Satan's Fire

Chapter 14

De Molay took some time to calm the subsequent uproar. Legrave rose and lunged at Corbett but Symmes, sitting between them, pushed back his chair. De Craon sprang to his feet, snapping his fingers at his black-garbed clerk as if they were on the point of departure. Corbett knew his old enemy and recognised the mummery for what it was: de Craon would only leave when it was to his advantage. Corbett was pleased the other Templars did not spring to Legrave’s defence. There were shouts of disapproval, looks of concern, but the grand master’s stem face and Branquier’s troubled gaze reassured Corbett.

They know something, he thought; what I have said has touched secrets they harbour.

At last Legrave, red with fury, was forced back in his chair.

‘You have no proof!’ he spluttered.

‘I will come to that in due course,’ Corbett replied, ‘when I have described the other deaths. Poor Brother Odo. You caught him as he went out to fish, didn’t you? Waiting for him amongst the trees near the entrance to the jetty. I saw no blood there so you must have struck him a blow on the head, probably cracking his skull. Then you lowered him into the boat, fastening him upright in the seat, whilst in the stem and prow you sprinkled the Greek fire. The oars were tied to the old man’s hands and fastened to their ratchet rings; the fishing line was slipped between the dead man’s fingers and The Ghost of the Tower pushed out into the centre of the lake. A common sight here at Framlingham: old Odo dressed in his usual cloak and cowl, bending over a fishing rod, his boat bobbing on the lake. You hid amongst the trees, shot a fire arrow into the boat, and so the terror spreads. If a man like Odo, a hero of his Order, is devoured by the flames of hell, who can be safe? What is wrong at Framlingham? What is wrong with the Templars? And so the pool of poison spreads.’

‘Why Odo?’ de Molay asked. ‘Why a gentle old man?’

‘Because he was a scholar,’ Corbett replied.

‘And Baddlesmere?’

‘Because he was a source of scandal,’ Corbett continued. ‘Legrave knew about Baddlesmere’s little secrets, his passion for young men and the chilled white wine standing in his chamber. A sleeping potion was sprinkled into the jug; the fire powder spread on the floor beneath the rushes as well as along the leather sheet which hung against the door to keep out the draughts. Only Baddlesmere is not present: there’s been a lovers’ quarrel. Scoudas and Joscelyn drink the wine. Night falls whilst Baddlesmere sulks amongst the trees.’ Corbett looked at Legrave’s ashen face. ‘And back you go, possibly carrying a small bowl containing a piece of burning charcoal. You slip that under the door. The rushes are dry, the powder is caught, the fire rages whilst those two drugged young men slip into death.’

‘Grand Master.’ Legrave pushed himself away from the table but, as he did so, Symmes placed his pet weasel on the floor; the creature scampered off into the darkness as its master caught Legrave’s arm.

‘I think you’d best stay, Brother,’ Symmes remarked quietly. ‘What Corbett says makes sense.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett continued. ‘There was a connection between Baddlesmere and Brother Odo’s death. The librarian was becoming curious. He was beginning to remember stories about the mysterious fire from the east. Legrave, however, was watching him. Perhaps Odo talked to him, told him what he was doing: that’s why you came back into the library when I was there. If that door had not opened,’ Corbett snapped, ‘you’d have killed me as well!’

Legrave stared back, glassy-eyed, jaw tense. He kept gulping and glanced quickly at de Craon who refused to meet his gaze.

Corbett sighed: that glance alone confirmed his suspicions.

‘For all his faults,’ he continued, ‘Baddlesmere was also edging towards the truth: he wondered who could have been behind Murston’s death. On the morning the king was attacked, Baddlesmere knew where he was and where the grand master had gone. He also reached the conclusion, as I did, that two of his companions, Symmes and Branquier, had been at the other end of York near Botham Bar well away from Trinity when the attack was carried out.’

‘That’s true,’ Branquier interrupted. ‘Baddlesmere kept questioning all of us: where we had gone, which streets we’d walked down.’

