P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘We were also attacked.’ Mayele leaned down like a magister in a school confronting a clod-witted scholar.

‘Lies!’ De Payens smiled. ‘What attack? Self-inflicted petty wounds? Pig’s blood splashed on the floor of the guesthouse? Yet,’ he spread his hands, ‘not a drop of blood after that, no bloodstains up to the walls the assassins must have fled over. Stupid.’ He pushed his face closer, ‘You wanted to confuse me. Your arrogance had grown! Poor de Payens, he will accept whatever he is told. Well,’ he smiled, ‘you made other mistakes as well. Berrington underestimated Nisam at Hedad. As an act of deep friendship the caliph gave me a message, complex and hidden. I only understood it much later. It was enclosed in a verse about it being difficult to kick against the goad, followed by a question about who will guard the guards. He urged me to wake up, to be alert, to look at the Temple more closely. Above all he was urging me to reflect on someone who was on guard. Nisam, who sifts the gossip and the chatter of Outremer, did not believe your story. God knows why! Did he have you followed from Hedad? Did he make careful enquiries in Jerusalem about Walkyn’s description, about yours? He had his messenger pigeons, his horses of the air. The Assassins pride themselves on their knowledge of other men’s affairs. I have no proof, but I suspect Nisam learned the real truth about Walkyn and turned the entire story on its head. If Walkyn had been killed, who was this pretending to be him? It could be none other than the man who’d guarded Walkyn.’ He sighed. ‘As for evidence, we could search your belongings. We could put your hired assassins to torture. We could bribe and threaten.’ He smiled thinly. ‘All it will take is one confession, one loose thread, and your tapestry of lies would unravel. You thought you were safe. You wanted me out of the way; instead I’m here for revenge. One final matter.’ De Payens glanced quickly at Parmenio. ‘My prying Genoese friend has received information that Walkyn’s remains may have been found.’

‘Impossible!’ Isabella screamed, and then paused, hands going to her mouth.

‘You see,’ de Payens smiled at Mayele, ‘you see, Judas, how it will go?’

Mayele moved closer. ‘I should have killed you, Edmund.’ He leaned back as if to get up, then brought his right hand round so swiftly that no one could stop him, and struck de Payens across the mouth. ‘There,’ he smiled, ‘a challenge! Come, little Edmund, you talk of evidence and proof. I challenge you to ordeal by battle. Let us settle this by the sword.’

De Payens felt his lip swell, blood seep into his mouth. His temper raged. He ignored Hastang’s warning, Parmenio’s shouted advice. His world was nothing but Mayele’s taunting smile, the blood trickling over his tongue, hands desperate for his sword. He lunged to his feet and struck Mayele’s cheek.

‘ À l’outrance — to the death!’

Hastang and Parmenio shouted caution. The coroner’s comitatus brought up crossbows; others drew swords and daggers. Mayele was already across the chamber, taking down his war belt, unsheathing his sword, letting his cloak drop. Berrington and Isabella were also on their feet. Hastang shouted at them to sit down. They did so, Isabella smiling secretly to herself.

‘Let it be.’ De Payens drew his own sword. ‘Trial by battle, ordeal by combat. If I lose, Hastang and Parmenio will leave?’

‘Agreed!’ Berrington taunted. ‘Little Edmund, you have had your day in the sun.’

De Payens unclasped his cloak and let it fall. Mayele, swift on his feet, came forward, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword as he turned slightly sideways. A consummate swordsman, a warrior confident of his own skill and strength, he lifted the blade in a mocking salute, then closed, his sword spinning like a farmer’s flail, wicked, glittering arcs that de Payens blocked clumsily. Stepping back, he almost tripped over his own sword belt, which provoked a sharp laugh from Isabella. Mayele grinned. De Payens let his temper surge. He heard himself roaring defiance as he stepped back, shifting slightly, his blade snaking out as he swayed on his feet. He felt his hands grip the wide hilt, comfortable, sure. All he was concentrating on was shattering his opponent’s defence. His blade scythed the air, twisting and turning, seeking an opening that would allow either point or edge to pierce or gash flesh. He was moving forward, the sweat streaming down his face. The glow of candlelight and the flare of cresset torch shimmered back through his fury. Mayele’s face was drawn, chest heaving, his sword blows no longer fast and furious. De Payens was driving him back: the man who had mocked, patronised, betrayed and tried to kill him. His fury deepened. A voice screamed, ‘ Deus Vult! Deus Vult !’ Something hot splashed his face; he could no longer move forward, could do nothing except slice and cut. He felt a tug on his arm, hands pulling him away. He stopped, sword lowered, tip hard against the ground, and stared blindly at Hastang’s mercenaries, who gazed fearfully back. Chest heaving, hot and sweat-drenched, he was aware of Mayele sliding slowly down the wall. The gushing wounds in his opponent’s right shoulder and the side of his neck stained the white plaster crimson. Blood bubbled between Mayele’s lips. He slouched to the floor, eyelids flickering. Isabella was screaming; Berrington had tried to escape and was now held fast. Mayele, breath panting, lifted his head and glanced up at de Payens.

‘I never knew,’ his voice came as a croak, ‘brother, I never knew. Forgive me, eh?’

‘No.’ De Payens moved forward and thrust the tip of his sword deep into the exposed neck. ‘No,’ he repeated watching the life dim in his enemy’s eyes. ‘But God might, so go to him.’ He withdrew his sword, stepped back and watched Mayele die. Hastang clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Berserkers,’ the coroner whispered back, ‘ancient warriors,’ he explained, ‘consumed by the fury of battle. I’ve heard of them, but until today never seen one.’

De Payens nodded and pointed his sword at Berrington and Isabella.

‘God waits for them as well.’

‘As he does for all of us,’ Parmenio replied.

‘And you?’ de Payens muttered. ‘You, Genoese?’

‘Edmund, Edmund,’ Hastang intervened, ‘you’d best see this.’

The coroner ordered the prisoners to be kept fast and, accompanied by Parmenio, led the still sweating, still panting de Payens from the hall. Outside in the yard, Berrington’s six mercenaries stood disarmed, manacled together. Close by were the few servants who also had been hired. De Payens glanced at these; their faces betrayed them. He was sure they were all members of Berrington’s coven, men and women who’d served with him during the glory days of Mandeville. The coroner urged him on across the bailey into a barn-like stone chamber. Torches flared to reveal a long, sombre room. Hastang led them across to where a raised flagstone was propped against the wall. One of his mercenaries stood on guard nearby, holding a cresset torch. At Hastang’s orders he led them down narrow, steep steps into an ice-cold, airless dungeon. The man, gabbling a prayer, raised the torch. Five corpses, a man, a woman, two youths and a maid, hung by their necks from hooks driven into the roof beams, faces grotesque in their death agonies. A dreadful sight, arms and legs dangling, bodies turning slightly as the ropes creaked and twisted. De Payens pinched his nose at the foul smell. He touched the cheek of one of the corpses; it was hard, cold as ice.

‘Who?’ he whispered. ‘Who are these?’

‘I suspect,’ Hastang murmured, covering his mouth and nose, ‘that they must have been a family sheltering here in this deserted manor. The roads are crammed with such unfortunates.’ He took his hand away from his mouth and swallowed hard. ‘This manor,’ he muttered, ‘probably enjoys the same malevolent reputation as Borley; few local peasants would even dare come here. I suppose these wanderers did.’