Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

The tavern master tried to make him stay, saying he would like to reward his generosity. Corbett did remain for a while, finishing his wine and reassuring the flustered Seagrave that his family should fear nothing from him.

‘Is this right?’ Claverley muttered, seizing a moment when they were alone in the room together.

‘What else is there, Roger?’ Corbett laughed sharply. ‘Seagrave only became greedy. If we punished everyone for that, we wouldn’t find enough gibbets in the country.’ Corbett held his hand up. ‘You are to keep your mouth shut.’

‘Sir Hugh, you have my word.’

Once they had finished, Seagrave led them out to the stables where they’d left their horses. The merchant plucked anxiously at Corbett’s sleeve.

‘Sir Hugh, I have one final confession to make.’

‘There’s more treasure!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘No, it was the day you came here. I thought you were following someone.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, the day the king entered York, this tavern, like every other in the city, was very busy. Two Templars came here. One was a senior commander. I knew that by the way he talked. He was balding, grizzle-faced, a short, stocky man.’

‘Baddlesmere!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Yes, well, he was accompanied by a young serjeant. A youngish, blond-haired man with a foreign accent. I thought they’d come about the adjoining piece of land so I entertained them and talked about my plans.’ Seagrave coughed to clear his throat. ‘Now, to put it bluntly, they humoured me. They asked for a chamber, claiming they had matters to discuss, well away from the eyes and ears of the curious. So I obliged: that was early in the morning. About noon the old one left, followed by the younger one, shortly before you arrived. .’ Seagrave’s voice trailed off. ‘I thought I should tell you.’

Corbett thanked and reassured him. Once they were out of the stableyard he dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. Claverley, staring curiously at him and Ranulf, wondering what was the matter, followed Corbett through the busy, narrow alleyways and streets, then into the silent graveyard of a small church. Corbett sat down on a weather-beaten tombstone, watching his horse lazily munch the long, fresh grass.

‘If I was half as clever as I thought I was,’ he began, ‘then I’d be the most subtle of royal clerks.’ He sighed. ‘The truth is I blunder about like the hooded man in Blind Man’s Buff. If I strike something then it’s more chance than skill.’

‘You still found the counterfeiter,’ Ranulf offered hopefully.

‘Mere chance. I thought the wax proved Seagrave was a counterfeiter: it didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’ Claverley asked.

‘I’ve told you,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was greedy but, still, he’s a father, a husband, I don’t want his blood on my hands. And now we have Baddlesmere and Scoudas,’ Corbett continued. ‘They visited the Greenmantle tavern for a love tryst, using Seagrave’s desire to purchase some land as a possible pretext. Baddlesmere, to avoid any scandal or rumour, left to join the grand master. More importantly, Scoudas couldn’t have attacked me, he was in the tavern. So,’ Corbett let his horse nuzzle his neck, ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were no more interested in attacking the king and myself than the queen of the fairies. They came into York to be together. Baddlesmere and Scoudas were in that tavern all the time.’

‘But the warning?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The map found in Scoudas’s possessions: they all bore Baddlesmere’s hand.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wonder,’ he replied. ‘Did Baddlesmere have his own suspicions? Did he draw that map in order to help his own inquiries?’ He gathered the reins in his hands and remounted.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett broke from his reverie and stared down at the under-sheriff.

‘If you want,’ Claverley offered, ‘I can ride back with you to Framlingham or accompany you to the Lazar hospital.’

‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘As the gospels say: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”.’ He extended his hand and grasped Claverley’s. ‘You did good work, Roger. I shall make sure the king knows of it: I thank you for your courtesy and help.’

‘They said you were a hard man,’ Claverley told him. He jerked his head back in the direction of the tavern. ‘But Seagrave will always remember your compassion.’

Corbett shrugged. ‘I have seen more blood and death in the last year, Master Claverley. .’ His voice trailed off. ‘Keep well.’

And, urging his horse forward, Corbett left the graveyard. Ranulf stayed to make his own farewells.

‘He’s homesick,’ the manservant whispered, leaning down from his horse. ‘Old “Master Long Face” is pining for his wife.’

‘And you, Ranulf?’ Claverley grinned.

Ranulf pulled his most sanctimonious face. ‘Virtue is its own reward, Master Under-sheriff,’ he intoned solemnly.

And, with Claverley’s laughter ringing in his ears, Ranulf spurred his horse on before ‘Old Master Long Face’ really did fall into one of his melancholic fits.

Corbett dismounted in the courtyard of the Lazar hospital. A lay brother came out, Corbett whispered to him, and the little man nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, ‘we have been expecting you. Stay here!’

He hurried into the hospital and came back a little later, accompanied by a friar. ‘This is Father Anselm, our infirmarian.’

The Franciscan grasped Corbett’s hand. ‘You’d best come,’ he urged, but turned as Ranulf made to join them. ‘No,’ he apologised. ‘I am afraid the knight only asked for Sir Hugh.’

Mystified, Corbett looked at Ranulf, then shrugged and followed the friar in through the door and up the stairs. They went along through the long infirmary where the sick lay on beds on either side. Each bed was cordoned off by dark-blue sheets which hung from steel rods bolted to the wall. The room was clean and fragrant, the sheets and bolsters of each bed a snowy white.

‘We do our best,’ Brother Anselm muttered. ‘Many of these had no dignity in living, at least they’ll have some in dying.’

At the end of the room he ushered Corbett into a small chamber, stark and austere. The white washed walls and gaunt crucifix above the bed reminded Corbett of his cell at Framlingham: the ‘Unknown’ lay propped against the bolsters; his yellow hair, soaked with sweat, fanned out across the pillow. Corbett fought to hide his disgust at the terrible sores and ulcers eating into the man’s face. The Unknown opened his eyes and tried to smile.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, the spittle bubbling on his cracked lips. ‘I am no beauty, Sir Hugh. Brother, a stool for our visitor.’

Friar Anselm brought one across and, when Corbett sat down, whispered in his ear: ‘He has not got much time. I doubt if he’ll see the night through.’

Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The Unknown turned his face, closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths, summoning up his last resources of strength.

‘You are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal?’

‘I am.’

‘They say you are a man of integrity.’

‘People say a lot of things.’

‘A good answer. My strength is ebbing, Sir Hugh, so I’ll be brief. Death will be here soon. Who I am, or where I came from does not concern you. I was a Templar. I fought at Acre and, when that city fell, I was taken prisoner and handed over to the Assassins who kept me imprisoned for years in their fortress of the Eagle’s Nest.’

The Unknown stirred, moving his limbs to find relief. ‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’ he whispered, ‘released me to cause chaos in my Order, to lay allegations of cowardice.’