Satan's Fire

Chapter 3

Edward of England sprawled in the great wooden bath in the private chamber of the archbishop’s palace. The tub’s surroundings had been covered by a purple buckram cloth, filled by a troop of servants carrying buckets of scalding water, then sweetened by rose-hips and other herbs. The king sat with his arms out on either side, allowing his body to float in the sweet-smelling, soapy water. He glared over the rim at Corbett who was sitting next to de Warrenne. The clerk was trying to keep his face straight: not that Edward lost any of his royal dignity in taking a bath, the clerk was more amused by the pretensions of the archbishop, the owner of this tub, whose coat of arms, not to mention a few crosses, were painted on the bath.

‘Do you think it’s amusing?’ Edward snarled. ‘I have just been promised a loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling by the Templars. I have taken their bloody oath to go on Crusade: now you say the bastards are trying to kill me!’

‘It wasn’t a loan,’ Corbett retorted, ‘it was a gift. If you go on Crusade, Your Grace, then with all due respect, that tub will sing the Te Deum.’

Edward rose to his feet, shaking himself like a dog. He stepped out of the bath; de Warrenne placed a woollen cloth round his shoulders.

‘I enjoyed that,’ Edward declared. ‘I wish I didn’t have to wait until mid-summer for the next.’ He padded over to Corbett, shaking the water from his hair. ‘You bathe once a week, don’t you?’

‘An Arab physician, a student of Salerno, said it would do me no harm.’

‘It makes you soft!’ Edward grumbled.

The king went across to a small table, filled three gold-encrusted goblets with wine and brought them back, thrusting one each into de Warrenne’s and Corbett’s hands.

‘So, this Templar loosed two arrows at me then burst into flames?’

‘Apparently, my lord, though there must have been someone else there,’ Corbett replied. ‘The same person followed me through York and delivered that warning message.’

‘But why should the Templars want me dead?’ Edward asked. And does this attack have anything in common with that poor bastard those two nuns found burning on the road outside York?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘You still look fresh, Corbett. I want you to go out to Framlingham.’ He slipped a ring from his finger and dropped it into Corbett’s hand. ‘Show that to de Molay. He’ll recognise it.’

Corbett looked at the amethyst sparkling on the gold ring.

‘The Templars gave it to my father,’ Edward explained. ‘I want it back, till then it’s your authority to act. You are to investigate, Corbett! Use that long nose and sharp brain, ferret out the assassin and, when you do, I’ll kill him!’

‘Is that all, my Lord?’

‘What more do you want?’ Edward sneered. ‘The archbishop’s tub to sing the “Te Deum” for you? Oh,’ he called out as Corbett rose, bowed and made his way to the door, ‘I want you to stay at Framlingham until this business is finished. However, to show my friendship to the grand master, take that tun of wine I promised.’

There was a rap on the door and it was abruptly pushed open, almost knocking Corbett over. Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s envoy to the English council, stalked into the room all afluster. He scarcely seemed aware of de Warrenne, but immediately sank to one knee before the king.

‘Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘I heard about the attack on you.’ He raised his red-bearded, foxy face. ‘On behalf of my own master I give thanks to God for your safe deliverance. I pray that your enemy will soon be brought to destruction.’

‘As he will be. As he will be.’

Edward stretched his hand out for the French envoy to kiss. De Craon did so, then rose to his feet.

‘Our dear and well-beloved clerk, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of our Secret Seal,’ the king continued, ‘will search out the truth.’

‘As I have done on other occasions,’ Corbett added, closing the door and leaning against it.

De Craon turned. ‘Sir Hugh, God save you!’ And, going over, he grasped the English clerk by the arms and kissed him, Judas-like, on his cheek. ‘You look well, Sir Hugh!’

Corbett stared at his inveterate enemy: Philip’s spy-master and the source of all his intrigues. He admired the Frenchman’s ostentatious dress: the damask tunic, edged at the neck and cuffs with gold; the hem over shiny red leather boots, studded with miniature gems.

‘And you, Sir Amaury, have not changed.’

De Craon smiled, though, keeping his back to the king, his eyes betrayed a deep antipathy for this English clerk he’d love to kill.

‘Congratulate me, Sir Hugh. I am married and my wife is already with child.’

‘Then you are twice blessed, Sir Amaury.’

‘But I did not come to share pleasantries.’ De Craon turned. ‘Nor even to rejoice in His Grace’s narrow escape.’

‘Then what?’ Corbett snapped.

