‘Yes they could have done so,’ Claverley replied. ‘Oh, and one final thing.’ Claverley sipped from the goblet. ‘Much later in the afternoon, the guards at Botham Bar remember a Templar serjeant, the same young, blond-haired one glimpsed with Baddlesmere, leaving the city. He was riding fast, shouting at people to get out of his way.’
Corbett sighed. ‘That would be Scoudas, who’s also died. So we know all the Templars, including Baddlesmere, were in York when the attack was launched on the king. We know they separated, but that they met before Botham Bar and left the city before I received that threatening message on Ouse Bridge. They were certainly gone by the time that hidden archer tried to kill me. The only Templar in York when that happened was Scoudas.’
Corbett sat down on the edge of his bed. Was it possible, he thought, that the men behind these attacks – Baddlesmere and Scoudas – were already dead? Is that why Baddlesmere had left the city with de Molay, to put himself beyond suspicion whilst his friend and lover, Scoudas, carried out the attack? If that was the case, Corbett hid the tingle of excitement in his stomach, there would be no more deaths and he could report as much to the king. He glanced at his two companions.
‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’ he murmured.
Claverley drained his cup. ‘I have another message.’
‘Yes?’
‘A lazar, an unknown knight, is dying in the Franciscan hospital. He claims he was a Templar and wishes to speak to you.’
‘A Templar, a lazar!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Could he be the mysterious hooded rider glimpsed in the woods near the Botham Bar road?’
Claverley shrugged.
‘Look,’ Corbett smiled faintly, ‘Ranulf will look after you. But don’t go far. We may have to leave quickly.’
Once they had gone, Corbett tried to marshal his thoughts. All the evidence pointed to Baddlesmere’s guilt, yet there was something amiss. Only he was too absorbed to catch and hold it in his mind. He’d certainly go to York and visit the Lazar hospital. He picked up the list which Claverley had brought and fished the gold coin out of his purse. He stared at the red wax on the rim of the coin, then absentmindedly felt for his wine cup. He paused, recalling the tun of wine he’d brought to Framlingham, and stared at the list again.
‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘
In vino veritas:
in wine there is always truth!’
Chapter 11
Hubert Seagrave, tavern master and vintner to the King, mopped his sweaty face, now turned a dull pasty hue. He stared in terror across his counting-room at Sir Hugh Corbett. Roger Claverley, under-sheriff, sat on the clerk’s left, whilst that cat-eyed servant stood just behind him. Seagrave’s gaze shifted to the gold coin lying on the table.
‘Naturally, naturally,’ he stuttered, ‘I have seen such coins. They are good gold.’ He stared piteously at the door where his ashen-faced wife and young sons stared fearfully at him.
‘Close the door, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Now, Master Seagrave.’ The clerk pulled his chair to the edge of the counting table, admiring the black and white squares laid out on top. ‘I shall begin again. This coin and others like it are not the work of some petty counterfeiter but a wealthy, powerful man. This person discovered a treasure trove which should rightly belong to the Crown but, instead, he decided to melt that gold down in the furnace of his forge and recast it into coins. He used the same moulds he has for forming the red wax discs with which he seals his goods. Now, no one but a fool would go out into the market place with such coins and start buying goods from foreign merchants. He used those coins to purchase his merchandise, and these foreign merchants would then enter the markets of York with the same gold to buy their own purchases. The subtlety of this trick is apparent: the Crown does not get its treasure trove; the merchant keeps it to amass further wealth, whilst four or five foreign merchants use these gold coins to buy goods to import into their own countries. So, who can trace them back? Indeed, who will ask questions? The traders of York are only too pleased to see good gold pouring into their coffers, their memories would soon grow dim.’
Corbett paused and sipped from the excellent wine Seagrave had served when he mistakenly thought the clerk had just arrived on a courtesy visit.
‘Now,’ Corbett struck his breast, ‘I made a mistake. I thought it might be the Templars. They are always applying for licences to refurbish their tenements in York. They have the licence to import goods from abroad and, of course, they have their own forges and ironsmiths. But why should the Templars incur royal anger?’
