‘No, sir!’
‘Nothing?’ Corbett asked.
‘We were busy, sir.’
‘And no one came in? Either before the meal or during the day?’
‘Not that I saw, sir!’
‘Then what have you seen?’
The cook pulled a face. ‘There’s the horseman . . .’
‘What horseman?’
‘Masked and cowled, a great two-handed sword hanging from his saddlebag.’ The man shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’ve only seen him once. I was, er, hunting for rabbits in the woods nearby. He was sitting like the shadow of death amongst the trees, staring at the manor. He never moved – I just fled.’
Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Was there, he wondered, a secret assassin lurking in the woods between Framlingham and York?
‘Do you think this masked horseman was from Framlingham?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, but this place is accursed,’ the cook continued in a rush. ‘Some of us live here. Others, like Peterkin, live in the city. We heard about the strange murder outside Botham Bar. This was a quiet manor, sir, before those commanders arrived with their soldiers. Now they are singing strange hymns at night, up all hours. You can’t go here and you can’t go there! Then there’s the death of Sir Guido. He was a good man. A little forbidding, but kind – that’s what Peterkin was laughing about.’
Corbett turned abruptly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He said the fire which killed Guido came from hell: Satan’s fire.’
‘Why should it?’ Corbett asked.
The man glanced back at the door to the refectory, then at another silver coin held between Corbett’s fingers.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are rumours.’
‘Rumours about what?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Come on, man, you have nothing to fear.’
‘Well, a scullion saw one of the Templars.’ The cook paused.
‘You mean one of the commanders?’
‘Yes. I don’t know which one but, well, he saw him kissing a man. You know, sir, like you would a woman. And before you ask, he couldn’t make out who it was.’
‘You are sure?’ Corbett asked.
‘Certain. He was coming down a passageway. He glimpsed the commander who had his back to him. He knew it was one of the visitors from the cloak he wore. I think the other was one of the Templar serjeants, a youngish man. You’ve seen how dark this place is, sir. They were in the shadows. The scullion was frightened so he turned and fled. Anyway, Peterkin was laughing about that. He made a joke of everything. He said the place smelt of Satan’s sulphur and then it happened.’ The man plucked the coin from Corbett’s fingers. ‘And now I am going, sir.’
He strode out of the kitchen in the hall. Corbett heard raised voices and, by the time he returned, the cook was marching the rest down towards the door.
‘I couldn’t stop them,’ de Molay murmured. ‘They can visit the almoner, collect their wages and go. What do you think, Sir Hugh?’ The grand master stepped into the pool of light from the candles on the table and wearily sat down, face in hands. Ranulf and Maltote also took their seats. Both had drunk deeply and were now feeling its effect.
‘I have seen similar accidents,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Men getting burnt, in cookshops in London.’
‘Not like that,’ Corbett replied, sitting down opposite de Molay.
The grand master looked up. He seemed to have aged years; his iron-grey hair was tousled, dark shadows ringed his eyes. His face had lost that serene, rather imperious look. ‘Satan attacks us on every side,’ he murmured.
‘Why do you say that?’ Corbett asked. ‘What happened in the kitchen could have been an accident.’
De Molay leaned back in his chair. ‘That was no accident, Corbett. The murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king, the death of Sir Guido. Now this!’
‘So why should Satan attack you?’
‘I don’t know,’ the grand master snarled, rising to his feet, ‘but when you meet him, Corbett, ask him the same question!’ De Molay strode out of the refectory, slamming the door behind him.
Corbett, too, rose, beckoning Ranulf and Maltote to follow.
‘Listen! From now on, we sleep in the same chamber. Each does a watch. Be careful what you eat and drink. No one travels round the manor by themselves.’ Corbett sighed. ‘As far as I am concerned, we’re back on the Scottish march. The only difference being that there we knew our enemy, here we don’t!’
They walked back towards the guesthouse: Corbett stopped, heart in his throat, as a figure came rushing out of the darkness but it was only a servant, belongings packed into a fardel, scurrying towards the gates.
‘By morning they’ll all be gone,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘If I had my way, Master, we’d follow!’
