Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘Apparently a serjeant, probably an arbalester of the Temple Order,’ Corbett replied. ‘He came into this chamber with his crossbow and tried to slay our king.’

‘And who killed him?’

‘We were just debating that, my lord. Maltote thinks it was God, but Ranulf believes that if every sinner in York was to be so punished, the whole city would be a sea of fire.’

De Warrenne hawked and, going back to the door, bawled down the stairs. A group of royal archers came up.

‘Take that out!’ de Warrenne ordered. ‘I want it dragged to the Pavement in York and hung from the highest gibbet!’

The archers neatly stripped the bed and wrapped the corpse in soiled sheets. De Warrenne looked out of the corner of his eye at Corbett. ‘Oh, and get some bloody lazy clerk to write out a notice: SO DIE ALL TRAITORS. Fix it around the bastard’s neck!’

De Warrenne hustled the archers and their grisly burden out of the room, slamming the door behind them. ‘And the bastard’s name?’

‘Walter Murston.’

‘The king will want an answer to all this.’ De Warrenne snapped. ‘I don’t trust those bloody fighting monks!’ He came over and kicked the ash away with his boot, spurs jingling on the wooden floor. He stared through the window. ‘I am frightened, Corbett.’ He whispered. ‘I am terrified. I was with the king thirty years ago when the Assassins tried to kill him. A man pretending to be a messenger.’ The old earl narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily through flared nostrils. ‘He got so close, so quickly. The king was quick. He brained him with a stool. Now they are hunting him again.’ He gripped Corbett’s arm; the clerk stared unflinchingly back. ‘For God’s sake, Hugh, don’t let them do it!’ De Warrenne glanced away. ‘We are all dying,’ he murmured. ‘All the king’s old friends.’

‘Tell His Grace,’ Corbett replied, ‘that he will be safe. Say that I will join him at the abbey of St Mary’s.’

De Warrenne stomped across the room.

‘Oh, my lord Earl?’

‘Yes, Corbett.’

‘Tell the king I will not return to Leighton Manor.’ He forced a smile. ‘At least, not until this present business is finished.’

He paused and listened as de Warrenne stamped down the stairs, hurling abuse at everyone in the tavern below. Ranulf and Maltote were standing in the corner watching open-mouthed.

‘What’s the matter, Ranulf?’ Corbett asked. ‘If you don’t close your mouth, you’ll catch a fly.’

‘I’ve never heard de Warrenne call you Hugh,’ Ranulf replied. ‘He must be very frightened. .’

‘He is. The Assassins’ boast is never hollow.’ Corbett closed the window. ‘But let’s leave. This place stinks. Ranulf, bring that saddlebag.’

‘Who are the Assassins?’ Maltote asked.

‘I’ll tell you later. What I want to know is why a member of the Templar Order is carrying out their instructions!’

They walked back down the stairs and into the taproom, a low, dank chamber, its ceiling timbers blackened by a thousand fires. At the far end, near the scullery door, sat the landlord surrounded by his slatterns; he was gulping wine as if his life depended on it. He took one look at Corbett’s face and slumped to his knees, clasping his hands before him.

‘Oh, Lord have mercy on me!’ He wailed, staring piteously, though Corbett’s grim face did nothing to ease his panic. He almost grovelled at the clerk’s feet. ‘Master, believe me, we had nothing to do with it!’

Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the man’s shoulder. ‘If you had,’ Corbett’s red-haired servant taunted, ‘within a week you’ll hang, then you’ll be quartered and your pickled limbs dangled above Micklegate Bar.’

The landlord grasped Corbett’s cloak. ‘Master,’ he groaned, ‘mercy!’

Corbett knocked away Ranulf’s sword and pushed the man back on to his stool.

‘Get your master a cup of the best wine. The same for me and my companions,’ he ordered one of the slatterns. ‘Now, listen sir,’ Corbett pulled a stool up and sat close, his knees touching the landlord’s. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he continued, ‘if you tell the truth.’

The landlord could hardly stop shaking. Ranulfs sword was one thing, but this soft-spoken clerk was absolutely terrifying. For a while he could only splutter.

‘You are in no danger,’ Corbett reassured him. ‘You can’t be held responsible for everyone in your tavern.’ He took the wine a servitor had brought and thrust it into the man’s hand. Corbett sipped from his own then put it down: the wine was good but the sight of a fat fly floating near the rim turned his stomach. ‘Now, who was the man?’

‘I don’t know. He came here last night. A traveller. He gave his name as Walter Murston. He paid well for the garret: two silver coins. He ate his supper and that’s the last I saw of him.’

‘Didn’t he come down to break his fast?’

‘No, we were busy preparing for the king’s entry to York.’ The landlord groaned and put his face in his hands. ‘We were going to have a holiday. One minute we are by the doorway cheering the banners and listening to the trumpets, the next. .’ The man’s hands flailed helplessly.

‘And no one else was with him?’ Corbett insisted. ‘No one came to visit him?’

‘No, Master, but there again the tavern has two entrances: front and back. People come and go, especially on a day like this.’ The man’s voice trailed away.

Corbett closed his eyes and sat, recalling how he had struggled through the crowds. He had knocked that beggar aside as Ranulf had gone down the alleyway. Corbett opened his eyes.

‘Wait there,’ he ordered, and went out of the tavern.

‘What are you looking for?’ Ranulf hurried up behind him.

Corbett walked to the mouth of the alleyway and stared down. It was a narrow, evil-smelling tunnel between the houses, full of refuse and wandering cats. Two children were trying to ride an old sow which was lumbering amongst the litter, but there was no sign of the beggar.

‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett walked back into the taproom.

‘Master taverner, in London, and I suppose York is the same, beggars have their favourite haunts: certain corners or the porch of some church. Does a beggar-man stand on the corner of the alleyway, on the other side of your tavern?’

The landlord shook his head. ‘No, Master, no beggar would stand there. It’s well away from the stalls, and the alleyway really goes nowhere.’ He smiled in a display of red, sore gums. ‘After all, my customers are not the sort to part with a penny.’

‘In which case, Master taverner, go back to your beer barrels. You have nothing to fear.’

Corbett beckoned at Ranulf and Maltote to follow and they walked back into Trinity Lane.

‘Sir.’ A serjeant of the royal household came up, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other cradling his helmet. ‘The Earl of Surrey told us to stay here until you were finished.’

‘Take your men, Captain,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Rejoin the king at the abbey. Tell my lord of Surrey I will be with him soon. Our horses?’

The soldier raised his hand and an archer came forward, leading their three mounts.

‘You’ll have to walk them,’ the soldier observed. ‘The streets are now packed.’

Once they had left Trinity, Corbett was forced to agree. Now the royal procession had swept on, Micklegate was thronged. The stalls had been brought out and it was business as usual: traders, hawkers and journeymen trying to earn a penny in the holiday atmosphere of the city. Corbett walked his horse, Ranulf and Maltote trailing behind: they made slow progress. Outside St Martin’s church, a troupe of players had erected a makeshift stage on two carts and were depicting, to the crowd’s delight, a play about Cain and Abel. As Corbett passed, God, a figure dressed in a white sheet with a gold halo strapped to the back of his head, was busily marking Cain with a red cross. If only it was so easy, Corbett reflected: if the mark of Cain appeared on the forehead of every assassin or would-be murderer.