Corbett paused. He felt truly sorry for this fat merchant whose greed had got the better of him. ‘However, the same applies to you, Master Seagrave. You have at least two forges at the Greenmantle. You have also applied for a licence to build on an adjoining piece of waste land. Before I left Framlingham I scrutinised the steward’s accounts. You offer a price well above the market value for the wasteland on the other side of your tavern.’
Seagrave opened his mouth but then put his face in his hands.
‘The mistake I made,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘was assuming that the guilty party must have applied for a licence to import from abroad. But, as the King’s own vintner in his royal city of York, you need no such licence. Foreign ships bring the wine down the Ouse, they unload their barrels, and you paid them with these gold coins.’
‘You don’t want that field for more buildings,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘but because it might contain more treasure trove.’
‘You made one mistake,’ Corbett added. ‘The die casts you used to make your wax seals, you also used to mint the gold. On a few of the coins some of the red wax is still embedded, very deeply in the rim.’
‘There are other merchants,’ Seagrave mumbled, not raising his head. He dragged his hands across the table and Corbett saw the sweat-marks left by his fingers.
‘Master Seagrave,’ Claverley spoke up, ‘you are an important burgess. A merchant prince. Your tavern is famous, not only in York but well beyond the city walls. You were born and bred here. You have heard the stories: how once the Romans had a great city here and, in the time before Alfred, the Vikings turned the city into a great fortress where they piled their plunder. Such treasure trove is common – the odd cup, a few coins. But what did you find?’
‘We can go away,’ Corbett added. ‘And come back with the king’s soldiers. They will tear this tavern apart, dig up every inch of soil.’ He leaned against the table. ‘Master Seagrave, look at me.’
The merchant glanced up fearfully. ‘It was so easy,’ he muttered. ‘Different merchants at different times. I knew they’d keep their mouths shut. After all, Sir Hugh, who objects to being paid in gold? But you found wax engrained in the rim?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Well, God knows how that got there.’ Seagrave got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He smiled sourly as Claverley’s hand went to his dagger. ‘Don’t worry, Under-sheriff, I am not going to flee or do anything stupid. I want to show you what I found.’
The merchant left the counting-house. A few minutes later he came staggering back with a small chest about two feet long and a foot high. He dropped this on the table with a crash and threw back the lid.
‘Sweet God and all his angels!’ Ranulf exclaimed, staring at the gold coins which lay heaped there.
‘There’s more,’ Seagrave added.
He went out and returned with a leather sack. He undid the cord at the neck and spilled the precious objects on to the table: a gold, jewel-encrusted pyx, a drinking horn inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Two small goblets, the cups thick with silver. An agnus dei of pure jade, a pectoral cross, amethysts gleaming in each of the four stems.
‘Riches in abundance,’ Seagrave murmured. ‘I found it all about three months ago when the builders were digging in the garden. They paused because of the snow and frost. I went out to inspect. My children were playing in the trench: they’d pulled a piece of paving stone away from the side of the hole which had strange markings on it. I got down and investigated.’ Seagrave paused. ‘I don’t know whether it was a sewer or a pipe made of elm. I put my hand inside.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought I was dreaming. I pulled out one bag after another, all full of coins.’ He slumped down. ‘For God’s sake, Sir Hugh, I couldn’t mint coins like that.’
‘But they look so new!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The cross on each side, the red wax on the rim.’
‘I made my own inquiries amongst the chronicles and histories of the city,’ Seagrave replied. ‘Once York was called Jorvik; the Viking war gangs set up camp here.’ He pointed to the precious objects which lay gleaming on the table. ‘Perhaps some chieftain took church gold and melted it down and, being superstitious, carved a cross on either side.’
‘Candlesticks,’ Claverley explained. ‘Sir Hugh, they must have been candlesticks, which explains the red wax.’
Corbett lifted up the gold and let the coins run through his fingers.
‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘In my cleverness I thought the coins were newly minted.’
‘They are,’ Seagrave replied. ‘Whoever made those coins, Sir Hugh, never used them but hid them away with the rest of the treasure. They must have brought him the same ill luck as they did me. The wooden pipes were scorched, as was the earth around it. I didn’t know what to do,’ he continued. ‘I was tired of poor silver coins and, if I handed them over to the Exchequer, what recompense would I have got? Royal officials questioning me, hinting I may have stolen it, using every legal nicety to keep the treasure to themselves. How much of this, Sir Hugh, would have found its way into the royal treasury? Kings’ clerks are no different from Kings’ vintners: everyone has sticky fingers.’
