Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

I thought Demontaigu’s silence was due to all these distractions, but eventually he grasped my horse’s reins and led me into the courtyard of one of those taverns that serve the roads leading into London. We stabled our horses. Inside the spacious taproom, Demontaigu secured a table close to the roaring fire and ordered bowls of oatmeal, steaming hot and mingled with milk and honey. Such occasions I recall: the fire, the warmth, the hot food, the savoury ale in leather tankards. Demontaigu put his spoon down, blowing on the oatmeal, and grinned quickly at me.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about Ap Ythel. When I served in Outremer, one of the great dangers was the Old Man of the Mountain; you must have heard of him. He and his followers lived in a secluded castle deep in some valley in the desert. He would choose his victim, then send them a warning: a sesame cake, usually placed in their private chamber to show that they could never be safe. Now and again this assassin turned his attention to us Templars, particularly before the fall of Acre.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘One thing we learnt: never flee, but wait. The Old Man’s murderous emissaries, drugged and armed, would come stealthily enough. Our task was to trap them. Perhaps the same must be done at Westminster yet.’ He sighed. ‘Leaving the arbalests in such an open way was very clumsy. I shall certainly have words with Ap Ythel. However,’ Demontaigu leaned across the table and grasped both my hands, ‘for the matter of the pardon, I deeply thank you. You are right, Mathilde, sooner or later, today or tomorrow, I will have to confess my true identity. Pardons or letters of protection will afford some defence to myself and Ausel.’

‘And if the king moves against the Templars?’

‘I suspect he would give us clear warning, perhaps ten days to leave the kingdom.’

I caught my breath.

‘Don’t worry.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘For the time being,’ he winked at me, ‘I’ll stay close to your apron strings.’

We continued our journey around the city. Church bells were summoning the faithful to the Jesus mass. Beacons flared in steeples. The mist began to thin. It was still freezing cold, so we were pleased to reach the high curtain wall of Bethlehem Hospital. A lay brother admitted us; others took our horses, and we were ushered into the waiting chamber. For a while I sat half asleep. Demontaigu remained lost in his own thoughts. Now and again he would get up and walk around the room as if inspecting the limewashed walls, or stand tapping his boot against the polished red tiles on the floor. A bleak chamber, stripped of all ornament except for the roughly carved cross and the sturdy makeshift furniture; clean and sweet-smelling, warmed by braziers. I had explained to the lay brother who greeted us that we wished to see the master about John Highill. The lay brother looked at us perplexed, but nodded and, fingers to his lips, hurried away. Now there was a knock on the door. The lay brother re-entered, apologising for the delay but saying that the master would be with us shortly. However, he had a visitor for Master Demontaigu; did he wish to see him? Demontaigu looked at me in surprise and nodded. The lay brother disappeared and returned escorting an old man slightly stooped, skin burnt almost black by the sun, head almost bald except for a few tufts of hair above the ears and at the back. He rested on a stick, tapping it on the tiles as he made his way over, scuttling like a beetle towards Demontaigu. He stopped and stared up.

‘Master Bertrand Demontaigu, you do not remember me?’

Demontaigu stepped back, staring in disbelief. ‘Joachim Hermeri!’ he whispered. ‘Joachim Hermeri, by all the saints.’ He went forward, clasped the old man and brought him to the stool next to mine so he could enjoy the warmth of the brazier. Joachim stared shrewdly at me with watery eyes. He waited until Demontaigu took his seat, then cackled with laughter, shoulders shaking.

‘I heard the lay brother, he came into the refectory. He said there was a visitor from the court, a young mistress escorted by a military clerk called Demontaigu.’ He rubbed bony knuckles on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Oh, I’ve heard how our order is finished, but I remember you, Demontaigu.’

‘And I thought I was safe.’ Demontaigu smiled.

‘Oh, I know all the news,’ Joachim whispered, ‘all the names, but I’m safe here. Who’d think of coming to Bethlehem Hospital, a house for the witless and the moonstruck? Who would believe my ranting and ravings? You see, mistress, once I was a Templar, wasn’t I, Demontaigu?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried on. ‘I was at the fall of Acre. I was a serjeant, a standard-bearer. When Acre fell, I and others escaped across the desert. I tell you this, mistress, I saw things that brought me here. The good monks at Charterhouse who first cared for me thought it best. They didn’t believe me. I told them about young Fulk; he came from Poitou, also a standard-bearer. He was bitten by a basilisk. He hardly felt any pain from the bite, and his outward appearance was normal, but the poison stole through his blood secretly! A creeping fire invaded his marrow and kindled flame in his innermost parts. The poison sucked up the moisture next to his vital organs and dried his mouth of saliva. No sweat flowed to relieve his body. He couldn’t even cry. He burnt all over and searched desperately for water.’ Hermeri leaned on his stick. I glanced across at Demontaigu, who just shook his head. ‘Then there was Beltran, bitten by a basilisk in the leg, he was. The basilisk left a fang there. Beltran had to tear it away but the flesh near the bite broke up and shrivelled until it laid the whole bone bare. The gash grew wider and wider, and before long Beltran’s calves dissolved and his knees were stripped of skin. Neck, thighs and groin dripped with corruptive matter, trickling down into a puddle of filth. That is all I can remember.’ He peered up the ceiling, lower lip jittering. ‘Those basilisks lord it over the desert, their wings carry them high. No creature is safe from them, mistress, not even elephants; I understand the king has one of those at the Tower. Ah well, such is my story.’ And without further ado he got up, bowed at both of us and shuffled out.

Demontaigu rose and followed. He opened the door, looked swiftly outside and closed it again.

‘Is that true?’

‘He was lucid enough to remember I was a Templar.’ Demontaigu sat down. ‘I recall Hermeri; his eyes, lips and gestures. When Acre fell, many Templars died. Others were taken prisoner by the infidels; a few did escape across the desert. Perhaps Joachim was telling the truth. He must have seen things, experienced fears we don’t know of, but who believes him? I have met Templars found lost, wandering in the desert. They are never the same again; they have bouts of lunacy as if struck by the moon. They jibber and jabber, then become as rational and clear-thinking as the next man. What I suspect is that Joachim has been visited by some of our brethren. They would come to a place like this for shelter and protection. They may have talked to him about me and others and so freshened his memories of his Templar days. Ah well, he is harmless enough.’

I gazed at the crucifix. Joachim’s story about the basilisk reminded me sharply of the word Chapeleys had written. Had he been referring to a basilisk, or something else? A tap on the door and the grey-faced master of the hospital entered. He was garbed in the dark robes of an Augustinian friar. He sketched a blessing, studied me carefully, then turned to Demontaigu.

‘I understand you have come to see Master Highill?’

‘He is here?’ I asked, forcing the master to address me.

‘He was,’ he replied, ‘at least until yesterday.’