Satan's Fire

Chapter 1

York. Lady’s Day, 1303

‘The Lord knows I need it!’ Edward of England ran a hand through his iron-grey hair then brought his fists down on the refectory table in the priory of St Leonard outside York. The crash echoed round the long whitewashed room. ‘I need money!’ the king yelled.

The commanders of the Temple, the principal officers of Christendom’s monastic fighting order, however, were not frightened by the English king’s play-acting. Indeed, all four looked to the other end of the table where Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of their Order, recently arrived from France, sat in his high-backed chair, hands linked together as if in prayer.

‘Well?’ Edward barked.

De Molay spread his hands; his sunburnt face was impassive, his clear grey eyes betrayed no fear at the English king’s terrible rage.

‘Well?’ Edward snapped. ‘Are you going to answer or bless me?’

‘My lord King, we are not your subjects!’

‘By God’s teeth, some of you are!’ Edward roared back. He straightened in his chair, jabbing his fingers down on the table. ‘On my way here, I passed your manor of Framlingham with its elegant gatehouse, fields, pastures, stewponds and orchards. Those lands are mine. The cattle and sheep which graze there are mine. The sparrows which nest in the trees and the pigeons in your dovecotes are all mine. My father gave you that manor. I can take it back!’

‘All we have,’ de Molay answered quietly, ‘comes from God. They were given to us by noble princes like your father, so we can continue our fight against the Infidel and win back the Holy Places in Outremer.’

Edward of England was tempted to reply that, so far, the Templars had made a poor job of it, but then he glanced across the room: the dark-haired clerk who sat in a window embrasure caught the king’s gaze and shook his head slowly. Edward breathed out noisily through his nose. He stared up at the polished hammer-beam roof.

‘I need money,’ Edward continued. ‘My war in Scotland is nearly finished. If I can only catch that bastard, that will-o’-the-wisp Wallace. .!’

‘You have no war with France,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘You and His august Majesty, Philip IV, are about to sign a treaty of eternal peace.’

Edward caught the sardonic note and hid his own smile.

‘Your son,’ de Molay continued, ‘your heir apparent, the Prince of Wales, is set to marry Philip IV’s daughter Princess Isabella. She will bring a grand dowry.’

John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, seated to the left of the king, belched noisily. His watery blue eyes never left de Molay’s face. Edward pressed his boot on de Warrenne’s toes.

‘The good earl,’ Edward intervened, ‘may not be elegant in his response but, Seigneur de Molay, you taunt us. Isabella is only nine years old. It will be three years before she can marry. I have to fill my coffers in the next few months. I need a new army in Scotland by mid-summer.’

Edward looked despairingly at each of the four Templar commanders. Surely, he thought, they will help? They are English. They know the problems which beset me. Bartholomew Baddlesmere, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg, his grizzled, weather-beaten face showed no compassion. Next to him William Symmes, his face a patchwork of scars: one black patch covered his left eye, his blond hair hung in lank tendrils to frame a narrow, mean face. No hope there, Edward thought: both of them are Templars born and bred. All they care for is their bloody Order. Edward tried to catch the eye of Ralph Legrave who, twenty years ago, had been one of the king’s household knights. Now he wore the white surcoat of the Templars emblazoned with their red-pointed cross. Legrave’s open, boyish face, however, skin smooth as a maiden, showed no concern for his former lord. Across the table from Legrave sat Richard Branquier, tall and stooped, the Templar’s grand chamberlain in England. He just wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hands. His short-sighted gaze refused to meet the king’s; instead he glanced down at the accounts book before him, a doleful look on his face.

Just like some bloody merchant, Edward thought, he regards me as a poor prospect. Edward stared down at his hands clenched in his lap. I’d like to break their heads, he thought. Beside him de Warrenne shuffled his feet, moving his head slowly from side to side. Edward caught the earl’s wrist and gripped it. De Warrenne was not the brightest of his earls and Edward recognised the signs: if this meeting went on too long and the Templars grew more obdurate, de Warrenne wouldn’t think twice about name-calling or even resorting to physical violence. Edward glared across at the man sitting in the windowseat, staring down at the courtyard below. Moody bastard! Edward thought. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, should be over here sitting at his right hand, instead of staring out of the window, mooning over his flaxen-haired wife. The silence in the priory refectory became oppressive. The Templars sat like carved statues.