‘Even which taverns we’d drunk in,’ Symmes added drily.

‘But I was with the grand master,’ Legrave shouted. He glanced down the table but de Molay just stared at him.

‘The grand master was with the goldsmiths for at least two hours,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were supposed to stay outside.’

‘And I did.’

‘But if you look at Baddlesmere’s map of York, you can travel from Stonegate to the tavern in Trinity where Murston was in a matter of minutes.’

De Molay took his hands away from his mouth. ‘Sir Hugh speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘We visited two goldsmiths on that street. On one occasion I came out and did not find you there.’

‘I was amongst the stalls,’ Legrave cried.

‘Oh, yes, so you were,’ Corbett declared. ‘Buying what?’

Legrave licked his lips.

‘Gloves,’ Branquier replied, ‘or gauntlets: that’s what you told us.’

‘Where are these?’ Corbett asked. ‘You bought more than one pair. Different stall-owners will attest to that. Why should any man want more than one or two pairs of gauntlets? You are a soldier-monk, Legrave, not some foppish courtier.’

‘Where are the gauntlets?’ de Molay demanded.

‘Oh, you’ll find them gone,’ Corbett interjected. ‘You see the powder Legrave used can be very dangerous. It leaves a stain: the grains become embedded in the cloth. Once used, they must be destroyed. Legrave did this. He burnt them in isolated spots in the manor. My companions found the remains.’

‘You are lying! You are lying!’ Legrave beat the table with his fists.

‘We can search your chamber,’ Corbett offered. ‘We could ask you to produce these gauntlets. Who knows what we might find there. Some traces of the substances you used? It would leave its mark on boots and clothes. Perhaps traces of blood on a knife or sword?’

‘Ralph.’ Branquier leaned forward, looking down the table. ‘You have the opportunity to answer these charges.’

Legrave refused to look up.

‘Baddlesmere, too, studied the Assassins’ warning,’ Corbett continued. ‘You see, the warning nailed to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral read as follows:

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

Corbett closed his eyes.

‘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.

‘That is the warning I read out at the priory when I was present with the king. However, the warning given to me on Ouse Bridge read a little differently:

‘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.’

‘And the same is true of the warning which Master Claverley took from Murston’s gibbet.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It was that which made me wonder. Were there two parties to this macabre game? Legrave in England and de Craon in France? Legrave posted the warning at St Paul’s when the Templars passed through London. De Craon passed me the second rendering of the message as I travelled through York. He also had one of his clerks display one on Murston’s gibbet just to deepen the mystery.’ Corbett smiled bleakly at the Frenchman. ‘You’ll have to tell your master in France that you made a terrible mistake: you copied out a message wrongly.’

The French envoy did not stir but sat, head back, staring up at the ceiling, running his hands through his sparse red beard.

‘But what’s this connection?’ Symmes asked. ‘How did you know Legrave and de Craon were fellow conspirators?’

Corbett turned to him. ‘Because on my arrival here — and you may not recall this — I told you that I had received a similar death threat but I did not tell you where. Later on, in discussion with all of you, Legrave casually remarked on how I was threatened as I crossed Ouse Bridge. How did he know that unless he and de Craon were fellow conspirators?’ Corbett pointed to Symmes. ‘You have written out your account, as the grand master ordered, of this whole sorry tale?’

The Templar nodded.

‘And you, Branquier?’

‘Of course.’

‘And Legrave?’

‘I was too busy,’ he retorted.

‘Whatever,’ Symmes barked. ‘I never knew about the warning being given on Ouse bridge.’ He pointed at Legrave. ‘Yet I do remember you saying it and Branquier kept a record of that meeting.’

‘But this manor has been secured,’ de Molay explained. ‘None of us could enter York, nor has Monsieur de Craon been here.’