‘Warnings from my master,’ de Craon continued. ‘You heard of a similar attack on him whilst hunting in the Bois de Boulogne?’

‘Continue,’ Edward said softly.

‘The culprit was found,’ de Craon explained. ‘A Templar, a high-ranking serjeant from their fortress in Paris. My master’s agents arrested him. He made a full confession after a short sojourn in the dungeon of the Louvre.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘Apparently there are high-ranking Templars who view their expulsion from the Holy Land as the fault of the Western kings, the Holy Roman Emperor, even the Pope himself; more especially, Philip of France and Edward of England.’

Corbett walked across. ‘And so you bring warnings?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I bring warnings. England and France are about to sign a great treaty of peace. It will be cemented by a royal marriage between the two houses. Both our countries have had their differences. However, this is a common danger which threatens us both and could shatter that peace.’

‘And what else did this serjeant confess?’ Edward asked.

De Craon plucked a parchment from his sleeve and thrust it at Corbett. ‘See for yourself!’

Corbett unrolled the parchment and read it; as he did so, he realised that his suspicions about de Craon were, on this occasion, apparently unfounded.

‘What does it say?’ the king asked, sitting down on a bench.

Corbett studied the manuscript, taking it over to a window for better light. ‘It’s a confession,’ Corbett explained. ‘By a serjeant based in the Temple at Paris. He admits to trying to kill Philip in the Bois de Boulogne. Apparently, the serjeant was carrying out the orders of a high ranking officer known only to him as “Sagittarius” or “The Archer”.’

‘And Philip’s torturers wrung this out of him?’ Edward asked.

‘No,’ Corbett looked up, ‘not the royal torturers.’ He saw de Craon’s smile of satisfaction. ‘No less a person than the grand inquisitor.’

‘And you know,’ de Craon intervened, ‘the Holy Inquisition is a law unto itself.’

‘Apparently,’ Corbett continued, studying the manuscript carefully, ‘certain artefacts were found in the Templar’s possession: a pentangle, a picture of an inverted cross, and other tools of the black magician.’ He glanced up. ‘Which is why the Inquisition took the matter over. The serjeant maintained that he and other Templars were part of a warlock’s coven, participating in Satanic practices, the worship of demons and a disembodied head.’

Corbett glanced at the bottom of the paper. He studied the blood-red seal of the Holy Inquisition as well as the personal signature of the master grand inquisitor and his two witnesses.

‘So,’ Edward leaned forward, ‘this is a serious threat.’

De Craon nodded tersely. ‘My master has already written to Pope Boniface the Eighth demanding the order be investigated.’ He rose and sank to one knee before the king. ‘But I shall inform my master about your safe deliverance. And,’ he added slyly, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Corbett, ‘your sacred vow to go on Crusade.’

‘In which,’ Corbett intervened, ‘my master will call on other Western princes to join him.’

De Craon got to his feet and bowed at Corbett. ‘You shall not find Philip of France lacking. He is ready to spill his blood, as his grandfather did, to win back God’s fief.’ And, making further obeisances, de Craon left the room as swiftly as he had arrived.

‘It must have been hard,’ Corbett declared, going over to make sure the door was closed. ‘For de Craon, once in his life, to tell the truth.’

‘Go to Framlingham,’ Edward declared. ‘Take up residence there. Tell their grand master that if any Templar is found outside the grounds of that manor, he will be arrested on suspicion of high treason!’

Ranulf and Maltote complained bitterly at being pulled away from their game of dice with the royal archers. Their wails grew even louder as Corbett told them where they were going.

‘Stop moaning,’ their master ordered. ‘First, it’s only a matter of time before the archers realise you cheat. Secondly, Ranulf, a period of abstinence from chasing the ladies will do your soul the world of good.’

As they later rode through the streets of York, Corbett did not bother to look, though he knew Ranulf was scowling behind him and muttering under his breath about ‘Master Long Face’ and his killjoy actions. Maltote was more resigned. As long as he was with horses and able to know what the great lords of the soil were planting, he was content. So, he let Ranulf mutter on whilst trying to manage a vicious sumpter pony who deeply resented being plucked from a comfortable stable and taken through the noisy, dusty streets of York.

Ranulf, who had got to know the city well, eventually pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘Master, surely we should be going in the other direction? Framlingham lies beyond Botham Bar to the north of the city.’

Corbett paused just before they entered the Shambles, York’s great meat-market.

‘We have business, Ranulf, with Master Hubert Seagrave, King’s vintner and proud owner of the Greenmantle tavern in Coppergate. We are to take the grand master a present.’