‘Do you want me to beg?’ the king snapped.

Edward scratched at a stain on his purple surcoat. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Branquier lean over and whisper in de Molay’s ear. The grand master nodded slowly.

‘The King’s Exchequer is in York?’ de Molay asked.

‘Yes, my Treasury’s here but there’s sweet bugger-all in it!’ Edward retorted.

Branquier brought his hand from beneath the ledger book and sent a gold coin ringing down the table. Edward deftly caught it. He stared down at the coin, his heart skipping a beat. He grimaced at de Warrenne.

‘Another one!’ he whispered, passing it to his companion.

The earl looked at it curiously. As large as a shilling, the gold coin seemed freshly minted, with a crude cross stamped on either side. He weighed it carefully in his hand.

‘Well?’ Edward taunted. ‘Is this all you are going to give me?’

‘You say you have no treasure.’ Branquier leaned on the table. He pointed one bony finger at the coin de Warrenne was now tossing from one hand to the other. ‘Yet, Your Grace, those coins are appearing all over York. Freshly cut and neatly minted. Are they not issued by your own Treasury?’

‘No, they are not,’ Edward replied. ‘Since my arrival outside York, scores of such coins have appeared, but they are not from our Mints.’

‘But who would have such bullion?’ Branquier asked. ‘And how can they circulate such precious coinage?’

‘I don’t know,’ Edward retorted. ‘But, if I did, I’d seize the gold and hang the bastard who made it!’ He took a wafer-thin shilling out of his own purse and tossed it down the table. ‘That’s what my own Mints are producing, Sir Richard: so-called silver coins. They have as much silver in them as I have in my. . er. . hand!’ the king added quickly.

‘But who would counterfeit such coins?’ de Molay insisted. ‘Who has the bullion as well as the means to fashion such precious metal?’

‘I don’t know,’ Edward shouted. ‘And, with all due respect, Seigneur, that is my business. The counterfeiting of coins in this realm is treason. I can’t see what this has got to do with the business in hand.’

‘Which is what?’

‘A loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling,’ Edward retorted.

The Templars stirred, shaking their heads.

‘Could you not,’ Baddlesmere declared, staring across at Branquier, ‘ask Philip of France for a loan? To be put against the dowry settlement on his daughter? After all, Philip’s envoy Sir Amaury de Craon is now feeding his face in the priory buttery.’

Edward glanced across at Corbett. The clerk, at the mention of his inveterate enemy and political opponent, was now listening intently to what was being said.

‘What do you think of that, Sir Hugh?’ Edward called out. ‘Shall I send you to France and ask my brother in Christ to empty his Treasury?’

‘You might as well send me to the moon, Sire: Philip is even more bankrupt than yourself.’

‘What is it you really want?’ de Molay intervened. ‘A loan or a gift?’

Edward beamed from ear to ear. He winked at Corbett: the Templars were about to negotiate.

‘If you offer me a gift, de Molay,’ Edward teased back, ‘then I’ll take it.’

‘Let me explain,’ the grand master continued. ‘If you confirm all Templar possessions in England and Gascony. .’

Edward was already nodding vigorously.

‘. . Free passage for our merchants; confirmation of our Templar church in London. Confirmation,’ de Molay continued, ‘of all our possessions, both movable and immovable.’

The king was now beside himself with pleasure. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured.

‘And a quarter of this gold,’ de Molay concluded.

Edward sat up in his chair. ‘What gold?’

‘You mentioned a counterfeiter,’ de Molay continued. ‘Whoever it is must have a mass of gold. We want a quarter of it.’

‘Agreed!’ Edward snapped.

‘And finally,’ de Molay leaned forward, clasping his hands together; ‘twelve years ago, Acre, the last fortress in Outremer; our door to the Holy Places, fell into Infidel hands.’

‘God knows,’ Edward murmured piously. ‘But the city of Acre still weighs heavily on my soul.’ He pressed the toe of his boot on de Warrenne’s foot, just in case the Earl began to snigger.

‘Yes, yes, I am sure it does,’ de Molay observed sarcastically.