Corbett asked. ‘If you wanted to correspond with someone just beyond the walls of this manor, would it be difficult? Baddlesmere found it very easy to slip away. I am sure Monsieur de Craon has envoys and clerks to run his errands — and so each kept the other informed about what was happening.’ Corbett paused and stared at the window. The storm had passed but the rain was still splattering against the windows. ‘In the end,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I must confess, I made a terrible mistake.’ He glanced round the table. ‘I thought this Order was rotten but, as in any community, there are bad and there are good. Grand Master, for my suspicions against you and the rest of your brothers, I apologise.’ Corbett rubbed his face. ‘But I am tired and my heart is elsewhere. “Veritas in ripa”,’ he murmured. ‘Truth stands on the bank.’ He stared at Legrave. ‘That’s what Baddlesmere scrawled on the wall of his cell before he hanged himself. He, too, had guessed the identity of the assassin. Perhaps he had seen something. Perhaps he had reflected on how close Legrave had been to Trinity when the king had been attacked. Perhaps he remembered what an excellent archer Legrave had been. A born warrior, he was not left-handed or right-handed but ambidextrous, who could shift a lance so easily from one hand to another. When I recalled the assassin in the library and asked my servant to play the part, I became confused until I remembered how the assassin kept moving the crossbow from hand to hand.’ Corbett looked at the grand master. ‘You know what the inscription meant?’

‘Yes, yes, I do,’ de Molay replied. “‘Ripa” in Latin means bank, but in French bank is “la greve”.’

Corbett pushed back his chair. ‘Baddlesmere knew that,’ he said. ‘But he could not betray an old friend, a brother of his Order. Moreover, he lacked any evidence so, in leaving that cryptic message, he purged his conscience.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘I have finished. Grand Master,’ he declared, ‘there is no secret coven or conspiracy amongst the Templars but instead, as I have described, there has been an attempt to bring the Order into discredit, to provoke Edward of England into seizing it and thus pave the way for Philip of France to act. Legrave was their tool but the conspiracy had its roots-’ Corbett glanced at de Craon ‘-with those dark souls who advise the French king.’

‘I, too, am finished.’ De Craon sprang to his feet, his chair crashing back to the floor. ‘Grand Master, I refuse to stay here and listen to this nonsense: these insults offered to myself and my master. A formal protest will be lodged both with Edward of England and the Temple in Paris.’

‘You can go when you want,’ de Molay uttered drily. ‘As you say, you are an accredited envoy. I have no power over you.’

De Craon opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it and, with his black-garbed clerk following, strode out of the room. Only when he passed Corbett did his eyes shift; the clerk flinched at the malevolent hatred in the man’s eyes. Corbett waited until the door slammed behind him and listened to de Craon’s fading shouts for his horses and the rest of his servants to join him.

‘He will return to York,’ Corbett declared, ‘then protest most effusively to His Grace and, by this time tomorrow, he will be travelling to the nearest port for a ship back to France. Now I, too, must go.’

He glanced at Legrave who sat, hands clasped together, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Corbett still hoped to spare this man the ultimate degradation.

‘You cannot go,’ de Molay declared.

‘But you gave your word.’

‘When these matters are finished!’ de Molay snapped. ‘And they are not finished yet!’ He turned. ‘Sir Ralph Legrave, Commander of this Order, what answer do you make to these accusations?’

Symmes, sitting next to the accused, grasped him by the arm and shook him. Legrave pulled his arm away as if he could see something in the shadows on the other side of the hall.

‘What answer do you make?’ de Molay demanded harshly.

‘I am a Templar,’ Legrave replied.

‘You are accused of terrible crimes,’ Branquier retorted. ‘Your chamber and possessions will be searched!’

Legrave shook himself from his reverie. ‘There’s no need for that.’ He ran a finger round his lips. ‘Search my room and you’ll find the evidence.’ He chewed the corner of his lip and glanced fleetingly at Corbett. ‘They might not find it but you will. De Craon warned me about you. I should have killed you immediately. We all deserved to die.’ His voice rose. ‘We are the Templars, men devoted to war against the Infidel. Now look at us: bankers, merchants, farmers. Men like Brother Odo living on past glories. Reverchien and his stupid pilgrimage every morning; Baddlesmere with his boys; Symmes and his drinking; Branquier and his accounts. What hope is there for any of us? I came into this Order because of a vision just as noble, just as holy as the search for any Grail.’ He jabbed a finger towards de Molay. ‘Philip of France is right. Our Order is finished. Why should we hug our riches to us? The Order should be dissolved, united with others, given a fresh purpose.’

‘And you?’ Corbett asked, curious at what Philip had offered this Judas.

‘To be a knight banneret at the French court,’ Legrave answered. ‘Yes, to have manors and estates, a release from my vows. The opportunity to make up the time lost; to marry, to beget an heir. At least there’s purpose in that. Sooner or later the storm will come, and the house of the Templars, built upon sand, will shatter and fall; and great will that fall be.’

Corbett went and stood over him. ‘You’re a liar,’ he accused. ‘You were a coward: you betrayed your Order years ago at Acre.’

Legrave’s head snapped back at the hiss of anger from his companions.

‘What, what are you saying?’ he stuttered.

‘I met a knight, a Templar in the Lazar hospital in York. A man kept prisoner for years by the Assassins: he did not give me his name. He called himself the “Unknown” but he talked of an English Templar who ran from his post in Acre and doomed his companions.’

‘I have heard of such rumours,’ Branquier interrupted.

‘You ran, didn’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘And the French found out. They not only offered you wealth but threatened to reveal your cowardice.’

Legrave just nodded and, putting his face in his hands, sobbed quietly.

‘You admit the charges?’ Branquier whispered.

‘He must stand trial,’ Symmes barked.

‘He has stood trial,’ de Molay replied, rising to his feet. ‘And has been found guilty.’

The grand master drew his great sword from its scabbard hanging on the corner of his chair. He walked down the other side of the table then stopped, glaring down at Legrave. He held the sword up just beneath the hilt like a priest holds a cross.

‘I, Jacques de Molay, Grand Master in the Order of the Templars, do find you, Sir Ralph Legrave, knight of that same order, guilty by your hand of the terrible crimes of murder and treason. What have you to say?’

Legrave raised his head.

‘Sentence is passed,’ de Molay intoned. ‘Execution will be carried out at first light tomorrow.’

‘You cannot do that!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Go back to your Chancery!’ de Molay retorted. ‘Look amongst the deeds and muniments, your royal charters and licences. I have the power of the axe, the scaffold and the tumbrel, Brother.’ De Molay looked back at Legrave. ‘I ask you for the final time: do you have anything to say?’

‘Nothing,’ Legrave replied. ‘Except, Grand Master. .’ He stared round the hall, seeing it for the last time. ‘All this will pass,’ Legrave whispered, ‘for our cause is finished. Our days are numbered. Our house will surely fall.’

De Molay went towards the door and came back, leading a group of serjeants. Symmes pulled Legrave to his feet. De Molay removed Legrave’s swordbelt, the sign of a knight.

‘Give him a priest,’ de Molay rasped. ‘Let his sins be shriven.’

The prisoner turned and, without a backward glance, was led out of the hall.

Corbett went towards the grand master, hands extended. ‘Sir, I bid you adieu.’

De Molay grasped his wrist; Corbett grew alarmed as the Templar seized it, holding it with all his strength. Ranulf cursed and stepped forward.

‘You are our guest,’ de Molay declared. ‘It is too late for you to return. You are the king’s commissioners. You must be his witnesses to our justice.’

Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. De Molay was right. Legrave’s execution would have to be witnessed. The king would demand that.

‘You object?’ de Molay asked curiously, still gripping Corbett’s hand.

‘I do not like to see any man die,’ Corbett replied. ‘Least of all at the block.’

De Molay released his hand. ‘It will be swift,’ he murmured. ‘So, sir, tell your servant to withdraw. Branquier and I have something to tell you.’

‘Master,’ Ranulf protested. ‘It is not — ’

‘Sir Hugh is safe,’ de Molay reiterated. ‘No harm will come to him. You have my oath.’

Corbett nodded; Ranulf and Maltote reluctantly went to the door.

‘Wait for him in the guesthouse,’ the grand master called out. ‘He may be some time. You have nothing to fear.’

Once the door closed behind them, de Molay gestured Corbett to sit, he and Branquier on either side of him.

‘You suspected,’ Corbett began.

‘I understood Baddlesmere’s riddle,’ de Molay replied. ‘Though I could not see how it could be true.’

‘And Philip of France’s meddling?’

‘The thought crossed my mind,’ de Molay replied. ‘At the Chapter in Paris, Legrave was often missing. I wondered if he was meeting some of Philip’s coven. The French king has always found us an irritation. We constantly remind him about how his sainted grandfather went to the aid of the Holy Places in Outremer. But something else; about eighteen months ago Philip, now a widower, actually applied to be admitted into our Order.’

‘Why?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘For the glory. Perhaps our treasure. Or to learn our Great Mystery.’

‘What Great Mystery?’ Corbett asked.

De Molay looked across the table at Branquier.

‘He deserves to know,’ he remarked quietly.

Branquier breathed out noisily.

‘I have decided,’ de Molay repeated. He loosened the collar of his shirt, took out a gold reliquary, covered at the front by a piece of thick glass, and placed it on the table. He pulled the candle closer.

‘What is it?’ Corbett asked.

‘A piece of the true cross,’ de Molay explained. ‘Taken before we lost it at the Battle of Hattin. Put your hand over it.’

Corbett obeyed.

‘Now swear,’ the grand master insisted, ‘that what you see tonight, you will not describe, or hint at in any way, to another living soul.’

‘I swear!’ Corbett replied. He knew the Templars were about to reveal the Great Mystery of their Order: the source of all their secret rituals, hidden chambers, and ceremonies held at the dead of night.

‘I swear,’ he repeated, ‘by the Saviour’s Cross!’

De Molay slipped the reliquary back round his neck and, without another word, he and Branquier led Corbett out of the hall. They went up the stairs on to the gallery towards the secret chamber, still closely guarded by a company of soldiers. De Molay unlocked the room but he did not take Corbett aside. Instead, he came out carrying the tapestry Corbett had noticed hanging there on his first visit. The Templar soldiers stood like statues, heads lowered as Corbett was led up another flight of stairs and into a secret chapel. The tapestry was hung on a small hook thrust into the rim of the altar standing on the dais. Sconce torches were lit, as were the candles and the dark chamber flared into light. Three cushions were placed on the floor. Branquier gestured at Corbett to kneel, the Templar beside him. De Molay then played with the wooden rim round the tapestry. He took this and the tapestry away, revealing a pale linen sheet. Corbett could see the cloth was very old, yellowing with age, with a faint outline on it. De Molay then put two candles on either side of the sheet, etching more sharply the image it held. He came and knelt beside Corbett.

‘Look, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay whispered. ‘Look and adore.’

Corbett stared. As he did so, he lost all awareness of his two companions or the chamber. His eyes adjusted to the contrast of light and dark, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt the sweat break out on his body: the image, as if painted in a rusty coloured substance, depicted a head crowned with thorns. The eyes were closed, the hair matted and bloody on either side of a long face, the nose sharply etched in death; the lips full, slightly parted, high cheekbones still bearing marks, cuts and bruises. De Molay and Branquier leaned forward, faces to the ground, chanting the prayer: ‘We adore you O Christ and we praise Thee; because, by your holy Cross, you have redeemed the whole world.’

Corbett could only gaze. The image was so life-like; if he could stretch out and touch it, the head would surely move, the face would live, the eyes would open.

‘Is it. .?’ he whispered, and then recalled the stories and legends about a sacred cloth which once covered the face of the crucified Jesus. Some said it was at Lucca in Italy. Others in Rome, Cologne or Jerusalem. De Molay straightened up. He let Corbett stare for a while before going forward; he extinguished the candles and covered that haunting face behind the tapestry. He then sat down on the dais opposite Corbett.

‘It is what you think,’ he murmured. ‘The sacred Mandylion. The cloth which Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus used to cover Christ’s face in the tomb. Somehow the cloth took on the imprint of his face. For centuries it was hidden but when invading armies sacked Constantinople in 1204, it came into our Order.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘This is what we venerate in the dead of night. This is the source of the garbled stories about Templars worshipping severed heads or indulging in secret rituals. This is our Great Mystery, and it is this which Philip of France would like to seize.’

Corbett leaned back on his heels and nodded. Any king would give a fortune for what he’d seen. If Philip owned it, he would use the cloth to underline the sacredness of his rule and, if circumstances demanded, sell it on the open market for a fabulous sum. All of Christendom would bid to own it.

De Molay came over and helped Corbett to his feet.

‘Only the chosen few in the Order are ever allowed to see what you have seen,’ he explained. ‘Now go, Sir Hugh, but never utter a word about what you have witnessed.’

Corbett rose and left the small, mysterious chapel. He returned to his own chamber in the guesthouse. Maltote was already asleep, but Ranulf was eager to congratulate his master and ply him with questions about what had happened. Corbett just shook his head. He took off his boots and climbed on to the bed, wrapping his cloak around him.

‘Surely, Master,’ Ranulf wailed, ‘you can tell me.’

Corbett half rose, resting on one elbow. ‘I’ll say one thing, Ranulf, and you must not question me again. I am a singular man: in one night I have looked into the heart of evil and the source of light. I have glimpsed both heaven and hell!’

And, with Ranulf’s muttered curses ringing in his ears, Corbett lay back down on the bed, praying daylight would soon come and this business would be finished.

The next morning Corbett, with Ranulf and Maltote in attendance, stood outside the front door of the manor house. The sun had not yet broken through the cloying mist which hung heavy amongst the trees, shifting under a sharp cold breeze which gave the manor gardens a ghostly appearance. De Molay had insisted that every Templar be present, formed in a square around a crude wooden platform on which a block had been set with a large, two-headed axe lying on one side. On the other stood a small basket filled with straw and coated with sawdust. The grand master stood on the platform intoning the ‘De Profundis’, the psalm for the dead. He moved aside as a Templar soldier, dressed in black from head to toe, a red mask covering his face, stepped on to the makeshift scaffold. A single drum began to beat as Legrave, dressed in boots, hose and a white linen shirt, was led out through the main door of the manor. He looked pale but, apart from that, showed no sign of fear. He went on up on to the scaffold and knelt before the block. De Molay approached and whispered into his ear. Legrave smiled slightly but shook his head, refusing to listen. De Molay stepped back. The executioner lashed Legrave’s hands behind his back and thrust his head forward over the block. For a few seconds the prisoner remained motionless, neck extended, eyes closed. He then abruptly lifted his head. The executioner was about to thrust him down again but de Molay shook his head. Legrave looked up at the sky and then round at the host of witnesses to his death.

‘It will be a fine day,’ he declared in a clear voice. ‘The sun will rise, the mist will burn off. Brothers. .’ His voice shook a little. ‘Brothers, remember me.’ He laid his head on the block, the executioner pulled back his shirt a little then moved back. The drum beat began. The great axe went up. There was a shimmer of light as it swooped, cutting the air, piercing Legrave’s neck, veins and sinews. Corbett closed his eyes, murmured a prayer and moved away, back through the crowd.

In the solar of the Archbishop of York’s palace, Edward, King of England and John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, sat in the cushioned windowseat staring down at the scene in the courtyard below. Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote were preparing horses and two sumpter ponies, loaned from the royal stables, for their journey south. Corbett was on his horse, staring out through the yard gate, lost in thought, as if calculating how long it would take to travel from York to his manor at Leighton. The king stifled his annoyance and, opening his hand, stared down at the Secret Seal.

‘Your Grace, I am going,’ Corbett had declared. ‘I wish to be on the road by midday. I kept my word and now you must keep yours.’

The king had fumed, sulked, shouted and pleaded, but Corbett was obdurate.

‘Your king needs you!’ Edward yelled in exasperation.

‘So does my wife and family,’ Corbett retorted and, taking the ring from his finger and the Seal from his purse, he’d walked over and thrust them into the king’s hands.

‘My Lord King,’ the clerk had whispered, ‘even a good dog gets his bone as a reward.’

‘But why now?’ Edward grasped Corbett by the front of his tunic.

‘I. .’ Corbett had glanced away. ‘I am tired,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am tired of the blood, the violence. I resign my office. I wish to sit in my manor and count my sheep. Go to bed with my wife and stop sleeping with a dagger beneath my pillow whilst Ranulf and Maltote guard the door.’

Corbett had closed the king’s fingers around the Seal and ring, then strode out of the royal chamber, shouting at Ranulf and Maltote that they were leaving. De Warrenne followed Edward’s stare.

‘I could stop him,’ the earl offered. ‘Give me ten good archers. I’ll seize him at the city gates and bring him back.’

‘Oh, for the love of God, don’t be stupid!’ Edward groaned. He leaned over and tweaked his earl marshal’s cheek. ‘You are a good man, John. If I told you to mount a destrier and charge the moon you probably would.’ Edward tossed Corbett’s ring and Seal into the rushes, though he made careful note where they fell. ‘I made Corbett what he is,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘What I fashioned once, I can fashion again.’

Even as the words were out of his mouth, Edward knew he was lying. He would miss Corbett: dark, secretive, with his wry sense of humour, his love of law. Corbett, his shadow-master or ‘guardian angel’, as the king had once referred to him.

‘He did well,’ de Warrenne grudgingly conceded. ‘Do you believe Master Hubert Seagrave?’

Edward grinned. ‘No, I don’t. Truth comes in many guises, but a rich vintner coming to confess his sins, his chests full of ancient gold, craving the royal pardon for a momentary lapse. .’ Edward shrugged: he jabbed a finger at the courtyard below. ‘Corbett’s brain may be of steel, but he has a heart of wax. I suspect he had a hand in it. However, my coffers are full, my Exchequer clerks are dancing with delight at the profits, not to mention the low price Seagrave will charge for every tun of wine delivered to the royal household.’

‘And de Craon?’ the earl asked.

‘Huffing and puffing,’ Edward replied. ‘Shocked, outraged. The lying bastard protests too much. He’ll go back to my sweet brother of France and I’ll have letters! Oh, by the moon’s tits, I’ll have letters! Angry protestations, fierce denunciations, then Philip will scuttle back to his spiderweb and plot again. He’s set his heart on the Templars and the Templars he will have; but not while I sit on the throne at Westminster. .’

Edward rose and went across to the table. ‘Legrave is dead,’ he continued. ‘De Molay will return to France to accept Philip’s protestations of innocence. He will even offer the French king a loan.’ Edward sat down and began to leaf through the books Corbett had borrowed from the Archbishop’s library. ‘But this fire. .’

‘You had heard about it before, your Grace?’

‘Oh yes,’ Edward lied, snapping his fingers at de Warrenne to join him. The king leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands. ‘In the summer,’ he mused, ‘I intend to cross the Scottish march. I will teach Wallace and his rebels a lesson they’ll never forget.’ He tapped the pages of the book. ‘I want my Clerks of Stores to read this. What Corbett discovered, so can they. That rogue Claverley, whom I’m going to reward, can help. Let us, my good Earl, take this fire north. I’ll set the very heather ablaze!’

Edward heard a sound from the courtyard below. He pushed back his stool and went to look out of the window. His heart skipped a beat: Corbett was gone.