our little group with narrow gaolers’ eyes.
I gazed around at the church in awe, marvelling at the walls that glowed like precious jewels in the sunlight, decorated with vivid paintings of Jerusalem and King Solomon’s Temple, and rich hangings of gold and blue and scarlet thread that depicted scenes from the Bible, and wondrous carvings of human faces set in carved arches around the inner wall, just above the stone benches — some grotesque, some kindly, some fearsome, some saintly — all seemingly waiting to witness the proceedings that were about to take place.
This was the beating heart of the English Order of the Temple, a chamber of purity and goodness and Christian strength, and I did not feel worthy to be inside such a place. I closed my eyes once again in prayer, beseeching God to give me strength through the coming trial; and asking that he might see fit to protect my master from the righteous wrath of these holy knights.
A fanfare of trumpets interrupted my devotions, and when I opened my eyes heralds were striding through the doorway to my left, their trumpets adorned with the red and gold of the royal standard. We were ordered to our feet by a gesture from the Templar sergeant, and into the church strode Prince John himself, apparently deep in conversation with Sir William de Newham, the English Provincial Master of the Temple. Behind him came Sir Aymeric de St Maur, who was chatting to a companion; I realized with a heavy heart but no real sense of surprise that the Templar knight’s companion was Sir Ralph Murdac.
The Master, William de Newham, took his seat at the eastern end of the round church in an imposing high- backed chair. He was a portly, irritable-looking, red-faced man with large eyes shot with blood, now flanked on either side by his two wardens, senior knights who acted as his officials. Together with the Master, these were the men who would pass judgement this day on the Earl of Locksley. The great wooden door was slammed shut, with one man-at-arms posted outside to see that we were not disturbed, and another, an inner guard, posted inside, his sword drawn in readiness, to be doubly sure that the proceedings of the inquisition would not be interrupted. Prince John was ushered to a position of honour on the opposite side of the church from Robin, Tuck and me — the north side — and on taking his seat he immediately began making a fuss, demanding cushions to ease the hardness of the stone bench. Sir Ralph Murdac, after lending his voice to the demand for more cushions, shouting at several of the Templar sergeants and urging them to be quick about bringing his master’s comforts, finally settled himself and looked over to our side with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
As always, when I looked on Ralph Murdac’s features, I felt a surge of hatred in my guts. But that day it was particularly strong, and I worried for an instant that I might disgrace myself by vomiting my bile on the smooth, grey flagstone floor. Somehow I mastered my stomach and forced myself to make a careful study of my enemy. Apart from that glimpse in the firelight outside Kirkton Castle, I had not had the misfortune to look upon his loathsome features for several years. He was clean shaven and bareheaded, his black hair cut into a neat bowl shape — clearly he had had a barber visit him that day. His clothes were of fine black silk, well cut, expensive and cared for; his face was handsome, though his lips were faintly too red for my taste, giving him an air of petulance and secret vice. His light blue eyes, cold as frost, glittered as he stared straight back at me. I was struck, once again, at how similar he was to little Hugh, in looks at least; I could only pray that Hugh would not turn out to share the same blackness of heart. He was too far away for me to catch his scent, but I wondered if he still favoured that revolting lavender perfume which had always made me sneeze.
Then I noticed something that made a spark of joy leap in my heart: Murdac was holding one shoulder awkwardly, slightly higher than the other. At first I thought it was just a peculiar way of sitting, but then he moved, turning sideways to whisper something to his master, Prince John, and I realized what it was. He was crippled, a hunchback. Robin’s arrow, fired into the darkness on that night of fire and blood outside Kirkton Castle, might not have killed the man, but it had certainly spoiled his posture.
I smiled broadly at Murdac now, meeting his gaze, looking pointedly at his high shoulder, grinning at him like a monkey. And I looked sideways at Robin, hoping he had noticed it too, but my master was staring serenely into the middle distance, humming softly to himself under his breath, as if he had not a care in the world. If things went badly for Robin, he was but a few short hours away from an agonizing, fiery end. But then I have never met a man who was calmer in the face of death.
