‘They talk strangely here,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Faster, more clipped than in London.’
‘But the girls are just as pretty,’ Corbett replied. ‘I asked you a question, Ranulf; how long do you think it took us?’
‘About the space of ten Aves.’
Corbett remembered pushing through the crowds, losing his way, then entering the tavern and going up the stairs.
‘You think there were two, don’t you?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, I do. The door to the room was locked, probably by the crossbowman’s accomplice as he left. I noticed the key was missing.’
‘So it was the beggar you went looking for?’
‘Perhaps, though that doesn’t explain it,’ Corbett continued. ‘Murston must have fired those two bolts. Yet how could a professional soldier be killed in such a short time, offering no resistance? And then his body be consumed so quickly by that terrible fire?’
‘The other person could have killed him,’ Ranulf replied, ‘then ran downstairs and pretended to be the beggar you knocked aside.’
‘That’s only conjecture,’ Corbett replied.
He gripped his horse’s reins more tightly as they entered the approaches to the bridge across the Ouse. The bridge was broad; stalls had been set up alongside the high wooden rails where traders could offer fish ‘Freshly plucked’, so they shouted, ‘from the river below.’ Corbett stopped, told Ranulf to hold the horses, and went to look through a gap between the palings. To his right, he could see the great donjon of York Castle then, turning to his left, he glimpsed the towering spires of York Minster and St Mary’s Abbey.
‘What shall I tell the king?’ he murmured to himself, ignoring the curious looks of passers-by. He looked down at the river swirling past the starlings of the bridge, and the fragile craft of the fishermen bobbing there. These rowed against the tide, struggling to hold their nets, whilst avoiding the mounds of refuse which swirled about, trapped by the great pillars of the bridge. Corbett couldn’t make sense of the Templar’s death: a fighting man, so expertly reduced to burning ash! He walked back towards Ranulf and, as he did so, a little beggar boy ran up, a penny in one hand, a piece of parchment in the other. He chattered to Corbett. The clerk smiled and squatted down.
‘What is it, boy?’
The smile on the urchin’s thin face widened. He thrust the dirty piece of parchment into Corbett’s hand. The clerk unfurled it and the boy ran away. As he read it, despite the bustling crowds and the warm sunlight, Corbett’s blood ran cold.
KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US, the message read. KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.
KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.
Corbett studied the scrawl on the parchment: the sequence of the verses was slightly changed but the threat was just as real. He glanced up: the boy was gone, impossible to follow. Somewhere in the crowds the Assassin had been watching them, tracking their every footstep. The dead Templar had not been alone, he had merely been a pawn — and the game was only just beginning.
Chapter 3
Edward of England sprawled in the great wooden bath in the private chamber of the archbishop’s palace. The tub’s surroundings had been covered by a purple buckram cloth, filled by a troop of servants carrying buckets of scalding water, then sweetened by rose-hips and other herbs. The king sat with his arms out on either side, allowing his body to float in the sweet-smelling, soapy water. He glared over the rim at Corbett who was sitting next to de Warrenne. The clerk was trying to keep his face straight: not that Edward lost any of his royal dignity in taking a bath, the clerk was more amused by the pretensions of the archbishop, the owner of this tub, whose coat of arms, not to mention a few crosses, were painted on the bath.
‘Do you think it’s amusing?’ Edward snarled. ‘I have just been promised a loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling by the Templars. I have taken their bloody oath to go on Crusade: now you say the bastards are trying to kill me!’
‘It wasn’t a loan,’ Corbett retorted, ‘it was a gift. If you go on Crusade, Your Grace, then with all due respect, that tub will sing the Te Deum.’
Edward rose to his feet, shaking himself like a dog. He stepped out of the bath; de Warrenne placed a woollen cloth round his shoulders.
‘I enjoyed that,’ Edward declared. ‘I wish I didn’t have to wait until mid-summer for the next.’ He padded over to Corbett, shaking the water from his hair. ‘You bathe once a week, don’t you?’
‘An Arab physician, a student of Salerno, said it would do me no harm.’
‘It makes you soft!’ Edward grumbled.
The king went across to a small table, filled three gold-encrusted goblets with wine and brought them back, thrusting one each into de Warrenne’s and Corbett’s hands.
‘So, this Templar loosed two arrows at me then burst into flames?’
‘Apparently, my lord, though there must have been someone else there,’ Corbett replied. ‘The same person followed me through York and delivered that warning message.’
‘But why should the Templars want me dead?’ Edward asked. And does this attack have anything in common with that poor bastard those two nuns found burning on the road outside York?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘You still look fresh, Corbett. I want you to go out to Framlingham.’ He slipped a ring from his finger and dropped it into Corbett’s hand. ‘Show that to de Molay. He’ll recognise it.’
Corbett looked at the amethyst sparkling on the gold ring.
‘The Templars gave it to my father,’ Edward explained. ‘I want it back, till then it’s your authority to act. You are to investigate, Corbett! Use that long nose and sharp brain, ferret out the assassin and, when you do, I’ll kill him!’
‘Is that all, my Lord?’
‘What more do you want?’ Edward sneered. ‘The archbishop’s tub to sing the “Te Deum” for you? Oh,’ he called out as Corbett rose, bowed and made his way to the door, ‘I want you to stay at Framlingham until this business is finished. However, to show my friendship to the grand master, take that tun of wine I promised.’
There was a rap on the door and it was abruptly pushed open, almost knocking Corbett over. Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s envoy to the English council, stalked into the room all afluster. He scarcely seemed aware of de Warrenne, but immediately sank to one knee before the king.
‘Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘I heard about the attack on you.’ He raised his red-bearded, foxy face. ‘On behalf of my own master I give thanks to God for your safe deliverance. I pray that your enemy will soon be brought to destruction.’
‘As he will be. As he will be.’
Edward stretched his hand out for the French envoy to kiss. De Craon did so, then rose to his feet.
‘Our dear and well-beloved clerk, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of our Secret Seal,’ the king continued, ‘will search out the truth.’
‘As I have done on other occasions,’ Corbett added, closing the door and leaning against it.
De Craon turned. ‘Sir Hugh, God save you!’ And, going over, he grasped the English clerk by the arms and kissed him, Judas-like, on his cheek. ‘You look well, Sir Hugh!’
Corbett stared at his inveterate enemy: Philip’s spy-master and the source of all his intrigues. He admired the Frenchman’s ostentatious dress: the damask tunic, edged at the neck and cuffs with gold; the hem over shiny red leather boots, studded with miniature gems.
‘And you, Sir Amaury, have not changed.’
De Craon smiled, though, keeping his back to the king, his eyes betrayed a deep antipathy for this English clerk he’d love to kill.
‘Congratulate me, Sir Hugh. I am married and my wife is already with child.’
‘Then you are twice blessed, Sir Amaury.’