P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘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.

.

‘Nothing under God’s sun goes as we wish,’ de Payens declared. ‘You, Berrington, were plotting your next move on the chessboard, only to have everything upset. Baldwin III besieged Ascalon; Tremelai was there, urging on the attack. I wonder if the Temple, with its myriad of spies and legion of informers, had learned how a Templar was in Ascalon. Did Tremelai know that? Did he wonder if it was Walkyn, or perhaps Berrington, who had mysteriously disappeared? The rest you know. Ascalon fell, but Tremelai was killed. You, Berrington, emerged from the chaos, eager to carry on your mission by other means. An opportune moment! The Grand Master was dead, Trussell too. You could spin your tale, weave your lies. You had to leave for England. You were determined to bring Mayele and me with you. Mayele could keep me under your scrutiny, to ensure I suspected nothing about Tripoli and Hedad, and when the time was right, kill me. In your eyes I was a coney in the grass, a fool to be flattered by Isabella, patronised by Mayele and ordered about by you. My presence on the embassy to England would enhance your status. And if I was to die here, then it would be some unfortunate accident, or perhaps the work of the fugitive Walkyn.’