‘Quite considerable,’ Edward intervened. ‘On the day the assault was launched on Philip, a soldier, wearing the Templar livery, was seen fleeing from the Bois de Boulogne. Secondly, Templars are in London and in Paris. Thirdly, the Templars know the rites of the Assassins: the dagger, the red silk, the sesame seedcake and the three-fold message. Fourthly,’ Edward straightened in his chair and pointed a finger at de Molay. ‘You know, Monseigneur, how there are many in your Order, perhaps even seated round this table, who believe that the Temple was driven out of the Holy Land due, or so they claim, to a lack of support from the kingdoms in the West. Finally,’ Edward looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, finally, and I will say this. Thirty years ago the Assassins tried to kill me. They failed and I brained the man responsible with a stool. Very few people know about that attack. Most of the lords who were with me at the time are now dead, but the Templars knew.’
‘And are there other matters?’ de Molay asked wearily.
Corbett, ignoring the rancour his words had caused, continued in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Since the reign of the king’s father, the Templars have owned the manor of Framlingham on the Botham Bar road, outside York. Usually it is left in the care of bailiffs and stewards. However, over the last two weeks, since the arrival of your good selves in York, petitions have come in about strange happenings: fires are seen glowing at night in the woods. Certain rooms and passageways are strictly forbidden . . .’
‘This is nonsense!’ Branquier interrupted. ‘We are a religious Order. We have our own rituals. Sir Hugh, the Templars are an enclosed community: we would not let any jack-in-the-puddle know what we are doing, no more than the king or yourself allow the common sort to wander through the Chancery rooms at Westminster or the Treasury chamber of the Tower.’
‘There are other matters,’ Corbett continued. ‘Sir Richard Branquier, you showed us a gold coin, certainly not from the Royal Mints. Now, with all due respect, these gold coins appeared during the last month: the very time you and your companions took up residence at Framlingham Manor.’
The Templar commanders objected vociferously, beating their fists on the table, shouting denials at what Corbett had said. De Molay remained impassive, gently clapping his hands, exercising that iron discipline for which the Temple was so famous.
‘You’d best finish, Sir Hugh,’ he declared resignedly. ‘What else are we held responsible for? Surely not the strange death on Botham Bar road?’
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Now you mention it, Monseigneur; two good sisters, Cecilia and Marcia, accompanied by their guide Thurston, came before the mayor and aldermen of this city and swore that, as they approached York, a horse, bearing the lower half of a man’s body, charged wildly by them. Further along the trackway, they discovered a corpse being eerily burnt to death by a fire for which they could see no source.’
‘Yes, we heard that,’ Baddlesmere declared. ‘The story is all over York. The man’s body was burnt beyond recognition.’
‘Not exactly,’ Sir Hugh interrupted. ‘Only the top half of the man’s corpse was burning, the bottom part of his torso and legs . . . He shrugged. ‘Well, you have heard the story. What is strange is no one knows who he was, why he was attacked, the identity of the killer, or where the strange fire came from.’
‘I object.’ Branquier spoke up, turning to de Molay. ‘Monseigneur, we have been brought here and our generosity has been exploited. We have always served the Crown of England well and have just agreed to the bestowal of a most generous gift. Now the king’s senior clerk, his Keeper of the Secret Seal, stands in our presence and whispers the most scandalous allegations.’
De Molay placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. ‘No, no.’ De Molay shook his head. ‘You are not saying that, are you, Sir Hugh? You do not really believe the Templars are guilty of such horrid acts?’
‘No, Monseigneur, we do not.’ Corbett stared bleakly at Branquier. ‘But remember, sirs; first, we have not gossiped behind your backs but bluntly informed you about what others have whispered to us. Secondly, there is a remarkable coincidence between your arrival here and those strange happenings. Thirdly, and most importantly, the Templars are a kingdom in themselves. You have houses which stretch from the borders of Scotland to the toe of Italy. From Rouen in the West to the borders of the Slavs. Now gold coins, burning corpses . . .’ Corbett shrugged. ‘These matters can be dealt with, but treason against our lord the king is another matter. You can use your knowledge and power to acquire information. You listen to the rumours of courts.’
‘In other words,’ de Molay intervened, ‘you would like us to search out why the Assassins have decided now to reawaken old grievances against your king?’