Corbett stared down the narrow streets ahead of him. He saw the blood and offal which coated the cobbles in a bloody mess; from the stalls on either side of the street hung the gutted carcases of sheep, lambs and pigs. He pulled his horse’s head round.

‘Let’s find another way.’

As he turned, an arrow bolt whirred by his face, smashing into the plaster wall of the house alongside. Corbett stared open-mouthed: Ranulf seized the reins of his horse, pulling it into a gallop down a narrow alleyway leading into Coppergate. Tradesmen, apprentices, beggars, children, scavenging dogs and cats fled before the pounding hooves. The more quick-witted picked up fistfuls of refuse and threw it at these three riders, for Maltote had quickly followed suit. Once in Coppergate, Corbett reined in.

‘Who fired that?’ he demanded.

Ranulf wiped the sweat from his face. ‘God knows, but I don’t intend to go back and find out.’

Corbett hurriedly dismounted, ordering Ranulf and Maltote to do the same.

‘Keep the horses on the outside!’ he urged.

They walked down Coppergate. A trader ran up, protesting at their feckless ride. Ranulf drew his sword, shouting that they were on the king’s business, so the fellow backed away.

‘What was it, a warning?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I had not turned, that arrow would have found its mark.’

‘Shall we go back?’ Maltote asked. ‘Perhaps — ’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf snarled. He gestured at the houses on either side. ‘Windows, doors, alleyways, nooks and crannies; you could hide an army in York.’

Corbett walked on. He just wished his stomach would stop heaving. The narrowness of his escape made him feel light-headed, and the sweat coating his body was turning cold. He tried to distract himself by looking at the crowds on either side, the different colours, the shouts and cries, but he was afraid. He felt like drawing his sword and dashing into the crowd. He also found he could not stop thinking about Maeve and his baby daughter Eleanor. They will be cleaning the rooms, he thought, now spring was here; Maeve will turn the house inside out. Oh God! he thought. Would she be doing that when the messenger came riding up the manor path? Would she run down to meet him? How would she take the message sent by the king that his trusted and well-beloved clerk, her husband, was dead, killed by some assassin in York? He heard, as if from far off, his name being called.

‘Master? Sir Hugh?’

Corbett stopped and glanced at Ranulf.

‘What is it?’ Corbett rasped. His throat and lips were bone dry.

‘Do you know where we are going?’ Ranulf asked quietly, alarmed by Corbett’s pallid face.

‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett confessed. ‘I am sorry. We should have left York.’

‘Nonsense.’ Ranulf leaned over and gripped his master’s hand, ice-cold to the touch. ‘We are going to the Greenmantle tavern,’ Ranulf said quietly. ‘We’ll collect the tun of wine, Master, and go on to Framlingham. We’ll tell those Templar bastards they cannot leave the place: then you’ll ask your questions. You’ll sit and you’ll brood like you always do. And, before Ascension Day has arrived, you’ll have dispatched another felon to his well-deserved fate. Now, come on,’ Ranulf urged. ‘Cheer up. After all, I am leaving Lucia.’

‘Lucia?’ Corbett asked.

‘Master, she’s the most beautiful girl in York.’ Ranulf walked on. ‘She has hair as black as midnight, skin like white silk and eyes,’ he pointed to the sky between the overhanging houses, ‘bluer than that.’ He looked over his shoulder at Maltote. ‘And she has a sister. Indeed,’ Ranulf chattered on, ‘the two of them remind me of a story I heard about the bishop of Lincoln who had to take refuge in a farmhouse at the dead of night. .’

Soothed by Ranulf’s chatter, Corbett found himself relaxing. They paused at the corner of Hosier Lane where Ranulf hired a young lad who led them down into the courtyard of Master Seagrave’s tavern.

The Greenmantle was a spacious, four-storeyed mansion with wings built on either side, standing in its own grounds off Newgate. The courtyard at the front was bounded by a curtain wall: the tavern was really a small village in itself, with outhouses, smithies, stables, a small tannery, and workshops for coopers and carpenters. Its owner, Hubert Seagrave, came out to greet them. He was dressed like a merchant rather than a landlord, in pure woollen robes. A straw hat was perched on his balding head against the heat of the day. He swaggered across the courtyard, swinging his cane.

‘Just like a bishop in his palace,’ Ranulf whispered.

Seagrave was apparently used to meeting royal officials, but his harsh face and gimlet eyes became more servile when Corbett introduced himself.

‘I am sorry, sir, I did not realise,’ he stammered. ‘Usually servants from the royal household come. .’

