Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (15 page)

Staring back down the track-way, I saw the gates of the House of Pleasure open and shut quickly.

‘God bless Alvena,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘We owe her a debt.’ He knelt beside the three ruffians, searching their clothes and wallets, but apart from a few coins, there was nothing else. ‘Professionals,’ he declared, getting to his feet. ‘Leave them to the Moon People.’

‘The Tenebrae?’ I asked. ‘
Les ombres
?’

‘Possibly.’ Demontaigu tapped one of the corpses with his boot. ‘Former soldiers, I suppose, ruffians: they can be hired a dozen a penny in the city.’ He glanced up the sky. ‘There is nothing like swordplay and blood to whet the appetite, eh, Mathilde?’ He beckoned me forward. ‘We still have business to do.’

We left Lothbury, entering the tangle of alleys and lanes stretching down to Aldersgate. The Chapel of the Hanged lay between St Bartholomew’s and St John’s Clerkenwell. The light was greying, darkening those reeking, shabby runnels. On either side the houses, old and crumbling, blocked out the sky. The sense of watching malevolence deepened. The shabby scrawled signs creaked in the wind. Shadows jumped and fluttered in the glow of the occasional lantern horn. Faces leered at us through the poor light, grotesques with their wrinkled skin, furred brows, hairy lips, squinted eyes and gabbling mouths, their gums all sore with blackened teeth. In my fevered state they looked like demons massing against us. Only Demontaigu’s calm demeanour stilled my qualms. We skirted the Shambles stinking of the guts and innards of animals slaughtered in the fleshing yards near Newgate. As I’ve written, I was still recovering from the swift savagery of that hideous mêlée. Demontaigu, however, seemed more comforted and assured, as if the violence had drawn the tension from him. He paused when he glimpsed the tops of Newgate’s turreted towers and pattered a Pater, Ave and Gloria for his comrades imprisoned in that hideous hole. We continued on, vigilant against the rogues, vagabonds and petty thieves slyly emerging as the light faded and the bells of St Martin le Grand tolled the curfew, warning of the approaching dark. On the crumbling steps of a church porch, a wandering preacher proclaimed disasters in the heavens: how Death, a grinning Antic, postured in the shadows waiting for the Day of Doom, and Satan, all-horned, readied his fiery sickle to reap his harvest. I wondered if the man was one of Demontaigu’s brothers hiding in this den of thieves and easy livers. But there again, anyone could be anything in those dark, evil alleyways. I even wondered about the rat catcher, trailed by his ferocious dogs, who beat a drum and rattled his traps as he sang:

I was relieved to reach Aldersgate, to go beyond the bar, along open lanes and into the inviting warmth of the Paltock Tavern. Demontaigu had been watching me closely. He insisted that we eat and I would feel better. We hired a special table close to the inglehook and ordered venison stewed in ginger, chicken boiled and stuffed with grapes with freshly baked rastons and goblets of claret. We ate hurriedly in silence, then continued into the darkening day along rib-thin track-ways. At last we reached the ‘corpse road’, as Demontaigu described it, leading to the derelict Chapel of the Hanged. In truth it was an eerie, ghost-haunted place. Its cemetery was a tangle of undergrowth that covered and smothered the battered headstones and decaying wooden crosses. A place of desolation. Bats, like dark sprites, swooped and swirled over the gorse bending under a sharp evening breeze.

‘It’s owl time,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Vespers will soon be finished.’

He pushed back the creaking lychgate and we went up the weed-strewn path. The main door of the chapel was bolted with wooden bars nailed across. Demontaigu ignored this and led me round the church to the other side, an equally desolate place. He paused before the narrow corpse-door, inserted his dagger, expertly lifted the latch and ushered me into the chapel, a long, barn-like structure. He knew where to go and quickly lit the sconce torches fastened into clasps on the squat round pillars. The light flared, revealing a gloomy nave of table tombs, a derelict rood screen, mildewed paving stones and faded wall paintings. If I ever visited a hall of ghosts, the Chapel of the Hanged was certainly one. Demontaigu gestured me across into a far corner. He took a sconce torch from its clasp, opened a coffin-shaped door and led me down into the crypt, a barrel-vaulted chapel with rounded pillars stretching along each side. A stark stone altar stood on a slightly raised sanctuary plinth at the far end. I have been in many eerie places, but that crypt was surely one where the veil between the visible and the invisible became extremely thin.

