‘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.’