Satan's Fire

Chapter 11

Hubert Seagrave, tavern master and vintner to the King, mopped his sweaty face, now turned a dull pasty hue. He stared in terror across his counting-room at Sir Hugh Corbett. Roger Claverley, under-sheriff, sat on the clerk’s left, whilst that cat-eyed servant stood just behind him. Seagrave’s gaze shifted to the gold coin lying on the table.

‘Naturally, naturally,’ he stuttered, ‘I have seen such coins. They are good gold.’ He stared piteously at the door where his ashen-faced wife and young sons stared fearfully at him.

‘Close the door, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Now, Master Seagrave.’ The clerk pulled his chair to the edge of the counting table, admiring the black and white squares laid out on top. ‘I shall begin again. This coin and others like it are not the work of some petty counterfeiter but a wealthy, powerful man. This person discovered a treasure trove which should rightly belong to the Crown but, instead, he decided to melt that gold down in the furnace of his forge and recast it into coins. He used the same moulds he has for forming the red wax discs with which he seals his goods. Now, no one but a fool would go out into the market place with such coins and start buying goods from foreign merchants. He used those coins to purchase his merchandise, and these foreign merchants would then enter the markets of York with the same gold to buy their own purchases. The subtlety of this trick is apparent: the Crown does not get its treasure trove; the merchant keeps it to amass further wealth, whilst four or five foreign merchants use these gold coins to buy goods to import into their own countries. So, who can trace them back? Indeed, who will ask questions? The traders of York are only too pleased to see good gold pouring into their coffers, their memories would soon grow dim.’

Corbett paused and sipped from the excellent wine Seagrave had served when he mistakenly thought the clerk had just arrived on a courtesy visit.

‘Now,’ Corbett struck his breast, ‘I made a mistake. I thought it might be the Templars. They are always applying for licences to refurbish their tenements in York. They have the licence to import goods from abroad and, of course, they have their own forges and ironsmiths. But why should the Templars incur royal anger?’

Corbett paused. He felt truly sorry for this fat merchant whose greed had got the better of him. ‘However, the same applies to you, Master Seagrave. You have at least two forges at the Greenmantle. You have also applied for a licence to build on an adjoining piece of waste land. Before I left Framlingham I scrutinised the steward’s accounts. You offer a price well above the market value for the wasteland on the other side of your tavern.’

Seagrave opened his mouth but then put his face in his hands.

‘The mistake I made,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘was assuming that the guilty party must have applied for a licence to import from abroad. But, as the King’s own vintner in his royal city of York, you need no such licence. Foreign ships bring the wine down the Ouse, they unload their barrels, and you paid them with these gold coins.’

‘You don’t want that field for more buildings,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘but because it might contain more treasure trove.’

‘You made one mistake,’ Corbett added. ‘The die casts you used to make your wax seals, you also used to mint the gold. On a few of the coins some of the red wax is still embedded, very deeply in the rim.’

‘There are other merchants,’ Seagrave mumbled, not raising his head. He dragged his hands across the table and Corbett saw the sweat-marks left by his fingers.

‘Master Seagrave,’ Claverley spoke up, ‘you are an important burgess. A merchant prince. Your tavern is famous, not only in York but well beyond the city walls. You were born and bred here. You have heard the stories: how once the Romans had a great city here and, in the time before Alfred, the Vikings turned the city into a great fortress where they piled their plunder. Such treasure trove is common — the odd cup, a few coins. But what did you find?’

‘We can go away,’ Corbett added. ‘And come back with the king’s soldiers. They will tear this tavern apart, dig up every inch of soil.’ He leaned against the table. ‘Master Seagrave, look at me.’

The merchant glanced up fearfully. ‘It was so easy,’ he muttered. ‘Different merchants at different times. I knew they’d keep their mouths shut. After all, Sir Hugh, who objects to being paid in gold? But you found wax engrained in the rim?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Well, God knows how that got there.’ Seagrave got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He smiled sourly as Claverley’s hand went to his dagger. ‘Don’t worry, Under-sheriff, I am not going to flee or do anything stupid. I want to show you what I found.’

The merchant left the counting-house. A few minutes later he came staggering back with a small chest about two feet long and a foot high. He dropped this on the table with a crash and threw back the lid.

‘Sweet God and all his angels!’ Ranulf exclaimed, staring at the gold coins which lay heaped there.

