John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, seated to the left of the king, belched noisily. His watery blue eyes never left de Molay’s face. Edward pressed his boot on de Warrenne’s toes.
‘The good earl,’ Edward intervened, ‘may not be elegant in his response but, Seigneur de Molay, you taunt us. Isabella is only nine years old. It will be three years before she can marry. I have to fill my coffers in the next few months. I need a new army in Scotland by mid-summer.’
Edward looked despairingly at each of the four Templar commanders. Surely, he thought, they will help? They are English. They know the problems which beset me. Bartholomew Baddlesmere, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg, his grizzled, weather-beaten face showed no compassion. Next to him William Symmes, his face a patchwork of scars: one black patch covered his left eye, his blond hair hung in lank tendrils to frame a narrow, mean face. No hope there, Edward thought: both of them are Templars born and bred. All they care for is their bloody Order. Edward tried to catch the eye of Ralph Legrave who, twenty years ago, had been one of the king’s household knights. Now he wore the white surcoat of the Templars emblazoned with their red-pointed cross. Legrave’s open, boyish face, however, skin smooth as a maiden, showed no concern for his former lord. Across the table from Legrave sat Richard Branquier, tall and stooped, the Templar’s grand chamberlain in England. He just wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hands. His short-sighted gaze refused to meet the king’s; instead he glanced down at the accounts book before him, a doleful look on his face.
Just like some bloody merchant, Edward thought, he regards me as a poor prospect. Edward stared down at his hands clenched in his lap. I’d like to break their heads, he thought. Beside him de Warrenne shuffled his feet, moving his head slowly from side to side. Edward caught the earl’s wrist and gripped it. De Warrenne was not the brightest of his earls and Edward recognised the signs: if this meeting went on too long and the Templars grew more obdurate, de Warrenne wouldn’t think twice about name-calling or even resorting to physical violence. Edward glared across at the man sitting in the windowseat, staring down at the courtyard below. Moody bastard! Edward thought. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, should be over here sitting at his right hand, instead of staring out of the window, mooning over his flaxen-haired wife. The silence in the priory refectory became oppressive. The Templars sat like carved statues.
‘Do you want me to beg?’ the king snapped.
Edward scratched at a stain on his purple surcoat. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Branquier lean over and whisper in de Molay’s ear. The grand master nodded slowly.
‘The King’s Exchequer is in York?’ de Molay asked.
‘Yes, my Treasury’s here but there’s sweet bugger-all in it!’ Edward retorted.
Branquier brought his hand from beneath the ledger book and sent a gold coin ringing down the table. Edward deftly caught it. He stared down at the coin, his heart skipping a beat. He grimaced at de Warrenne.
‘Another one!’ he whispered, passing it to his companion.
The earl looked at it curiously. As large as a shilling, the gold coin seemed freshly minted, with a crude cross stamped on either side. He weighed it carefully in his hand.
‘Well?’ Edward taunted. ‘Is this all you are going to give me?’
‘You say you have no treasure.’ Branquier leaned on the table. He pointed one bony finger at the coin de Warrenne was now tossing from one hand to the other. ‘Yet, Your Grace, those coins are appearing all over York. Freshly cut and neatly minted. Are they not issued by your own Treasury?’
‘No, they are not,’ Edward replied. ‘Since my arrival outside York, scores of such coins have appeared, but they are not from our Mints.’
‘But who would have such bullion?’ Branquier asked. ‘And how can they circulate such precious coinage?’
‘I don’t know,’ Edward retorted. ‘But, if I did, I’d seize the gold and hang the bastard who made it!’ He took a wafer-thin shilling out of his own purse and tossed it down the table. ‘That’s what my own Mints are producing, Sir Richard: so-called silver coins. They have as much silver in them as I have in my . . . er . . . hand!’ the king added quickly.
‘But who would counterfeit such coins?’ de Molay insisted. ‘Who has the bullion as well as the means to fashion such precious metal?’
‘I don’t know,’ Edward shouted. ‘And, with all due respect, Seigneur, that is my business. The counterfeiting of coins in this realm is treason. I can’t see what this has got to do with the business in hand.’
‘Which is what?’
‘A loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling,’ Edward retorted.
The Templars stirred, shaking their heads.
