Satan's Fire

Chapter 7

Corbett left the garret but turned half-way down the stairs.

‘Oh, by the way, Grand Master, did anyone leave Framlingham Manor last night?’

‘Apart from the servants who fled, no. The rest of our community are under strict orders: they are not to leave Framlingham.’

Corbett thanked him and returned to his quarters. Ranulf and Maltote were deep in conversation with Claverley over the intricacies of spoilt dice and how easy it was to cheat at shuffle penny.

‘We are leaving,’ Corbett announced briskly. ‘Maltote, get our horses ready. Ranulf, collect my cloak and swordbelt, I’ll meet you down at the stables.’

‘And you, Master?’

‘I want to see Brother Odo. Oh, by the way, Claverley,’ Corbett called out as he left. ‘Whatever you do, don’t play dice with Ranulf or buy any of his potions!’

A Templar serjeant showed him to the library: a long, high-vaulted room at the back of the manor house overlooking the garden. It was pleasant and cool. Books filled the shelves along all the walls; some were chained and padlocked, others stood open on lecterns. At the far end were the study carrels each built into a small portico containing a table, chair, a tray of writing implements and a large, metal-capped beeswax candle. At first Corbett thought the library was deserted. He walked slowly down, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous room.

‘Who’s there?’

Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Brother Odo emerged from the shadows where he had been poring over a manuscript: his one good hand was covered in ink.

‘Sir Hugh, I did not know you were a bibliophile.’

‘I wish I was, Brother.’

Corbett shook his hand and the librarian led him into one of the study carrels.

‘All these books and manuscripts belong to the Templars,’ Odo explained. ‘Well, at least to its province north of the Trent.’ He fingered his ink-stained lips and looked round wistfully. ‘We lost so many libraries in the East. We even had an original of Jerome’s commentary. . but you haven’t come to ask me about that, have you?’

He jabbed a finger at a stool next to his chair. Corbett sat down self-consciously and stared at the manuscripts littered across the desk.

‘I am writing a chronicle,’ Odo announced proudly. ‘A history of the siege of Acre and its fall.’

He pulled across a piece of vellum and Corbett stared at the drawing: Templar knights, distinctive by the crosses on their cloaks, were defending a tower; they were throwing spears and boulders down at evil-looking Turks. The drawing was not accurate, it lacked proportion — yet it possessed a vigour and vibrancy all of its own. Underneath, written in a cramped hand, was a Latin commentary.

‘I have done seventy-three pieces,’ Odo announced. ‘But I hope that the chronicle will include two hundred; a lasting testament to the valour of our Order.’

A piece of parchment fell off the table. Corbett picked it up. There was writing on this but it was strange and twisted. Corbett, fluent in Latin and the Norman French of the Royal Chancery, thought it might be Greek.

‘What language is that, Corbett?’ Odo teased.

‘Greek?’

Odo grinned and seized the parchment.

‘No. They are runes, Anglo-Saxon runes. My mother’s name was Tharlestone. She claimed descent from Leofric, Harold’s brother, who died at the Battle of Hastings. She owned lands in Norfolk. Have you ever been there, Corbett?’

The clerk recalled his recent, and most dangerous, stay outside Mortlake Manor the previous November.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘But perhaps it was not the happiest of visits.’

‘Well, I was raised there. My mother died young.’ The old librarian’s eyes misted over. ‘Gentle as a fawn she was. No other woman like her: that’s probably the reason I entered the Order. Ah well,’ he continued briskly, ‘my grandfather raised me. He would take me fishing on the marshes. I still do that now, you know: I have a little boat down near the lake. I call it The Ghost of the Tower. Anyway, whilst Grandfather and I were waiting for the fish to bite, he’d scratch out the runes on a piece of bark and make me learn them. See that letter there like our “P”? That’s “W”. The arrow is a “T” and the sign like a gate is “V”. I make my own notes.’ He plucked the parchment from Corbett’s hand. ‘So no one really knows what I am doing.’ He smiled. ‘Ah well, how can I help you?’

‘On the day Reverchien died,’ Corbett asked, ‘did you notice anything amiss, anything wrong?’

‘No. Both Sir Guido and I were pleased when the grand master and his commanders left. Framlingham went back to its usual serene ways. We went round checking stores, I spent most of the time here in the library. We met in church to sing the Divine Office. He had a good voice, Reverchien, slightly higher than mine. We thundered out the verses then supped in the refectory. The next morning, just after Matins, Sir Guido went on what he called his little Crusade.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’

‘And then what?’