‘There’s more,’ Seagrave added.

He went out and returned with a leather sack. He undid the cord at the neck and spilled the precious objects on to the table: a gold, jewel-encrusted pyx, a drinking horn inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Two small goblets, the cups thick with silver. An agnus dei of pure jade, a pectoral cross, amethysts gleaming in each of the four stems.

‘Riches in abundance,’ Seagrave murmured. ‘I found it all about three months ago when the builders were digging in the garden. They paused because of the snow and frost. I went out to inspect. My children were playing in the trench: they’d pulled a piece of paving stone away from the side of the hole which had strange markings on it. I got down and investigated.’ Seagrave paused. ‘I don’t know whether it was a sewer or a pipe made of elm. I put my hand inside.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought I was dreaming. I pulled out one bag after another, all full of coins.’ He slumped down. ‘For God’s sake, Sir Hugh, I couldn’t mint coins like that.’

‘But they look so new!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The cross on each side, the red wax on the rim.’

‘I made my own inquiries amongst the chronicles and histories of the city,’ Seagrave replied. ‘Once York was called Jorvik; the Viking war gangs set up camp here.’ He pointed to the precious objects which lay gleaming on the table. ‘Perhaps some chieftain took church gold and melted it down and, being superstitious, carved a cross on either side.’

‘Candlesticks,’ Claverley explained. ‘Sir Hugh, they must have been candlesticks, which explains the red wax.’

Corbett lifted up the gold and let the coins run through his fingers.

‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘In my cleverness I thought the coins were newly minted.’

‘They are,’ Seagrave replied. ‘Whoever made those coins, Sir Hugh, never used them but hid them away with the rest of the treasure. They must have brought him the same ill luck as they did me. The wooden pipes were scorched, as was the earth around it. I didn’t know what to do,’ he continued. ‘I was tired of poor silver coins and, if I handed them over to the Exchequer, what recompense would I have got? Royal officials questioning me, hinting I may have stolen it, using every legal nicety to keep the treasure to themselves. How much of this, Sir Hugh, would have found its way into the royal treasury? Kings’ clerks are no different from Kings’ vintners: everyone has sticky fingers.’

‘You could have petitioned the king yourself,’ Corbett retorted.

‘I thought of that,’ Seagrave replied, ‘the day you came here. I nearly broke down and confessed but. .’ He shrugged. ‘I was committed. I’d waited until the king arrived in York. The great lords, the royal household, clerks, liveried retainers, so many strangers in the city, an opportune time to spend that gold. Royal purveyors were out buying the goods, the markets were doing a roaring trade.’ Seagrave’s face crumpled, tears rolling down his ashen cheeks. ‘Now I have lost everything,’ he muttered.

Suddenly the door to the counting-house was flung open and Seagrave’s wife entered, two small children clinging to her skirts.

‘What will happen?’ Her pretty face was now drawn, her eyes dark pools of fear.

‘Wait outside, Mistress Seagrave,’ Corbett replied. ‘The king wants his treasure, not a man’s life. What your husband has done is understandable.’

Corbett waited until the door closed. Seagrave had now dried his eyes and was looking expectantly at him.

‘What you must do, Master Seagrave,’ Corbett declared gently, ‘is seek an audience with the king. Take the treasure with you. Do not mention me or my visit here. .’ Corbett paused. ‘No, tell him I supped here and that you asked would it be possible to see His Grace.’

‘And then what?’ Seagrave asked anxiously.

‘Throw yourself on the royal mercy,’ Corbett continued. ‘And then open the sacks. Believe me, Master Seagrave, the king will kiss you as a brother, provided you hand over everything!’

‘You mean. .’ Seagrave gabbled.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You found some gold and spent some of it: that will be taken from your share.’

‘Then there will be no fine, no imprisonment?’ Seagrave exclaimed.

Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master Seagrave,’ he replied drily, ‘if you play your part well, you’ll probably be knighted.’

The tavern master tried to make him stay, saying he would like to reward his generosity. Corbett did remain for a while, finishing his wine and reassuring the flustered Seagrave that his family should fear nothing from him.

‘Is this right?’ Claverley muttered, seizing a moment when they were alone in the room together.

‘What else is there, Roger?’ Corbett laughed sharply. ‘Seagrave only became greedy. If we punished everyone for that, we wouldn’t find enough gibbets in the country.’ Corbett held his hand up. ‘You are to keep your mouth shut.’

