P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘Are you implying …?’ Hastang asked.

‘Yes, I am. Parmenio knew the truth but he lacked the proof, the firm evidence, but what did that matter? Let the warlocks do their worst. Let them, through their lust for revenge, bring about a situation others are secretly praying for. What is that phrase, Parmenio? How God keeps evil men close to his right hand so he can use them for his own secret purposes? In a word, that is what has happened. Berrington and his coven have cleared the board for you, and now that is done, they too can be killed.’

‘You have proof of this?’ Parmenio spluttered.

‘Proof, my friend? Your face is proof enough! Go,’ he lifted his sword, ‘report back to your masters on how successful you have been. How you used the Templar to hunt down the sorcerers but not before they did exactly what your masters prayed for. I wonder how much the others knew of the truth: Tremelai, Montebard, Henry Fitzempress? Four people definitely do — you, me, Hastang and your master in Rome.’

‘I didn’t know at the beginning …’

‘Oh no, of course you didn’t, but what did it matter if it was Walkyn or Berrington? Let such people have their hour of mischief. My friend, by sheer logic and the passage of time you reached my conclusions a little earlier than I did. You were always suspicious of Mayele. Did you have your agents in Outremer and elsewhere search for the truth about Berrington and Isabella? About Walkyn? About what really happened in Jerusalem? Did they bring you such information in the murky corners of London taverns? And then you would tell them, your masters abroad, about how Stephen and all his house were finished. How Henry Fitzempress would come into his own and be grateful for the support of Holy Mother Church. How you would use this Templar, who could at last be trusted, to execute vengeance on a coven of murderous warlocks. You arrived in England to find no Walkyn, yet those hideous poisonings still took place. You probably began to suspect the truth after our stay at St Edmund’s; it was just a matter of time and logic. Ah well! Let it ride.’ De Payens sheathed his sword. ‘Now it’s time you were gone. Tomorrow, soon after dawn, your masters will be waiting.’

Coroner Hastang waited at the Tomb of Abraham, a spacious tavern out on the old Roman road that cut through the wild countryside to Lincoln. He manacled his prisoners in outhouses and feasted his comitatus, rewarding them with some of the plunder seized from Bruer manor. The mysterious Genoese, Parmenio, went his own way, leaving the tavern early, disappearing into the mist, gone like a thief in the night. Hastang entertained himself by listening to the macabre tales about the area, though the taverner became tight-lipped at any mention of Bruer. The coroner waited. He realised that the enigmatic Templar, the man with the far-seeing eyes, as he now thought of him, was maintaining a death watch at that desolate house. Hastang’s retainers took turns to camp out at the mouth of the valley, watching what might happen. Mid-morning on the sixth day, two guards came galloping back to the tavern to report how the manor was burning like a farmyard bonfire. By the time Hastang reached the mouth of the valley, he could see the flames roaring like the fires of hell, great flickering sheets, accompanied by gusts of black and grey smoke. A short while later, Edmund de Payens, dressed in his chain mail, helmet on, his great white Templar cloak with its emblazoned cross swirling about him, cantered along the trackway snaking down from the manor, a grim figure against the searing flames. He had apparently prepared for a long ride: the sumpter pony trailing behind him was stacked high with panniers and bundles. The Templar reined in, turning his destrier, and peered up at the greying clouds.

‘Not yet full spring,’ he murmured. ‘Summer will be most welcome when it comes.’

‘What happened?’ Hastang asked.

‘It’s over, they are dead. The fire will consume the rest.’ De Payens slouched on his horse, eyes smiling at Hastang. He stretched out a gauntleted hand, which Hastang clasped. ‘Farewell, old friend.’ De Payens squeezed the coroner’s hand.

‘You’ll not come back to London? Your brothers at the Temple?’

‘My brothers are not there, Hastang. I’ll go back to the Abbey of St Edmund and seek my brothers amongst the forest folk.’ He winked and let go of Hastang’s hand. ‘That’s the only place I have ever really laughed out loud.’

‘Your vows?’

‘I’ll keep my vows.’ De Payens gestured back at the flames. ‘Go now, it is finished. I will stay until this is over.’

Hastang made his final farewells and turned his horse, gesturing at his companions to follow. He rode off, not looking back until he heard his name called. De Payens, sword drawn, had moved his great war horse, making it rear up, iron-shod hooves ploughing the air. The Templar, cloak floating about him, raised his sword. ‘ Deus Vult , old friend!’ he cried. ‘ Deus Vult! ’

‘Aye,’ whispered Hastang, tears brimming in his eyes. ‘God wills it, my friend, and may God have mercy on you.’

Melrose Abbey, Scotland

Autumn 1314

Brother Benedict watched as Domina de Payens put down the manuscript, then turned as if to stroke the vellum parchments strewn over the writing table beside him.

‘Is that how it ended?’ the young monk asked.

‘Perhaps,’ the old woman whispered. ‘You’ve read the letters, the memoranda, the chronicle of the monks at the Abbey of St Edmund? Some say that was written by de Payens himself.’ She smiled. ‘The good brothers certainly loved the stories, as did the forest folk.’ She blinked quickly. ‘Stories about a strange knight dressed in white who defended them against outlaws or any who tried to hurt them. Of the same knight appearing at tournaments to defend their rights or win purses of silver to better their lot.’

‘But King Stephen, Tremelai, the Assassins, Count Raymond?’

‘All true,’ the old woman half whispered.

‘And de Payens never returned to his order?’

‘Oh, I think he did. He kept his vows, the paladin, the Poor Knight of Christ! He observed his oath to protect the weak and defend the holy. He fought the good fight. He kept faith, and at the end of our lives, how many of us will be able to say that?’