P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘But why kill them?’

‘Why not?’ Hastang retorted. ‘Berrington could not afford to let them leave. God knows what they found. Mayele would have enjoyed the killing. Edmund, what shall we do?’

The Templar stared at the corpses, all twisted and grotesque. Hastang repeated his question. De Payens just shook his head and, his body now cold with drying sweat, led the way back up the steps. At the top he stared at the flagstone, the great bolts and clasps that held it fast.

‘They were probably killed after being held captive for a while,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps they did find something down there or elsewhere.’

‘Edmund, the prisoners?’

De Payens walked back into the hall. Berrington and Isabella, hands tied, sat slouched in chairs; Mayele’s corpse, awash in its own blood, still slumped against the wall. De Payens had both prisoners searched. He did not speak to them. He refused to even look at Isabella, but ordered Mayele’s corpse to be lifted and the prisoners brought out. Then he went back across the yard, ignoring Isabella’s screams, Berrington’s curses and a spate of questions from Hastang and Parmenio. In that eerie, sombre outhouse, he ordered Berrington and Isabella to be pushed down the steps, then Mayele’s corpse was thrown in, bundled down like a sack of refuse.

‘Go down!’ de Payens instructed. ‘Take two men, Master Coroner. Search the walls and floors; ensure there is no other entry.’ He drew his sword, resting its blade across his shoulder. ‘I am,’ he whispered, ‘senior knight of the English house of the Temple. I have the power.’

Hastang nodded. He beckoned at Parmenio and a few of his henchmen to follow. De Payens, sword still against his shoulder, stood guard at the top of the steps. He gazed at the other members of Hastang’s retinue, who, though hardened by war, stared fearfully back at this man of blood. This place held the same creeping, chilling horror as Borley, an evil haunt to be cleansed by fire. Isabella was still screaming, begging, but de Payens thought of the bloodstain at Borley, those hapless corpses, that poor girl in the deserted church outside London, Murdac spitting and gasping in agony. He closed his eyes. Hastang and the others rejoined him. No other entrance could be found. De Payens ordered the flagstone to be lowered, and insisted on personally fixing the bolts in their clasps. He left two men on guard and went out into the yard, where he summoned the five servants, three men and two women. He walked past these, studying their faces, not liking what he saw there.

‘Undoubtedly you served Berrington before.’ He could not understand their rushed, desperate answers, but Parmenio and Hastang translated their protestations of innocence. De Payens studied them closely, his battle fury now ebbing. He felt a twinge of compassion, yet these were minions, retainers, servants of their dark, malignant lords.

‘Strip!’ he ordered.

Parmenio repeated the order.

All five prisoners did as they were told until they stood naked except for loincloths and the shabby cloaks de Payens offered the two women.

‘Take them,’ he ordered, ‘and go!’

The five were pushed out through the gates, Hastang’s mercenaries beating their buttocks with the flat of their swords.

‘They can walk to the nearest village,’ de Payens murmured, ‘seek whatever shelter and consolation they can.’

‘And these?’ Hastang pointed to the six ruffians Berrington had hired in London, two of them nursing injuries.

‘Take them back to London,’ de Payens retorted. ‘Examine them. Perhaps they can betray others, root out more of their coven.’ He brought the flat of his sword down on one of the prisoner’s shoulders. ‘Find out who attacked me at Queenshithe. Were any of these in that bloody affray? Did they follow me to Alienora’s and kill her as ordered by their masters? A poor woman horribly murdered simply because of what she might tell me. Or,’ he lifted his sword, ‘turn them over to the sheriff. Let him hang them!’ He turned and walked back into the hall.

‘You cannot stay here,’ he warned Hastang. ‘You and yours must not eat or drink anything here. Now, let’s search the manor.’

