Satan's Fire

Chapter 10

The tolling of the bell woke Corbett. Ranulf was already up, searching for his swordbelt. Outside the corridors echoed with the running of feet and shouted orders. Other bells in the Templar manor began to toll. Corbett dressed hurriedly. He wrapped his swordbelt around him and peered through the window: the darkened sky was brightening under the first light of dawn.

‘Are we under attack?’ Ranulf exclaimed, hopping around, putting his boots on.

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett gasped.

There was a hammering at the door. Ranulf drew back the bolts. A Templar serjeant, his face blackened, hair awry, his surcoat and hose scorched and filthy, almost fell into the room.

‘Sir Hugh!’ he gasped. ‘The grand master’s compliments but you are to come. There’s a fire in the main building!’

Once outside the guesthouse, Corbett saw the smoke billowing out of the far wing of the manor. The courtyard was now filling with Templars: half-dressed, coughing and spluttering, they were forming a chain so buckets could be passed along. Corbett pushed his way through the door. Inside the passage was full of smoke and, as it parted in a breeze, Corbett saw the orange glow of fire at the far end. Now and again a Templar would dash in, a slopping pail of water in his hand. Branquier, followed by de Molay, came out of the smoke coughing and spluttering. They pushed by Corbett, staggering into the morning air.

‘It’s Baddlesmere’s cell!’ de Molay gasped. ‘It’s a lighted torch from one end to another.’ He squatted on the cobbles and greedily drank from the water stoup a servant brought, then threw the rest over his face. ‘The water’s having no effect,’ he muttered.

Corbett crouched beside him. Branquier stumbled off into the darkness, unable to speak, his eyes streaming because of the acrid smoke. Other Templars were now staggering out of the building, shouting that they could do nothing.

‘The cell’s burning!’ de Molay exclaimed. ‘If the flames are not brought under control, it will engulf the entire manor house.’

His frustration soon spread to the rest: the chain of buckets faltered. Legrave, a wet cloak covering his nose and mouth, dashed into the passageway. A few minutes later he re-emerged, the top part of his face a mask of ash. Corbett recalled Murston’s smouldering corpse.

‘Forget the water!’ the clerk exclaimed. He pointed across the cobbles where a huge mound of sand, probably used in some building work, lay heaped against the wall. ‘Use that!’ he said. ‘Sand, dirt, soil. Smother the flames rather than drown them!’

At first everything was confusion but then Symmes arrived, his pet weasel popping his little head out of the top of his tunic. He forced the retainers into one long line. Soldiers were sent in, wet cloths over their nostrils and mouths: each carried buckets of sand whilst another was armed with a heavy blanket. An hour passed, eventually the flames died and the fire was brought under control.

‘Thank God!’ de Molay murmured. ‘Thank God, Sir Hugh, the walls are of stone, as is the floor: the whole manor could have been turned into a blazing pyre.’

‘It’s bad enough,’ Legrave remarked, coming up. ‘The cell on the other side is damaged, as are the two rooms above. The beams and floor joists are burnt away.’ He stared around. ‘Where’s Baddlesmere?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sure I saw. .’ His voice faltered.

Branquier hastened away, calling Baddlesmere’s name. He came back, shaking his head.

‘That was Baddlesmere’s chamber?’ Corbett asked.

Symmes nodded.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

Symmes turned away and shouted out names. Two Templars hurried up, stripped to the waist, their bodies covered in soot. They looked like two demons from hell.

‘You raised the alarm?’ Branquier asked one of them.

‘Yes, Domine. I was on patrol. I turned the corridor and saw the smoke coming out beneath the door. I hurried down and banged with all my might.’ He extended his bloody, scorched fist. ‘The door was boiling hot so I called for help. Waldo and Gibner came. Gibner ran off to ring the bell and raise the alarm, whilst Waldo and I tried to force the door, which was locked and barred. We took a bench from the corridor and smashed it on the left so as to snap the hinges. We were successful,’ he gasped, ‘but the flames and the smoke seemed to leap out at us. Inside it was terrible, fire and smoke. It was like the heart of hell, an inferno.’