‘Well, when I smelt the smoke and heard the screams, some of the servants and I went into the maze. It looks difficult to thread so you must keep moving in a certain direction.’ The old man’s face became sad. ‘But, by the time we reached the centre. .’ His voice faltered. ‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I have seen men burning alive at Acre but, in the centre of an English maze on a warm spring morning, to see a comrade’s body smouldering, blackened ash from head to toe. The flames must have been intense. The ground and the great iron candelabra were all burnt black. We sheeted the corpse and took it to the death-house. I went into the buttery. Perhaps I drank more than I should have. I felt sleepy so I went back to my cell. I was snoring my head off when Branquier woke me.’

‘What do you think caused the fire?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know. The whispers say the fire of hell.’ The old librarian leaned closer. ‘But Sir Guido was a good man, kind and generous: a little addled in his wits but he loved God, Holy Mother Church and his Order. Why should such a good man be burnt, whilst the wicked swagger around boasting of their evil?’ The librarian blinked; he ran his good hand across the parchment, stroking it gently like a mother would a child.

‘I don’t believe it was the fire of hell,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Sir Guido was a good man. He was murdered. But how, and why, God only knows.’

‘The flames had died but it smelt so bad.’ Odo murmured. ‘I could smell the sulphur and brimstone in the air. Just like. .’

‘Like what?’ Corbett asked.

The old librarian scratched his unshaven cheek. ‘I can’t remember,’ he whispered. ‘God forgive me, Corbett, but I can’t.’ He looked at the clerk. ‘Is there anything else?’

Corbett shook his head and got to his feet. He gently pressed Odo’s thin shoulder.

‘They’ll talk of you in years to come,’ Corbett declared kindly. ‘They’ll talk of Odo Tharlestone, soldier and scholar. Your chronicle will be copied in monasteries, libraries and abbeys throughout the land. The halls of Oxford and Cambridge will bid for it.’

Odo looked up, his eyes sparkling. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Oh, yes, the king has a great library at Westminster. He’ll want a copy as well but, Brother,’ Corbett added, ‘reflect on what you saw the morning Sir Guido died.’

And with the librarian’s assurance that he would do so ringing in his ears, Corbett went to the stables to join his companions.

A few minutes later, accompanied by Claverley and Ranulf, who were arguing noisily about which was the fairest, York or London, Corbett left Framlingham. They rode down the lonely pathway, past the guards and through the gate, turning left on to the Botham Bar road. The day was drawing on but the sun was still strong. The hedgerows on either side were alive with the rustling of birds and the buzzing of bees searching for honey amongst the wild flowers.

‘I have beehives,’ Claverley announced. ‘At least a dozen steppes in my garden. The best honey in York, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett smiled absentmindedly. His mind was back in that library. Odo had remembered something. Corbett just hoped the old man’s long memory would produce a key to unlock all these mysteries. They rode on under the shadow of the towering trees. At last Claverley reined in.

‘We have to leave the road here.’ The under-sheriff pointed to a small, beaten trackway on the edge of the forest. ‘The remains were found deeper in.’

‘What happened to them?’ Ranulf asked.

‘They had been unearthed by some animal. They were rotting, rather mangled, then tossed about by the hunting dogs. They were put into a leather sack; a verderer took them into the city for burial in a pauper’s grave. Look, I’ll show you.’

They left the trackway and entered the forest. The sunlight began to fade as the path wound along between holm, oak, elm, larch, black poplar, sycamore, beech and copper beech. The sky became shut off, the sunlight blocked out by the thick canopy of leaves and entwining branches. Their horses became uneasy at the rustling amongst the bracken and the sudden, startling song of some bird. Now and again there would be a break in the trees, and they’d cross a clearing where the grass grew long and lush and wild flowers filled the air with their heady scent. Then back into the green darkness, as if entering some strange cathedral where the walls were wooded, the roof green and the distant bird-song the chanting of some choir. Ranulf, frightened of nothing, stopped his banter with Claverley and peered nervously about. Corbett rode ahead, guiding his horse carefully, ears straining for the snap of the twig or a footfall which could mean danger. Now and again his horse would toss its head, snorting angrily. Corbett tightened his reins, stroking his horse’s neck, talking to it gently.

‘Of course, I’ve already been here,’ Claverley declared in a voice which seemed to boom amongst the trees. ‘It’s not far now.’