‘The king wants a tun of your best wine, Master Seagrave,’ Corbett remarked casually. ‘And I mean your best. It’s his gift to the Templar grand master.’

Seagrave’s face became worried.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you out of wine?’

Seagrave plucked Corbett’s sleeve, pulling him closer as if they were fellow conspirators.

‘No, no,’ the vintner whispered. ‘But the rumours have swept the city, of strange doings at Framlingham as well as the attack on the king this morning.’

Corbett gently detached his arm. ‘Aye, tell a taverner,’ he said. ‘And you have told the world. But you shouldn’t listen to every bit of tittle-tattle.’

Seagrave agreed. ‘I have a cask,’ he declared, ‘from the best year in Gascony. Ten years it has been in my cellar. I hoped to give it to the king. My servants will pull it out but, come, you wish some refreshment?’

‘In a while, Master Seagrave, there is another matter: the two messuages of land you wish to purchase.’

Seagrave became even more servile, rubbing his hands together as if he sensed a profit. He insisted on taking Corbett, a cynical Ranulf and an awe-struck Maltote, on a tour of his domain: the stores and smithies in the courtyard, the deep cellars where Seagrave pointed out the tun of wine he had selected. He then took them up through sweet-smelling rooms where the scent of fresh rushes mingled with the cooking smells from the kitchen, and out into the pleasant garden beyond. This was bounded on all four sides by a high bricked wall covered by creepers and lichen. The garden itself was divided into small patches where, Seagrave explained, the tavern grew its own herbs and vegetables for the kitchen.

Ranulf impatiently asked about the two messuages, so Seagrave led them over to a small postern gate. Corbett paused just before this and stared at the sheet which covered a great yawning hole near the wall.

‘You are building again, Master Seagrave?’

‘Aye. We intend to build arbours, small drinking places screened against the wind, where select customers can sit and eat during the pleasant days of summer.’

Corbett nodded and stared round. The garden was beautiful; a small dovecote stood at the far end with beehives on either side. He closed his eyes, smelt the fragrance of the flowers, and listened to the gentle hum of the hunting bees.

‘A pleasant place, eh, Sir Hugh?’

‘Aye, it makes me homesick.’ Corbett opened his eyes: Ranulf was still looking at him curiously. ‘But come, Master Seagrave, let me see the land you wish to buy.’

The taverner opened the gate and led him through. The area beyond was nothing more than a common where wild grass and brambles grew, a broad triangle of land stretching between the tavern and the back of houses on either side.

‘Who owns this?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, at first I thought the city but, on examination of the deeds, I discovered it was granted to the Order of the Templars. They own many such plots throughout the city.’

‘Ah!’ Corbett sighed. ‘And, of course, such sales can only be made with the permission of the king.’

Seagrave drew his bushy brows together. ‘Of course, Sir Hugh. No land granted to a religious Order can be resold without royal permission.’

They returned to the tavern. Corbett gathered from Ranulf’s hungry look that they should accept Seagrave’s offer of refreshments, so they stayed for a while sharing a dish of lampreys and succulent chicken slices. Seagrave himself served them a white wine specially chilled in his cellars. After they had eaten, the taverner’s ostlers fastened the small tun of wine on to the sumpter pony and they made their farewells. They went up Colney Gate through Lock Lane, up Petergate and under the yawning, cavernous mouth of Botham Bar. Corbett rode ahead. Ranulf and Maltote felt better after eating what they described as the best meal they’d been served since arriving at York.

The afternoon was now drawing on, and Corbett wondered how he would manage his meeting with the Templars.

‘Do you think they’ll know?’ he called out over his shoulder.

‘What, Master?’

‘Do you think the Templars have heard about the attack on the king?’

‘God knows, Master.’

Ranulf pulled a face at Maltote. Despite all the banter on their journey to Framlingham, Ranulf was anxious. Corbett was determined to leave the royal service and go back to Leighton Manor. The recent attack would only strengthen his resolve. But what, Ranulf wondered, would happen to him? Leighton could be beautiful, particularly in summer. However, as he had often told Maltote, one sheep tends to look like another, whilst trees and hedgerows do not contain the same excitement as the crooked alleyways of London. He now began to discuss this with Maltote, as the houses and small cottages gave way to green open fields and they entered the open countryside which Ranulf disliked so much. He watched Corbett tense in the saddle and Ranulf himself grew uneasy as the trackway narrowed. Thick hedgerows rose high on either side, and the trees leaned so close that their branches entwined to form a canopy over their heads. Now and again a wood-pigeon’s liquid cooing would be offset by the raucous cawing of hunting rooks. Ranulf tried to ignore these, listening for any sound, any movement which could presage danger. He relaxed as the hedgerows gave way and the road became broader. Corbett, however, would stop now and again, muttering to himself. He would look down at the trackway and then ride on.