‘Sir Hugh, you have my word.’

Once they had finished, Seagrave led them out to the stables where they’d left their horses. The merchant plucked anxiously at Corbett’s sleeve.

‘Sir Hugh, I have one final confession to make.’

‘There’s more treasure!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘No, it was the day you came here. I thought you were following someone.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, the day the king entered York, this tavern, like every other in the city, was very busy. Two Templars came here. One was a senior commander. I knew that by the way he talked. He was balding, grizzle-faced, a short, stocky man.’

‘Baddlesmere!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Yes, well, he was accompanied by a young serjeant. A youngish, blond-haired man with a foreign accent. I thought they’d come about the adjoining piece of land so I entertained them and talked about my plans.’ Seagrave coughed to clear his throat. ‘Now, to put it bluntly, they humoured me. They asked for a chamber, claiming they had matters to discuss, well away from the eyes and ears of the curious. So I obliged: that was early in the morning. About noon the old one left, followed by the younger one, shortly before you arrived. .’ Seagrave’s voice trailed off. ‘I thought I should tell you.’

Corbett thanked and reassured him. Once they were out of the stableyard he dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. Claverley, staring curiously at him and Ranulf, wondering what was the matter, followed Corbett through the busy, narrow alleyways and streets, then into the silent graveyard of a small church. Corbett sat down on a weather-beaten tombstone, watching his horse lazily munch the long, fresh grass.

‘If I was half as clever as I thought I was,’ he began, ‘then I’d be the most subtle of royal clerks.’ He sighed. ‘The truth is I blunder about like the hooded man in Blind Man’s Buff. If I strike something then it’s more chance than skill.’

‘You still found the counterfeiter,’ Ranulf offered hopefully.

‘Mere chance. I thought the wax proved Seagrave was a counterfeiter: it didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’ Claverley asked.

‘I’ve told you,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was greedy but, still, he’s a father, a husband, I don’t want his blood on my hands. And now we have Baddlesmere and Scoudas,’ Corbett continued. ‘They visited the Greenmantle tavern for a love tryst, using Seagrave’s desire to purchase some land as a possible pretext. Baddlesmere, to avoid any scandal or rumour, left to join the grand master. More importantly, Scoudas couldn’t have attacked me, he was in the tavern. So,’ Corbett let his horse nuzzle his neck, ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were no more interested in attacking the king and myself than the queen of the fairies. They came into York to be together. Baddlesmere and Scoudas were in that tavern all the time.’

‘But the warning?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The map found in Scoudas’s possessions: they all bore Baddlesmere’s hand.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wonder,’ he replied. ‘Did Baddlesmere have his own suspicions? Did he draw that map in order to help his own inquiries?’ He gathered the reins in his hands and remounted.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett broke from his reverie and stared down at the under-sheriff.

‘If you want,’ Claverley offered, ‘I can ride back with you to Framlingham or accompany you to the Lazar hospital.’

‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘As the gospels say: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”.’ He extended his hand and grasped Claverley’s. ‘You did good work, Roger. I shall make sure the king knows of it: I thank you for your courtesy and help.’

‘They said you were a hard man,’ Claverley told him. He jerked his head back in the direction of the tavern. ‘But Seagrave will always remember your compassion.’

Corbett shrugged. ‘I have seen more blood and death in the last year, Master Claverley. .’ His voice trailed off. ‘Keep well.’

And, urging his horse forward, Corbett left the graveyard. Ranulf stayed to make his own farewells.

‘He’s homesick,’ the manservant whispered, leaning down from his horse. ‘Old “Master Long Face” is pining for his wife.’

‘And you, Ranulf?’ Claverley grinned.

Ranulf pulled his most sanctimonious face. ‘Virtue is its own reward, Master Under-sheriff,’ he intoned solemnly.

And, with Claverley’s laughter ringing in his ears, Ranulf spurred his horse on before ‘Old Master Long Face’ really did fall into one of his melancholic fits.

Corbett dismounted in the courtyard of the Lazar hospital. A lay brother came out, Corbett whispered to him, and the little man nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘we have been expecting you. Stay here!’

He hurried into the hospital and came back a little later, accompanied by a friar. ‘This is Father Anselm, our infirmarian.’

The Franciscan grasped Corbett’s hand. ‘You’d best come,’ he urged, but turned as Ranulf made to join them. ‘No,’ he apologised. ‘I am afraid the knight only asked for Sir Hugh.’