‘Could you not,’ Baddlesmere declared, staring across at Branquier, ‘ask Philip of France for a loan? To be put against the dowry settlement on his daughter? After all, Philip’s envoy Sir Amaury de Craon is now feeding his face in the priory buttery.’
Edward glanced across at Corbett. The clerk, at the mention of his inveterate enemy and political opponent, was now listening intently to what was being said.
‘What do you think of that, Sir Hugh?’ Edward called out. ‘Shall I send you to France and ask my brother in Christ to empty his Treasury?’
‘You might as well send me to the moon, Sire: Philip is even more bankrupt than yourself.’
‘What is it you really want?’ de Molay intervened. ‘A loan or a gift?’
Edward beamed from ear to ear. He winked at Corbett: the Templars were about to negotiate.
‘If you offer me a gift, de Molay,’ Edward teased back, ‘then I’ll take it.’
‘Let me explain,’ the grand master continued. ‘If you confirm all Templar possessions in England and Gascony . . .’
Edward was already nodding vigorously.
‘. . . Free passage for our merchants; confirmation of our Templar church in London. Confirmation,’ de Molay continued, ‘of all our possessions, both movable and immovable.’
The king was now beside himself with pleasure. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured.
‘And a quarter of this gold,’ de Molay concluded.
Edward sat up in his chair. ‘What gold?’
‘You mentioned a counterfeiter,’ de Molay continued. ‘Whoever it is must have a mass of gold. We want a quarter of it.’
‘Agreed!’ Edward snapped.
‘And finally,’ de Molay leaned forward, clasping his hands together; ‘twelve years ago, Acre, the last fortress in Outremer; our door to the Holy Places, fell into Infidel hands.’
‘God knows,’ Edward murmured piously. ‘But the city of Acre still weighs heavily on my soul.’ He pressed the toe of his boot on de Warrenne’s foot, just in case the Earl began to snigger.
‘Yes, yes, I am sure it does,’ de Molay observed sarcastically.
‘I fought in the Holy Land,’ Edward retorted. ‘Thirty-three years ago I went there with my beloved wife, Eleanor. You may recall how the Old Man of the Mountain sent an assassin to kill me.’
‘And you were cured by a Templar physician,’ de Molay interrupted.
‘My lord King, you were cured for a purpose. We want you to take the cross.’ He watched the smile fade from Edward’s face. ‘We want you to swear an oath that you will go on Crusade and join the Temple in liberating Acre with one great, holy war against the forces of Islam. Do that and our Treasury in London, through its Italian bankers, will deliver to your Exchequer, by the feast of St Peter and St Paul, fifty thousand pounds sterling.’
‘Agreed!’ The king shouted.
‘We want your oath now.’
‘Impossible!’ Edward replied. ‘I am still fighting the Scots!’
‘When that war is over, will you take the oath?’ William Symmes called, touching the patch over his eye. ‘The war in Scotland will soon be over. We have agreed to your gift. You must agree to our request.’
The Templar’s one eye gleamed fanatically. Edward regretted his impetuosity. You are all in this together, he thought. You had this planned before we ever met. He glanced across at Corbett and saw the I-told-you-so look in his clerk’s eyes.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ de Molay continued. ‘You will enter York to hear Mass at the abbey church of St Mary’s. We would like you to take your oath after receiving the Eucharist. Swear, your hand on the sacrament, that when the war in Scotland is finished, you will support our Crusade.’
‘And I get the money?’
‘Will you swear?’
‘Yes, yes, I intend to enter York tomorrow by Micklegate and go through Trinity to Mass in the abbey. I’ll take the oath but will the money be paid?’
‘As I have promised,’ de Molay replied. He leaned back in his chair. ‘When this meeting was arranged, my lord King, you said there were other matters.’
Sir Hugh Corbett continued to watch the juggler amusing the royal troops in the courtyard below. The man was throwing skittles in the air and deftly catching them, whilst a scraggy-haired bear, with a monkey on its shoulder, danced a shuffling gait to the reedy tune of a piper. He heard de Molay’s remark about ‘other matters’ and sighed. He got to his feet and walked back to sit on the chair to the right of his royal master.