‘For the love of God, Master!’ Ranulf shouted. ‘What’s so exciting about stones and mud?’

Corbett reined in. ‘The severed, burning corpse,’ he remarked, ‘was found near here.’ He dismounted, ignoring Ranulf’s protests. ‘That’s right.’ He pointed to the trackway. ‘There, just before the corner near the small copse of trees: that’s where the good sisters found the remains.’

‘Are you sure?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, their guide said they were approaching a bend in the road. The horse came pounding round and passed them. When they turned the corner, they found the corpse, or part of it, burning like a torch.’ He remounted and grinned at Ranulf. ‘Let’s see if my memory fails me. The good sisters did say that, within half an hour of leaving the spot, they reached Botham Bar. We have travelled the same distance.’

In the end Corbett was proved right. They rode on into the small copse of trees. Corbett stared into the darkness, then down at the pebble-covered soil, and pointed to the great scorch-mark.

‘Why are you so interested in this murder?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett dismounted, crouched down, and ran the scorched earth through his fingers.

‘Here we have a traveller to York. We don’t know who he was, where he was going or what he was doing on this lonely road. But, apparently, he was attacked by a master swordsman.’

‘How do you know that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Only a professional soldier, someone capable of using a great two-handed sword could slice a man through his waist: the horse careered off, leaving the decapitated upper part of the torso to be consumed by a mysterious fire. And where did that come from, eh?’

‘The Templars?’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘They carry two-handed swords.’

Corbett smiled. ‘Now you understand my interest. So, stay where you are.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘Right, Ranulf, you are the victim and I am your assailant.’ He grasped his sword hilt with two hands, ran forward and gently smacked the flat of the blade against Ranulf’s stomach.

‘Is that how it was done, Master?’

Corbett resheathed his sword. ‘Possibly. But why should the victim ride on to the sword? Why didn’t he turn his horse and flee?’

‘It was night,’ Ranulf remarked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why cut a man in half then burn the upper part of his body? And, if you are the victim, some innocent traveller, why not flee?’

‘How do we know he was innocent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Well, no other weapon was found.’ Corbett stared back along the trackway. ‘So there was little resistance.’

‘Was the victim going to or from York?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘According to what I have seen, not one petition has come in asking about the whereabouts of any citizen, nor has anyone been reported missing.’

‘What makes you think,’ Maltote asked, ‘that the assailant was a Templar knight?’

Corbett patted his horse’s neck. ‘That’s what I like, Maltote. Good, searching questions. I think it was a knight,’ he continued. ‘As I’ve said, for a man to cut through another man’s body requires terrible force as well as skill. You must think, Maltote, of this murderer running towards his victim, sword in hand, then he brings it back, like a farmer’s scythe, and cuts straight through the middle just above the crotch. Now only a trained knight, an experienced warrior, could swing a sword with such position and force. I have seen it done in Scotland and Wales. Such skill only comes after years of experience in war.’

‘But why a Templar?’ Maltote insisted.

‘Because of their skill and their proximity to Framlingham. Also, as far as I know, the only other knights capable of such a blow were with the king.’

‘So, the murder on this lonely trackway, and the death of the assassin in the city are linked?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, both men were killed and their bodies burnt. But why, and by whom, is a mystery.’

‘What happens if the victim was a Templar?’ Maltote asked, now preening himself at Corbett’s praise.

‘Possible,’ Corbett replied. ‘And that could explain why no one has come forward to claim the remains, as well as why the whereabouts of the horse and the rest of the poor victim’s body remain a mystery. But,’ he added slowly, ‘somehow I think he wasn’t a Templar.’ He shrugged. ‘But there again I have no proof.’ Corbett stared down at the scorch-mark then into the green darkness of the trees. ‘We will see,’ he murmured and, mounting his horse, they continued on their journey.