Mystified, Corbett looked at Ranulf, then shrugged and followed the friar in through the door and up the stairs. They went along through the long infirmary where the sick lay on beds on either side. Each bed was cordoned off by dark-blue sheets which hung from steel rods bolted to the wall. The room was clean and fragrant, the sheets and bolsters of each bed a snowy white.

‘We do our best,’ Brother Anselm muttered. ‘Many of these had no dignity in living, at least they’ll have some in dying.’

At the end of the room he ushered Corbett into a small chamber, stark and austere. The white washed walls and gaunt crucifix above the bed reminded Corbett of his cell at Framlingham: the ‘Unknown’ lay propped against the bolsters; his yellow hair, soaked with sweat, fanned out across the pillow. Corbett fought to hide his disgust at the terrible sores and ulcers eating into the man’s face. The Unknown opened his eyes and tried to smile.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, the spittle bubbling on his cracked lips. ‘I am no beauty, Sir Hugh. Brother, a stool for our visitor.’

Friar Anselm brought one across and, when Corbett sat down, whispered in his ear: ‘He has not got much time. I doubt if he’ll see the night through.’

Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The Unknown turned his face, closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths, summoning up his last resources of strength.

‘You are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal?’

‘I am.’

‘They say you are a man of integrity.’

‘People say a lot of things.’

‘A good answer. My strength is ebbing, Sir Hugh, so I’ll be brief. Death will be here soon. Who I am, or where I came from does not concern you. I was a Templar. I fought at Acre and, when that city fell, I was taken prisoner and handed over to the Assassins who kept me imprisoned for years in their fortress of the Eagle’s Nest.’

The Unknown stirred, moving his limbs to find relief. ‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’ he whispered, ‘released me to cause chaos in my Order, to lay allegations of cowardice.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘What allegations?’

‘I know a great secret,’ the Unknown gasped. ‘Those commanders at Framlingham, they were all at Acre. When the city fell. .’ The Unknown stopped, fighting for breath. ‘. . Some Templars died. I and others were wounded and taken prisoner, many retreated. But,’ his fingers scrabbled at the blankets, ‘according to the Old Man of the Mountain, one English Templar was an arrant coward. He deserted his post and, because of that, the Mamelukes took a wall, cutting me and my companions off. On the day I was captured they told me about a Templar knight running away, dropping his sword and shield whilst others died.’

‘Which one?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know,’ the Unknown retorted. ‘But, for years, hidden in that dungeon, I dreamed of returning, of asking the survivors where they were and so account for their actions. When I was released, all the Old Man told me was that the Templar concerned was now a senior officer in the English province.’ The Unknown paused again. ‘I asked him how he knew the Templar’s nationality but not his name.’

‘And?’

‘He replied that at Acre there were only six English Templars: myself, Odo Tharlestone, Legrave, Branquier, Baddlesmere and Symmes. The coward screamed in English, so it must have been one of them. Now each is a lord! Oh, how they have all advanced themselves while I rotted.’ The Unknown smiled weakly. ‘I went out into the woods near Framlingham and saw them sweep by in their power.’

‘Why would the Old Man release you and send you back?’ Corbett asked.

‘I’ve thought of that,’ the Unknown replied haltingly. ‘The divisions in the Order are well known: further scandal would weaken it even more in the eyes of the Western princes.’

‘But now you are dying,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘When you were in the woods near Framlingham, why didn’t you seek an audience with de Molay?’

‘Because. .’ The Unknown closed his eyes. ‘Because, Sir Hugh, I want to die clean before God. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not the full truth. As I journeyed through Europe I heard the stories about my Order: why should I drag it down further?’

‘So why me?’

‘My desire for vengeance has gone, Sir Hugh, but justice must be done. You will inform de Molay of what I know. Tell him to ask each of his commanders where they were in Acre.’

‘Nothing else?’ Corbett asked. ‘No details about which wall or which part of the city?’

‘The Templars will know,’ the Unknown replied. ‘They will ask questions. They will interrogate.’ He grasped Corbett’s hands. ‘Swear, Sir Hugh, that you will!’

Corbett stared down at the Unknown’s face, so cruelly ravaged by disease.

‘You are not frightened by a leper’s touch?’ the dying man teased.

