‘You still found the counterfeiter,’ Ranulf offered hopefully.
‘Mere chance. I thought the wax proved Seagrave was a counterfeiter: it didn’t.’
‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’ Claverley asked.
‘I’ve told you,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was greedy but, still, he’s a father, a husband, I don’t want his blood on my hands. And now we have Baddlesmere and Scoudas,’ Corbett continued. ‘They visited the Greenmantle tavern for a love tryst, using Seagrave’s desire to purchase some land as a possible pretext. Baddlesmere, to avoid any scandal or rumour, left to join the grand master. More importantly, Scoudas couldn’t have attacked me, he was in the tavern. So,’ Corbett let his horse nuzzle his neck, ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were no more interested in attacking the king and myself than the queen of the fairies. They came into York to be together. Baddlesmere and Scoudas were in that tavern all the time.’
‘But the warning?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The map found in Scoudas’s possessions: they all bore Baddlesmere’s hand.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wonder,’ he replied. ‘Did Baddlesmere have his own suspicions? Did he draw that map in order to help his own inquiries?’ He gathered the reins in his hands and remounted.
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett broke from his reverie and stared down at the under-sheriff.
‘If you want,’ Claverley offered, ‘I can ride back with you to Framlingham or accompany you to the Lazar hospital.’
‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘As the gospels say: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”.’ He extended his hand and grasped Claverley’s. ‘You did good work, Roger. I shall make sure the king knows of it: I thank you for your courtesy and help.’
‘They said you were a hard man,’ Claverley told him. He jerked his head back in the direction of the tavern. ‘But Seagrave will always remember your compassion.’
Corbett shrugged. ‘I have seen more blood and death in the last year, Master Claverley . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘Keep well.’
And, urging his horse forward, Corbett left the graveyard. Ranulf stayed to make his own farewells.
‘He’s homesick,’ the manservant whispered, leaning down from his horse. ‘Old “Master Long Face” is pining for his wife.’
‘And you, Ranulf?’ Claverley grinned.
Ranulf pulled his most sanctimonious face. ‘Virtue is its own reward, Master Under-sheriff,’ he intoned solemnly.
And, with Claverley’s laughter ringing in his ears, Ranulf spurred his horse on before ‘Old Master Long Face’ really did fall into one of his melancholic fits.
Corbett dismounted in the courtyard of the Lazar hospital. A lay brother came out, Corbett whispered to him, and the little man nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘we have been expecting you. Stay here!’
He hurried into the hospital and came back a little later, accompanied by a friar. ‘This is Father Anselm, our infirmarian.’
The Franciscan grasped Corbett’s hand. ‘You’d best come,’ he urged, but turned as Ranulf made to join them. ‘No,’ he apologised. ‘I am afraid the knight only asked for Sir Hugh.’
Mystified, Corbett looked at Ranulf, then shrugged and followed the friar in through the door and up the stairs. They went along through the long infirmary where the sick lay on beds on either side. Each bed was cordoned off by dark-blue sheets which hung from steel rods bolted to the wall. The room was clean and fragrant, the sheets and bolsters of each bed a snowy white.
‘We do our best,’ Brother Anselm muttered. ‘Many of these had no dignity in living, at least they’ll have some in dying.’
At the end of the room he ushered Corbett into a small chamber, stark and austere. The white washed walls and gaunt crucifix above the bed reminded Corbett of his cell at Framlingham: the ‘Unknown’ lay propped against the bolsters; his yellow hair, soaked with sweat, fanned out across the pillow. Corbett fought to hide his disgust at the terrible sores and ulcers eating into the man’s face. The Unknown opened his eyes and tried to smile.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, the spittle bubbling on his cracked lips. ‘I am no beauty, Sir Hugh. Brother, a stool for our visitor.’
Friar Anselm brought one across and, when Corbett sat down, whispered in his ear: ‘He has not got much time. I doubt if he’ll see the night through.’
Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
The Unknown turned his face, closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths, summoning up his last resources of strength.
‘You are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal?’
‘I am.’
‘They say you are a man of integrity.’
‘People say a lot of things.’