He pushed his horse forward and they entered a small glade. Claverley pointed to an outcrop of rock in the centre where the soil had been dug up and piled on either side of a hole. Corbett nudged his horse forward and carefully examined where the grisly remains of that mysterious victim had been buried. He stared at the rough cross carved on the rock.

‘Is there any settlement round here? A village or hamlet?’

Claverley shrugged and scratched his cropped hair. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Well, there’s nothing behind us.’ Corbett remarked. ‘And there’s no trace of any settlement to the left or right, so let’s keep to the path we are following.’

They rode deeper into the forest. Corbett closed his eyes and prayed that the assassin from Framlingham had not followed them; he reined in, his horse whinnying at the acrid tang of the woodsmoke.

‘There’s something ahead,’ he called back.

‘Possibly a verderer,’ Claverley replied. ‘Or a woodcutter.’

At last the trees thinned and they rode into a clearing. At the far end, just in front of the line of trees, was a large, thatched cottage, its roof heavy and sloping. On either side of it were wooden sheds or byres and stacks of logs, around which scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the earth. A gaggle of geese, alarmed at their approach, turned from their feeding and fled screeching towards the house. The door opened and a mongrel dog came yapping at them, followed by two children dressed in ragged tunics, their hands and faces covered in soot, their thick hair greasy and matted. They showed no fear but stared up at these unexpected visitors, chattering in a dialect Corbett couldn’t understand.

‘What do you want?’

A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark-brown tunic, a piece of rope around his protuberant belly, leggings of the same colour pushed into black, battered boots. Over his shoulder a woman peered nervously at Corbett and his companions. The clerk raised his hand in peace. The man put down the axe he carried, called off the dog and walked towards them.

‘Are you lost?’ he asked.

‘No. We are from the city.’ Claverley edged his horse forward. ‘We are investigating the remains found in the clearing.’

The man glanced away. ‘Aye, I heard about the excitement,’ he muttered. He shuffled his feet nervously and turned to shout something at the children.

‘Can we come in?’ Corbett asked. He pointed across at the well. ‘Perhaps a stoup of water and something to eat? We are hungry.’

‘Master,’ Maltote spoke up, ‘we have just — ’ He shut up as Ranulf glared at him.

Corbett dismounted and held his hand out. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s Clerk — and you?’

The woodcutter lifted his windburnt face, though he refused to meet Corbett’s gaze. ‘Osbert,’ he muttered. ‘Verderer and woodcutter.’ He glanced back at his wife. ‘You’d best come in!’ he declared grudgingly.

Corbett told Maltote to guard the horses and they followed the woodcutter and his family into their long, shed-like house. A fire burnt on the stone hearth in the centre, the smoke escaping through a hole in the room. At the far end was a loft reached by a ladder where the family slept: there were a few sticks of furniture and shelves with some cooking pots on them.

‘You’d best sit where you can.’ The woodcutter pointed to the beaten earth floor.

Corbett, Ranulf and Claverley sat near the hearth. Corbett chatted to Osbert’s wife, putting her at her ease whilst her husband filled pewter cups with water. The woman smiled, pushing back her hair, and leaned over to stir the pot which hung above the hearth.

‘It smells delicious,’ Corbett remarked, though the odour was less than savoury.

‘What do you want?’ Osbert asked. He served the water and sat down opposite them. ‘You are a king’s clerk. You are used to eating better than this. Your servants carry water-bottles so you don’t need a drink.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘And you, Master Osbert, have very sharp eyes. As do I. You buried those remains, didn’t you?’

The woodcutter’s wife scuttled away to look after the children who sat near the wall, thumbs in mouths, watching their visitors.

‘You found the remains,’ Corbett continued. ‘And, because you are an upright man, you buried them. You dug a hole beneath the boulder, hoping that would keep wild animals out and, with your axe, scratched a faint cross on it.’

‘Tell him,’ Osbert’s wife pointed at Corbett. ‘He knows!’ she shouted. ‘Or we’ll all hang!’

‘Nonsense,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Just tell me, Osbert.’

‘It was just before dawn,’ the woodcutter replied. ‘I was out hunting a fox, one of the chickens had been taken. I heard a whinny and found the horse just off the road: its leg was damaged. The horse limped towards me. I thought I’d died and gone to hell: the mangled legs of its rider were still in the stirrups. Blood and gore drenched the saddle. The horse was blown: I took the remains and buried them beneath the rock. I said a prayer, then I brought the horse home. I threw the saddle down a pit. I couldn’t sell it, it was too soaked in blood.’