‘I have learnt it takes more than a touch for the contagion to spread,’ Corbett replied. ‘But yes, sir, whoever you may be: at my time and my choosing, I will tell de Molay.’ He placed the Unknown’s hand back on the blanket. ‘Is there anything else?’

The Unknown shook his head. ‘No, my mind’s at peace. Now go!’

Corbett rose and walked to the door.

‘Sir Hugh!’

Corbett turned.

‘I have heard the stories, the terrible fires: whoever it is, he’s the coward, I know it.’

Outside in the passageway, Corbett sat for a while on a bench. What the Unknown had confessed was significant, but how and why? Corbett sighed: he’d not tell de Molay — not anyone, he decided, not even Ranulf — until the other pieces of the puzzle were in place.

Corbett and Ranulf reached Framlingham just before dusk. Their ride was quiet, Corbett refusing to answer Ranulf’s questions. They found Maltote lying on Corbett’s bed, his arms clasping two heavy calf-skin tomes. He woke up with a start, still holding on to the books as he blinked, owl-eyed, up at them.

‘Master, I am sorry,’ he apologised, ‘but I had to wait a while.’ He put the books down on the bed beside him.

‘His Grace the king?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, he’s in a fair old rage; closeted in his chamber with de Warrenne and the rest. He has ordered the sheriffs to seal all ports. The Templars are definitely out of favour.’

‘We know all that,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Did he send any messages?’

‘We are to return soon. He will take matters into his own hands.’

‘And have you discovered anything about the phrases I wrote down for you?’ Corbett asked. He sat down beside Maltote and picked up one of the books and opened it. ‘For God’s sake, Maltote!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have you brought? “Jerome’s Commentary on St Matthew”?’

‘It’s a bit further on,’ Maltote gabbled. ‘I showed those words to the archivist at the minster, and he sent me back with these books.’

Corbett leafed through the pages and a title caught his eye. “‘Liber Ignium”, “The Book of Fires”,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Yes, the same phrase I found in Odo’s manuscripts.’

He picked up the second volume, a collection of philosophical writings. Again Corbett leafed through, stopped and smiled. He’d found what he was looking for: ‘Epistola de Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae.’

‘The writings of Friar Roger Bacon,’ Corbett explained, ‘concerning the secrets of nature. Bacon was a Franciscan, he studied at Oxford. An eccentric recluse, he built an observatory on Folly Bridge and spent most of his time studying the stars.’

‘Did you know him?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Vaguely,’ Corbett replied. ‘He sometimes lectured in the Schools, a short, stocky man with a sunburnt face and a beard shaped like a spade. Poor eyesight but he had a voice like a bell. Some people considered him witless, others a deep thinker.’

‘And how can these books help us?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps they can’t.’

‘You have to take great care of them,’ Maltote interrupted. ‘That archivist made me take an oath and sign an indenture. They are to be returned immediately to the minster library.’

‘Does anyone here know you have them?’

‘No,’ Maltote replied. ‘The Templars paid little attention to me. One of the soldiers told me what had happened: the mysterious fire, the deaths of Lord Baddlesmere and the other one. They’re whispering that they were lovers.’ He paused as a bell began to toll. ‘They are having the Requiem now. Only a few know I am here.’

Corbett got up and walked to the window. The sun was still shining but the clouds were beginning to mass, dark and sullen overhead.

‘We’ll have a storm later,’ he remarked. ‘Be careful,’ he warned over his shoulder. ‘Don’t wander round the manor by yourselves.’

‘Master.’ Ranulf came up beside him. ‘I have been thinking. Do you remember the joust? De Molay remarked how Legrave held his lance in his left hand.’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘And Branquier, he writes with his left hand.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘Well, the assassin in the library. You described him as helmeted and cloaked. .’

Corbett turned and clapped Ranulf on the shoulder.

‘Well done, oh sharpest of clerks!’ he cried. ‘Maltote, bring those books. Ranulf, you have an arbalest. Come on, let’s go back to the library.’

Corbett hurried out of the chamber. Ranulf hung back to inform Maltote in hushed tones what had happened since he had left. He told him about Seagrave and the visit to the Lazar hospital, swearing the young messenger to secrecy.

‘Or,’ Ranulf muttered darkly, ‘Corbett will see you reduced to the lowest scullion in the royal kitchens.’ He stopped speaking abruptly as Corbett came back into the room.

‘I’ve been waiting!’ he snapped. ‘Maltote, bring those books! Ranulf, your crossbow!’

