KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US, the message read. KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.
KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.
Corbett studied the scrawl on the parchment: the sequence of the verses was slightly changed but the threat was just as real. He glanced up: the boy was gone, impossible to follow. Somewhere in the crowds the Assassin had been watching them, tracking their every footstep. The dead Templar had not been alone, he had merely been a pawn – and the game was only just beginning.
Chapter 3
Edward of England sprawled in the great wooden bath in the private chamber of the archbishop’s palace. The tub’s surroundings had been covered by a purple buckram cloth, filled by a troop of servants carrying buckets of scalding water, then sweetened by rose-hips and other herbs. The king sat with his arms out on either side, allowing his body to float in the sweet-smelling, soapy water. He glared over the rim at Corbett who was sitting next to de Warrenne. The clerk was trying to keep his face straight: not that Edward lost any of his royal dignity in taking a bath, the clerk was more amused by the pretensions of the archbishop, the owner of this tub, whose coat of arms, not to mention a few crosses, were painted on the bath.
‘Do you think it’s amusing?’ Edward snarled. ‘I have just been promised a loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling by the Templars. I have taken their bloody oath to go on Crusade: now you say the bastards are trying to kill me!’
‘It wasn’t a loan,’ Corbett retorted, ‘it was a gift. If you go on Crusade, Your Grace, then with all due respect, that tub will sing the Te Deum.’
Edward rose to his feet, shaking himself like a dog. He stepped out of the bath; de Warrenne placed a woollen cloth round his shoulders.
‘I enjoyed that,’ Edward declared. ‘I wish I didn’t have to wait until mid-summer for the next.’ He padded over to Corbett, shaking the water from his hair. ‘You bathe once a week, don’t you?’
‘An Arab physician, a student of Salerno, said it would do me no harm.’
‘It makes you soft!’ Edward grumbled.
The king went across to a small table, filled three gold-encrusted goblets with wine and brought them back, thrusting one each into de Warrenne’s and Corbett’s hands.
‘So, this Templar loosed two arrows at me then burst into flames?’
‘Apparently, my lord, though there must have been someone else there,’ Corbett replied. ‘The same person followed me through York and delivered that warning message.’
‘But why should the Templars want me dead?’ Edward asked. And does this attack have anything in common with that poor bastard those two nuns found burning on the road outside York?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘You still look fresh, Corbett. I want you to go out to Framlingham.’ He slipped a ring from his finger and dropped it into Corbett’s hand. ‘Show that to de Molay. He’ll recognise it.’
Corbett looked at the amethyst sparkling on the gold ring.
‘The Templars gave it to my father,’ Edward explained. ‘I want it back, till then it’s your authority to act. You are to investigate, Corbett! Use that long nose and sharp brain, ferret out the assassin and, when you do, I’ll kill him!’
‘Is that all, my Lord?’
‘What more do you want?’ Edward sneered. ‘The archbishop’s tub to sing the “Te Deum” for you? Oh,’ he called out as Corbett rose, bowed and made his way to the door, ‘I want you to stay at Framlingham until this business is finished. However, to show my friendship to the grand master, take that tun of wine I promised.’
There was a rap on the door and it was abruptly pushed open, almost knocking Corbett over. Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s envoy to the English council, stalked into the room all afluster. He scarcely seemed aware of de Warrenne, but immediately sank to one knee before the king.
‘Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘I heard about the attack on you.’ He raised his red-bearded, foxy face. ‘On behalf of my own master I give thanks to God for your safe deliverance. I pray that your enemy will soon be brought to destruction.’
‘As he will be. As he will be.’
Edward stretched his hand out for the French envoy to kiss. De Craon did so, then rose to his feet.
‘Our dear and well-beloved clerk, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of our Secret Seal,’ the king continued, ‘will search out the truth.’
‘As I have done on other occasions,’ Corbett added, closing the door and leaning against it.
De Craon turned. ‘Sir Hugh, God save you!’ And, going over, he grasped the English clerk by the arms and kissed him, Judas-like, on his cheek. ‘You look well, Sir Hugh!’