‘Did you see Sir Bartholomew?’ Legrave snapped. ‘Speak the truth!’

‘Yes, he was lying on the bed. The flames had already reached it. I only saw him for a few seconds.’ He stammered. ‘Him and. .’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘There was another,’ the Templar mumbled. ‘They were sprawled on the bed: the flames were already taking hold of the tester and counterpane. I shouted once, then we ran. Honestly, Master, we could do nothing.’

‘Who was the other?’ Branquier cried. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man! We have lost two of our Order!’

‘One was Sir Bartholomew,’ the serjeant replied. ‘I think the other was Scoudas.’

De Molay cursed under his breath and walked away. Corbett stood aside, watching the dirty and blackened Templars wash themselves in buckets of water from the well. Above him the sun was rising fast and strong whilst, a short distance away, de Molay and his commanders waited for it to be safe before reentering the building. Eventually a serjeant reported the fire was extinguished. De Molay ordered his companions to stay where they were and, beckoning Corbett and Ranulf, entered the charred, stinking corridor. The walls and woodwork were all scorched; when they reached Baddlesmere’s chamber, Corbett was surprised at the intensity of the fire. It had reduced the chamber to nothing but a blackened charnel-house. The floor was ankle-deep in ash. The bedding, furniture and ornaments had been turned to cinder. Above them, the ceiling had been gutted; they stared into the upper chamber where the hungry flames had roared, consuming all in its path.

‘Are the beams safe?’ Corbett asked.

‘We always build well,’ de Molay replied. ‘Fire is our great enemy. Three, possibly four, chambers will have to be gutted and repaired.’

He walked across and stopped where the bed had been. Very little remained of the two dead Templars: charred skeletons lying next to each other made unrecognisable by the horror which had occurred. Despite the ash and dirt, de Molay, tears streaming down his face, knelt down and crossed himself.

‘Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine,’ he intoned. ‘Eternal rest give unto them oh Lord and let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He blessed the remains with his hand. ‘Turn not your face away from them,’ he prayed. ‘And, in your infinite mercy, forgive their offence.’

He rose to his feet, stumbled, and would have fallen if Corbett had not grasped his arm. De Molay lifted his face. Corbett was shocked: the grand master had aged, his face grey, mouth slack, eyes like a lost child.

‘What is happening, Corbett?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘For the love of God, what is happening? The fire is terrible enough but Bartholomew? A good soldier, to die in his bed with another man beside him. How will that be seen by the Judge of us all? What terrible damage to the name of our Order!’

He pulled his hand away and stumbled towards the door. Corbett indicated Ranulf to help him. The grand master hobbled like an old man into the passageway. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

‘I have heard the rumours,’ he whispered. ‘Friendships are formed. Sometimes we, who can have no sons, look for someone we would have liked to have had as one. Perhaps that was the case with Bartholomew. Now God’s judgement has caught up with him and the power of the Evil One has made itself felt.’

Corbett wiped the soot and ash away from his face. ‘Nonsense!’ he snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and his companion were murdered. Their deaths were planned.’

‘But rumours will go out amongst the wicked.’ De Molay looked glassy-eyed at him. ‘He cast his lot.’

‘Shut up!’ Corbett shouted.

The grand master bowed his head. For a while he stood sobbing quietly, then, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he grasped Corbett’s arm like a man who had lost his sight. He stumbled down the passageway towards the door. Outside he ignored his companions but, accompanied by Corbett and Ranulf, walked slowly back to his own chamber. Once there, the grand master relaxed a little, bathing his face in a bowl of water, washing the grime and sweat from his face and hands. He then poured three goblets of wine, serving Ranulf and Corbett. He apologised deeply for the early hour, but quoted St Paul that they should take a little wine for their stomach’s sake. Then he sat for a while, staring out of the window, mouth open, now and again sipping from the wine goblet. Ranulf looked at Corbett but he shook his head, bringing his finger to his lips. The door opened. Branquier, Symmes and Legrave crept into the room and sat down. At last de Molay sighed and, turning, looked squarely at Corbett.

‘It was no accident, was it?’

‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘It was murder.’

‘But how?’ Symmes exclaimed. ‘Grand Master, I have just studied what remains of the lock and bolts. The key was welded into the lock on the inside. The bolts at top and bottom were secure.’

‘What about the window?’ Ranulf asked. ‘If that was open, a firebrand could have been tossed through.’

‘I have checked that,’ Symmes retorted. ‘The serjeants on duty outside say that the shutters of Bartholomew’s window were firmly closed.’

Everyone concentrated on the fire: no one dared to mention the circumstances in which Baddlesmere had died.

‘The flames were so intense,’ de Molay exclaimed, ‘burning savagely. What on God’s earth would cause such a fire?’ He waved his hand. ‘Oh, accidents happen. Candles fall on to the rushes or an oil-lamp is tipped over, but the speed of that fire!’ He shook his head. ‘It can’t have been anything like that.’

‘And if such an accident had occurred?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Why didn’t Baddlesmere and his companion raise the alarm, douse the flames themselves?’

‘According to the serjeant,’ Legrave said. ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were either unconscious or dead.’

‘They were sodomites.’ Symmes’s face twisted in revulsion. ‘They died in their sin.’ His voice had risen.

‘That’s for God to decide,’ Corbett retorted. ‘What concerns me is how they died. The windows and doors were barred, so how could someone get into a room and start such an inferno?’ He stared round. ‘Did anything untoward happen yesterday evening?’

His question was answered by headshakes and murmurs of dissent.

‘Was Baddlesmere. .’ Corbett paused to marshal his words more carefully. ‘Was his liaison with Scoudas well known?’

‘There were rumours,’ Symmes replied. ‘You know, the sort of gossip which runs like a river through any enclosed community. .’

He paused at a knock on the door. A serjeant hurried in. He whispered in Branquier’s ear, laid a pair of saddlebags at his feet and left. Branquier undid the straps carefully. He shook the contents into his lap whilst the rest watched curiously.

‘The bag belongs to Scoudas,’ Branquier explained. ‘I told the serjeant to collect anything he might find in his quarters.’

He held up a small steel ring by its stem. Corbett recognised a sighting which skilled arbalesters used on their crossbows. The rest were a few paltry objects: a knife, a sheath and small squares of parchment. Branquier undid these, cursed and handed them over to Corbett.

The first was a diagram: Corbett recognised it as a street plan of York: Trinity, the road the king had ridden up, its line of houses, the place where Murston had lurked, was marked with a cross.

‘It’s in Baddlesmere’s hand,’ Branquier explained. ‘As are the rest.’

Corbett stared down at the cramped writing and the fatal message it bore.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.

‘It’s the Assassin’s warning.’ Corbett put the parchment on the table in front of the grand master. De Molay studied it.

‘Sir Hugh?’ he asked. ‘Could the assassin have been Baddlesmere? Remember the morning we entered York, Baddlesmere was with Scoudas.’

‘But he returned to Framlingham with us,’ Symmes intervened. ‘He couldn’t possibly have been in York when Corbett received his warning or narrowly missed the assailant’s arrows.’

‘True,’ de Molay replied, ‘but Scoudas was. He came back much later in the afternoon. . He was Genoese by birth, a professional crossbowman.’

‘And this,’ Branquier held up a yellowing stub of parchment he’d taken from the saddlebag, ‘is a billa with Murston’s mark on it, acknowledging the receipt of certain monies.’

‘Are you saying,’ Corbett looked at the billa and passed it over to de Molay, ‘that Baddlesmere and his lover Scoudas were the assassins?’

‘It stands to reason,’ Branquier retorted.

‘Yes, it does,’ de Molay declared. ‘Baddlesmere was discontented. He had knowledge of the Assassins and their secrets. He attended the Chapter in Paris after which Philip of France was attacked. He was in London when the Assassins’ message was pinned to the door of St Paul’s Cathedral. He knew when the king was entering York and what route he would take. Scoudas, his lover, paid Murston, the most harebrained of men, a large amount of money. Copies of the Assassins’ message are found in Scoudas’s saddlebag together with a map of York. Finally, Scoudas was a professional crossbowman.’

‘But why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why did the fire break out in Baddlesmere’s room? And, when it did, surely he and Scoudas would have tried to escape?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ the grand master replied. ‘Perhaps they held some secret which went wrong and they were overcome by the smoke.’

‘Did any of you see Baddlesmere last night?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Branquier replied. ‘We dined together.’ He smiled weakly. ‘We finished up the excellent wine you brought. Baddlesmere did like his wine. He always took a small jug into his chamber.’

‘And Scoudas?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Legrave exclaimed, ‘we are a fighting community, bound by vows and a rule of discipline. Nevertheless, we are free men. Our Order is our family; friendships are formed. We do not poke our fingers into every man’s pie. We have enough troubles without checking on every man, where he goes and what he does.’

‘May I have those pieces of parchment?’ Corbett asked, getting to his feet.

De Molay handed them over. Corbett abruptly made his farewells and returned to the guesthouse.

‘Do you believe all that?’ Ranulf asked, hurrying beside him.

‘It’s possible,’ Corbett replied. ‘It would make sense: Scoudas was in York when I was threatened and later attacked. I believe the grand master; this map of York and the Assassins’ warning is written in Baddlesmere’s hand. But why was it found in Scoudas’s possession? Why wasn’t it better hidden?’

‘Perhaps Scoudas was his messenger boy?’

‘In which case we face three possibilities,’ Corbett retorted as they entered his chamber.

‘First, Scoudas and Bartholomew were the assassins and, due to some dreadful accident, they were killed: that seems a strong possibility. We have documentary evidence and there is no valid explanation of how the fire could begin.’ Corbett went over to the table and laid the scraps of parchment out. ‘Secondly, Bartholomew and Scoudas were part of a coven, so others in this manor and elsewhere could be implicated in their treason.’

‘And thirdly?’ Ranulf asked.

‘That Baddlesmere and Scoudas were victims and the real assassin, the Sagittarius, still walks free. Now,’ Corbett sat down at the table, ‘we are still awaiting Claverley and Maltote’s return.’ He grinned over his shoulder at Ranulf. ‘You are free to play dice whenever you wish. I am going to be busy.’

For a while Ranulf stayed, kicking his heels, pacing up and down the chamber, peering through the window, muttering about Maltote’s good luck at getting away. At last Corbett told him to shut up and go for a walk. Ranulf needed no second bidding and sped off like a greyhound. Corbett returned to drafting the letter he was writing, then threw his quill down in exasperation. Murder, treason, attempted regicide, sodomy, perhaps black magic! He got up and went to the door and bolted it. Corbett knew how Edward would react. He would rant and rave, but others in the Council would urge more pragmatic steps: the closing of all ports to the Templars as well as the possible seizure of their lands and chattels.

Corbett abandoned the letter and, for the next two hours, began to write down everything that had happened, everything he had heard and seen since this business began: conversations and conclusions. These, however, led nowhere, so he went back to the scraps of parchment he had found in Brother Odo’s desk, as well as the ones taken from Scoudas’s saddlebags. Corbett scrutinised the Assassins’ warning again. The first pinned on the doors of St Paul’s; the second given to him in York; the third handed over by Claverley, and the fourth plucked from Scoudas’s saddlebag. Corbett rose and stretched. And the fifth? Ah yes, the assassin in the library. Corbett seized his quill and wrote this down. He looked at all five, particularly the last, then, his curiosity aroused, he studied them again. There was a difference: he had noticed it before, but was it significant? Corbett bit his lips in excitement. The one delivered by Claverley and the one given to him in York were different. In the other three the message had stated:

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.

Now the scribbled notice mysteriously attached to Murston’s gibbet and the one given to him in York had read as follows:

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.

Why the difference, Corbett wondered? A simple error? He went to the window and stared down into the yard, watching the Templar soldiers hurry backwards and forwards as they began to clear up the debris from the burnt chambers. Was it a simple mistake? But, if it wasn’t, what was the significance?

‘Let us say,’ Corbett murmured, ‘that there were three conspirators: Murston, Baddlesmere and Scoudas. Each delivered warnings at certain times. Would that explain why the message was written out wrongly?’

Corbett went across to the lavarium and splashed water over his face. He looked down at the grimy water and realised that he had been so absorbed that he still bore traces of the smoke and fire, so he went into the corridor and asked a serjeant to bring fresh water. The man agreed and, once he’d returned, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved himself in a small steel mirror, then changed into fresh clothes. Still thinking of the problem, he went down to the kitchen where he begged some bread, cheese and a jug of ale. Everyone else ignored him. The murders, the secret scandals and the hard work in dousing the flames had all wrought their effect on the Templar community. Ranulf joined him, his grimy face now furrowed by streaks of sweat.

‘A good game?’ Corbett asked.

His manservant grinned.

‘You look more like an imp from hell than ever. Be careful, Ranulf,’ Corbett added. ‘People might want to examine the dice you are using.’

‘I always throw honest,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Aye, and pigs fly,’ Corbett replied.

Ranulf left to change and wash, Corbett finished his food and went and sat on a stone bench outside the front door of the manor. He revelled in the sun’s warmth, his mind still concentrating on those warnings; he was trying to remember something which was out of place, but he couldn’t for his life remember it. He closed his eyes, letting himself relax, and thought of Maeve’s last letter.

‘You must come home,’ she had written. ‘Eleanor misses you. Uncle Morgan swears you have some pretty doxy in every city. I lie awake every night hoping that the next morning I’ll hear the servants’ excited cries and you will be back.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett’s eyes flew open. Claverley was standing staring anxiously down at him.

‘Roger!’

The under-sheriff’s ugly face broke into a smile.

‘How long have you been here?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, I left my horse in the stables and went up to your chamber. Ranulf was there.’ Claverley’s face grew serious. ‘He told me the news.’ The under-sheriff sat on the bench beside Corbett. ‘This place is like a morgue,’ he murmured. ‘And when the news gets out. .’

‘What has happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, we have already received our orders. Any Templar seen in the city of York is to be arrested on sight. In the Guildhall there are whispers and rumours that the king has sent messengers ordering the keepers of all the ports and the harbourmasters to seize any Templar coming into the country, as well as all letters and writs bearing their seal. Finally, under pain of forfeiture of life and limb, no Templar is allowed to leave the kingdom.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘I just hope,’ he declared, ‘that His Grace knows what he is doing. The Templars are under the direct control of the Pope. Any attack on them,’ he added drily, ‘is seen as an attack upon Christ’s Vicar himself.’ Corbett linked his arm through Claverley’s and they walked back into the manor. ‘The king doesn’t give a damn about the Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘He and his great lords would love to get their fingers on their possessions. Anyway, Claverley, what else do you have for me?’

Claverley handed him a small scroll of parchment.

‘Bad news going to worse,’ he replied. ‘I have had my clerks list all those who have access to forges, all those who have licences to import into York, as well as all those who’ve applied for licence to build.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked, ushering Claverley into his chamber.

‘See for yourself.’

Corbett unrolled the small parchment. Each of the three lists were very short. Corbett recognised the names of some of the leading aldermen and merchants of York, including Hubert Seagrave, vintner and owner of the Greenmantle tavern. However, the only name which appeared in each of the three small columns was that of the Templars. They owned smithies and forges in York. They had the right to import foodstuffs and other goods into the city. They also owned tenements and dwelling houses under the care of their steward, the now deceased Sir Guido Reverchien; he had apparently sought permission from the mayor and aldermen to build or renovate some of those places. Corbett groaned and tossed the parchment on to the bed.

‘There’s nothing new here!’ he exclaimed.

Claverley handed him a gold coin. ‘I went to see Mistress Jocasta. She thanks you for your gift but, in view of her past history, she thought it best to send it back. She asked you to examine the coin carefully, especially the rim.’

Corbett did so and saw the faint red marks.

‘What are they?’ Corbett asked, scraping at one and noticing how it came away under his nail.

‘Mistress Jocasta thinks it’s wax. She also said the gold is very old.’ Claverley sat down on the stool, undoing his swordbelt. ‘Apparently gold is like cloth, of different textures and makes: this is soft, precious and very rarely seen nowadays.’

‘But why should the Templars be minting their own coins?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. They may be bankrupt and beginning to melt down their bullion, or they may have simply found treasure trove which they do not wish to hand over to the king. Sir Hugh, I travelled fast, the road was dusty. .’

Corbett apologised and poured out a goblet of wine. He’d hardly finished when Ranulf burst into the room, loudly protesting at how he had been searching high and low. He forgot his moans when Corbett handed him a cup of wine.

‘Thank God you’ve come, Claverley!’ Ranulf exclaimed between sips from his cup. ‘As I said, this is a morgue, a death-house.’

‘Did you make inquiries about the Templars in York, the morning the king was attacked?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, and I didn’t find much. Apparently one of them left the city early.’

‘Yes, that would be Branquier.’

‘And one of the guards near Botham Bar definitely saw the grand master and the others meet and ride off.’

‘But what were they doing before?’

Claverley explained. ‘Well, the one-eyed one, Symmes, he apparently spent a great deal of his time in the tavern watching the doxies, though he wandered about and was seen in different locations throughout the morning.’

‘And the dead one, Baddlesmere?’

‘Well, some of the market bailiffs remember him, walking amongst the stalls near the Pavement. They definitely saw him and a young serjeant standing there when Murston’s corpse was gibbeted.’

‘And the grand master and Legrave?’

‘De Molay did visit the goldsmith’s but, Legrave spent a great deal of the time in the streets outside. It’s the glovers’ quarter, and some of the shopkeepers recall him making purchases. They thought he was guarding the entrance whilst de Molay was inside.’

‘So any of them could have slipped down to that tavern near Trinity where Murston was lurking?’

‘Yes they could have done so,’ Claverley replied. ‘Oh, and one final thing.’ Claverley sipped from the goblet. ‘Much later in the afternoon, the guards at Botham Bar remember a Templar serjeant, the same young, blond-haired one glimpsed with Baddlesmere, leaving the city. He was riding fast, shouting at people to get out of his way.’

Corbett sighed. ‘That would be Scoudas, who’s also died. So we know all the Templars, including Baddlesmere, were in York when the attack was launched on the king. We know they separated, but that they met before Botham Bar and left the city before I received that threatening message on Ouse Bridge. They were certainly gone by the time that hidden archer tried to kill me. The only Templar in York when that happened was Scoudas.’

Corbett sat down on the edge of his bed. Was it possible, he thought, that the men behind these attacks — Baddlesmere and Scoudas — were already dead? Is that why Baddlesmere had left the city with de Molay, to put himself beyond suspicion whilst his friend and lover, Scoudas, carried out the attack? If that was the case, Corbett hid the tingle of excitement in his stomach, there would be no more deaths and he could report as much to the king. He glanced at his two companions.

‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’ he murmured.

Claverley drained his cup. ‘I have another message.’

‘Yes?’

‘A lazar, an unknown knight, is dying in the Franciscan hospital. He claims he was a Templar and wishes to speak to you.’

‘A Templar, a lazar!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Could he be the mysterious hooded rider glimpsed in the woods near the Botham Bar road?’

Claverley shrugged.

‘Look,’ Corbett smiled faintly, ‘Ranulf will look after you. But don’t go far. We may have to leave quickly.’

Once they had gone, Corbett tried to marshal his thoughts. All the evidence pointed to Baddlesmere’s guilt, yet there was something amiss. Only he was too absorbed to catch and hold it in his mind. He’d certainly go to York and visit the Lazar hospital. He picked up the list which Claverley had brought and fished the gold coin out of his purse. He stared at the red wax on the rim of the coin, then absentmindedly felt for his wine cup. He paused, recalling the tun of wine he’d brought to Framlingham, and stared at the list again.

‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘In vino veritas: in wine there is always truth!’