Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Corbett held up a hand. ‘You said sturdy?’

‘They were sturdy enough,’ Chanson declared. ‘Master, I’ve begged for food. These looked well fed, and what was truly suspicious, unlike the rest, they simply took the bread, didn’t eat it but hurried back along the trackway to Mistleham. I followed. Even more surprising, master, these beggars can afford to lodge at the Honeycomb.’

Corbett beamed with pleasure, extended his arms and embraced Chanson warmly, winking over the clerk’s shoulder at Ranulf.

‘Well done, good and faithful servant!’ Corbett stood back. ‘Now, Chanson, let’s saddle our horses and visit these beggars who are not so hungry and can lodge in a tavern chamber.’

A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf, accompanied by Chanson, rode into Mistleham marketplace. Afternoon trading was not brisk, as many of the apprentices had adjourned to the nearest cookshop or tavern for a stoup of ale and a platter of food. The wandering troupe of actors was now busy erecting the scenery on the stage so as to encourage people to come and watch.The troupe leader, still standing in his pulpit, was warning all who cared to listen about the dangers of hell, where sinners were served goblets of fiery liquid whilst toads and snakes cooked in sulphur were their daily food. Another member of the troupe had set up a small stool beside the carts, offering all sorts of cures for every ailment known. As Corbett and his companions passed, the mountebank was busy lecturing a poor old woman nursing the side of her face about how vinegar, oil and sulphur mixed together cured mouth sores whilst a candle of mutton fat, mingled with the seed of sea holly, was a marvellous cure for a rotten tooth. The candle, he trumpeted, should be held close to the decaying tooth with a bowl of cold water underneath, and the worms infecting the tooth would simply drop out into the bowl. Corbett smiled as he and Ranulf dismounted. He’d heard such a story before. He was also acutely aware of the other scenes of the marketplace: the stalls being visited, two madcaps, drunk beyond reasoning, dancing together, the bailiffs looking on, a dog and cat noisily baiting each other. A traveller from afar, burnt dark by the sun, was standing on a stone plinth near the church, eager to tell his stories about the wonders he’d seen. Corbett paused for a while, staring around, then glanced towards the Honeycomb.

‘Chanson,’ he murmured, ‘when we reach the tavern, take our horses down the alleyway. Ranulf, you follow me inside.’

The tap room was busy, a spacious low-ceilinged chamber, its beams burnt black, the floor covered in a mushy mess of reeds. Most of the windows were shuttered. Lanterns, candles and oil wicks had been lit, though their glow did little to dissipate the gloom or reveal the shadowy figures sitting at tables. Corbett walked slowly across, grasping the hilt of his sword. He was awareof heads turning, the whispers, exclamations about ‘the King’s men’. The master taverner came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.

‘Sirs, what would you like?’

Corbett shook his head. He took off his gauntlet, dipped into his purse and brought out a silver coin, twirling it before the taverner’s greedy eyes.

‘Three men,’ Corbett whispered, ‘dressed like beggars. They lodge together?’

The taverner was about to lie; the silver coin was twirled again, Corbett’s other hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

‘Up the stairs, master,’ he whispered, ‘in the stairwell, the door before you, there’s no lock or bolt. You can just push it open.’

Corbett and Ranulf, swords and daggers drawn, went quickly up the greasy stairs. Corbett didn’t pause to knock; he pushed open the door, Ranulf following in quickly behind him. The men squatting inside on the floor, playing dice, tried to scramble for their war belts and longbows piled in the corner. Ranulf moved faster, knocking one aside to stand between them and their weapons. For a while there was confusion as the men backed away, but there was no place to hide in the small, shabby chamber with its cobwebbed corners, flaking walls and small open window. Palliasses lay rolled in a heap against one wall. A jake’s pot stood on a small shelf nearby. The room smelt stale, the dirty floor splattered with grease. At first glance the three men didn’t seem out of place, dressed in coarse jupons, hose and scuffed boots, but their war belts were of gleaming leather, the hilts of their swords and daggers finely wrought, whilst the longbows were the work of a craftsman. Corbett advanced threateningly, and all three backed away. Theylooked bedraggled and dishevelled, faces almost hidden by straggling hair and beards, yet they were certainly not beggars but professional warriors, quick of eye, not frightened, just watchful, ready to exploit any mistake by their unexpected guests. Corbett sheathed his sword and squatted down. He pointed a finger.

‘Who are you? You’re not beggars. You take food that you don’t eat. You hide in a tavern garret and, I wager, only leave to meet Brother Gratian. Shall I tell you what you are, gentlemen? You’re Templars.’ He studied all three of them. The man in the centre was older, hair and beard streaked with grey, green eyes gleaming in a face burnt dark by the sun. ‘Yes, Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘You, sir,’ he pointed to the man in the centre, ‘you are a knight; your companions are your squires. You’ve been sent here from New Temple in London to recover the Sanguis Christi.’ He paused; the men remained watchful and silent. ‘We have met before,’ Corbett smiled, ‘on the trackway leading out of Mistleham, only then you were hooded and visored. Your bows were strung, arrows notched at me, the King’s man. Templars or not, you do know that is treason? To draw weapons against the King’s own envoy? I could take you downstairs and hang you out of hand in the marketplace. You come here disguised as beggars to search for the Sanguis Christi, which you believe belongs rightly to your order. It was in the hands of Lord Scrope but has now disappeared. You thought I held it and tried to frighten me. You failed. Am I correct?’

The Templar on his left gazed longingly over his shoulder at the weapons.

‘Please,’ Corbett murmured, ‘don’t do anything foolish. The tavern master and those below, though they dislike me, know I’m a King’s man. If I shout, “Harrow, harrow” and raise the hue andcry, what will happen then? What are you going to do, sirs, fight your way out? Kill the King’s envoy? Look, I have no quarrel with you. You can go on your way as long as you are out of Mistleham by this evening, but first I want information. You are Templars?’

The man in the centre glanced quickly at his companions and his face creased into a half-smile.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, we are Templars. I am Jean La Marche, formerly of Dijon, now working for the New Temple in London; these are my two squires, Raoul and Everard. We are here on the orders of our master to recover what is rightful Temple property: the Sanguis Christi and other treasures looted from our treasury at Acre by Lord Scrope. He is now dead; whoever killed him probably has the Sanguis Christi.’

‘Ah,’ Corbett smiled, ‘so you’ve changed your position from when we met last. You thought I had it. Of course, Brother Gratian has now told you different. Lord Scrope is dead and the Sanguis Christi is missing. He communicated with you by inserting a small scroll in one of the loaves he distributed, or even slipping it directly into your hand. You must be well advised about what occurs in Mistleham.’

The Templar stared bleakly back.

‘What happened in Acre?’ Corbett asked. ‘Do you know?’

The Templar shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’ Corbett insisted.