It was Prince John who started the hearing, in his typically ungracious way. Giving a jerk of his dark-red curly head to the Master of the Temple, he waved one finger of his beringed right hand and croaked: ‘Well, shall we get on with it, then? I don’t wish to be here all day.’
The Master, who had been conferring earnestly with one of his wardens and a clerk brandishing a clutch of curling parchments, looked up, surprised to have his authority usurped in his own church.
To his credit, he resisted what had, in effect, been a royal command. ‘In a moment, Your Highness,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Try to possess yourself with a just little more patience.’ His tone had the slightest edge to it; a note of condescension, as if talking to an impetuous child.
As I watched Aymeric de St Maur rise from his seat in the southern part of the church, not far from us, and cross to the Master’s chair, a thought struck me. I turned to Robin and asked: ‘Where is the Queen? Where is the Lady Eleanor? Surely she should come to your aid?’
Robin turned to me and smiled — he looked as cool as a summer breeze. Almost without moving his lips, he said, very quietly: ‘The Queen cannot come to my aid, Alan. She must stay aloof from this contest. She needs the English Templars to help her free Richard, or rather she needs their silver and their ability to arrange credit. We are all on our own here, Alan. Just play your part, and all will be well in the end.’
I must have looked uncertain, for he gave me a conspiratorial wink and muttered: ‘Do not trouble yourself too much, Alan. Everything is going to be just fine. Tuck assures me that the Almighty has a master plan; God has it all worked out, apparently.’ And he grinned at me, quite blasphemously, before saying: ‘And have you noticed Murdac’s crooked back?’ I could only smile back at him, heartened by his less-than-Christian pleasure in an enemy’s discomfort.
The Master of the Templars now rose to his feet, gave a brief signal to one of the sergeants, and led the whole church in a prayer asking God that the truth be uncovered and justice be done this day in His sacred house, before His eyes. Then the sergeant led Robin to the centre of the church, placing him in such a way that he stood directly before the Master but everyone in the round church would have a clear view of him.
The Master then held up a thick, curling piece of parchment and read aloud in Latin. It was a letter from His Holiness the Pope, adorned with the Papal seal, sanctioning this inquisition in the Temple Church in London on this day and naming the individual to be investigated as Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley. It was a long, dull document, which referred to a Papal Bull known as Ad abolendam that had been issued by Pope Lucius nearly ten years ago, urging the high churchmen of Christendom to actively seek out all heretics and those who sheltered or supported them, and bring them swiftly to justice.
His authority as an episcopal inquisitor thus established, the Master took his seat and the inquisition began.
‘Do you Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and in his only son Jesus Christ our Saviour?’ asked the Master in French, fixing Robin with his bloodshot eyes.
‘I do,’ said Robin gravely, in the same language. I knew that he was lying through his sinful teeth — but there was no other answer that he could make.
‘And do you believe that the word of God was made flesh as Jesus Christ and that by his suffering and death on the Cross this sinful world was redeemed?’
‘No question about it,’ said Robin, his face a picture of Christian innocence.
‘And do you believe that on the third day after He was crucified He rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven, and now sits at the right hand of God the Father?’
‘Absolutely… third day, right hand, all of that stuff,’ said Robin, his eyes seeming to shine with conviction.
‘And do you believe in the Holy Trinity of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost? And that Mary was a virgin before and after the birth of her son Jesus Christ?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do get on with it!’ Prince John’s harsh voice cut through the recitation of a well-known and much-loved formula. Though the Master ignored his interruption, his high colour became a little more pronounced.
‘I certainly do,’ said Robin jauntily. ‘I’m entirely sure Mary was a virgin, before and afterwards — oh, very much so.’
‘And do you swear by Almighty God, by Jesus Christ, by the Virgin Mary and all the saints, at the peril of your