Demontaigu led me across to the far wall. He took off his cloak and laid it on the ground for me. He then made sure the coffin door leading down to the crypt was bolted and secure. He ignored my questions, more concerned with lighting the sconce torches. Their orange tongues of flame licked out, bringing that macabre place to life. The wall paintings were stark and vivid. One I remember distinctly depicted a confrontation between the living and the dead on a hunting field. The living were all intent on pursuing some quarry. They were well dressed, cloaked and spurred astride fat, sleek destriers. The dead were skeletons garbed in funeral cloths and tattered shrouds, their horses ghastly-ribbed mounts from the meadows of hell. On either side of this horrid vision other paintings emphasised the dissolution of all things, the imminence of death, the terrors of hell and the pains of purgatory.

‘What is this place?’ I repeated. My voice echoed through that cavern of atonement like that of a disembodied soul. ‘It reeks of the smell of death and the anguish of the tomb.’

‘This,’ Demontaigu explained, squatting down in front of me, ‘is an ancient church built over a Saxon crypt. About two hundred years ago, Pope Urban II proclaimed the Great Crusade at Clermont. The founders of our order, the Templars, Hugh de Payne and Geoffrey of St Omer, immediately took the cross and journeyed across the world to storm the walls of Jerusalem. They later instituted our order. An Englishman – we do not know his full name; legend calls him Fitzdamory – also took the oath, vowing solemnly to join Hugh and Geoffrey on their holy pilgrimage. Fitzdamory’s wife, however, distraught at the prospect of losing her husband, persuaded him not to join them at the mustering place near Vezelay in France. The Crusaders left for Outremer. Fitzdamory’s wife died soon afterwards; Fitzdamory saw it as God’s judgement on his broken vow. He became a hermit beyond the city walls and used his wealth to build the Chapel of the Hanged above this crypt.’ Demontaigu touched my cheek. ‘A cavern of lost souls. Perhaps it is! Fitzdamory, as an act of penance, vowed this church as a place to receive the corpses of those hanged in London. The cadavers of condemned men and women, too poor or too wicked by reputation to secure a lasting resting place in God’s Acre elsewhere.’ He gestured at a trapdoor hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, its bolts all rusted. ‘The corpses of the hanged were lowered down here, dressed for burial, then taken out, hence the name of the chapel.’

‘But now it’s derelict?’

‘It lies beyond the city walls. Many regard it as a haunted, ill-cursed place. Our order took it over. They did not know what to do with it . . .’ Demontaigu paused at a knock on the crypt door, dull but threatening, echoing through the crypt like a drum beat. He held his hand up, listening intently. Again the knock. He hastened up the steps. I followed.

‘As ye are,’ he called.

‘So shall ye be,’ came the reply.

Demontaigu drew back the bolts. Dark shapes slipped through the doorway, tripping down the steps. In the light, most of them looked grotesque, hair and beards thick and bushy. Beneath the cloaks and hoods, the arrivals were dressed in a variety of attire, cotehardies, jupons and jerkins, some costly, others stained and ragged. I caught the tension, the rank smell of fear, the sweaty haste of men who lurked in the shadows, now relieved to reach this sanctuary of peace. All were well armed. They gathered in the pool of light below, about fourteen or fifteen people. I glimpsed the preacher from the Tower quayside; his eyes, no longer gleaming in passion, were gentle and mocking. Demontaigu introduced him as Jean de Ausel, and he grasped my hand and kissed me full on each cheek in a gust of wine, sweat and leather. He then introduced Padraig, the cripple who had crouched on those wooden slats, now nimble enough to make everyone laugh by tumbling and somersaulting along the floor of that gloomy crypt. Ausel truly surprised me. He was no longer the fanatic; even his voice had changed, becoming soft and lilting. I tried to trace the accent. Ausel explained how he was of Norman family from the Pale around Dublin, with a hunger to return to the mist-strewn glens of what he called ‘the Blessed Isle’. More Templars arrived, knights, serjeants, servants of the order. Some were calm, well fed and equitable, others haunted, harassed and careworn. A few, particularly the old, objected to my presence, muttering that no woman should be allowed into their mysteries. Demontaigu, without giving my name or status, voiced that he would vouch for me, as did Ausel and Padraig.

‘Our order is no more,’ Ausel declared. ‘We need every friend we have.’ The protests faded away.