‘You could have petitioned the king yourself,’ Corbett retorted.
‘I thought of that,’ Seagrave replied, ‘the day you came here. I nearly broke down and confessed but. . .’ He shrugged. ‘I was committed. I’d waited until the king arrived in York. The great lords, the royal household, clerks, liveried retainers, so many strangers in the city, an opportune time to spend that gold. Royal purveyors were out buying the goods, the markets were doing a roaring trade.’ Seagrave’s face crumpled, tears rolling down his ashen cheeks. ‘Now I have lost everything,’ he muttered.
Suddenly the door to the counting-house was flung open and Seagrave’s wife entered, two small children clinging to her skirts.
‘What will happen?’ Her pretty face was now drawn, her eyes dark pools of fear.
‘Wait outside, Mistress Seagrave,’ Corbett replied. ‘The king wants his treasure, not a man’s life. What your husband has done is understandable.’
Corbett waited until the door closed. Seagrave had now dried his eyes and was looking expectantly at him.
‘What you must do, Master Seagrave,’ Corbett declared gently, ‘is seek an audience with the king. Take the treasure with you. Do not mention me or my visit here . . .’ Corbett paused. ‘No, tell him I supped here and that you asked would it be possible to see His Grace.’
‘And then what?’ Seagrave asked anxiously.
‘Throw yourself on the royal mercy,’ Corbett continued. ‘And then open the sacks. Believe me, Master Seagrave, the king will kiss you as a brother, provided you hand over everything!’
‘You mean. . .’ Seagrave gabbled.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘You found some gold and spent some of it: that will be taken from your share.’
‘Then there will be no fine, no imprisonment?’ Seagrave exclaimed.
Corbett got to his feet. ‘Master Seagrave,’ he replied drily, ‘if you play your part well, you’ll probably be knighted.’
The tavern master tried to make him stay, saying he would like to reward his generosity. Corbett did remain for a while, finishing his wine and reassuring the flustered Seagrave that his family should fear nothing from him.
‘Is this right?’ Claverley muttered, seizing a moment when they were alone in the room together.
‘What else is there, Roger?’ Corbett laughed sharply. ‘Seagrave only became greedy. If we punished everyone for that, we wouldn’t find enough gibbets in the country.’ Corbett held his hand up. ‘You are to keep your mouth shut.’
‘Sir Hugh, you have my word.’
Once they had finished, Seagrave led them out to the stables where they’d left their horses. The merchant plucked anxiously at Corbett’s sleeve.
‘Sir Hugh, I have one final confession to make.’
‘There’s more treasure!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘No, it was the day you came here. I thought you were following someone.’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, the day the king entered York, this tavern, like every other in the city, was very busy. Two Templars came here. One was a senior commander. I knew that by the way he talked. He was balding, grizzle-faced, a short, stocky man.’
‘Baddlesmere!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Yes, well, he was accompanied by a young serjeant. A youngish, blond-haired man with a foreign accent. I thought they’d come about the adjoining piece of land so I entertained them and talked about my plans.’ Seagrave coughed to clear his throat. ‘Now, to put it bluntly, they humoured me. They asked for a chamber, claiming they had matters to discuss, well away from the eyes and ears of the curious. So I obliged: that was early in the morning. About noon the old one left, followed by the younger one, shortly before you arrived. . .’ Seagrave’s voice trailed off. ‘I thought I should tell you.’
Corbett thanked and reassured him. Once they were out of the stableyard he dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. Claverley, staring curiously at him and Ranulf, wondering what was the matter, followed Corbett through the busy, narrow alleyways and streets, then into the silent graveyard of a small church. Corbett sat down on a weather-beaten tombstone, watching his horse lazily munch the long, fresh grass.
‘If I was half as clever as I thought I was,’ he began, ‘then I’d be the most subtle of royal clerks.’ He sighed. ‘The truth is I blunder about like the hooded man in Blind Man’s Buff. If I strike something then it’s more chance than skill.’