P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

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.