Outside the day was dying. The sky was purple-black and, in the distance, came the first faint rumble of thunder and the faint flash of lightning above the forests to the north of the manor. They made their way past the church where the Templars were still gathered, the faint strains of the Requiem Mass echoing eerily through the stained-glass windows. The library was unlocked but dark. Corbett lit a few candles, making sure their capped hoods were secured, then walked down to where he had been sitting when the assassin struck. He told Maltote and Ranulf to stay by the door, then instructed his manservant to pretend he was attacking him.

‘I am right-handed, Master,’ Ranulf called. ‘As most men are: I hold the arbalest steady with my right and pull back the winch with my left.’

Corbett studied him.

‘If I was left-handed.’ Ranulf continued, ‘then it would be the other way round, like this.’ He moved the arbalest to the other hand, holding it more clumsily as he winched back the lever.

Corbett closed his eyes, trying to recall that fateful afternoon. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

‘Do it again, Ranulf. Walk forward slowly.’

Ranulf obeyed. Maltote, still holding the books, stood by the door.

‘Well, Master?’ Ranulf asked, now only a yard away from him. ‘Can you remember?’

‘He held it in his right hand,’ Corbett declared. ‘Yes, definitely his right.’

‘So, the assassin could have been Symmes or de Molay? Legrave and Branquier are left-handed. Baddlesmere’s a blackened corpse, and the same goes for Scoudas. Moreover, we now know, or think we do,’ Ranulf continued, ‘that neither Baddlesmere nor Scoudas had a hand in this business.’

Corbett just shook his head and extinguished the candles. They walked out of the library, back across the square. The Templars were now leaving the chapel; de Molay, surrounded by his commanders, beckoned Corbett over.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The grand master forced a smile. ‘We wondered where you were. We even thought you might have forgotten us.’

‘King’s business in York,’ Corbett replied. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and thanked God Maltote had had the sense to hide the books under his cloak.

‘We buried our dead,’ de Molay continued flatly, staring up at the darkening sky. ‘And it seems their passing will not go unnoticed by the weather. Sir Hugh, we have certain decisions to make. You will be our guest at dinner tonight?’

‘No funeral obsequies?’ Corbett asked.

‘Not for Baddlesmere!’ Branquier snapped, stepping forward. ‘Sir Hugh, this business is finished.’

‘And Baddlesmere is the guilty party?’ Corbett retorted.

‘The evidence points that way,’ de Molay replied. ‘His lustful relationship with Scoudas; his resentments; the map of York showing where the king was stopping; the Assassins’ warning. What further proof do we need? Royal writ or no, we have been prisoners here far too long. In three days’ time I intend to go into York to seek audience with the king. My companions here also have business. We cannot wait. These matters are resolved: Baddlesmere was the guilty party.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied.

The Templar commanders, openly hostile, now took up a more threatening stance. They moved round him, throwing back the white ceremonial robes of their Order, hands touching the swords and daggers in their belts. Corbett stood his ground.

‘Don’t threaten me, Grand Master.’

‘I am not threatening,’ de Molay retorted. ‘I am sick and tired of the intrigue and the mystery, the fires and the murder of old companions. Those things are a tragedy, but I am a French subject, Grand Master of the Order of Templars. I object to being a prisoner in one of my own manors.’

‘Then go if you wish, Grand Master. But I tell you this, everyone of you will be arrested as a traitor. And don’t quote Baddlesmere’s name to me. He may have been a sodomite, a man who grumbled, but he was totally innocent of any crime. The day the king was attacked in York he was closeted with his lover in a chamber at the Greenmantle tavern. He’d left before I was warned. Nor could Scoudas have had that warning pushed into my hand, or tried to kill me as I went through York.’

De Molay’s gaze faltered. ‘But the map?’ he questioned. ‘The warning? The receipt of monies?’

‘Aye, I’ve reflected on that,’ Corbett replied. He glanced sideways at Symmes, his dagger half-drawn from his belt. ‘Keep your hand away from your dagger,’ he warned. ‘And look after your pet weasel.’

Symmes’s good eye glared at de Molay, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘You were telling us about Baddlesmere,’ the grand master said.

