‘Chanson,’ he murmured, ‘when we reach the tavern, take our horses down the alleyway. Ranulf, you follow me inside.’
The tap room was busy, a spacious low-ceilinged chamber, its beams burnt black, the floor covered in a mushy mess of reeds. Most of the windows were shuttered. Lanterns, candles and oil wicks had been lit, though their glow did little to dissipate the gloom or reveal the shadowy figures sitting at tables. Corbett walked slowly across, grasping the hilt of his sword. He was awareof heads turning, the whispers, exclamations about ‘the King’s men’. The master taverner came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.
‘Sirs, what would you like?’
Corbett shook his head. He took off his gauntlet, dipped into his purse and brought out a silver coin, twirling it before the taverner’s greedy eyes.
‘Three men,’ Corbett whispered, ‘dressed like beggars. They lodge together?’
The taverner was about to lie; the silver coin was twirled again, Corbett’s other hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
‘Up the stairs, master,’ he whispered, ‘in the stairwell, the door before you, there’s no lock or bolt. You can just push it open.’
Corbett and Ranulf, swords and daggers drawn, went quickly up the greasy stairs. Corbett didn’t pause to knock; he pushed open the door, Ranulf following in quickly behind him. The men squatting inside on the floor, playing dice, tried to scramble for their war belts and longbows piled in the corner. Ranulf moved faster, knocking one aside to stand between them and their weapons. For a while there was confusion as the men backed away, but there was no place to hide in the small, shabby chamber with its cobwebbed corners, flaking walls and small open window. Palliasses lay rolled in a heap against one wall. A jake’s pot stood on a small shelf nearby. The room smelt stale, the dirty floor splattered with grease. At first glance the three men didn’t seem out of place, dressed in coarse jupons, hose and scuffed boots, but their war belts were of gleaming leather, the hilts of their swords and daggers finely wrought, whilst the longbows were the work of a craftsman. Corbett advanced threateningly, and all three backed away. Theylooked bedraggled and dishevelled, faces almost hidden by straggling hair and beards, yet they were certainly not beggars but professional warriors, quick of eye, not frightened, just watchful, ready to exploit any mistake by their unexpected guests. Corbett sheathed his sword and squatted down. He pointed a finger.
‘Who are you? You’re not beggars. You take food that you don’t eat. You hide in a tavern garret and, I wager, only leave to meet Brother Gratian. Shall I tell you what you are, gentlemen? You’re Templars.’ He studied all three of them. The man in the centre was older, hair and beard streaked with grey, green eyes gleaming in a face burnt dark by the sun. ‘Yes, Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘You, sir,’ he pointed to the man in the centre, ‘you are a knight; your companions are your squires. You’ve been sent here from New Temple in London to recover the Sanguis Christi.’ He paused; the men remained watchful and silent. ‘We have met before,’ Corbett smiled, ‘on the trackway leading out of Mistleham, only then you were hooded and visored. Your bows were strung, arrows notched at me, the King’s man. Templars or not, you do know that is treason? To draw weapons against the King’s own envoy? I could take you downstairs and hang you out of hand in the marketplace. You come here disguised as beggars to search for the Sanguis Christi, which you believe belongs rightly to your order. It was in the hands of Lord Scrope but has now disappeared. You thought I held it and tried to frighten me. You failed. Am I correct?’
The Templar on his left gazed longingly over his shoulder at the weapons.
‘Please,’ Corbett murmured, ‘don’t do anything foolish. The tavern master and those below, though they dislike me, know I’m a King’s man. If I shout, “Harrow, harrow” and raise the hue andcry, what will happen then? What are you going to do, sirs, fight your way out? Kill the King’s envoy? Look, I have no quarrel with you. You can go on your way as long as you are out of Mistleham by this evening, but first I want information. You are Templars?’
The man in the centre glanced quickly at his companions and his face creased into a half-smile.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, we are Templars. I am Jean La Marche, formerly of Dijon, now working for the New Temple in London; these are my two squires, Raoul and Everard. We are here on the orders of our master to recover what is rightful Temple property: the Sanguis Christi and other treasures looted from our treasury at Acre by Lord Scrope. He is now dead; whoever killed him probably has the Sanguis Christi.’
‘Ah,’ Corbett smiled, ‘so you’ve changed your position from when we met last. You thought I had it. Of course, Brother Gratian has now told you different. Lord Scrope is dead and the Sanguis Christi is missing. He communicated with you by inserting a small scroll in one of the loaves he distributed, or even slipping it directly into your hand. You must be well advised about what occurs in Mistleham.’
The Templar stared bleakly back.
‘What happened in Acre?’ Corbett asked. ‘Do you know?’
The Templar shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’ Corbett insisted.
‘None of us were there,’ La Marche replied. ‘All we know is that our brothers held out to the end; our stronghold was the last to fall. They surrendered, but when the Saracens began to ill treat the women and boys, the Templars attacked them with their bare hands. The Saracens retaliated by slaying all our brothers.Acre is a matter of history, Sir Hugh. One day we shall return, but in the meantime, we look for what is ours.’
‘And why Gratian?’
‘Ask him yourself.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘That is why I am visiting you here. You can answer my questions now and I will let you go, or I’ll arrest you. I will either take you to Mistleham or send you under armed guard to Westminster for questioning by the King’s justices, so I ask you again, why Gratian?’
‘He is a Dominican now,’ La Marche declared, ‘but in 1291, the year Acre fell, he was one of us.’
‘A Templar?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘A novice,’ La Marche replied, ‘a squire; he hadn’t yet taken his full vows. After Acre fell, Gratian returned to England, where he decided to change his vocation and enter the Dominican order.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Corbett nodded. ‘Of course, that is logical. Scrope wanted his own confessor, someone who was with him at Acre, so he asks the minister general of Dominicans for Brother Gratian, who perhaps knows all about his past. Now, sirs,’ Corbett rose to his feet and stared down, ‘there will be no more Mary loaves for you. I want you out of Mistleham before darkness, and you are never to return.’