‘And the horse itself?’

Osbert swallowed hard and pointed to the pot. ‘We are eating it.’

Ranulf coughed and spluttered.

‘We are hungry,’ Osbert continued. ‘Hungry for meat. All the deer have gone. They’ve got more sense than to stay near the city.’ He spread his dirty hands. ‘What could I do, Master? If I took the horse to market, I’d hang for a thief. If I’d kept it, the same might happen. The animal was sick, its leg was damaged and I know little physic. I killed it: gutted its belly, salted and pickled the rest and hid it away in a little hut deep in the forest, hung over some charcoal to smoke it and stop the putrefaction.’

‘And what else did you find?’ Corbett asked. He took two silver coins out of his purse. ‘Tell me the truth and these will be yours; there’ll be no recriminations over what you did.’

Osbert wetted his lips and pondered but his wife acted for him. She went to the far end of the hut, climbed the ladder to the bed-loft and returned carrying a set of battered saddle panniers over her arm. She slung these at Corbett’s feet.

‘There was a little money,’ Osbert grumbled. ‘Now it’s all gone. I bought the geese with it. What’s left is there.’

Corbett emptied the contents out: a jerkin, two pairs of hose neatly darned, a belt, a collection of small metal pilgrim badges and statues of saints, cheap geegaws to be bought outside any church. Finally a few scraps of parchment. Corbett studied the faded ink on these.

‘Wulfstan of Beverley,’ he announced. ‘A seller of religious objects and petty relics.’ He glanced at Claverley and Ranulf. ‘Why on earth would someone kill poor Wulfstan? Cut his body in two, send his horse galloping madly into the darkness and burn the top half?’ Corbett threw the saddlebag at Claverley. He got to his feet and pressed the two coins into Osbert’s hands. ‘Next time you go to Mass,’ Corbett added, ‘pray for the soul of poor Wulfstan.’

‘I did what I could,’ Osbert muttered. ‘God assoil him. Is there anything else, Master?’

Corbett asked, ‘In the forest, have you ever glimpsed a rider, masked and cowled?’

‘Once,’ Osbert replied. ‘Only once, Master, just after I found the horse. I was out cutting firewood on the edge of Botham Bar road. I heard a sound so I hid in the bracken. A rider passed, dressed like a monk. His horse was a nag and the cloak was tattered but I glimpsed a great two-handed sword hanging from the saddlehorn. I thought he was an outlaw so I stayed hidden until he passed.’ The woodcutter pulled a face. ‘That’s all I’ve seen.’

Corbett thanked him. They left the woodcutter’s, collected their horses and rode back on to the Botham Bar road. Ranulf and Claverley immediately became involved in a fierce argument over the eating of horseflesh. Maltote, pale-faced, could only feebly protest.

‘To eat a horse!’ he kept exclaiming. ‘To eat a horse!’

‘You would,’ Claverley called back. ‘My father told me how, in the great famine outside Carlisle, they caught rats and sold them as a delicacy.’

Corbett urged his horse on, only stopping when he came to the place where Wulfstan’s burnt remains had been found.

‘What are you looking for?’ Claverley called out as Corbett dismounted and walked into the line of trees.

‘I’ll tell you when I find it,’ Corbett replied.

He walked further in and crouched down to examine the great scorch-marks on the earth. He then drew his sword and began cutting the brambles and long grass. As he did so, Corbett glimpsed more, though much smaller, scorch-marks. And on the trees which fringed the undergrowth, Corbett noticed scratch-marks, as if some great cat had clawed the back, gouging and scarring it.

‘What on earth caused this?’ Claverley exclaimed, coming up behind him.

Corbett looked back towards the road where Maltote sat on his horse staring soulfully at them.

‘This is what I think happened,’ Corbett explained. ‘Someone came here to practise with the fire which burnt Wulfstan and the others.’

‘It looks as if the devil himself has swept up from hell,’ Claverley intervened. ‘His tail scorched the earth and his claws gouged the trees.’

‘Yes, you could sell such a story in York marketplace,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am sure the Lord Satan has better things to do than journey up from hell to burn grass and brambles on the Botham Bar road. No. Somebody was practising with that fire, whilst the marks on the trees are made by arrows.’