‘Where to?’ Corbett asked. ‘Edward in York or Leighton Manor?’
Ranulf refused to answer. Once they were back in the guesthouse, a sleepy-eyed Maltote stood guard outside whilst Corbett told Ranulf to join him. The servant sat down on a stool. Corbett studied him curiously: Ranulf’s usual cheeky face was now pallid, his attitude no longer devil-may-care.
‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Ranulf kicked at the rushes. ‘I am so happy I am thinking of becoming a Templar.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I hate this bloody place. I don’t like the Templars. I can’t make them out, monks or soldiers. The librarian may be a grand old man but the rest make my skin crawl.’
‘You are frightened, aren’t you?’ Corbett sat down on the edge of the bed.
Ranulf scratched his head. ‘No, Master, I’m not frightened. I am terrified. All Maltote thinks about is horses, that’s all he talks about. What’s happening here hasn’t yet sunk into his thick skull.’ Ranulf plucked at the dagger in his belt. ‘I can deal with enemies, Master: the footpad in the alleyway, the assassin in the darkened chamber. But this? Men mysteriously bursting into flames, Reverchien at the centre of a maze, that poor bastard in the kitchen . . .’
‘For every natural phenomenon,’ Corbett replied, ‘Aristotle said there must be a natural cause.’
‘Bugger that!’ Ranulf snarled. ‘Bloody Aristotle’s not here. If he was, the silly bastard would soon change his mind!’
Corbett began to laugh.
‘Oh, you’re amused, Master,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘We have only been here a few hours and we’ve been threatened, shot at and hunted in a maze.’
Corbett grasped Ranulf’s hand. ‘Yes, I am frightened, Ranulf.’
He got to his feet, stretched and stared at the black carved crucifix on the wall. ‘In all my years of pursuing murderers I have never seen the like. Yes, I was hunted in the maze.’ He turned, his face set hard. ‘I don’t like being hunted, Ranulf. I don’t like being threatened. I don’t like nightmares about a royal messenger telling Maeve and Baby Eleanor that I am gone but my corpse will soon arrive for burial.’ He sat down. ‘I am a clerk. I deal with wax and parchment. I resolve problems. I protect the king and hunt down his enemies. Sometimes I am frightened; so terrified that I wake up sweating from head to toe.’ Corbett paused. ‘This morning I was frightened. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have fled. But that’s what the assassin wants, everything to be in chaos. But we will impose order and, once we do, we wait!’
‘If we live long enough.’
‘We’ll live. I’ll make my mistakes, but in the end I’m going to see the cruel bastard behind all this arrested and pay the price. So, let’s impose order. We have the Templars. They have houses in England and throughout Western Europe. They have been driven from the Holy Land. They have lost their purpose and have provoked the hostility and, because of their wealth, the envy of men. They, too, are frightened: that’s why they have offered our king the princely sum of fifty thousand pounds. That cunning old fox knew he could get it. So come on Ranulf, Clerk of the Green Wax, what has happened so far?’
‘It began with the Grand Chapter in Paris.’
‘De Molay presid
ed over that meeting,’ Corbett continued. ‘The four English Commanders were present. They left for England just after the attack on Philip IV was launched. Whilst they are in London, the Assassins’ warning is pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral. They come to York; there is unease about their stay here at Framlingham. The manor house is heavily defended, certain places carefully guarded. Then we have the deaths: the strange murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king and on me. The slaying of Reverchien and now the death of Peterkin the pastry cook. Well, Ranulf, what logic is there to all this?’
Ranulf scratched his head. ‘Only one: where de Molay and his four commanders are, trouble occurs. There is neither rhyme nor reason for what happens. Most assassins have a motive. True, there could be divisions in the Templar Order, a secret coven dabbling in black magic. One or all of the Commanders, even de Molay, could be intent on wrecking vengeance against the kings of France and England.’
‘But that does not explain,’ Corbett added, ‘the strange deaths outside Botham Bar and the slaying of Peterkin. Why should a poor pastry cook be consumed by fire? And, more importantly, how do these strange fires occur?’