‘For God’s sake, stop dreaming!’ the king hissed. ‘You could have been of more help!’
The Templar commanders, pretending to chatter amongst themselves, glanced slyly up the table.
‘More like a monk,’ Branquier whispered, staring at Corbett’s cropped, black hair with flecks of grey at the temples, the smooth, olive-skinned face and deep set eyes. The king’s dramatic whisper had been heard and the Templars now waited to see what this most enigmatic of clerks would reply. Corbett leaned his elbows on the table; pushing his face only a few inches away from Edward’s.
‘My lord,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t need my help. As usual, you have a skill even the devil would admire, though for what . . .?’
The king stared back in mock, hurt innocence.
‘You got your money,’ Corbett continued. ‘The clerks of the Exchequer will draw up the agreement and you will swear whatever you like.’
‘You are not going home,’ Edward hissed spitefully. ‘I want you here, Hugh. Now, tell our guests just what our problems are.’
‘Seigneur de Molay,’ Corbett began. ‘Commanders of the Temple.’ He rose to his feet. ‘What I say to you is a matter of secrecy. The king mentioned his enemy, the Old Man of the Mountain. You know, as men who have lived and fought in Outremer, how the Old Man heads a sect of dangerous assassins.’
His words were greeted by murmurs of agreement.
‘This sect,’ Corbett continued, ‘prides itself that no man is beyond its reach. Seas, mountains, deserts pose no obstacles to them. They follow the same ritual: two daggers, each wrapped in red silk with a piece of seedcake, are always left in some prominent place as a warning to their intended victims.’ He paused, his fingers drumming the table-top. ‘Our lord the king has received such a warning. Ten days ago,’ Corbett explained, ‘two daggers, a seedcake nailed in between, were found thrust into the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.’ Corbett plucked a piece of parchment from his wallet. ‘Each dagger had a red sash tied to it. To one of the daggers was pinned the following notice:
‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.
‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.
‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.’
Corbett paused; his words had caused consternation amongst the Templars. Chairs were scraped back; no longer the calm, impassive warriors, the very mention of their inveterate enemies – as well as the sheer impudence of the message – had the Templars clutching daggers and muttering threats.
Grand Master de Molay, however, still sat as if carved out of stone.
‘How could this be done?’ Legrave shouted. ‘The Assassins live in the deserts of Syria: they have no house in Cheapside.’
His words created a ripple of laughter.
‘In London,’ Baddlesmere shouted out, ‘such an assassin would stand out like a hawk amongst pigeons!’
Corbett shook his head. ‘You mentioned Sir Amaury de Craon? True he is here, being attendant upon the king over the marriage negotiations for Philip’s daughter.’ Corbett paused to choose his words carefully. ‘But yesterday de Craon also brought messages from France. A similar message was pinned to the doors of Saint Denis. A short while later, whilst Philip was hunting in the Bois de Boulogne, a mysterious archer tried to kill him.’
The refectory had now fallen silent, all eyes on Corbett.
‘Sir Hugh, you have still not answered our question,’ de Molay said quietly. ‘How could an assassin walk through the cities of Paris and London yet not be seen?’
‘Seigneur, aren’t there links between your Order and the Assassins?’
De Molay silenced the protests of his companions.
‘We have had dealings with them, as your king has with different caliphs and sultans, not to mention the Mongol lords. Say what you are going to.’
‘Monsieur de Craon,’ Corbett continued, ‘believes the assassin is an apostate, a turncoat, a member of your Order!’
Now the Templar commanders jumped to their feet, chairs and stools were knocked over. Baddlesmere drew his dagger. Symmes pointed at Corbett, his face mottled with fury.
‘How dare you?’ He spluttered. ‘How dare you accuse us of treason? We are Christ’s monks. We spend out lives and our blood defending God’s holy creed.’
‘Sit down!’ de Molay shouted. ‘All of you!’ His sunburnt face had now turned an ashy grey and a murderous fury blazed in the grand master’s eyes.
‘You’d best sit down!’ de Warrenne ordered. ‘To draw sword or dagger in the king’s presence is treason.’
‘I have heard rumours about what happened in Paris,’ de Molay declared. ‘And I reject them as scurrilous scandal until the full facts are known. What proof does de Craon have for his assertions?’