P. Doherty - The Templar Magician

‘You will be readmitted to our ranks in chapter tomorrow. In preparation for which …’ He raised a hand, flapping his fingers. One of the clerks rose, collected two cloaks from a wall peg and hurried across. De Payens and Mayele donned these and sat on the stools provided. ‘In preparation for which,’ Tremelai repeated, ‘you will read the great Bernard’s work, De Laude Novae Militiae — In Praise of the New Knighthood .’

‘I’ve read it,’ Mayele retorted.

‘Then read it again.’

‘Domine,’ de Payens chose his words carefully, ‘what happened in Tripoli?’

‘Count Raymond was murdered by the Assassins, the Naziris, Islamic heretics lurking with their so-called prince, the Old Man of the Mountain. As for why?’ Tremelai pulled a face. ‘The count raided a caravanserai under their protection.’ He glared fiercely at de Payens, his watery blue eyes bulging, red beard bristling, chin jutting out aggressively, as if ready to refute any contradiction.

You are lying, de Payens swiftly concluded. You’re blustering, but why?

‘More importantly,’ Tremelai continued, shifting his gaze, ‘Count Raymond was under the protection of the Temple. The Old Man of the Mountain must be checked, brought to book, made to pay reparation, accept the power of the Temple. You two will lead an embassy into the mountains.’ He stilled de Payens’ objection with his hand. ‘You’ll take six serjeants and a clerk. You’ll demand both an apology and compensation.’

‘And what happens,’ Mayele snarled, ‘if he sends our heads back to you pickled and dried in a basket?’

‘He will not do that,’ Tremelai soothed. ‘I have already received his written assurances. You will be received honourably.’

‘Does he deny the charge?’ de Payens asked.

‘He denies nothing, he offers nothing.’

‘The murderers,’ Mayele insisted. ‘Their corpses were found?’

‘No.’ Tremelai shook his head. ‘In the bloodbath, heads and limbs were severed, bodies mangled.’ The Grand Master shrugged.

‘So why were the Assassins blamed?’ de Payens insisted.

‘Naziris,’ Mayele interrupted. ‘That’s their true name, heretics!’

‘They are killers, murderers and marauders,’ de Payens countered. ‘Even so, what proof do we have that they were involved?’

‘True, their corpses weren’t found,’ Tremelai replied. ‘But one of their medallions was, a token they leave on the corpses of their victims.’ He gestured at the clerk, who handed across a circle of copper about six inches across, the rim fretted with strong symbols, in its centre a striking viper. De Payens and Mayele studied this, then handed it back even as the clerk produced two long curved daggers, their handles of ivory decorated with blood-red ribbons. De Payens recalled similar ones in the hands of those brown-garbed assassins racing towards the count.

‘These too were found,’ Tremelai barked. ‘Proof enough — at least for the moment. Now …’ He paused. ‘I said that you will travel with six serjeants and a clerk. The latter has chosen himself.’ He snapped his fingers and whispered to one of the scribes, who hurried out, then returned ushering a figure garbed in the dark robe of a serjeant of the order. The stranger kept to the shadows behind the Grand Master’s desk. De Payens had to strain his eyes to make out a figure and face he thought he recognised.

‘I believe you have met.’ Tremelai gestured the man forward into the full light. De Payens startled in recognition. It was the physician who had tried to stab him in the church after the massacre. The man’s dark hair, moustache and beard were now neatly clipped, the swarthy skin oiled, the deep-set eyes calmer, the face more tranquil than the violent mask de Payens had glimpsed. The new arrival sketched a bow and spread his hands.

‘Thierry Parmenio, Domini,’ he murmured, ‘physician, wanderer, perpetual pilgrim.’

‘Whom I should have hanged out of hand,’ bellowed Tremelai, though his tone was surprisingly good-humoured, like that of a man who had drunk deep and well. De Payens glimpsed the poison-proof glass goblet, brimming with wine, standing amongst the curled manuscripts littering the desk.

The Grand Master’s guest came forward, hand extended. De Payens rose and clasped it.

‘My apologies, Domine, my apologies.’ Parmenio’s grip was warm and strong. ‘Let me explain.’ He rested against the Grand Master’s desk and turned to Mayele, who rose, staring narrow-eyed at the newcomer, then shrugged and clasped the extended hand. Parmenio gave a loud sigh and gestured at de Payens.

‘I was in Tripoli because I had to be,’ he began. ‘Business with King Baldwin. I am, sirs, both physician and clerk, trained in the cathedral school of Genoa, later an avid scholar at Salerno. I have the deepest distaste for violence. I witnessed the horror, the rapacity of Count Raymond’s mercenaries. I thought that you, Edmund, were one of them.’

‘Garbed in Templar dress?’ Mayele sneered.

‘In my shock, I did not recognise that,’ Parmenio answered tactfully, eyes still smiling at de Payens. ‘Just another killer, I thought. Only later did I realise who you were, what you had done and what great scarlet sin I had nearly committed. I hastened to be confessed, shrived and pardoned by the Grand Master. I offered to do penance, to rectify what I had done. So,’ he spread his hands again, ‘for a while I have donned the robes of a serjeant of your order, and will go with you into the mountains.’

‘Why, sir?’ de Payens asked.

Parmenio’s grin widened. ‘You look at me as if my neck was garlanded with dead men’s fingers. I am not a cullion, no wandering beggar, but a bachelor of learning, eager to pour balm on a wound …’

De Payens left the Grand Master’s chamber bemused and startled. Mayele clapped him on the back and laughingly dismissed Parmenio as a glib, glossy-throated Genoese. De Payens shook his head, but Mayele just scoffed, adding that there was little they could do about it. The Grand Master had declared that they were to leave the day after tomorrow, so there was much to arrange. Together they went to the draper’s office to draw fresh linen, cloaks, hauberks, cooking pans, drinking cups and all the impedimenta they would require for the journey. Clerks of the scriptorium, chancery and muniment room provided charts. Grooms and ostlers prepared the surefooted garrons and sumpter ponies they would need. The six serjeants had also been chosen: wiry, tough Provençals, surly but skilled, hand-picked by the Grand Master. De Payens realised that their allegiance would be solely to Tremelai, not to the Templars they escorted. Parmenio joined them, all affable, a fount of amusing stories, anecdotes and tales, chattering about his previous travels, the marvels he had witnessed, the people he had met. Mayele remained wary of him, while de Payens, still intrigued about what had happened in Tripoli, eagerly seized the opportunity to escape from his companions and visit the old Englishman William Trussell.

The honoured veteran had been given a spacious chamber overlooking the Temple pavement, its great open windows providing a breathtaking view of the city and the Mount of Olives beyond. The polished cedarwood used to lay the floor and provide the furnishings gleamed with its own polished fragrance. Tapestries decorated the walls; embroidered mats covered the floor. The ceiling was concave, and from its centre hung a Catherine wheel with numerous lamps embedded in its rim; this could be lowered and the wicks lit when darkness fell. Bowls of fruit — oranges, figs and apples — were laid out along the flat-topped chests. In the corners stood baskets of fresh flowers, rock rose, bell flowers and hollyhocks, their lovely smells mixing with the sweet aromas of balsam, cassia and myrrh placed in little sacks and pressed against any small hole in the walls. Trussell’s furry tabby cat, Tortosa, sprawled like an emperor on a quilted stool. Trussell himself was sitting in a high-backed chair, peering down at a lectionary placed to catch the light pouring through the great open window behind him.