‘So, the killer was firing arrows?’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett explained. ‘He created small fires, for God knows what reason, and practised shooting arrows using the trees as targets. Now I think he was so busy, so confident under the cover of dusk, that he failed to notice Wulfstan. Our poor relic-seller came trotting along the Botham Bar road, journeying to some village or market town to sell his geegaws. Now anyone else would have gone hastily by or even turned back. Wulfstan, however, was a pedlar, a man who loved to travel and collect stories as he did. He stopped where Maltote now is, probably calling out through the dusk. The assassin turns. He has been recognised. His horse stands nearby. He hurries up, draws his great two-handed sword hanging from the saddlehorn and rushes towards Wulfstan. The relic-seller would sit startled, frightened, immobile as a rabbit. He’d raise his hands to his face as the assassin swings that terrible sword, slicing his body in two with one savage cut.’

‘And the horse bolts?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the violent stench of blood sends the poor nag stampeding down the road. Our killer then sets the top half of the corpse alight. In doing so, he not only prevents any identification but finds out, for his own devilish curiosity, the effect of this strange fire on human flesh.’

‘And, of course,’ Claverley intervened, ‘Wulfstan being a pedlar, a stranger to these parts, no one came forward to declare he is missing.’

‘Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the scorch-marks on the ground. ‘How can a man control fire? We have a tinder which can be clumsy to strike, especially in the open air. Or you can kindle a fire and take a burning stick or piece of charcoal, but this killer seems to be able to summon it out of the air.’ Ranulf stared into the green darkness of the trees. ‘Isn’t that magic? The use of the black arts?’

‘No,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I could call up Satan from hell but, whether he comes or not is another matter. This killer wants us to believe he has magical powers, the key to all sorcery.’

‘And this mysterious rider,’ Claverley asked. ‘He might be the killer; he did carry a great two-handed sword.’

Corbett kicked at the scorched path. ‘Perhaps. But, Master Under-sheriff, we must go: other matters, just as pressing, await us.’

They remounted their horses and rode down Botham Bar road. As they approached York, the road became busier: traders and pedlars making their way out of the city, packs and fardels on their backs: a dusty-gowned Franciscan of the Order of the Sack leading an even more tired mule. A beggar pushed a wheelbarrow in which an old man sprawled, his legs shorn from the knees down: both looked happy enough after a day’s begging and, drunk as sots, raucously bawled out filthy songs as the barrow staggered along the road. Peasants huddled in their carts, their produce sold, and a woman and two children walked wearily, leading a cow. A royal messenger galloped by, his white wand of office tucked into his belt; the soldier riding behind him wore the resplendent livery of the king’s chamber. Everyone drew aside to let them pass and, shortly afterwards, had to do the same again as a Templar soldier urged his foam-flecked horse along the road.

‘I thought all Templars were confined to Framlingham?’ Claverley asked.

‘Probably a messenger,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wonder what’s so urgent?’

They pressed on. Botham Bar came into sight, the great iron portcullis raised like jagged teeth over the people passing through. On top of the gatehouse were poles bearing the severed heads of malefactors and, on either side of the gateway, makeshift gallows had been set up. Each bore its own grisly corpse twirling in the late afternoon breeze, placards slung round the necks proclaiming their crimes.

‘The king’s justices have been busy,’ Claverley declared. ‘There’s been sessions of gaol delivery all of yesterday.’

‘Where are you taking us?’ Corbett asked.

‘To see the Limner.’

‘The what?’

‘The Greyhound: my nickname for the best counterfeiter in York.’

They continued under Botham Bar, along Petersgate, past the foul-smelling public latrines built next to St Michael the Belfry Church, and into the busiest part of the city. The market stalls were still open. The narrow streets thronged. The taverns were doing a roaring trade. One man lay in the middle of the street in a drunken stupor whilst a friend lying alongside tried to beat off marauding hogs, much to the delight of passers-by. The stocks were also full. Some malefactors were fastened by the neck, others by the arms and legs. One apprentice had his thumbs only clasped into a finger press for helping himself to his master’s food. Two whores stood in the pillory, heads shaven, shouting abuse at the crowd whilst a drunken bagpipe player tried to drown their cries as a bailiff birched their bare bottoms. On the corner of a street Corbett and his party had to stay for a while: a group of officials from the alderman’s court had raided a tavern to search out old wine, long past its freshness. They’d seized three barrels and were trying to stave these in whilst, from the windows above, the landlord, his wife and family pelted the bailiffs and everyone else with the smelly contents of their chamberpots.