It was dark before de Payens, now feeling tired, met Parmenio and Hastang back in the solar. Despite the crackling fire, the dancing candle flames and the coloured tapestries, it was still a macabre place with its own hidden yet watchful evil. One of the guards reported how Isabella was still screaming and begging. De Payens replaced the guards with others, then, with the point of his sword, sifted amongst the possessions he and the others had collected from various chambers. He crouched down and picked up a small coffer crammed with pearls, diamonds and other precious stones. He lifted the pouches and purses stuffed with the gold and silver coins of Outremer. He examined the tray of pots and phials from Isabella’s coffer; some were perfume, others exuded a noxious, baleful odour.

‘Proof enough!’ Parmenio knelt down beside him. ‘No poor Templar knight could be so rich. This is what caused that hideous massacre in Tripoli.’

De Payens nodded and turned to the other artefacts: a black leather psalter, its yellowing pages full of strange symbols and incantations, a twisted cross, an ancient knife of obsidian stone, small carvings of winged, dragon-like creatures, amulets emblazoned with intricate carvings. He’d seen enough.

‘No doubt,’ Hastang whispered, ‘my boys kept a little of the money for themselves.’

‘They deserve it,’ de Payens replied. ‘Take the prisoners back to London, Master Coroner. Hand the treasure over to the next master of the Temple. Say it is a gift, a blood offering. Demand that masses be said.’

‘And you?’ Parmenio asked.

De Payens ignored the question as he picked up his sword. ‘Stay at some tavern, the one we passed on the road into the valley. Use some of this treasure to pay, stint for nothing, enjoy yourselves and wait until I join you.’

‘Which will be when?’

‘You will know. I shall stand vigil here until the Berringtons are dead.’

‘You were successful.’ Parmenio smiled. ‘The Holy Father, the Grand Master will be pleased. You truly are a warrior of God; also a clerk as sharp as any who serve in the Pope’s secret chancery.’

‘Am I?’ De Payens smiled.

‘Are you what?’ Parmenio abruptly stepped back as de Payens brought his sword blade down to rest on the Genoese’s shoulder, its sharp blood-encrusted edge almost brushing the side of Parmenio’s neck.

‘Am I really so successful?’

Hastang breathed in quickly. Parmenio made to move back. De Payens pressed down with his sword.

‘So, I am the scholar being praised by his master. Yes?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You clever Genoese! You followed the same path as I did and reached the same conclusion, but much sooner, much earlier, because you knew more than I did.’

‘I … I …’

‘Hush.’ De Payens smiled. ‘A matter of logic, Master Parmenio. In your eyes I was a sword but one that would have to wait to be used. You are under orders from the Pope to hunt down malefactors, but you have other, more secret instructions.’

Parmenio blinked. He opened his mouth and breathed out noisily as de Payens pressed on the sword.

‘Your secret orders brought you first to Outremer then here. Did our Grand Master Montebard really care about King Stephen?’

‘Of course he did.’

‘Did he, my friend? Or the Pope? Were they really concerned about Stephen and his arrogant, aggressive heir? Of course they wanted to see witches and warlocks sent to their just fate, but did they really care for Stephen or his son? After all, Henry Fitzempress is young and vigorous, a loyal son of Holy Mother Church. The powers in Rome and elsewhere want to end this savage, futile civil war. The bishops of England need to reclaim their own. The Temple is eager to expand. The papacy desires to see peace in a kingdom usually faithful and loyal to it. Holy Mother Church, in a word, both in England and Rome, wants peace, which will bring trade, money, revenues and a revival of learning. So think, my friend, as I have: who really cares if Stephen suddenly dies? If Eustace the drunk, the violent is silenced before he can wage his own civil war, beget an heir and pose a challenge? William, his younger brother, now injured and maimed, what threat can he now pose? Reflect, my friend. In the space of what, less than a year, Stephen is dying, Eustace is dead, William seriously injured. Murdac of York and Senlis of Northampton, Stephen’s most loyal advisers, have also gone to their eternal reward. So no more division, no more strife, peace at last! The board has been swept clean. Young Henry Fitzempress can emerge and take all.’