Corbett stared at his inveterate enemy: Philip’s spy-master and the source of all his intrigues. He admired the Frenchman’s ostentatious dress: the damask tunic, edged at the neck and cuffs with gold; the hem over shiny red leather boots, studded with miniature gems.
‘And you, Sir Amaury, have not changed.’
De Craon smiled, though, keeping his back to the king, his eyes betrayed a deep antipathy for this English clerk he’d love to kill.
‘Congratulate me, Sir Hugh. I am married and my wife is already with child.’
‘Then you are twice blessed, Sir Amaury.’
‘But I did not come to share pleasantries.’ De Craon turned. ‘Nor even to rejoice in His Grace’s narrow escape.’
‘Then what?’ Corbett snapped.
‘Warnings from my master,’ de Craon continued. ‘You heard of a similar attack on him whilst hunting in the Bois de Boulogne?’
‘Continue,’ Edward said softly.
‘The culprit was found,’ de Craon explained. ‘A Templar, a high-ranking serjeant from their fortress in Paris. My master’s agents arrested him. He made a full confession after a short sojourn in the dungeon of the Louvre.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘Apparently there are high-ranking Templars who view their expulsion from the Holy Land as the fault of the Western kings, the Holy Roman Emperor, even the Pope himself; more especially, Philip of France and Edward of England.’
Corbett walked across. ‘And so you bring warnings?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I bring warnings. England and France are about to sign a great treaty of peace. It will be cemented by a royal marriage between the two houses. Both our countries have had their differences. However, this is a common danger which threatens us both and could shatter that peace.’
‘And what else did this serjeant confess?’ Edward asked.
De Craon plucked a parchment from his sleeve and thrust it at Corbett. ‘See for yourself!’
Corbett unrolled the parchment and read it; as he did so, he realised that his suspicions about de Craon were, on this occasion, apparently unfounded.
‘What does it say?’ the king asked, sitting down on a bench.
Corbett studied the manuscript, taking it over to a window for better light. ‘It’s a confession,’ Corbett explained. ‘By a serjeant based in the Temple at Paris. He admits to trying to kill Philip in the Bois de Boulogne. Apparently, the serjeant was carrying out the orders of a high ranking officer known only to him as “Sagittarius” or “The Archer”.’
‘And Philip’s torturers wrung this out of him?’ Edward asked.
‘No,’ Corbett looked up, ‘not the royal torturers.’ He saw de Craon’s smile of satisfaction. ‘No less a person than the grand inquisitor.’
‘And you know,’ de Craon intervened, ‘the Holy Inquisition is a law unto itself.’
‘Apparently,’ Corbett continued, studying the manuscript carefully, ‘certain artefacts were found in the Templar’s possession: a pentangle, a picture of an inverted cross, and other tools of the black magician.’ He glanced up. ‘Which is why the Inquisition took the matter over. The serjeant maintained that he and other Templars were part of a warlock’s coven, participating in Satanic practices, the worship of demons and a disembodied head.’
Corbett glanced at the bottom of the paper. He studied the blood-red seal of the Holy Inquisition as well as the personal signature of the master grand inquisitor and his two witnesses.
‘So,’ Edward leaned forward, ‘this is a serious threat.’
De Craon nodded tersely. ‘My master has already written to Pope Boniface the Eighth demanding the order be investigated.’ He rose and sank to one knee before the king. ‘But I shall inform my master about your safe deliverance. And,’ he added slyly, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Corbett, ‘your sacred vow to go on Crusade.’
‘In which,’ Corbett intervened, ‘my master will call on other Western princes to join him.’
De Craon got to his feet and bowed at Corbett. ‘You shall not find Philip of France lacking. He is ready to spill his blood, as his grandfather did, to win back God’s fief.’ And, making further obeisances, de Craon left the room as swiftly as he had arrived.
‘It must have been hard,’ Corbett declared, going over to make sure the door was closed. ‘For de Craon, once in his life, to tell the truth.’
‘Go to Framlingham,’ Edward declared. ‘Take up residence there. Tell their grand master that if any Templar is found outside the grounds of that manor, he will be arrested on suspicion of high treason!’
Ranulf and Maltote complained bitterly at being pulled away from their game of dice with the royal archers. Their wails grew even louder as Corbett told them where they were going.