Ranulf got up and paced restlessly up and down the chamber. ‘Master, you said that for every natural phenomenon there’s a natural cause. But what happens if this is not natural? People don’t just break into flames?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. Yet, I suspect, that’s what we are supposed to think.’
‘But how can it happen?’ Ranulf persisted. ‘True, the Templars were in the city when the attack was launched on the king. But they weren’t here when Reverchien was killed. We know that for a fact.’
‘Brother Odo was,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was here. He may be old but, by his own confession, he is a fighting man. He could have killed Sir Guido, left the manor, joined Murston, then prowled the streets of York waiting for us. After that he could have hastened back to Framlingham before the others arrived. Legrave did say he found him asleep.’
‘He’s missing one hand.’
‘So? I have heard of men with greater handicaps committing murder. How do we know he didn’t follow Reverchien into the maze and kill him? Or somehow arrange for Peterkin’s death?’
‘And outside Botham Bar?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Swinging a two-handed sword?’
Corbett spread his hands. ‘Concedo, that would be difficult – but not impossible. There again, the cook told me of a masked horseman lurking in the woods near the manor.’
‘An assassin?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Possibly, though the cook could be lying. Finally one other matter remains. The counterfeit coins. Or perhaps they are not counterfeit. . .’ Corbett continued, ‘Anyway, these appeared in York just after the Templars arrived.’
‘Then we are back to alchemy or magic,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘Master, when I ran wild in the streets of London, I knew some counterfeiters. What they do is take a good coin and make two bad ones out of it. I have never heard of anyone producing solid gold coins.’
Corbett sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “‘If you analyse everything,”’ he quoted, “‘And you can only reach one conclusion, then that conclusion must be the truth.”’ he glanced over at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps it is magic.’ He added slowly, ‘Perhaps Satan’s fire is burning amongst us.’
Chapter 6
The two knights took up position at either end of the tilt-yard. Down the dusty yard which separated them ran the tilt barrier, a long wooden fence covered with a leather sheet. The knights were fully armoured, great jousting helmets on their heads. Squires passed up shields and then the long wooden tourney lances. Corbett watched as each rider, guiding his horse with his legs, balanced his lance expertly. A trumpet shrilled. The knights began to move slowly. Another trumpet call and the horses burst into a gallop, their iron-shod hooves kicking up the dust, heads straining as each knight, keeping to the tilt barrier on his left, headed straight for his opponent. Shields came up, lances lowered. They met with a resounding crash in the centre. Lances shattered. Both knights swayed in the saddle but both kept their seats and passed to the other end of the tilt-yard.
‘Well done!’ Brother Odo cried, leaning against the wall and banging his stick on the ground. ‘Good lance, Legrave. Symmes!’ the old librarian bawled, ‘bring your lance down sooner or you’ll land on your arse!’
This sally provoked laughter from the watching knights and serjeants. Corbett and his two companions kept to the shadows of the wall. The sun was strong and the dust from the tilt-yard caught at their eyes and throats. Again the knights prepared. Fresh lances, shields in position and, with another trumpet call, the great destriers, caparisoned in gaily coloured harnesses, lunged forward, breaking into a gallop as each rider bore down on his opponent. The two jousters met, but this time Symmes was too slow: his lance missed Legrave whilst at the same time his shield slipped, making him vulnerable to his opponent’s lance. There was a terrible crash. Symmes’s horse went down on its hind legs and Symmes toppled from the saddle.
‘Oh, well done!’ de Molay cried, sitting on his throne-like chair under a silken canopy. He beckoned Corbett forward.
‘Did you see Legrave? He changed his lance, held it in his left! Such expertise! Come, Sir Hugh, have you seen that amongst the king’s knights?’
‘No, Grand Master, I have not.’
Corbett spoke the truth. Ever since they had broken their fast after the morning Requiem Mass, the Templars had jousted. Corbett, though tired and suffering rather badly from the heat and dust, had been quick to admire the consummate skill of the Knights Templars. He looked across the tilt-yard where squires were now helping Symmes to his feet, taking off his helmet, offering him ladles of water to slake the dust from his throat and the sweat from his face. Legrave also dismounted and took off his helmet. He walked over to his fallen opponent. Symmes was a little dazed and shaken, but he met his former adversary: they embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace on each other’s cheeks.