‘Exactly,’ Corbett replied. ‘We do not intend to threaten you.’ He turned and bowed to Edward. ‘The king has already agreed to the confirmation of your rights and privileges. We simply seek your help in this matter. We would be grateful for what you discover.’
‘And it does not affect what we have agreed?’ the king asked.
‘No,’ de Molay replied. ‘It does not.’
The king heaved a sigh. ‘Then in the abbey church tomorrow, I will take the oath.’
After that the meeting broke up. De Molay and his commanders bowed and took their leave. Edward, de Warrenne and Corbett sat in the refectory, listening to the mailed footsteps of the Templars fade in the distance. The king grinned slyly at Corbett.
‘I got what I wanted, did I not?’
‘And so did the Templars, my lord. Your oath will be a public statement of support for them.’
‘It was a pity,’ Edward pushed back his chair, ‘that you had to lay such allegations before them.’
Corbett smiled as he began to clear his writing tray from the desk.
‘My lord, you have been threatened. These are matters which could be laid at the Templars’ door. By raising them, you are warning the Templars that, perhaps, their Order does not enjoy the support it once did.’
‘Do you think there is any truth in the Assassins’ threat?’ De Warrenne asked.
‘The knives were found,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Thirty years ago His Grace was attacked by the same sect. We also have the warnings brought by Monsieur de Craon.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s all too vague.’
‘In other words,’ Edward declared, getting to his feet and stretching till his muscles cracked, ‘not serious enough to hold you here at York, eh, Hugh? So you can scuttle off, back to your manor at Leighton, to the lovely Lady Maeve and Baby Eleanor.’
‘It has been three months, Sire. You did promise I would be released from your service at Candlemas, some seven weeks ago.’
Edward glanced down at him. ‘Affairs of state, Sir Hugh.’ The king held up his long, scar-studded fingers. ‘We have a council in York and the French envoy is here. We have the marriage negotiations for my son. There’s the business of the counterfeit coins and the matter of the Templars.’ He gripped Corbett’s shoulder. ‘I need you here, Hugh.’
‘And my lady wife needs me at home.’ Corbett retorted. ‘You gave your word, Sire. You, Edward of England, whose motto is, “My word is my troth”.’
The king shrugged. ‘Well, sometimes it is . . .’ He picked up his cloak from the back of the chair and swung it round his shoulders. ‘. . . and sometimes it isn’t.’
‘We’d all like to go home to our wives and families,’ de Warrenne exclaimed, glaring like an angry boar at Corbett. Deep in his heart the earl could never understand why the king tolerated this clerk’s bluntness. Corbett bit his tongue. He felt like reminding the earl that if he was married to Lady de Warrenne, he’d spend as much time as he could as far away as possible from her. He looked at the king.
‘So, when can I leave, Sire?’
Edward pursed his lips. ‘By mid-April. I promise you, by the feast of Alphage, you will be released. But, meanwhile,’ Edward strode to the door, snapping his fingers for de Warrenne to follow, ‘I want that counterfeiter unmasked. I want you to keep an eye on the Templars. There are also over a hundred petitions from our good burgesses at York. You and that green-eyed rapscallion clerk of yours, Ranulf, can deal with them.’ The king paused, one hand on the latch. ‘Oh, and to show there’s no ill-feeling between myself and the grand master; go to the vintner, the master taverner Hubert Seagrave. He owns the largest tavern in York, just off Coppergate. Ask him for a tun of his best Gascony. Tomorrow, after I have sworn the oath, take it out to Framlingham. A gift from me to him.’
Corbett turned in his chair. ‘And will you go on Crusade, Sire?’
Edward looked innocently back. ‘Of course, Hugh. I have given my word. Once all the affairs in England are settled, then you and I, de Warrenne and all the rest, will go on Crusade to Jerusalem.’
And, chuckling softly to himself, the king swept out of the chamber, de Warrenne plodding behind him. Corbett sighed and got to his feet. He stared round the refectory, the huge, black cross hanging on the far wall and the brightly coloured triptych above the fireplace. He went back to the window and stared down into the courtyard. The king’s soldiers had persuaded two blind beggars to have a duel with wooden swords. The two hairy, ragged men lurched and struck at each other, staggering about, their wooden swords beating the air. Now and again the circle of soldiers pushed them back into the ring with roars of laughter.
‘Didn’t you have enough?’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘Didn’t you see enough humiliation and bloodshed on the Scottish march?’