‘A good answer. My strength is ebbing, Sir Hugh, so I’ll be brief. Death will be here soon. Who I am, or where I came from does not concern you. I was a Templar. I fought at Acre and, when that city fell, I was taken prisoner and handed over to the Assassins who kept me imprisoned for years in their fortress of the Eagle’s Nest.’
The Unknown stirred, moving his limbs to find relief. ‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’ he whispered, ‘released me to cause chaos in my Order, to lay allegations of cowardice.’
‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘What allegations?’
‘I know a great secret,’ the Unknown gasped. ‘Those commanders at Framlingham, they were all at Acre. When the city fell . . .’ The Unknown stopped, fighting for breath. ‘. . . Some Templars died. I and others were wounded and taken prisoner, many retreated. But,’ his fingers scrabbled at the blankets, ‘according to the Old Man of the Mountain, one English Templar was an arrant coward. He deserted his post and, because of that, the Mamelukes took a wall, cutting me and my companions off. On the day I was captured they told me about a Templar knight running away, dropping his sword and shield whilst others died.’
‘Which one?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know,’ the Unknown retorted. ‘But, for years, hidden in that dungeon, I dreamed of returning, of asking the survivors where they were and so account for their actions. When I was released, all the Old Man told me was that the Templar concerned was now a senior officer in the English province.’ The Unknown paused again. ‘I asked him how he knew the Templar’s nationality but not his name.’
‘And?’
‘He replied that at Acre there were only six English Templars: myself, Odo Tharlestone, Legrave, Branquier, Baddlesmere and Symmes. The coward screamed in English, so it must have been one of them. Now each is a lord! Oh, how they have all advanced themselves while I rotted.’ The Unknown smiled weakly. ‘I went out into the woods near Framlingham and saw them sweep by in their power.’
‘Why would the Old Man release you and send you back?’ Corbett asked.
‘I’ve thought of that,’ the Unknown replied haltingly. ‘The divisions in the Order are well known: further scandal would weaken it even more in the eyes of the Western princes.’
‘But now you are dying,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘When you were in the woods near Framlingham, why didn’t you seek an audience with de Molay?’
‘Because . . .’ The Unknown closed his eyes. ‘Because, Sir Hugh, I want to die clean before God. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not the full truth. As I journeyed through Europe I heard the stories about my Order: why should I drag it down further?’
‘So why me?’
‘My desire for vengeance has gone, Sir Hugh, but justice must be done. You will inform de Molay of what I know. Tell him to ask each of his commanders where they were in Acre.’
‘Nothing else?’ Corbett asked. ‘No details about which wall or which part of the city?’
‘The Templars will know,’ the Unknown replied. ‘They will ask questions. They will interrogate.’ He grasped Corbett’s hands. ‘Swear, Sir Hugh, that you will!’
Corbett stared down at the Unknown’s face, so cruelly ravaged by disease.
‘You are not frightened by a leper’s touch?’ the dying man teased.
‘I have learnt it takes more than a touch for the contagion to spread,’ Corbett replied. ‘But yes, sir, whoever you may be: at my time and my choosing, I will tell de Molay.’ He placed the Unknown’s hand back on the blanket. ‘Is there anything else?’
The Unknown shook his head. ‘No, my mind’s at peace. Now go!’
Corbett rose and walked to the door.
‘Sir Hugh!’
Corbett turned.
‘I have heard the stories, the terrible fires: whoever it is, he’s the coward, I know it.’
Outside in the passageway, Corbett sat for a while on a bench. What the Unknown had confessed was significant, but how and why? Corbett sighed: he’d not tell de Molay – not anyone, he decided, not even Ranulf – until the other pieces of the puzzle were in place.
Corbett and Ranulf reached Framlingham just before dusk. Their ride was quiet, Corbett refusing to answer Ranulf’s questions. They found Maltote lying on Corbett’s bed, his arms clasping two heavy calf-skin tomes. He woke up with a start, still holding on to the books as he blinked, owl-eyed, up at them.
‘Master, I am sorry,’ he apologised, ‘but I had to wait a while.’ He put the books down on the bed beside him.
‘His Grace the king?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, he’s in a fair old rage; closeted in his chamber with de Warrenne and the rest. He has ordered the sheriffs to seal all ports. The Templars are definitely out of favour.’
