Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘I have sinned,’ the Unknown whispered. ‘I have sinned against Heaven and earth. I, a knight of the Temple, a defender of the city of Acre, have committed dreadful sins of hate and a desire for vengeance.’

‘Tell me,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘Make your confession now. Receive absolution.’

The Unknown needed no further prompting but, staring up at the ceiling, began to recite his life: his youth on a farm in Barnsleydale; his admission to the Temple; those final, bloody days at Acre followed by the long years of pent-up bitterness in the dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain. The Franciscan listened quietly; only now and again did he interrupt and softly ask a question. The knight always answered. At the end the Franciscan lifted his hand, carefully enunciating the words of absolution. He promised that, the following morning, he’d bring the Viaticum after Mass. The Unknown grasped the friar’s hand.

‘Father, in all truth, I must tell what I know to someone else.’

‘A Templar?’ the Franciscan asked. ‘The commanders are gathered at Framlingham.’

The Unknown closed his eyes and sighed. ‘No, the traitor may be there.’ He opened his cracked lips, gasping for air. ‘The King’s Council is in York, yes?’

The Franciscan nodded. The Unknown squeezed his hand tightly.

‘For the love of God, Father, I must speak to one of the King’s Council. A man I can trust. Please, Father.’ The eyes in that thin, disfigured face burned with life. ‘Please, before I die!’

Claverley led Corbett and his companions from the Pavement up towards the Minster, and into a more refined, serene quarter of the city. The streets were broad and clean, the houses on either side had their plaster painted pink and white, the upright beams a polished or a dark mahogany, sometimes gilt-edged around windows and doors. Each stood, four or five storeys high, in its own little garden. The windows on the bottom floors were filled with glass and on the top storey with horn or oiled linen. Claverley stopped in front of one which stood on a corner of an alleyway, across from the Jackanapes tavern. He brought up the iron clanger carved in the shape of a monk’s face, and rapped loudly. At first there was no sound, though Corbett could see the glow of candlelight through the windows.

‘Don’t worry.’ Claverley grinned over his shoulder. ‘She’ll be at home.’

At last the door swung open. A maid poked her head out. Claverley whispered to her and the door closed. Corbett heard chains being removed, then it swung open and a small, grey-haired lady, dressed in a white, gold-edged veil and a gown of dark burgundy, came out. She smiled and kissed Claverley on his cheek; bright button eyes in a swarthy face studied Corbett and his companions.

‘Well, you’d best come in,’ she said huskily. ‘You can leave your horses in the stable at the Jackanapes.’

Whilst Maltote led their mounts off, the woman took them into what she called ‘her downstairs parlour’, a long, comfortable chamber which must have stretched the length of the house. Through the open window at the far end, Corbett glimpsed flowerbeds and a small orchard of apple trees. The room was luxurious. There had been rushes in the passageway outside, but in here carpets lay on the floor and broad strips of bright cloth hung against the wall. A tapestry was fixed above the hearth, and on a long beam which spanned the ceiling stood row upon row of flickering candles.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ Claverley made the introductions. ‘May I introduce Jocasta Kitcher, gentlewoman, merchant, the maker of fine cloth, owner of the Jackanapes tavern and, in her time, a much travelled lady.’

‘Once a flatterer always a flatterer,’ Jocasta retorted.

She ushered her visitors towards the hearth as a maid, hurrying from the kitchens, pulled up chairs around the weak fire. At first there was confusion: Ranulf knocked a stool over and then Dame Jocasta insisted that they ‘partake of her hospitality’, telling the maid to bring goblets of wine and a tray of marzipan biscuits.

Corbett’s stomach was still unsettled after the executions, but the effusive bonhomie of this little lady and the air of mystery around her soon distracted him. He sat on his chair and sipped the wine, surprised at its sweet coolness.

Dame Jocasta leaned forward. ‘My cellars are always flooded,’ she declared. ‘Oh, not with sewer muck. York has underground rivers and the water is icy cold, it keeps the white wine chilled.’

‘Are there many such rivers?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, Lord above.’ Jocasta twirled her cup, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, between her hands. ‘York is two cities, Sir Hugh. There’s what you see in the streets, but-’ her voice dropped to a deep whisper ‘-underneath the lanes there’s another city built by the Romans: it has sewers and paths, long forgotten.’ She grinned. ‘I know, my husband and I used those sewers a great deal. Oh, don’t look so puzzled,’ she rattled on. ‘Hasn’t Claverley told you?’

‘That’s the reason I brought him here!’ Claverley declared. ‘I haven’t yet told him our secrets, Dame Jocasta, but I thought you could help. There’s a counterfeiter in York,’ he continued hurriedly.

‘Then trap and hang him!’

‘This is different,’ Corbett replied. He took a gold coin and handed it over.

Jocasta’s hand was warm and soft, her fingers covered with expensive rings. She grasped the coin and examined it with a sigh of admiration, letting it drop from hand to hand, weighing it carefully, studying the rim and the cross carved on either side.

‘This is pure gold.’

‘Whatever they are,’ Corbett intervened, ‘they are not from the king’s Mint and are issued without royal licence. Now, I agree, Dame Jocasta, counterfeiters usually take one good coin and make two bad, adulterating the silver with base alloys and metals. However, I’ve never heard of anyone using the finest gold to counterfeit coins.’

Dame Jocasta lifted her head. ‘Sir Hugh, you need not tell me about counterfeiting. Forty years ago — aye I look younger than I am,’ she added merrily, her small eyes bright with laughter. ‘. . Forty years ago I ran wild in this city. My parents could not control me. On a hot midsummer’s day I went to a fair outside Micklegate Bar. I met the merriest rogue on God’s own earth, my husband, Robard. Now he was a clerk, fallen on hard times. He couldn’t abide the stuffy Chanceries and the long, miserable-faced clerks.’

She paused as Ranulf choked on the biscuit he was eating. Corbett’s glare soon made him clear his throat. Ranulf hid his face, staring into the wine cup as if something very precious lay there.

‘Robard was a knave born and bred,’ Jocasta continued. ‘He could sing like a robin and dance the maypole into the ground. He was attracted to mischief like a cat to cream. I loved him immediately. I still do, even though he’s ten years dead.’

Claverley stretched over and touched her hand. ‘Finish your story,’ he murmured.

‘Well, well, well.’ Jocasta held up the gold piece, she turned it so it caught the candlelight. ‘Robard would have loved this. He wanted to be rich, amass silver and go to foreign parts to be a great merchant or warrior. I became part of his knavery. I’d steal out of my house at night and join him in the moonlight. We’d lie on the tombstones of St Peter’s Church and he would tell me tales of what we could do. We became handfast, betrothed, then Robard’s desire to become rich led him into counterfeiting. He became known amongst the cunning and upright men of the city, the cranks, the palliards, the foists, pickpockets, all the scum of the earth.’ She shrugged. ‘We hired a small forge just off Coney Street and began to counterfeit coins. This was in the old king’s time, when the governance of the city was not what it should be. . Then we were caught. At the assizes Robard was given two choices: either hang from the gallows on the Pavement or join Prince Edward’s Crusade. Of course, he chose the latter. The levies massed outside in the meadows in Bishop’s Fields just across the river. Robard, however, was a pressed man: he was kept in chains until he boarded the king’s ships. I went with him.’