He sat in the window-seat. Since the end of January the king had been in his northern shires, launching raids across the Scottish border, trying to bring to battle or capture the elusive Scottish leader William Wallace. Corbett had become sickened by the hamlets and villages left as a black, smouldering mess, the corpses strewn about in pools of scarlet across the damp, broken heather. The columns of grey smoke, the stench of death and putrefaction, the gibbets full of corpses naked as worms. Cattle and sheep slaughtered, their bloated bodies fouling streams and wells, all consumed by the sea of fire which Edward, in retreat, had lit to burn everything behind him.
Corbett didn’t just want to go back to Maeve and Eleanor because he was missing them; he was also sickened by Edward’s ruthless drive to bring the Scots to heel; and by the intricacies and subtleties of court intrigues; by nobles like de Warrenne who believed they were lords of the soil and every other man and woman had been born to serve them. The two beggar-men were now crying. Corbett was tempted to ignore them but, rising, he thrust open the window.
‘Stop it!’ he yelled.
One of the soldiers was about to make an obscene gesture back, but his companion immediately recognised Corbett and whispered in the soldier’s ear. Corbett called over to a serjeant.
‘Take the beggars to the almoner!’ He shouted. ‘Give them bread and wine and send them on their way!’
The grizzled veteran nodded. ‘The lads are just amusing themselves, sir.’
‘There has been amusement enough!’ Corbett snapped. ‘Make sure your lads pay for their enjoyment. Organise a collection for the beggars!’
Corbett waited for the serjeant to carry out his orders then closed the window. He heard a rap on the door.
‘Come in.’
Ranulf, his manservant, now a fully fledged clerk in the Chancery of the Green Seal, swaggered in, his red hair tied in a knot behind his head. Proud of his clerkly tunic of light blue edged with squirrel fur, Ranulf stuck his thumbs in the broad swordbelt fastened round his waist. His cat-like eyes twinkled in a smile.
‘Are we going home, Master?’
‘No!’ Corbett snapped, ‘we are not.’ And he went back to the table.
Ranulf quickly made a face at the blond-haired, bland-faced Maltote, Corbett’s messenger.
‘Good,’ he whispered.
Corbett whirled round. ‘What holds you at York, Ranulf?’
‘Oh, nothing, Master.’
Corbett studied him carefully. ‘Do you ever tell the truth, Ranulf?’
‘Every time I open my mouth, Master.’
‘And you have no lady-love here? No burgess’s buxom wife?’
‘Of course not, Master.’
Corbett turned back to his writing tray. Ranulf pulled a face behind him and quietly thanked God that Corbett hadn’t questioned him about the burgess’s buxom daughters.
‘So, we are staying?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett wearily replied. ‘We’ll take lodgings in St Mary’s Abbey. Meanwhile, we have work to do. You have the petitions?’
Maltote hurried across, carrying a thick roll of vellum. ‘This is what the clerks have received.’
Corbett gestured at his servants to sit on either side of the table.
‘We’ll work for two more hours,’ he declared.
As Corbett reopened his writing case, Ranulf looked across at Maltote and raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Master Long Face’, as Ranulf had secretly nicknamed Corbett, was not in the best of humours. Nevertheless, both men helped as Corbett began to work through the roll of vellum containing all the petitions the council had received, once the good burgesses of York knew the king was visiting their city. Every town had the right to petition the Crown, and Edward took such matters most seriously. The Chancery clerks would collect individual petitions, write them out again in a fair hand on sheets of parchment which were then sewn together. One of Corbett’s functions, whenever he was at Court, was to deal with such requests. This collection of petitions covered a multitude of affairs: Francesca Ingoldsby complained against Elizabeth Raddle for assaulting and beating her with a broomstick on a pavement in the presence of their neighbours. Matthew Belle complained against Thomas Cooke for assault and striking him in the face with a poker at the Green Mantle tavern. Thomasina Wheel sought a licence to go beyond the seas to St James’s Shrine at Compostella. Mary Verdell alleged she’d lost a cloak and believed Elizabeth Fryer was the culprit. John de Bartonon and Beatrice his wife complained against the vicar of their church who constantly trespassed upon their property. On and on the petitions went. Corbett ordered some of them to be sent to the city council, others to the sheriff, or the mayor; a few he kept for the king’s consideration. One, in particular, he did scrutinise: it was from Hubert Seagrave, ‘king’s vintner in his own city of York’, seeking permission to buy two messuages of land adjoining his tavern.