Simon Destivet, their leader, called what he termed their ‘parliament’ to order. He knelt on the dais before the crumbling altar, and made the sign of the cross as we gathered behind him and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. The refrain was taken up, powerful voices calling through the dark. Once it was finished, Demontaigu nipped my wrist as a warning to remain silent. Two candles were lit, the iron spigots being brought from a chest concealed in a corner; these were placed on the altar. A coffer, ironbound and secured by three locks, was put between them; Destivet, Demontaigu and Ausel each produced a key. The coffer was opened. Meanwhile lanterns, thick coloured candles gleaming behind the horn covers, were also positioned along the altar. A roll of linen was taken out of the coffer and stretched between two wooden frames. The cloth must have been a yard long and the same across, ancient but very well preserved. The lantern horns behind it were moved closer. I gasped in amazement. The more I stared, the better I could distinguish the face of a man. I could make out his tangled hair and beard, the half-closed eyes, a disfigured, bruised face, yet also gentle, a soul-searing vision of deep suffering. The Templars immediately bowed, foreheads touching the ground as they intoned a prayer: ‘Ah my Jesus, turn your face towards each of us as you did to Veronica. Not that we may see it with our bodily eyes, for this we do not deserve, but turn it towards our hearts so that, remembering You, we may ever draw from this power and strength the vigour necessary to sustain the combats of life. Amen.’

I bowed with them, realising this must be the Mandylion, the cloth that had covered the face of the crucified Christ. My uncle, Sir Reginald, had often obliquely referred to this, whilst in their hideous allegations against the Templars, Philip’s lawyers had accused them of worshipping a disembodied head. Now I saw the truth! We all knelt back on our heels, and Destivet began a mournful prayer, a quotation from scripture: ‘It is close, the day of their ruin, their doom comes at speed.’

‘No, no.’ Ausel’s voice rang clear. ‘No, no, let us not be dismayed or downcast, brothers. Let us not seek vengeance on our enemies but leave that to God. Let us be triumphant.’

Destivet nodded, even though, kneeling behind him, I sensed he was crying. Ausel was determined to lift the pall of gloom. In his lilting Irish voice he chanted a beautiful Celtic prayer. I later asked Demontaigu to copy it down for me:

Others took up the prayer. I felt a slight chill, not of fear but of awe at those men, hunted and harassed to death, still determined to pray, to fight, to proclaim their message. Afterwards, they all joined Ausel in a Celtic hymn:

The chant finally finished, and Destivet made the sign of the cross. The candles were doused, the sacred roll relocked in its coffer. Destivet turned and sat on the edge of the dais. The rest of us grouped around him in a circle. Each reported what had happened. One tale of gloom after another. In France, the Templars were being accused of the most heinous crimes: intercourse with demons, spitting on Christ’s image, urinating on the cross, administering the kiss of shame to the penis, buttocks and lips of superiors, or engaging in other homosexual acts.

‘According to one of Philip’s lawyers,’ a Templar spoke up, ‘the allegations against us are “a bitter thing, lamentable, horrible to contemplate, terrible to bear, almost inhuman, indeed set apart from all humanity”.’

‘But are they believed?’ Destivet asked.

The speaker shrugged. ‘A very few of our comrades escaped, but most of them were tortured: weights hung on their genitals. They were strapped to the rack, ankles and wrists, dislocated through winches, wrenched from their sockets. Others were pulled up to the ceiling by ropes which would suddenly go slack, their fall broken by a violent jerk. Burnings and scaldings are commonplace. The brothers are confessing; they have to for a moment’s peace.’

The Templars prayed for these unfortunates, then moved swiftly on to other business, including King Edward’s reluctance to allow papal inquisitors into the realm. Some of the Templars knew about the troubles at Westminster and the presence of French envoys. Destivet raised the possibility of attacking these, arguing how the assassination of Marigny and his coven would be ‘a righteous act’. Demontaigu disagreed, pointing out how the French were well protected, whilst such an attack might alienate Edward. Moreover, the Noctales were a malevolent, ever-present menace. They would continue the hunt whatever happened. Demontaigu’s argument was accepted. Various Templars related how the Noctales, armed with descriptions and information about hiding places supplied by spies and informers, had already captured and imprisoned a number of their brethren. The whereabouts of Templar treasure was discussed, its hiding places and worth. I was particularly intrigued by the references to gold and silver held by Langton, secretly hidden away before his fall. Destivet was of the mind that they should gather all such treasure, memoranda and relics, move swiftly into the northern shires and open secret negotiations with the Scottish rebel Bruce. This was being hotly discussed when the wail of a hunting horn immediately created silence. Candles were doused, war belts strapped on, arbalests winched back, bows and arrows seized.