At last the bailiffs restored order and Claverley led them on along Patrick Pool and into the Shambles. The smells and dust caught at their noses and mouths: the butchers’ and fletchers’ narrow street, which ran between the overhanging houses, was covered in offal and black blood. Flies massed there, dogs and cats fought over scraps. The crowd, eager to buy fresh meat, thronged around the stalls from which gutted pigs, decapitated geese, chickens and other fowl hung. At last Claverley lost his temper. He drew his sword and, shouting, ‘Le roi, le roi!’ forced a passage out on to the Pavement, the great open area fronting All Saints Church.

Here the crowds thronged before the grim city prison. Outside its main door stood a line of scaffolds, each three-branched, on which executions were being carried out. The condemned felons were led out from the prison, taken on to a platform, pushed up a ladder, where a noose was fixed round their neck. The ladder was then turned and the felon would dance and kick as the hempen cord tightened round his throat, choking his life out. Corbett had seen such sights before in many of the king’s great cities. The royal justices would arrive, the gaols would be emptied, courts held and swift sentence passed. Most of the felons didn’t even have time to protest. Dominicans, dressed in their black and white robes, moved from one scaffold to another whispering the final absolution. The crowd thronging there sometimes greeted the appearance of a prisoner with curses and yells. Now and again a friend or relative would shout their farewells and lift a tankard in salute. Claverley waited until the prison door opened, then pushed his way through into the sombre gatehouse. The doorkeeper recognised him.

‘We are nearly finished, Claverley!’ he shouted. ‘And by dusk York will be a safer place.’

‘I’ve come for the Limner!’ Claverley snapped, leaning down from his horse. ‘Where is he?’

The porter’s beer-sodden face stared up. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘Well, only if you know the path to hell.’

Claverley groaned and beat his saddlehorn.

‘The bugger’s dead,’ the porter laughed. ‘Hanged not an hour since.’

Claverley, conscious of his companions, their horses growing restless in the enclosed space, cursed colourfully.

‘What now?’ Corbett asked.

Claverley turned, spat in the direction of the porter, then tapped the side of his nose.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ he whispered. ‘Let me introduce you to one of my great secrets!’

On the other side of York, another man was dying. The Unknown lay on a pallet bed in a small, stark chamber of the Lazar hospital, his sweat-soaked hair fanned out against the white bolster.

‘It’s all over,’ he whispered. ‘I shall not leave here alive.’ The Franciscan, crouching by the bed, grasped his hand and did not disagree.

‘I can feel no life in my legs,’ the Unknown muttered. He forced a smile. ‘In my youth, Father, I was a superb horseman. I could ride like the wind.’ He moved his head slightly. ‘What happens after death, Father?’

‘Only God knows,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘But I think it’s like a journey, like being born all over again. A baby struggles against leaving the womb, we struggle against leaving life but, as we do after we’re born, we forget and journey on. What is important,’ the Franciscan added, ‘is how prepared we are for that journey.’

‘I have sinned,’ the Unknown whispered. ‘I have sinned against Heaven and earth. I, a knight of the Temple, a defender of the city of Acre, have committed dreadful sins of hate and a desire for vengeance.’

‘Tell me,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘Make your confession now. Receive absolution.’

The Unknown needed no further prompting but, staring up at the ceiling, began to recite his life: his youth on a farm in Barnsleydale; his admission to the Temple; those final, bloody days at Acre followed by the long years of pent-up bitterness in the dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain. The Franciscan listened quietly; only now and again did he interrupt and softly ask a question. The knight always answered. At the end the Franciscan lifted his hand, carefully enunciating the words of absolution. He promised that, the following morning, he’d bring the Viaticum after Mass. The Unknown grasped the friar’s hand.

‘Father, in all truth, I must tell what I know to someone else.’

‘A Templar?’ the Franciscan asked. ‘The commanders are gathered at Framlingham.’

The Unknown closed his eyes and sighed. ‘No, the traitor may be there.’ He opened his cracked lips, gasping for air. ‘The King’s Council is in York, yes?’

The Franciscan nodded. The Unknown squeezed his hand tightly.

‘For the love of God, Father, I must speak to one of the King’s Council. A man I can trust. Please, Father.’ The eyes in that thin, disfigured face burned with life. ‘Please, before I die!’