Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

Corbett got to his feet. ‘I just hope,’ he declared, ‘that His Grace knows what he is doing. The Templars are under the direct control of the Pope. Any attack on them,’ he added drily, ‘is seen as an attack upon Christ’s Vicar himself.’ Corbett linked his arm through Claverley’s and they walked back into the manor. ‘The king doesn’t give a damn about the Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘He and his great lords would love to get their fingers on their possessions. Anyway, Claverley, what else do you have for me?’

Claverley handed him a small scroll of parchment.

‘Bad news going to worse,’ he replied. ‘I have had my clerks list all those who have access to forges, all those who have licences to import into York, as well as all those who’ve applied for licence to build.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked, ushering Claverley into his chamber.

‘See for yourself.’

Corbett unrolled the small parchment. Each of the three lists were very short. Corbett recognised the names of some of the leading aldermen and merchants of York, including Hubert Seagrave, vintner and owner of the Greenmantle tavern. However, the only name which appeared in each of the three small columns was that of the Templars. They owned smithies and forges in York. They had the right to import foodstuffs and other goods into the city. They also owned tenements and dwelling houses under the care of their steward, the now deceased Sir Guido Reverchien; he had apparently sought permission from the mayor and aldermen to build or renovate some of those places. Corbett groaned and tossed the parchment on to the bed.

‘There’s nothing new here!’ he exclaimed.

Claverley handed him a gold coin. ‘I went to see Mistress Jocasta. She thanks you for your gift but, in view of her past history, she thought it best to send it back. She asked you to examine the coin carefully, especially the rim.’

Corbett did so and saw the faint red marks.

‘What are they?’ Corbett asked, scraping at one and noticing how it came away under his nail.

‘Mistress Jocasta thinks it’s wax. She also said the gold is very old.’ Claverley sat down on the stool, undoing his swordbelt. ‘Apparently gold is like cloth, of different textures and makes: this is soft, precious and very rarely seen nowadays.’

‘But why should the Templars be minting their own coins?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. They may be bankrupt and beginning to melt down their bullion, or they may have simply found treasure trove which they do not wish to hand over to the king. Sir Hugh, I travelled fast, the road was dusty. .’

Corbett apologised and poured out a goblet of wine. He’d hardly finished when Ranulf burst into the room, loudly protesting at how he had been searching high and low. He forgot his moans when Corbett handed him a cup of wine.

‘Thank God you’ve come, Claverley!’ Ranulf exclaimed between sips from his cup. ‘As I said, this is a morgue, a death-house.’

‘Did you make inquiries about the Templars in York, the morning the king was attacked?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, and I didn’t find much. Apparently one of them left the city early.’

‘Yes, that would be Branquier.’

‘And one of the guards near Botham Bar definitely saw the grand master and the others meet and ride off.’

‘But what were they doing before?’

Claverley explained. ‘Well, the one-eyed one, Symmes, he apparently spent a great deal of his time in the tavern watching the doxies, though he wandered about and was seen in different locations throughout the morning.’

‘And the dead one, Baddlesmere?’

‘Well, some of the market bailiffs remember him, walking amongst the stalls near the Pavement. They definitely saw him and a young serjeant standing there when Murston’s corpse was gibbeted.’

‘And the grand master and Legrave?’

‘De Molay did visit the goldsmith’s but, Legrave spent a great deal of the time in the streets outside. It’s the glovers’ quarter, and some of the shopkeepers recall him making purchases. They thought he was guarding the entrance whilst de Molay was inside.’

‘So any of them could have slipped down to that tavern near Trinity where Murston was lurking?’

‘Yes they could have done so,’ Claverley replied. ‘Oh, and one final thing.’ Claverley sipped from the goblet. ‘Much later in the afternoon, the guards at Botham Bar remember a Templar serjeant, the same young, blond-haired one glimpsed with Baddlesmere, leaving the city. He was riding fast, shouting at people to get out of his way.’

Corbett sighed. ‘That would be Scoudas, who’s also died. So we know all the Templars, including Baddlesmere, were in York when the attack was launched on the king. We know they separated, but that they met before Botham Bar and left the city before I received that threatening message on Ouse Bridge. They were certainly gone by the time that hidden archer tried to kill me. The only Templar in York when that happened was Scoudas.’

Corbett sat down on the edge of his bed. Was it possible, he thought, that the men behind these attacks — Baddlesmere and Scoudas — were already dead? Is that why Baddlesmere had left the city with de Molay, to put himself beyond suspicion whilst his friend and lover, Scoudas, carried out the attack? If that was the case, Corbett hid the tingle of excitement in his stomach, there would be no more deaths and he could report as much to the king. He glanced at his two companions.

‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’ he murmured.

Claverley drained his cup. ‘I have another message.’

‘Yes?’

‘A lazar, an unknown knight, is dying in the Franciscan hospital. He claims he was a Templar and wishes to speak to you.’

‘A Templar, a lazar!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Could he be the mysterious hooded rider glimpsed in the woods near the Botham Bar road?’

Claverley shrugged.

‘Look,’ Corbett smiled faintly, ‘Ranulf will look after you. But don’t go far. We may have to leave quickly.’

Once they had gone, Corbett tried to marshal his thoughts. All the evidence pointed to Baddlesmere’s guilt, yet there was something amiss. Only he was too absorbed to catch and hold it in his mind. He’d certainly go to York and visit the Lazar hospital. He picked up the list which Claverley had brought and fished the gold coin out of his purse. He stared at the red wax on the rim of the coin, then absentmindedly felt for his wine cup. He paused, recalling the tun of wine he’d brought to Framlingham, and stared at the list again.

‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘ In vino veritas: in wine there is always truth!’

Hubert Seagrave, tavern master and vintner to the King, mopped his sweaty face, now turned a dull pasty hue. He stared in terror across his counting-room at Sir Hugh Corbett. Roger Claverley, under-sheriff, sat on the clerk’s left, whilst that cat-eyed servant stood just behind him. Seagrave’s gaze shifted to the gold coin lying on the table.

‘Naturally, naturally,’ he stuttered, ‘I have seen such coins. They are good gold.’ He stared piteously at the door where his ashen-faced wife and young sons stared fearfully at him.

‘Close the door, Ranulf,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Now, Master Seagrave.’ The clerk pulled his chair to the edge of the counting table, admiring the black and white squares laid out on top. ‘I shall begin again. This coin and others like it are not the work of some petty counterfeiter but a wealthy, powerful man. This person discovered a treasure trove which should rightly belong to the Crown but, instead, he decided to melt that gold down in the furnace of his forge and recast it into coins. He used the same moulds he has for forming the red wax discs with which he seals his goods. Now, no one but a fool would go out into the market place with such coins and start buying goods from foreign merchants. He used those coins to purchase his merchandise, and these foreign merchants would then enter the markets of York with the same gold to buy their own purchases. The subtlety of this trick is apparent: the Crown does not get its treasure trove; the merchant keeps it to amass further wealth, whilst four or five foreign merchants use these gold coins to buy goods to import into their own countries. So, who can trace them back? Indeed, who will ask questions? The traders of York are only too pleased to see good gold pouring into their coffers, their memories would soon grow dim.’