Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Yes, it did,’ Corbett replied. ‘The king and Court moved down from the Scottish march and stayed outside York. Shortly after the Templar commanders arrived, these coins began to appear.’

‘But where would they get the gold from?’ Claverley asked.

Corbett toyed with his Chancery ring which bore the insignia of the Secret Seal.

‘They did grant the king a huge gift,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘And they have treasures not known to anyone.’

Corbett recalled the secret room at Framlingham. Was there a connection between this gold and the murders?

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett shook himself from his reverie. ‘I am sorry, Dame Jocasta.’ He rose to his feet, took her hand and pressed it with his lips. ‘I thank you for your help.’

‘You are not just hunting a counterfeiter, are you?’ she asked shrewdly. ‘Not the king’s principal clerk!’

Corbett stroked her cheek gently with his finger. ‘No, Domina, I am not. As usual,’ he added bitterly, ‘I am hunting demons: men who kill for the-devil-knows-what reason.’

‘Then you should be careful, Clerk,’ she replied softly. ‘For those who hunt demons either become hunted, or demons themselves.’

Ranulf, standing in the shadows of the doorway, saw his master start, as if Jocasta’s words had struck home, but then the old lady smiled and the tension eased. Corbett and Claverley made their farewells and followed Ranulf out and across into the yard of the Jackanapes tavern: here, a guilty-faced Maltote, brimming tankard to his lips, was declaiming to the round-eyed ostlers and slatterns what an important man he was. Ranulf, ever with an eye for mischief, joined the group and began to tease Maltote, whilst Corbett and Claverley went into the taproom. They took a table overlooking the small garden. For a while Corbett stared out, watching the sun set in a glorious explosion of colours. Claverley ordered some ale. Corbett sipped his, thinking of Dame Jocasta’s warning as he fought the waves of homesickness. The flowers and the garden reminded him of home and, in his heart, Corbett knew that he would not stay here much longer. He wanted Maeve and Eleanor. He’d even sit for hours and listen to Uncle Morgan’s fabulous boasting about the great Welsh heroes. He wanted to sleep in a bed with no dagger by his side and walk without a warbelt strapped round his waist.

‘Was that helpful?’ Claverley interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, it was.’ Corbett smiled an apology. ‘We at least know the counterfeiter is powerful, wealthy, has access to gold and knows how to distribute these coins.’

‘Could it be the Templars?’ Claverley asked. ‘At the Guildhall we’ve heard rumours. .’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. He leaned across the table and clapped the man on his shoulder. ‘I am not the best of companions: Roger, are you a family man?’

‘Twice married,’ the under-sheriff replied with a grin. ‘My first wife died but my second has given me lovely children.’

‘Do you ever tire of hunting demons?’ Corbett asked.

Claverley shook his head. ‘I heard what Dame Jocasta said, Sir Hugh.’ He sipped from his tankard and continued. ‘We all bear the mark of Cain. Like you, Sir Hugh, I’ve seen the breakdown of law and order, when the demons come out of the shadows. So no, I don’t ever tire of fighting them. If we don’t hunt them, as God is my witness, they’ll eventually come hunting us.’

Across the rim of his tankard, Corbett stared at Claverley. A good man, Corbett thought, just and upright. He promised himself to mention Claverley’s name to the king. Ranulf and Maltote joined him: they would have continued their banter but one look at Corbett’s face made Ranulf change his mind.

‘Where now, Master?’

Corbett leaned back against the wall. ‘We are not going back to Framlingham,’ he declared. ‘Not tonight. The Botham Bar road is dark and dangerous. Master Claverley, one favour, or rather four.’

‘My orders are to give you every assistance.’

‘First, I’d like rooms here.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘Secondly,’ Corbett said, ‘our counterfeiter must have a forge. Now the city has tax rolls, forges are always part of an assessment.’

‘Unless it’s a secret one,’ Claverley added.

‘I also want a list,’ Corbett persisted, ‘of all those who have a licence to import goods into the city. Finally, if this gold is treasure trove, it must have been found during some building work. No burgess can do that without a licence from the aldermen.’

‘Agreed,’ Claverley said. ‘So, you want a list of blacksmiths or anyone owning a forge: those with a licence to import and any citizen who has received a writ permitting him to build?’

‘Yes, as soon as possible!’

‘The Templars,’ Claverley continued, ‘will be on all three lists.’

‘That’s an extra favour,’ Corbett replied. ‘On the morning of the attack on the king, the grand master, Jacques de Molay, and four of his principal commanders, Legrave, Branquier, Baddlesmere and Symmes, came into the city. Now Branquier left early, or so he said. Baddlesmere and Symmes were by themselves for a long period of time whilst Legrave accompanied the grand master to a goldsmith’s in Stonegate. Now York is a great city, but people know each other. The Templars would stand out. I want you to find just exactly what they did that morning.’

Claverley whistled under his breath. ‘And where do I start?’

Corbett grinned and gestured around him. ‘Ask the tavern-masters and landlords. Whatever you find, I’ll be grateful.’

Claverley finished his drink and made his farewells. He promised that, if he discovered any information, he would personally travel out to Framlingham. Then he went across to talk to the landlord, standing behind a counter made out of wine barrels. Corbett saw the fellow nod. Claverley lifted his hand, shouted that all would be well and went out into the street.

‘I am tired,’ Corbett declared. ‘Ranulf, Maltote, you can do what you want, provided you are back in our chamber within the hour.’

And, leaving his companions to grumble about ‘Master Long Face’, Corbett followed the landlord up to the second floor to what was grandly described as the tavern’s principal guest-chamber. The room had only two beds but the landlord promised to provide a third. Whilst servants brought up straw-filled mattresses, new bolsters, fresh jugs of water and a tray containing bread and wine, Corbett went and lay down on a bed. This time he did not think of Leighton Manor and Maeve but tried to marshal his thoughts. He heard a noise in the passage outside, then Ranulf and Maltote burst into the room.

‘For the love of God!’ Corbett groaned, swinging his legs off the bed.

Ranulf, his face a picture of innocence, pulled across a stool and sat opposite Corbett.

‘That old woman frightened you, didn’t she?’ he demanded.

‘No, she did not frighten me, Ranulf,’ Corbett replied. ‘I am already frightened.’ He pointed to his writing implements laid out on the table. ‘Think of the murderers we have hunted, Ranulf. There’s always been a motive: greed, lechery, treason. There’s always a pattern to the killings, as the assassin removes those who block his way or may have guessed his identity. Yet this is different: here we have a man killing without purpose.’

‘But you said the Templars were divided? They want revenge on the king.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett retorted, ‘why kill Reverchien? Why attack me? And what threat in God’s name did poor Peterkin pose? Moreover, there’s no connection between the three.’ Corbett continued. ‘Oh, yes, if the king was injured or killed: if his principal clerk suffered some dreadful mishap, I suppose there’s a logic to that. But why Reverchien and Peterkin?’