P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘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.