‘If only all such differences were settled so peacefully,’ de Molay murmured. He passed a cup of chilled white wine to Corbett, indicating to a servitor that the same be given to Ranulf and Maltote. ‘Sir Hugh, I would like to thank you.’ De Molay leaned forward so only Corbett could hear. ‘It was chivalrous of you to let us bury our dead and salute his memory in a passage of arms.’ He sighed. ‘Now it’s all finished. You wish to speak to us?’
‘Yes, Grand Master.’
De Molay shrugged. ‘I have instructed my comrades. You can question us in the refectory.’
Corbett drained his cup and handed it back to the servitor, motioning to Ranulf and Maltote to follow him. They walked across the tilt-yard, which lay at the opposite side of the manor to their quarters, and returned to the guesthouse.
‘Thank God,’ Ranulf groaned, easing himself down on a stool, ‘I am not a Templar. They attack with such vehemence.’
‘They are superb horsemen,’ Maltote declared. ‘Did you see how they guide their war-horses with the inside of their knees?’
‘We are wasting time,’ Ranulf replied crossly. ‘I thought that Requiem Mass would never end!’
Corbett, standing at the window to catch the cool breeze, thought differently but kept his own counsel. The Requiem had been beautiful. Reverchien’s body, in a wooden casket draped with the flags and banners of the Order, had been placed in front of the high altar of the beautifully decorated Templar chapel. The small church had been packed and the deep voiced singing of the Templars intoning the ‘Requiem Dona Ei’ had possessed its own solemn majesty. Corbett had sat in one of the side aisles, moved by de Molay’s elegant panegyric on Sir Guido Reverchien. True, now and again, the clerk had carefully studied the congregation. The four Templar commanders had sat with their grand master in the sanctuary, whilst the serjeants, squires and other retainers had stood in the nave of the church just beyond the wooden rood-screen.
Corbett had tried to concentrate on the Mass bu
t the cook’s story was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered which of the Templar commanders and other members of this congregation were enjoying a homosexual relationship. Time and again the clerk had tried to dismiss this as a distraction for himself and a terrible danger to those concerned: in the eyes of the Church, homosexuality was a great sin. If the culprits were found they would face the cruellest of deaths. Yet his curiosity got the better of him. At the ‘osculum pacis’, the kiss of peace just before communion, he’d watched Baddlesmere and a young Templar serjeant meet at the entrance to the rood-screen. Now the kiss of peace was exchanged by all, but Corbett glimpsed something different between the grizzled Templar knight and the youthful, fair-haired serjeant. Ranulf, of course, found it very difficult to keep his eyes open in church but, alerted by his master’s tenseness, followed his gaze. He leaned forward.
‘God forgive me, but, are you thinking what I am?’
Corbett had grabbed Ranulf by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on his cheek.
‘Pax frater,’ he whispered. ‘Peace brother.’
‘Et cum spirituo tuo,’ Ranulf whispered back.
‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Corbett had hissed, and returned to concentrate on the Mass.
After Reverchien’s body had been buried in the vaults below the chapel, Corbett and Ranulf had attended a light collation in the refectory, followed by the tournament held in memory of the dead knight.
‘Do you think they’ll come?’ Ranulf broke into his reverie.
Corbett turned away from the window. ‘If de Molay has ordered them to, they will.’
‘Do they like women?’ Ranulf abruptly blurted out.
Corbett shrugged. ‘They are supposed to. The only difference between them and us, Ranulf, is they take vows of celibacy and chastity. Their bride is Christ’s Church.’
Ranulf whistled under his breath. ‘But they must have feelings,’ he added teasingly.
Corbett sat down at the small table and undid the saddle panniers containing his writing equipment. ‘Why not be more blunt, Ranulf? Every member of the Templar Order is dedicated to a life of celibacy and chastity. It’s part of their sacrifice. However, like all such male communities, there are men attracted to each other.’
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