‘We know all that,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Did he send any messages?’
‘We are to return soon. He will take matters into his own hands.’
‘And have you discovered anything about the phrases I wrote down for you?’ Corbett asked. He sat down beside Maltote and picked up one of the books and opened it. ‘For God’s sake, Maltote!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have you brought? “Jerome’s Commentary on St Matthew”?’
‘It’s a bit further on,’ Maltote gabbled. ‘I showed those words to the archivist at the minster, and he sent me back with these books.’
Corbett leafed through the pages and a title caught his eye. “‘
Liber Ignium
”, “The Book of Fires”,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Yes, the same phrase I found in Odo’s manuscripts.’
He picked up the second volume, a collection of philosophical writings. Again Corbett leafed through, stopped and smiled. He’d found what he was looking for: ‘
Epistola de Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae
.’
‘The writings of Friar Roger Bacon,’ Corbett explained, ‘concerning the secrets of nature. Bacon was a Franciscan, he studied at Oxford. An eccentric recluse, he built an observatory on Folly Bridge and spent most of his time studying the stars.’
‘Did you know him?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Vaguely,’ Corbett replied. ‘He sometimes lectured in the Schools, a short, stocky man with a sunburnt face and a beard shaped like a spade. Poor eyesight but he had a voice like a bell. Some people considered him witless, others a deep thinker.’
‘And how can these books help us?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they can’t.’
‘You have to take great care of them,’ Maltote interrupted. ‘That archivist made me take an oath and sign an indenture. They are to be returned immediately to the minster library.’
‘Does anyone here know you have them?’
‘No,’ Maltote replied. ‘The Templars paid little attention to me. One of the soldiers told me what had happened: the mysterious fire, the deaths of Lord Baddlesmere and the other one. They’re whispering that they were lovers.’ He paused as a bell began to toll. ‘They are having the Requiem now. Only a few know I am here.’
Corbett got up and walked to the window. The sun was still shining but the clouds were beginning to mass, dark and sullen overhead.
‘We’ll have a storm later,’ he remarked. ‘Be careful,’ he warned over his shoulder. ‘Don’t wander round the manor by yourselves.’
‘Master.’ Ranulf came up beside him. ‘I have been thinking. Do you remember the joust? De Molay remarked how Legrave held his lance in his left hand.’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘And Branquier, he writes with his left hand.’
‘What has that got to do with it?’
‘Well, the assassin in the library. You described him as helmeted and cloaked . . .’
Corbett turned and clapped Ranulf on the shoulder.
‘Well done, oh sharpest of clerks!’ he cried. ‘Maltote, bring those books. Ranulf, you have an arbalest. Come on, let’s go back to the library.’
Corbett hurried out of the chamber. Ranulf hung back to inform Maltote in hushed tones what had happened since he had left. He told him about Seagrave and the visit to the Lazar hospital, swearing the young messenger to secrecy.
‘Or,’ Ranulf muttered darkly, ‘Corbett will see you reduced to the lowest scullion in the royal kitchens.’ He stopped speaking abruptly as Corbett came back into the room.
‘I’ve been waiting!’ he snapped. ‘Maltote, bring those books! Ranulf, your crossbow!’
Outside the day was dying. The sky was purple-black and, in the distance, came the first faint rumble of thunder and the faint flash of lightning above the forests to the north of the manor. They made their way past the church where the Templars were still gathered, the faint strains of the Requiem Mass echoing eerily through the stained-glass windows. The library was unlocked but dark. Corbett lit a few candles, making sure their capped hoods were secured, then walked down to where he had been sitting when the assassin struck. He told Maltote and Ranulf to stay by the door, then instructed his manservant to pretend he was attacking him.
‘I am right-handed, Master,’ Ranulf called. ‘As most men are: I hold the arbalest steady with my right and pull back the winch with my left.’
Corbett studied him.
‘If I was left-handed.’ Ranulf continued, ‘then it would be the other way round, like this.’ He moved the arbalest to the other hand, holding it more clumsily as he winched back the lever.
Corbett closed his eyes, trying to recall that fateful afternoon. He shook his head and opened his eyes.
‘Do it again, Ranulf. Walk forward slowly.’