‘I fought in the Holy Land,’ Edward retorted. ‘Thirty-three years ago I went there with my beloved wife, Eleanor. You may recall how the Old Man of the Mountain sent an assassin to kill me.’

‘And you were cured by a Templar physician,’ de Molay interrupted.

‘My lord King, you were cured for a purpose. We want you to take the cross.’ He watched the smile fade from Edward’s face. ‘We want you to swear an oath that you will go on Crusade and join the Temple in liberating Acre with one great, holy war against the forces of Islam. Do that and our Treasury in London, through its Italian bankers, will deliver to your Exchequer, by the feast of St Peter and St Paul, fifty thousand pounds sterling.’

‘Agreed!’ The king shouted.

‘We want your oath now.’

‘Impossible!’ Edward replied. ‘I am still fighting the Scots!’

‘When that war is over, will you take the oath?’ William Symmes called, touching the patch over his eye. ‘The war in Scotland will soon be over. We have agreed to your gift. You must agree to our request.’

The Templar’s one eye gleamed fanatically. Edward regretted his impetuosity. You are all in this together, he thought. You had this planned before we ever met. He glanced across at Corbett and saw the I-told-you-so look in his clerk’s eyes.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ de Molay continued. ‘You will enter York to hear Mass at the abbey church of St Mary’s. We would like you to take your oath after receiving the Eucharist. Swear, your hand on the sacrament, that when the war in Scotland is finished, you will support our Crusade.’

‘And I get the money?’

‘Will you swear?’

‘Yes, yes, I intend to enter York tomorrow by Micklegate and go through Trinity to Mass in the abbey. I’ll take the oath but will the money be paid?’

‘As I have promised,’ de Molay replied. He leaned back in his chair. ‘When this meeting was arranged, my lord King, you said there were other matters.’

Sir Hugh Corbett continued to watch the juggler amusing the royal troops in the courtyard below. The man was throwing skittles in the air and deftly catching them, whilst a scraggy-haired bear, with a monkey on its shoulder, danced a shuffling gait to the reedy tune of a piper. He heard de Molay’s remark about ‘other matters’ and sighed. He got to his feet and walked back to sit on the chair to the right of his royal master.

‘For God’s sake, stop dreaming!’ the king hissed. ‘You could have been of more help!’

The Templar commanders, pretending to chatter amongst themselves, glanced slyly up the table.

‘More like a monk,’ Branquier whispered, staring at Corbett’s cropped, black hair with flecks of grey at the temples, the smooth, olive-skinned face and deep set eyes. The king’s dramatic whisper had been heard and the Templars now waited to see what this most enigmatic of clerks would reply. Corbett leaned his elbows on the table; pushing his face only a few inches away from Edward’s.

‘My lord,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t need my help. As usual, you have a skill even the devil would admire, though for what. .?’

The king stared back in mock, hurt innocence.

‘You got your money,’ Corbett continued. ‘The clerks of the Exchequer will draw up the agreement and you will swear whatever you like.’

‘You are not going home,’ Edward hissed spitefully. ‘I want you here, Hugh. Now, tell our guests just what our problems are.’

‘Seigneur de Molay,’ Corbett began. ‘Commanders of the Temple.’ He rose to his feet. ‘What I say to you is a matter of secrecy. The king mentioned his enemy, the Old Man of the Mountain. You know, as men who have lived and fought in Outremer, how the Old Man heads a sect of dangerous assassins.’

His words were greeted by murmurs of agreement.

‘This sect,’ Corbett continued, ‘prides itself that no man is beyond its reach. Seas, mountains, deserts pose no obstacles to them. They follow the same ritual: two daggers, each wrapped in red silk with a piece of seedcake, are always left in some prominent place as a warning to their intended victims.’ He paused, his fingers drumming the table-top. ‘Our lord the king has received such a warning. Ten days ago,’ Corbett explained, ‘two daggers, a seedcake nailed in between, were found thrust into the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.’ Corbett plucked a piece of parchment from his wallet. ‘Each dagger had a red sash tied to it. To one of the daggers was pinned the following notice:

‘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.’

Corbett paused; his words had caused consternation amongst the Templars. Chairs were scraped back; no longer the calm, impassive warriors, the very mention of their inveterate enemies — as well as the sheer impudence of the message — had the Templars clutching daggers and muttering threats.

Grand Master de Molay, however, still sat as if carved out of stone.

‘How could this be done?’ Legrave shouted. ‘The Assassins live in the deserts of Syria: they have no house in Cheapside.’

His words created a ripple of laughter.

‘In London,’ Baddlesmere shouted out, ‘such an assassin would stand out like a hawk amongst pigeons!’

Corbett shook his head. ‘You mentioned Sir Amaury de Craon? True he is here, being attendant upon the king over the marriage negotiations for Philip’s daughter.’ Corbett paused to choose his words carefully. ‘But yesterday de Craon also brought messages from France. A similar message was pinned to the doors of Saint Denis. A short while later, whilst Philip was hunting in the Bois de Boulogne, a mysterious archer tried to kill him.’

The refectory had now fallen silent, all eyes on Corbett.

‘Sir Hugh, you have still not answered our question,’ de Molay said quietly. ‘How could an assassin walk through the cities of Paris and London yet not be seen?’

‘Seigneur, aren’t there links between your Order and the Assassins?’

De Molay silenced the protests of his companions.

‘We have had dealings with them, as your king has with different caliphs and sultans, not to mention the Mongol lords. Say what you are going to.’

‘Monsieur de Craon,’ Corbett continued, ‘believes the assassin is an apostate, a turncoat, a member of your Order!’

Now the Templar commanders jumped to their feet, chairs and stools were knocked over. Baddlesmere drew his dagger. Symmes pointed at Corbett, his face mottled with fury.

‘How dare you?’ He spluttered. ‘How dare you accuse us of treason? We are Christ’s monks. We spend out lives and our blood defending God’s holy creed.’

‘Sit down!’ de Molay shouted. ‘All of you!’ His sunburnt face had now turned an ashy grey and a murderous fury blazed in the grand master’s eyes.

‘You’d best sit down!’ de Warrenne ordered. ‘To draw sword or dagger in the king’s presence is treason.’

‘I have heard rumours about what happened in Paris,’ de Molay declared. ‘And I reject them as scurrilous scandal until the full facts are known. What proof does de Craon have for his assertions?’

‘Quite considerable,’ Edward intervened. ‘On the day the assault was launched on Philip, a soldier, wearing the Templar livery, was seen fleeing from the Bois de Boulogne. Secondly, Templars are in London and in Paris. Thirdly, the Templars know the rites of the Assassins: the dagger, the red silk, the sesame seedcake and the three-fold message. Fourthly,’ Edward straightened in his chair and pointed a finger at de Molay. ‘You know, Monseigneur, how there are many in your Order, perhaps even seated round this table, who believe that the Temple was driven out of the Holy Land due, or so they claim, to a lack of support from the kingdoms in the West. Finally,’ Edward looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, finally, and I will say this. Thirty years ago the Assassins tried to kill me. They failed and I brained the man responsible with a stool. Very few people know about that attack. Most of the lords who were with me at the time are now dead, but the Templars knew.’

‘And are there other matters?’ de Molay asked wearily.

Corbett, ignoring the rancour his words had caused, continued in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘Since the reign of the king’s father, the Templars have owned the manor of Framlingham on the Botham Bar road, outside York. Usually it is left in the care of bailiffs and stewards. However, over the last two weeks, since the arrival of your good selves in York, petitions have come in about strange happenings: fires are seen glowing at night in the woods. Certain rooms and passageways are strictly forbidden. .’

‘This is nonsense!’ Branquier interrupted. ‘We are a religious Order. We have our own rituals. Sir Hugh, the Templars are an enclosed community: we would not let any jack-in-the-puddle know what we are doing, no more than the king or yourself allow the common sort to wander through the Chancery rooms at Westminster or the Treasury chamber of the Tower.’

‘There are other matters,’ Corbett continued. ‘Sir Richard Branquier, you showed us a gold coin, certainly not from the Royal Mints. Now, with all due respect, these gold coins appeared during the last month: the very time you and your companions took up residence at Framlingham Manor.’

The Templar commanders objected vociferously, beating their fists on the table, shouting denials at what Corbett had said. De Molay remained impassive, gently clapping his hands, exercising that iron discipline for which the Temple was so famous.

‘You’d best finish, Sir Hugh,’ he declared resignedly. ‘What else are we held responsible for? Surely not the strange death on Botham Bar road?’

Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Now you mention it, Monseigneur; two good sisters, Cecilia and Marcia, accompanied by their guide Thurston, came before the mayor and aldermen of this city and swore that, as they approached York, a horse, bearing the lower half of a man’s body, charged wildly by them. Further along the trackway, they discovered a corpse being eerily burnt to death by a fire for which they could see no source.’

‘Yes, we heard that,’ Baddlesmere declared. ‘The story is all over York. The man’s body was burnt beyond recognition.’

‘Not exactly,’ Sir Hugh interrupted. ‘Only the top half of the man’s corpse was burning, the bottom part of his torso and legs. . He shrugged. ‘Well, you have heard the story. What is strange is no one knows who he was, why he was attacked, the identity of the killer, or where the strange fire came from.’

‘I object.’ Branquier spoke up, turning to de Molay. ‘Monseigneur, we have been brought here and our generosity has been exploited. We have always served the Crown of England well and have just agreed to the bestowal of a most generous gift. Now the king’s senior clerk, his Keeper of the Secret Seal, stands in our presence and whispers the most scandalous allegations.’

De Molay placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. ‘No, no.’ De Molay shook his head. ‘You are not saying that, are you, Sir Hugh? You do not really believe the Templars are guilty of such horrid acts?’

‘No, Monseigneur, we do not.’ Corbett stared bleakly at Branquier. ‘But remember, sirs; first, we have not gossiped behind your backs but bluntly informed you about what others have whispered to us. Secondly, there is a remarkable coincidence between your arrival here and those strange happenings. Thirdly, and most importantly, the Templars are a kingdom in themselves. You have houses which stretch from the borders of Scotland to the toe of Italy. From Rouen in the West to the borders of the Slavs. Now gold coins, burning corpses. .’ Corbett shrugged. ‘These matters can be dealt with, but treason against our lord the king is another matter. You can use your knowledge and power to acquire information. You listen to the rumours of courts.’

‘In other words,’ de Molay intervened, ‘you would like us to search out why the Assassins have decided now to reawaken old grievances against your king?’

‘Exactly,’ Corbett replied. ‘We do not intend to threaten you.’ He turned and bowed to Edward. ‘The king has already agreed to the confirmation of your rights and privileges. We simply seek your help in this matter. We would be grateful for what you discover.’

‘And it does not affect what we have agreed?’ the king asked.

‘No,’ de Molay replied. ‘It does not.’

The king heaved a sigh. ‘Then in the abbey church tomorrow, I will take the oath.’

After that the meeting broke up. De Molay and his commanders bowed and took their leave. Edward, de Warrenne and Corbett sat in the refectory, listening to the mailed footsteps of the Templars fade in the distance. The king grinned slyly at Corbett.

‘I got what I wanted, did I not?’

‘And so did the Templars, my lord. Your oath will be a public statement of support for them.’

‘It was a pity,’ Edward pushed back his chair, ‘that you had to lay such allegations before them.’

Corbett smiled as he began to clear his writing tray from the desk.

‘My lord, you have been threatened. These are matters which could be laid at the Templars’ door. By raising them, you are warning the Templars that, perhaps, their Order does not enjoy the support it once did.’

‘Do you think there is any truth in the Assassins’ threat?’ De Warrenne asked.

‘The knives were found,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Thirty years ago His Grace was attacked by the same sect. We also have the warnings brought by Monsieur de Craon.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s all too vague.’

‘In other words,’ Edward declared, getting to his feet and stretching till his muscles cracked, ‘not serious enough to hold you here at York, eh, Hugh? So you can scuttle off, back to your manor at Leighton, to the lovely Lady Maeve and Baby Eleanor.’

‘It has been three months, Sire. You did promise I would be released from your service at Candlemas, some seven weeks ago.’

Edward glanced down at him. ‘Affairs of state, Sir Hugh.’ The king held up his long, scar-studded fingers. ‘We have a council in York and the French envoy is here. We have the marriage negotiations for my son. There’s the business of the counterfeit coins and the matter of the Templars.’ He gripped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘I need you here, Hugh.’

‘And my lady wife needs me at home.’ Corbett retorted. ‘You gave your word, Sire. You, Edward of England, whose motto is, “My word is my troth”.’

The king shrugged. ‘Well, sometimes it is. .’ He picked up his cloak from the back of the chair and swung it round his shoulders. ‘. . and sometimes it isn’t.’

‘We’d all like to go home to our wives and families,’ de Warrenne exclaimed, glaring like an angry boar at Corbett. Deep in his heart the earl could never understand why the king tolerated this clerk’s bluntness. Corbett bit his tongue. He felt like reminding the earl that if he was married to Lady de Warrenne, he’d spend as much time as he could as far away as possible from her. He looked at the king.

‘So, when can I leave, Sire?’

Edward pursed his lips. ‘By mid-April. I promise you, by the feast of Alphage, you will be released. But, meanwhile,’ Edward strode to the door, snapping his fingers for de Warrenne to follow, ‘I want that counterfeiter unmasked. I want you to keep an eye on the Templars. There are also over a hundred petitions from our good burgesses at York. You and that green-eyed rapscallion clerk of yours, Ranulf, can deal with them.’ The king paused, one hand on the latch. ‘Oh, and to show there’s no ill-feeling between myself and the grand master; go to the vintner, the master taverner Hubert Seagrave. He owns the largest tavern in York, just off Coppergate. Ask him for a tun of his best Gascony. Tomorrow, after I have sworn the oath, take it out to Framlingham. A gift from me to him.’

Corbett turned in his chair. ‘And will you go on Crusade, Sire?’

Edward looked innocently back. ‘Of course, Hugh. I have given my word. Once all the affairs in England are settled, then you and I, de Warrenne and all the rest, will go on Crusade to Jerusalem.’

And, chuckling softly to himself, the king swept out of the chamber, de Warrenne plodding behind him. Corbett sighed and got to his feet. He stared round the refectory, the huge, black cross hanging on the far wall and the brightly coloured triptych above the fireplace. He went back to the window and stared down into the courtyard. The king’s soldiers had persuaded two blind beggars to have a duel with wooden swords. The two hairy, ragged men lurched and struck at each other, staggering about, their wooden swords beating the air. Now and again the circle of soldiers pushed them back into the ring with roars of laughter.

‘Didn’t you have enough?’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘Didn’t you see enough humiliation and bloodshed on the Scottish march?’

He sat in the window-seat. Since the end of January the king had been in his northern shires, launching raids across the Scottish border, trying to bring to battle or capture the elusive Scottish leader William Wallace. Corbett had become sickened by the hamlets and villages left as a black, smouldering mess, the corpses strewn about in pools of scarlet across the damp, broken heather. The columns of grey smoke, the stench of death and putrefaction, the gibbets full of corpses naked as worms. Cattle and sheep slaughtered, their bloated bodies fouling streams and wells, all consumed by the sea of fire which Edward, in retreat, had lit to burn everything behind him.

Corbett didn’t just want to go back to Maeve and Eleanor because he was missing them; he was also sickened by Edward’s ruthless drive to bring the Scots to heel; and by the intricacies and subtleties of court intrigues; by nobles like de Warrenne who believed they were lords of the soil and every other man and woman had been born to serve them. The two beggar-men were now crying. Corbett was tempted to ignore them but, rising, he thrust open the window.

‘Stop it!’ he yelled.

One of the soldiers was about to make an obscene gesture back, but his companion immediately recognised Corbett and whispered in the soldier’s ear. Corbett called over to a serjeant.

‘Take the beggars to the almoner!’ He shouted. ‘Give them bread and wine and send them on their way!’

The grizzled veteran nodded. ‘The lads are just amusing themselves, sir.’

‘There has been amusement enough!’ Corbett snapped. ‘Make sure your lads pay for their enjoyment. Organise a collection for the beggars!’

Corbett waited for the serjeant to carry out his orders then closed the window. He heard a rap on the door.

‘Come in.’

Ranulf, his manservant, now a fully fledged clerk in the Chancery of the Green Seal, swaggered in, his red hair tied in a knot behind his head. Proud of his clerkly tunic of light blue edged with squirrel fur, Ranulf stuck his thumbs in the broad swordbelt fastened round his waist. His cat-like eyes twinkled in a smile.

‘Are we going home, Master?’

‘No!’ Corbett snapped, ‘we are not.’ And he went back to the table.

Ranulf quickly made a face at the blond-haired, bland-faced Maltote, Corbett’s messenger.

‘Good,’ he whispered.

Corbett whirled round. ‘What holds you at York, Ranulf?’

‘Oh, nothing, Master.’

Corbett studied him carefully. ‘Do you ever tell the truth, Ranulf?’

‘Every time I open my mouth, Master.’

‘And you have no lady-love here? No burgess’s buxom wife?’

‘Of course not, Master.’

Corbett turned back to his writing tray. Ranulf pulled a face behind him and quietly thanked God that Corbett hadn’t questioned him about the burgess’s buxom daughters.

‘So, we are staying?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett wearily replied. ‘We’ll take lodgings in St Mary’s Abbey. Meanwhile, we have work to do. You have the petitions?’

Maltote hurried across, carrying a thick roll of vellum. ‘This is what the clerks have received.’

Corbett gestured at his servants to sit on either side of the table.

‘We’ll work for two more hours,’ he declared.

As Corbett reopened his writing case, Ranulf looked across at Maltote and raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Master Long Face’, as Ranulf had secretly nicknamed Corbett, was not in the best of humours. Nevertheless, both men helped as Corbett began to work through the roll of vellum containing all the petitions the council had received, once the good burgesses of York knew the king was visiting their city. Every town had the right to petition the Crown, and Edward took such matters most seriously. The Chancery clerks would collect individual petitions, write them out again in a fair hand on sheets of parchment which were then sewn together. One of Corbett’s functions, whenever he was at Court, was to deal with such requests. This collection of petitions covered a multitude of affairs: Francesca Ingoldsby complained against Elizabeth Raddle for assaulting and beating her with a broomstick on a pavement in the presence of their neighbours. Matthew Belle complained against Thomas Cooke for assault and striking him in the face with a poker at the Green Mantle tavern. Thomasina Wheel sought a licence to go beyond the seas to St James’s Shrine at Compostella. Mary Verdell alleged she’d lost a cloak and believed Elizabeth Fryer was the culprit. John de Bartonon and Beatrice his wife complained against the vicar of their church who constantly trespassed upon their property. On and on the petitions went. Corbett ordered some of them to be sent to the city council, others to the sheriff, or the mayor; a few he kept for the king’s consideration. One, in particular, he did scrutinise: it was from Hubert Seagrave, ‘king’s vintner in his own city of York’, seeking permission to buy two messuages of land adjoining his tavern.

Corbett smiled across at Ranulf. ‘We can deal with this one ourselves,’ he muttered. ‘I am to collect a tun of wine from Seagrave and take it to the Templars at Framlingham.’

Ranulf, busily writing down his master’s decisions, just mumbled a reply. Corbett returned to the roll, noticing how a growing number of petitions from individual citizens, as well as some from the commonality of York, complained about the strange and mysterious events happening at the Templar manor at Framlingham. One man, John de Huyten, complained of lights burning late in the manor house, with hymns being sung at the dead of night. A batch of further petitions complained about how, since the Templar commanders had arrived at Framlingham, the gardens and estates of the manor were very closely guarded, and ancient rights of way across the Templar estates were now closed. A petitioner, Leofric Goodman, carpenter, declared how he had been ejected from Framlingham. He had been hired to work in the manor: he had gone upstairs to repair a shutter on a window but a Templar soldier had accosted him and driven him away with threatening and violent language.

Corbett put his pen down and went out to stand by the window. Daylight was fading: already lamps and torches had been lit, and even Ranulf was muttering that the light was too poor to read by. Corbett tried to marshal his thoughts. He wished to return to Maeve but there was a deep feeling of unease, a sense of growing menace: the warnings against the king in London, the daggers left pinned in the doors of St Paul’s; that strange, macabre murder on the road outside York. Who had been that unfortunate rider? Who had cut his body in two then mysteriously burnt the top half? Why was Jacques de Molay in England? And what did the Templars have to hide? Outside in the priory grounds, an owl hooted, proclaiming its coming hunt through the night. Corbett recalled an old soldier he had known in his fighting days along the Welsh march.

‘When the owl hoots before dusk,’ the man had warned, ‘the devil is about to walk!’