‘Stop moaning,’ their master ordered. ‘First, it’s only a matter of time before the archers realise you cheat. Secondly, Ranulf, a period of abstinence from chasing the ladies will do your soul the world of good.’
As they later rode through the streets of York, Corbett did not bother to look, though he knew Ranulf was scowling behind him and muttering under his breath about ‘Master Long Face’ and his killjoy actions. Maltote was more resigned. As long as he was with horses and able to know what the great lords of the soil were planting, he was content. So, he let Ranulf mutter on whilst trying to manage a vicious sumpter pony who deeply resented being plucked from a comfortable stable and taken through the noisy, dusty streets of York.
Ranulf, who had got to know the city well, eventually pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.
‘Master, surely we should be going in the other direction? Framlingham lies beyond Botham Bar to the north of the city.’
Corbett paused just before they entered the Shambles, York’s great meat-market.
‘We have business, Ranulf, with Master Hubert Seagrave, King’s vintner and proud owner of the Greenmantle tavern in Coppergate. We are to take the grand master a present.’
Corbett stared down the narrow streets ahead of him. He saw the blood and offal which coated the cobbles in a bloody mess; from the stalls on either side of the street hung the gutted carcases of sheep, lambs and pigs. He pulled his horse’s head round.
‘Let’s find another way.’
As he turned, an arrow bolt whirred by his face, smashing into the plaster wall of the house alongside. Corbett stared open-mouthed: Ranulf seized the reins of his horse, pulling it into a gallop down a narrow alleyway leading into Coppergate. Tradesmen, apprentices, beggars, children, scavenging dogs and cats fled before the pounding hooves. The more quick-witted picked up fistfuls of refuse and threw it at these three riders, for Maltote had quickly followed suit. Once in Coppergate, Corbett reined in.
‘Who fired that?’ he demanded.
Ranulf wiped the sweat from his face. ‘God knows, but I don’t intend to go back and find out.’
Corbett hurriedly dismounted, ordering Ranulf and Maltote to do the same.
‘Keep the horses on the outside!’ he urged.
They walked down Coppergate. A trader ran up, protesting at their feckless ride. Ranulf drew his sword, shouting that they were on the king’s business, so the fellow backed away.
‘What was it, a warning?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I had not turned, that arrow would have found its mark.’
‘Shall we go back?’ Maltote asked. ‘Perhaps — ’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf snarled. He gestured at the houses on either side. ‘Windows, doors, alleyways, nooks and crannies; you could hide an army in York.’
Corbett walked on. He just wished his stomach would stop heaving. The narrowness of his escape made him feel light-headed, and the sweat coating his body was turning cold. He tried to distract himself by looking at the crowds on either side, the different colours, the shouts and cries, but he was afraid. He felt like drawing his sword and dashing into the crowd. He also found he could not stop thinking about Maeve and his baby daughter Eleanor. They will be cleaning the rooms, he thought, now spring was here; Maeve will turn the house inside out. Oh God! he thought. Would she be doing that when the messenger came riding up the manor path? Would she run down to meet him? How would she take the message sent by the king that his trusted and well-beloved clerk, her husband, was dead, killed by some assassin in York? He heard, as if from far off, his name being called.
‘Master? Sir Hugh?’
Corbett stopped and glanced at Ranulf.
‘What is it?’ Corbett rasped. His throat and lips were bone dry.
‘Do you know where we are going?’ Ranulf asked quietly, alarmed by Corbett’s pallid face.
‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett confessed. ‘I am sorry. We should have left York.’
‘Nonsense.’ Ranulf leaned over and gripped his master’s hand, ice-cold to the touch. ‘We are going to the Greenmantle tavern,’ Ranulf said quietly. ‘We’ll collect the tun of wine, Master, and go on to Framlingham. We’ll tell those Templar bastards they cannot leave the place: then you’ll ask your questions. You’ll sit and you’ll brood like you always do. And, before Ascension Day has arrived, you’ll have dispatched another felon to his well-deserved fate. Now, come on,’ Ranulf urged. ‘Cheer up. After all, I am leaving Lucia.’
‘Lucia?’ Corbett asked.