For a while they jogged along in silence, Corbett assessing in his mind the sea of troubles mounting against him. Who was the victim on the lonely trackway? Why was he killed, then his body set alight? Why didn’t anyone recognise the corpse? Why had that Templar serjeant tried to kill the king and, in turn, been consumed by a mysterious fire? Was the Templar Order so rotten with intrigue and greed? Was there some dark coven plotting the destruction of princes through murder and black magic? Who was Sagittarius? Corbett closed his eyes, letting his horse find its head. Then there was this business of the coins: who had the means to issue good gold coins? Where had the precious metal come from? How was it distributed? Was that, too, linked to the Templars? Had they discovered the secret of alchemy, of transmuting base metals into gold? Corbett opened his eyes. And what could he do at Framlingham? He carried the king’s ring in his pouch and the royal authority in his wallet, but how would the Templars react? They could scarcely reject him but, there again, there was no guarantee that they would cooperate. Corbett found his mind whirling round and round like a little dog turning a kitchen spit. So engrossed was he in the problem, he was startled to find himself on the trackway leading down to the gates of Framlingham Manor. As soon as he and his companions approached the heavy, iron-studded gates, Corbett knew there was something wrong. The small watch-tower above the gates were manned and a troop of crossbowmen stood on guard, resplendent in their white livery and great red crosses.

‘Stay where you are!’ a voice rang out.

Corbett reined in, lifting his hand in a gesture of peace. A Templar soldier walked forward, his face almost hidden by the chainmail coif and heavy helmet with broad noseguard. Questions were asked. Only when Corbett produced the king’s ring and warrants were the gates opened and he was allowed on his way. Two of the soldiers went before him, up the shady path which wound between the trees. Now and again Corbett could hear the bracken on either side of him crackle, and the barking of a dog nearby. Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.

‘What’s happening?’ he whispered. ‘The gates are fortified. Templar soldiers with war dogs are in the trees.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ Corbett called out.

One of the soldiers stopped and came back. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ the Templar asked. ‘Sir Guido, the keeper of the manor, was killed early this morning. He died at the centre of the maze, consumed by fire.’

‘Fire?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye. Whether from heaven or hell we don’t know. The grand master and all the commanders are now in council.’

He led Corbett on, they turned a corner and entered the great, grassy area which stretched in front of Framlingham Manor. This was a large, four-storeyed building, as huge as any merchant’s, greatly extended, with two wings coming out on either side. It was shaped in the form of a horseshoe: a rich, palatial residence. The bottom storey was built of stone, the upper storeys consisted of black beams, the plaster between painted a dull gold. The roof was tiled with red slate. The windows were filled with glass gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Nevertheless, the silence and sense of oppression made itself felt. The serjeant took them round the manor into the stableyard: the grooms and ostlers looked frightened. They scurried forward as if desperate for something to do to break the tension. Corbett told Ranulf and Maltote to guard the sumpter pony and followed the serjeant in through a back door along wainscoted passages.

The knight whom Sheikh Al-Jebal had called the ‘Unknown’ slipped from the saddle of his horse outside the Lazar hospital near the church of St Peter-Le-Willows just inside Walmer Gate Bar. For a while the Unknown rested against his horse, one hand on the high saddle-horn, the other on the hilt of his great two-handed sword which hung from it.

‘I am dying,’ the Unknown whispered.

The terrible sickness raging within him had manifested itself in more great open sores. He had tried to hide these behind the cowled cloak which shrouded him from head to toe, the gauntlets on his hand and the black band of cloth which covered the lower half of his face. The old war horse which he’d bought at Southampton snickered and whinnied, its head drooping in exhaustion.

‘We are both finished,’ the Unknown murmured. ‘God be my witness, I can go no further.’

He had spent days journeying around York, then out through Botham bar towards Framlingham Manor. He had seen the Templar commanders and their seigneur, Jacques de Molay, as he’d sat hidden in the shadow of the trees. The sight of their surcoats, flapping banners and pennants had tugged at his heart and brought tears to his fading eyes. Since his release, the Unknown had found his thirst for vengeance had faded. Before he died, he wanted to make peace with his brothers and with God. Death was very close. For years, in the dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain, the Unknown had evaded death, but now, out in God’s sunlight, back in a country where church bells tolled across lush green meadows, what was the use of vengeance? God had already intervened. .

‘Can I help?’

The Unknown turned, his hand dropping to the dagger thrust in his belt. The kindly face of the aged friar didn’t flinch as the Unknown dragged down the black, silk mask over his face.

‘You are a leper,’ the brother whispered. ‘You want help?’

The Unknown nodded and stared into those gentle, rheumy eyes. He opened his scarred mouth to speak, his horse jerked and the Unknown grew dizzy; the friar was hazy, the walls of the lazar hospital behind him seemed to recede. He closed his eyes, sighed, then crumpled into a heap at the friar’s feet.