‘Baddlesmere believed that the assassin was a member of his Order,’ Corbett continued. ‘He was making his own inquiries. He drew that map for some purpose which, at this moment in time, I don’t understand. He also transcribed that warning so as to study it more closely. To put it bluntly, Grand Master, the man I am hunting still lives and breathes. Poor Baddlesmere died as a pretext, nothing more.’

They all turned as a serjeant ran up and, pushing his way through, whispered into de Molay’s ear.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett asked.

‘Something or nothing,’ the grand master replied. ‘But one of our squires, Joscelyn, is missing, probably deserted.’ De Molay looked over Corbett’s shoulder at Ranulf. ‘Tell your manservant to lower that arbalest.’ De Molay raised his hands, snapping his fingers. ‘The rest of you follow me. Sir Hugh,’ he smiled apologetically, ‘you are still our guest. Do join us for supper tonight.’

Corbett stood his ground as the Templars swept away in a flurry of cloaks, their boots crunching on the pebbles. Maltote gave a groan and crouched down.

‘Master, these books weigh like a sack of stones.’

Ranulf tucked the crossbow bolt back into his pouch. Corbett turned clumsily. His legs felt heavy as lead. He moved his neck to ease the cramp.

Ranulf asked, ‘Do you think Baddlesmere was killed because he knew too much?’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I still don’t see any pattern to these killings. The grand master is correct: we cannot detain him here for much longer.’

‘And would the king arrest them?’

‘I doubt it. De Molay is a lord in his own right, as well as a subject of Philip of France. The king could huff and puff, detain him at some port and threaten to confiscate Templar goods. But de Molay would eventually leave and appeal to the Pope.’

‘And so the killer will walk free?’

‘On this occasion, Ranulf, he might well do that. But let’s not disappoint our hosts. We have to wash and change.’

They returned to the guesthouse. For a while Corbett sat studying the books Maltote had brought. He read the first chapters of Bacon’s work, though he could find little there of interest. He cradled the book in his hands and remembered the Unknown’s dying gasps in the Lazar hospital. What, he thought, was the significance of his confession: allegations about cowardice amongst the Templars at Acre so many years ago? Was the coward here at Framlingham? Outside the storm broke: the rain splattered against the window, the thunder crashed over the manor house, whilst the lightning illuminated the trees and grounds in great bursts of white light.

‘Is there anything interesting in the books?’ Ranulf asked, coming up beside him.

Corbett scratched his head. ‘Nothing.’ He got to his feet. ‘It will wait.’ He took off his jerkin. ‘I wonder what will happen now?’

Ranulf just stared at him.

‘I wonder if the true assassin thought I’d be happy with naming Baddlesmere as the assassin?’

‘So, we are still in danger?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Possibly. But come. . ’ He paused at the tolling of the bell, almost hidden under the rumble of thunder. ‘Our hosts await us.’

They finished their preparations, putting their cloaks on, and ran through the rain and into the main door of the manor. De Molay and his commanders were waiting in the hall. Corbett had to hide a shiver at the scene. Outside the windows, thunder crashed and lightning flared. In the hall itself, all the torches had been lit, and a row of candles along the table threw long shadows which danced and moved against the wall. Corbett and his companions received a frosty welcome. De Molay indicated with his hand where they should sit: Corbett on his left, Ranulf and Maltote further down the table. The grand master said grace, then servants brought out the dishes from the kitchen. Corbett found it difficult to eat, scrupulously studying his goblet, only sipping from it after the others drank wine poured from the same jug.

‘You don’t trust us, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay murmured, popping a piece of bread into his mouth.

‘I have enjoyed more festive banquets,’ Corbett replied.

The meal continued. Legrave attempted a conversation, but de Molay was lost in his own thoughts, whilst Symmes and Branquier gazed stonily down at the table, determined to ignore Corbett and his companions. The meal was drawing to an end when there was a loud knocking on the door. Corbett turned in his chair as a serjeant ran in.

‘Grand Master!’ he gasped. ‘Grand Master, there are royal soldiers here!’

De Molay half rose from his chair, his surprise cut short as the door crashed open and a rain-sodden captain of the royal guard strode into the hall. Behind him, two of his men pushed a chained, manacled figure, the prisoner’s cloak dripping with water.

‘Grand Master,’ the captain declared, ‘I apologise for the inconvenience caused by our abrupt arrival. We believe this is one of your men.’

Grabbing the prisoner, he thrust him forward, pulling back the cowl. Corbett stared in utter disbelief at the unshaven, rain-soaked face of Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere.