food, wine, meat?’

De Payens called over to Hastang standing in the porch. The stranger would only talk to the Templar, so he took him to the buttery, where Churchyard warmed himself over the makeshift brazier, then wolfed down the food Hastang brought. As he ate, de Payens studied him. Churchyard’s fingers were blackened, his garb stained and sweat-soaked, but he was sharp, intelligent and, by his own admission, educated in the horn book and psalter. He might have been a clerk, Churchyard confided; instead he had become Walkyn’s franklin or steward. He grinned at de Payens’ look of surprise.

‘I tried to tell the same to the others who came here, but they drove me off.’

‘Who?’

‘Lord and Lady Berrington.’ Churchyard grimaced. ‘Well, it wasn’t them; more the cold-faced Templar. We needed no second warning. I recognised Philip Mayele, an expert swordsman. I knew him when he fought for Mandeville.’

‘You fought with Mandeville?’

‘Of course. Walkyn had no choice. You’ve seen this manor, a lonely outpost in the wilds of Essex. Armies roamed like fleas on a carcass. What was the use of tilling and sowing if you never lived to harvest, or if you did, someone else took the produce? Lord Walkyn, myself and others drifted into war. Borley was left deserted.’ He got up and walked to the door, speaking over his shoulder. ‘You’re here to learn about Walkyn, aren’t you? You must be: there is nothing else here except, of course, the demons.’

‘Demons?’

‘This was once good land.’ Churchyard came back and sat down. ‘Hard work but good. I’ll tell you my story: Walkyn’s parents died. He was alone, raised by an old kinsman who later went the way of all flesh. Walkyn became the manor lord at a time of war. He decided to join that war, so we all followed.’

‘What kind of man was he?’

‘Why, of mankind,’ Churchyard joked back. ‘No greater sinner than you or I. He liked his wine and the soft flesh of any peasant girl he could seduce; a good fighter but a weak man. We joined Mandeville’s standard. We were no better or worse than any others …’ He paused as de Payens raised a hand.

‘You talk of demons. They say sorcerers, warlocks followed Mandeville.’

‘True, I heard the rumours, but they never bothered me. All kinds of wickedness crept out to bask in the sun. Why should I worry about that, Domine? I’ve seen enough in my life to believe in demons: corpses thrown into wells, swinging from gibbets, trees, roof beams. Men, women and children burned alive. Stew ponds coated with blood, flames licking the black night.’

‘And what about Walkyn?’

‘He grew tired of it all. We left the war and came here. Only then did we learn what had happened. This place had become an abomination: desolate, empty, soulless, reeking of evil. No one dared approach this manor, not even the most desperate for food and shelter. The stench of wickedness was as strong as woodsmoke. We discovered how Borley had become the haunt of storm-riders, night-dwellers, witches and warlocks. How fires had been seen glowing in the dead of night. How chilling screams pierced the darkness. We made careful search out there in the cemetery.’ He paused. ‘We unearthed hideous remains. We never discovered their names; now they are only bones and dust, the victims of terrible sacrilege and blasphemy. Borley had become an abode of evil; that’s how Walkyn described it, his family home a nest of vipers.’ Churchyard supped noisily from his pewter beaker. ‘That’s what happened during the war. Certain castles, churches and manors were seized by one group or another. Walkyn could not bear it. He blamed himself. He felt guilty; that his own sins would eventually catch him up. He left for London. He talked of taking the cross in Outremer to atone for his violence and lust. We heard rumours that he’d entered the Temple, that he’d gone overseas, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Well, after Walkyn left, we joined another company, which went deep into the countryside, pillaging and plundering. Whispers came, rumours that Walkyn had returned. You talk of demons? Walkyn’s name was one of those. I found it difficult to believe; I listened and I sifted. Hideous stories about him being a leader of a coven. By then, Domine, I could believe in anything. Mandeville was in a hot furious rage against both king and Church. This shire had become a place of war. Barges full of armed men floated along the waterways, horsemen thundered along its trackways. No place was safe. One of my company called it “the shire of Hell”.’

‘But you never met Walkyn again?’

‘Never.’

‘You recognised Mayele, though?’

‘Yes, he was one of those scurrier knights bringing messages to various camps. Mandeville’s henchman, a good swordsman, nothing more.’

‘And the witch Erictho?’

‘Oh, I’ve heard the name, stories, fables; a name to be frightened of, but nothing else.’

‘And Richard Berrington, of Bruer manor in Lincolnshire?’

‘Domine, I know nothing of him. I glimpsed him and his sister when they came here. My companions and I hid in the greenwood and watched them leave. I swear, I’ve never seen or heard of Berrington before.’ Churchyard took a gulp. ‘Anyway, the war continued. Mandeville was killed. Royal troops entered Essex and the other eastern shires. I and my companions drifted into the forest. We became outlaws. It was a hard life, so we came back here.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘We found ourselves the guardians of this place. Henry Fitzempress has now proclaimed his peace. Perhaps the manor will be taken from the Temple and granted to someone else. The new lord might cleanse, purify and reconsecrate it.’ He glanced greedily at the gold coin de Payens kept twirling between his fingers. The Templar handed it across and decided to trust this man. Churchyard had little to gain by lying. He told him exactly what Walkyn had been accused of, his escape and possible return to England. Churchyard listened in open astonishment. When de Payens had finished, he just shook his head in disbelief.

‘Impossible!’ he breathed. ‘Either Walkyn was two souls in one flesh, or someone else has assumed his name. I could ask for a description of the Walkyn you knew.’

De Payens shrugged. ‘I know nothing. More importantly, a man can change his appearance. Never mind.’ He rose. ‘If you wish, you can join our company.

Churchyard shook his head. ‘Guardians, we call ourselves. I’ll remain here.’ He got up, clasped the Templar’s hand and shuffled out of the room.

Hastang and Parmenio came in to discuss what Churchyard had said. Both seemed surprised. Hastang too wondered if Walkyn was perhaps two souls. They were debating what part of the manor to lodge in for the night when one of Hastang’s serjeants burst into the room, saying that they must come. They left, hurrying across the yard. The ancient church looked even more sinister in the fading light, the derelict cemetery sombre, ghostly, alive with eerie sounds.

‘Your visitor,’ the serjeant gasped as he led them, brushing aside brambles, ‘he rejoined his companions and lit a fire …’ They rounded a soaring, tangled clump of gorse and went through the broken cemetery wall. A glow of light flared through the trees opposite. ‘I was simply being friendly,’ the serjeant muttered. ‘I could see they were hungry, and one of them had been accepted by you, sir …’ He let his voice trail away. They entered the trees and reached a small glade a little way in. The fire now burned weakly, and two corpses lay there: Churchyard and one of his companions, sprawled face down. Ugly, squat feathered bolts were embedded deep between their shoulder blades, mouths all bloody and sticky with that final rush of breath that had taken their souls.

‘There were three,’ Parmenio declared, staring around.

De Payens stood up. ‘The third was probably Walkyn’s man, a spy, ordered to watch. He killed Churchyard for talking to us, then took the gold. He is on foot, so we’ll be swifter.’ He walked through the darkness of the trees, aware of all the chilling sounds around him. The day was drawing on. Darkness was approaching, as was the climax to all this horror. De Payens recalled an ancient prayer, closed his eyes and whispered it fervently:

‘Lord support me all the day long, until the shade lengthens and the evening comes, the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your great mercy, grant me safe lodgings, holy rest and peace at last …’

They reached Bruer after five days’ hard riding. De Payens was determined to arrive unannounced. The manor stood on a slight rise at the end of a narrow valley that cut through sullen, wild heathland. The sides of the valley were heavily wooded, the trees densely clustered along the trackway that wound up to the moated, high-walled grange. A hazy, sombre day. The swirling mist shifted and curled. The air was icy cold, the silence broken only by crows wheeling above the frost-laced trees and bracken. Pinpricks of light from the manor provided a welcome beacon, drawing them in across the lowered drawbridge, under the fortified gateway and into a cobbled bailey, where Berrington, Mayele and Isabella waited to greet them. They’d been alerted by a guard just before de Payens had reached the gatehouse. All three were surprised but acted cordial enough. Berrington, despite his effusive welcome, appeared ill at ease. Isabella looked tired, with dark rings around her eyes. Mayele, muffled against the cold, was his usual sardonic self, his lined, bearded face twisted into a grin, though his eyes were as watchful as a hunting wolf’s. They offered refreshments, which were politely refused. All exclaimed in surprise at de Payens’ appearance and the presence of Hastang and his comitatus. Nevertheless, all three continued the pretence of being the busy, welcoming hosts.

De Payens and his companions were shown around the precinct. Bruer was a large manor, with its own chapel, outhouses, even a small farm. They were eventually ushered into the solar above the great hall, a long, timbered chamber, its walls covered with painted cloths, the rafters draped with pennants and banners, soft rugs warming the tiled floor. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Cresset torches and candles provided ample light. The grand table on the dais had been hurriedly set, gleaming with dishes and candelabra. The kitchen behind the screen, housing the ovens and spits, provided fragrant, sweet smells. De Payens had a quiet word with Hastang and, through the usual exchange of courtesies with his reluctant hosts, learned how Berrington had brought six of his mercenaries here. Apparently he had dismissed the servants who’d looked after the manor and hired cooks, scullions and servants, five in number. Berrington ushered de Payens, Parmenio and the coroner to their seats, clapping his hands to attract the attention of the servants. He was highly nervous, de Payens concluded, as was his sister; even the cynical Mayele was growing uneasy. They’d been given little time to prepare or plot. This evil fellowship had dismissed him as naïve, a fool, even witless, the madcap knight who blundered wherever they pushed him. Well, that would change.

De Payens placed his war belt on the floor beside him, even as he caught Berrington’s worried glance at Isabella. He heard a sound from outside. Hastang’s mercenaries and bailiffs had pushed their way into the solar. Isabella, flustered, tried to serve wine. De Payens glanced a warning at Parmenio and Hastang. All was ready! It would end, here, in this warm, sweet-smelling solar, with the fire flickering and the candles glowing, a far cry from the hot, dangerous desert or that sun-drenched gate of Tripoli where he had turned his horse with the assassins slipping towards him.

‘Edmund!’ Isabella was openly alarmed. Hastang’s comitatus was now filing around the chamber. Shouts and cries echoed from the buttery and the entrance hall outside.

‘Edmund.’ Mayele half rose to his feet, glancing longingly at his war belt hung on a peg near the door.

‘Sit down!’ De Payens’ gauntleted hand beat the table so hard the platters, ewers and goblets shifted and clattered. ‘Sit down,’ he repeated. He felt a sense of relief. Hastang quickly whispered that they’d been told the truth: his serjeants had reported how the strength of the manor was only the six mercenaries Berrington had brought from London and the five servants recently hired. ‘Please.’ De Payens held up a hand. ‘Berrington, Isabella, my one-time brother Mayele, remain seated.’ He could hardly bear to look at Isabella, her face now tense and watchful. All three were grouped at the far end; Berrington in the middle, Isabella and Mayele on either side. Parmenio and Hastang sat halfway down, either side of the table. The Genoese was acting perplexed, gnawing his lips, fingers never far from the hilt of his dagger. De Payens glanced around. Hastang’s men-at-arms, crossbows primed, guarded the door and all entrances.

‘I have found Walkyn,’ de Payens announced. ‘When I arrived here, I briefly mentioned that I thought he was in York. That was a lie. He is here!’

‘What?’ Mayele exclaimed.

‘You!’ de Payens retorted. ‘You!’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘And you!’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of Isabella. ‘All three of you are Walkyn.’

‘Nonsense!’ Isabella hissed.

‘Truth!’ de Payens replied. ‘Henry Walkyn, lord of Borley manor in Essex, was undoubtedly a sinner, a man much given to hot lust, but his flesh, his bones, God knows where they lie. Rotting under the hot sun of Outremer, perhaps, or buried deep beneath some rocky outcrop, picked clean by the vultures and buzzards. The same is true of those two hapless Templar serjeants sent to guard him.’

‘Lies!’ Berrington snarled.

‘Listen.’ De Payens rose and walked the length of the table. ‘I do not know when this began. I do not know if Isabella Berrington is truly your sister or whether she is your leman, your strumpet!’

Berrington pushed back his chair, but the click of the crossbow catch Hastang now lifted on to the table kept him still.

‘She is certainly the witch Erictho.’ He leaned down and held the hard eyes of the woman he’d once thought he loved, certainly glorified as the lady of legend. ‘You and Berrington are steeped in the black arts, the bloody rites, the demonic psalms and all the other heinous practices. You came together when the civil war raged, a time ripe for your malignancy, when God and his saints slept. You moved from here and joined Mandeville in Essex, forming your own coven, drawing in the likes of Philip Mayele, whose face was already turned against God. Little if any record exists of you, Berrington, in Mandeville’s retinue, but you were there, though I suspect under a different name. I wonder if the Berrington the king and others mentioned so favourably was your elder brother? You claim to be the second son. You are certainly Cain’s offspring! Others flocked to sit at your table, a time of utter freedom for your abominable rites. No sheriffs, no king’s justices, only war, murder, plunder and rape. Who would notice? Who would care about peasant maids being snatched up as your offerings? Who would busy themselves about disgusting ceremonies being carried out in the black hours of the night in sanctuaries once sacred to God? No peace, no law, nothing but anarchy.’ De Payens paused. ‘But King Stephen, God bless his name, resolutely opposed Mandeville, and the earl was killed. The Church refused consecrated burial to an excommunicate, so the Temple received his coffin and hung it from a tree in a cemetery close to their house in London.’ He paused as he heard a cry from outside, then dismissed it. Parmenio was fiddling with his wine goblet but never raised it. De Payens had given strict instructions not to eat or drink anything offered at Bruer.

‘Your coven,’ he smiled at Berrington, who still sat surprised at the turn of events, ‘became notorious. It attracted the attention of abbots, bishops even the Pope in Rome. Accordingly Thierry Parmenio, malleus maleficorum, the Pope’s hammer of witches, was also alerted.’

‘So that’s what you really are, Genoese,’ Mayele drawled, ‘a pimping spy. I wondered as much.’

‘Your notoriety was growing,’ de Payens continued, returning to his seat, ‘but Essex became dangerous. You could not continue your secret life as royal armies swept through the shire. You decided to leave. You, Berrington, approached Boso Baiocis, the master of the English Temple. Mayele also, acting the penitent sinner, the knight who’d killed a cleric and been ordered to take the cross in reparation. You were veteran knights with no impediment, eager to serve the cross in Outremer. Baiocis would be only too keen to recruit you. Isabella, as your devoted, pious sister, would also accompany you. Your wish was granted. You reached Jerusalem, a haven for so many of your kind. Tremelai accepted you with open arms. He was eager for recruits, desperate to strengthen the order, zealous to expand its influence in this island. You were admitted into the brotherhood, whilst your so-called sister took lodgings in a convent, but of course, in time, like any dog, you returned to your vomit. Erictho the witch emerged, a grotesque figure with her straggling wig, masked face and bizarre clothes, glimpsed but never really seen.’ Isabella laughed sharply, then glared at Berrington and Mayele as if urging them to do something. ‘You returned to your heinous rites, choosing victims for your bloody sacrifices …’

‘An easy task.’ Parmenio, realising the drift of de Payens’ allegation, was eager to intervene. ‘An easy task in Jerusalem, with its sacred places, its beggar children, hordes of young girls and women, vagrant and vulnerable, but,’ the Genoese spread his hands, ‘Jerusalem is not the wilds of Essex. No Mandeville emerged to protect you, no horde of mercenaries to shield you, just a legion of spies and informers who swarm around what in truth is a very small city. Rumours began to drift. Tremelai told me about Erictho being glimpsed with a Templar, as well as entering the Temple precincts.’ Parmenio ignored de Payens’ glare of accusation. ‘Peace, brother. Until now, I dared not trust any Templar. I did not really know who was in the coven and who was not. During our journey to Hedad I tried to draw Mayele, to discover more about his past; hence my closeness with him.’ He smiled. ‘But as we now know, that was his best defence! The cynical mercenary, with little faith or none. The rebel who would find slight cause with either God or the devil. He simply acted according to character, though he hid his blasphemous, murderous ways.’ He turned back to the accused. ‘Rumour certainly whispered that Templars were involved in satanic rites, not for the first time in your order’s history. Tremelai grew highly anxious, as did the Patriarch of Jerusalem. I was summoned from Rome, but …’ Parmenio gestured at de Payens to continue.

‘You, Berrington, decided to act. The rumours were thickening. You decided that Henry Walkyn would be your sacrificial lamb, a man intoxicated with fleshly pleasure, who had often been seen around the brothels and houses of disrepute in Jerusalem. He was English, lord of the deserted manor at Borley. You and your coven had undoubtedly used both that place and his name to perpetrate your abominable practices. A toper given to loose living, Walkyn was vulnerable. You placed those artefacts in his room, helped spread the malicious whispers. The conclusion was inevitable. Walkyn was arrested.’

‘But why should Tremelai turn to me?’ Berrington asked.

‘First, because you are English. Second, I suggest you played a prominent part in detecting Walkyn. Third, you must have exploited Tremelai’s fears that a coven existed within the order, perhaps comprised of English knights. You would argue how it might be best to get Walkyn out of Jerusalem, stifle a scandal, send the miscreant back to the bailiwick of England for judgement. How Tremelai could trust you and your fellow countryman Philip Mayele. Who else could the Grand Master turn to, other than English knights? How many of them are there? How many of those could be trusted? Tremelai would rise like any fish to the bait. He’d get Walkyn out of Jerusalem, kill the rumours and prevent a scandal. At the same time, however, he must have been secretly furious about what had happened. Perhaps at your instigation he decided to hold Boso Baiocis to account. Little wonder Tremelai summoned the English master back to Jerusalem, to be questioned about how the likes of Walkyn were admitted to the order in the first place.’

‘And why should my brother be so keen to take Walkyn?’ Isabella asked, regaining her composure.

De Payens secretly marvelled how easily she could replace one mask with another, so skilled in deceit! ‘You know that already,’ he retorted. ‘You and Berrington must have discussed it often enough. You’d been out of England for some time. You were tired of Jerusalem, wary of how close and narrow a place it was. How dangerous it was for you, vulnerable to capture. You wanted to return to your old haunts. You were now in a position of power. Berrington and Mayele were Templars. Once you returned to England, you could remove Baiocis, which you did, and exploit his death for your own secret purposes: chief amongst these was your deep, fervent desire for revenge against King Stephen, who’d brought about the downfall of Mandeville, your protector.’

‘Brother!’ Mayele scoffed.

‘Don’t call me that!’ De Payens gestured at Berrington. ‘Tremelai was only too pleased to commit Walkyn to you, to see him disappear back to England. You left Jerusalem. Walkyn, manacled and chained, was guarded by two serjeants.’ He glared at Berrington. ‘Was that your idea? To ask for two guards, a fairly paltry escort? Easier to kill? Your sister was left behind in Jerusalem. She would follow you to Tripoli and join you there, or so you publicly proclaimed. Everything was planned, safe enough. Who would dare to attack the Temple?’ He waved at Isabella. ‘You would! Once out in the lonely wasteland, you, Berrington, turned on those serjeants. You murdered both of them, as well as Walkyn. Afterwards, Isabella hurried back to Jerusalem to act the lonely sister, whilst her brother remained free to continue his plotting.’

‘So I followed my brother?’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘I wandered the desert?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ de Payens retorted. ‘I can imagine that camp: Walkyn by himself, the two serjeants busy. Were all three given some opiate, a poison? You’re skilled in physic, my lady, you proved that on our journey to England. Were they drugged before their throats were slit and the lady Isabella, accompanied by Mayele, entered the camp to check all was well? To remove weapons, clothes and horses? Ensure that Berrington was ready to move on to the next part of your plan?’

‘I was in Chastel Blanc!’ Mayele shouted.

‘No you weren’t — you would have been on one of your many journeys as a messenger. Who would suspect if you took a day or two longer?’

‘But why kill Walkyn?’ Berrington jeered. ‘He was supposed to be my reason for returning to England.’

‘Oh, for a number of reasons. Walkyn was innocent. I wonder if Tremelai had his doubts. The old Englishman William Trussell definitely did. What would Walkyn say if he was put on trial? He’d certainly had enough time to reflect on what had happened. Perhaps he too nourished his own suspicions about being used as a catspaw. He had to die. Second,’ de Payens spread his hands, ‘that’s why we are here, isn’t it? Henry Walkyn was the warlock, the sorcerer, the assassin who’d fled his captors and had a hand in the murder of Count Raymond before fleeing back to England to exact vengeance against the crown. Oh yes, Walkyn dead was much more valuable than Walkyn alive. He became the devil incarnate, the sinister will-o’-the-wisp who had to be hunted down. Tremelai, once he’d heard the news of Walkyn’s alleged escape, realised the terrible danger confronting him. A rogue Templar loose in this misty island, summoning up his coven to assist in the destruction of the king. Think of the damage that would do to the order’s reputation!’

‘And Tripoli?’ Parmenio asked.

‘Edmund, Edmund!’ Mayele still believed he could bluff his way out. ‘You were with me in Tripoli.’

‘So was Berrington,’ de Payens countered. ‘Here, your plot became more intricate. Walkyn and the two serjeants were dead. Berrington, you and your coven are against all authority. You had no love for the Temple. Tremelai had brought your refuge in Jerusalem to an abrupt end. You wanted to cause chaos, you would like that, but there were other more pressing reasons.’

Berrington’s sneer could not hide his fear.

‘Some people are so evil,’ Parmenio interrupted, ‘that all they want to see is the world on fire. Everything turned upside-down! The flames of destruction all-consuming.’

‘Certainly you wanted revenge against the Temple,’ De Payens declared. ‘More importantly, you needed gold and silver.’

Berrington opened his mouth for some jeering remark. Isabella made to rise. Hastang, fascinated by these revelations, shifted the primed arbalest. She and Berrington sat back in their chairs.

‘Yes, wealth!’ de Payens snapped. ‘You are a poor knight, a wanderer who wanted to return to England. Out in Outremer there are no abbeys to plunder or monasteries to attack. To do anything openly, such as ambush a caravan or a wealthy merchant, would be too dangerous; it would expose you. Tripoli, however, is wealthy; it is also a city bubbling with factions. Any disturbance might provide opportunities. How else could you acquire the wealth you’d need once you returned to England, to assemble your coven, pay assassins, buy potions, dress Isabella to be so appealing to the king? The hiring of barges, boats, horses and messengers, not to mention the purchase of weapons and food, all these cost money. You were determined to cause an uprising in Tripoli and create chaos, which you would exploit. You also wanted to continue the pretence that Walkyn was the villain, deepen Tremelai’s fears, make our Grand Master more amenable to pursuit, which would bring you into England.’ De Payens paused. Mayele had moved slightly, eyes hungry for his sword belt. De Payens sensed this would end in violence. Mayele would never surrender.

‘The murder of Count Raymond would be the cause of this chaos,’ de Payens continued. ‘Then, Berrington, you did something very audacious. You needed assassins, so, head and face shaved, you went to Hedad to speak to Nisam. You pretended to be Walkyn. The caliph would not know the difference, while you could sustain the pretence of being the rogue Templar on the prowl.’

‘Very dangerous,’ Mayele intervened. ‘I visited Hedad, remember?’

‘Not dangerous at all,’ de Payens retorted. ‘The Assassins, for all their reputation, are honourable. Berrington would be accepted as a guest, a petitioner. He offered them no threat. He was protected by the strict rules of hospitality. More importantly …’

Parmenio held his hand up and glanced at de Payens, no longer distrustful but rueful, as if conceding to his own admiration. ‘You are a Templar.’ He pointed at Berrington. ‘Nisam would be very interested in your chatter, though he was also determined not to offend the Grand Master.’

‘Nisam refused you.’ De Payens took up the charge. ‘Nevertheless, once again you had blackened Walkyn’s name. You had linked Count Raymond’s murder with the rogue Templar. You started that rumour as part of your plot. After you were refused, you travelled on to Tripoli and decided on a more dangerous task: to hire your own assassins, lure them in with promises of plunder. You would use whatever wealth you had, the monies given to you by the Temple. You could hide behind a disguise; nevertheless, it was a perilous undertaking. Rumours began to drift about a knight, possibly a Templar, being involved in a hideous conspiracy, Parmenio heard these whispers and hastened into the city. Tremelai also learned of them and became more anxious, desperate about the escaped Walkyn, sick with worry about you, Berrington, and where you might be. More importantly, Count Raymond also suspected mischief.’ De Payens collected his thoughts. ‘I have no proof of this, but the count probably demanded the Temple’s protection against any threat. Who better to send than Philip Mayele, an English knight, and Edmund de Payens, scion of the noble founder of the Templar order, a mark of respect, an assurance of the Temple’s good wishes?’

‘Yet Count Raymond still died?’ Hastang spoke up.

‘Of course, there was nothing I could do to protect him. Mayele was part of the conspiracy. Mayele, my so-called brother knight, the messenger who often travelled between Chastel Blanc and Jerusalem. A man who undoubtedly,’ he ignored Mayele’s muttered curse, ‘used such occasions to meet secretly with his fellow conspirators, especially the Lady Isabella.’

Isabella gazed back stony-eyed. De Payens peered at the window. The day was fading. He gestured at Hastang.

‘Send one of your men outside to see that all is well.’

The coroner obeyed. De Payens waited for the serjeant to return and nod his reassurance.

‘Count Raymond was murdered,’ de Payens continued, ‘and a massacre ensued, undoubtedly helped by you, Mayele. Berrington had chosen his intended victims: wealthy merchants, their coffers and caskets full of gold, silver and precious stones easily seized and secretly hidden away.’

‘And the assassins?’ Mayele asked.

‘You know what happened to them. You hunted them down. Those three men you silenced before the church where I was sheltering? They were the assassins, used then killed before they could prattle.’ De Payens stretched out his hand for a goblet brimming with wine, then remembered and drew back. ‘Nothing of course runs smoothly. You, Berrington, fled Tripoli. You decided to take refuge in the Turkish-held town of Ascalon, where you hoped to prepare the next part of your plot.’ De Payens shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that was, but you were busy. Meanwhile you, Lady Isabella, had already struck. You visited William Trussell. The old veteran had anxieties and suspicions of his own. He certainly doubted Walkyn’s guilt. You, madam, have a midnight soul, black and hard, a true slayer. You probably fed him some noxious potion …’

Isabella simply stared at the goblet, and de Payens wondered if she’d intended him to die here. ‘Meanwhile,’ he cleared his throat, ‘Berrington in Ascalon prepared his own story in readiness for his return to Jerusalem. How he had escaped Walkyn’s murderous assault but been captured by desert wanderers, perhaps? Or forced to hide? Some fable for poor Tremelai that would, of course, precede a demand that Walkyn be pursued, even if it was to England.’ De Payens stopped talking as Hastang’s captain entered the hall. He stooped and whispered into the coroner’s ear. Hastang, surprised, murmured back and the man left. The coroner glanced at de Payens, gesturing that it could wait. Isabella glanced in alarm at Berrington. Mayele shifted on his chair. De Payens caught a tension, a real fear. These warlocks were trapped; it was best to leave matters in God’s hands and move to a conclusion. Judgement was waiting. He felt the ghosts cluster around him; all those murdered by these devil’s assassins had come to witness that judgement.