‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett confessed. ‘I am sorry. We should have left York.’
‘Nonsense.’ Ranulf leaned over and gripped his master’s hand, ice-cold to the touch. ‘We are going to the Greenmantle tavern,’ Ranulf said quietly. ‘We’ll collect the tun of wine, Master, and go on to Framlingham. We’ll tell those Templar bastards they cannot leave the place: then you’ll ask your questions. You’ll sit and you’ll brood like you always do. And, before Ascension Day has arrived, you’ll have dispatched another felon to his well-deserved fate. Now, come on,’ Ranulf urged. ‘Cheer up. After all, I am leaving Lucia.’
‘Lucia?’ Corbett asked.
‘Master, she’s the most beautiful girl in York.’ Ranulf walked on. ‘She has hair as black as midnight, skin like white silk and eyes,’ he pointed to the sky between the overhanging houses, ‘bluer than that.’ He looked over his shoulder at Maltote. ‘And she has a sister. Indeed,’ Ranulf chattered on, ‘the two of them remind me of a story I heard about the bishop of Lincoln who had to take refuge in a farmhouse at the dead of night. .’
Soothed by Ranulf’s chatter, Corbett found himself relaxing. They paused at the corner of Hosier Lane where Ranulf hired a young lad who led them down into the courtyard of Master Seagrave’s tavern.
The Greenmantle was a spacious, four-storeyed mansion with wings built on either side, standing in its own grounds off Newgate. The courtyard at the front was bounded by a curtain walclass="underline" the tavern was really a small village in itself, with outhouses, smithies, stables, a small tannery, and workshops for coopers and carpenters. Its owner, Hubert Seagrave, came out to greet them. He was dressed like a merchant rather than a landlord, in pure woollen robes. A straw hat was perched on his balding head against the heat of the day. He swaggered across the courtyard, swinging his cane.
‘Just like a bishop in his palace,’ Ranulf whispered.
Seagrave was apparently used to meeting royal officials, but his harsh face and gimlet eyes became more servile when Corbett introduced himself.
‘I am sorry, sir, I did not realise,’ he stammered. ‘Usually servants from the royal household come. .’
‘The king wants a tun of your best wine, Master Seagrave,’ Corbett remarked casually. ‘And I mean your best. It’s his gift to the Templar grand master.’
Seagrave’s face became worried.
‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you out of wine?’
Seagrave plucked Corbett’s sleeve, pulling him closer as if they were fellow conspirators.
‘No, no,’ the vintner whispered. ‘But the rumours have swept the city, of strange doings at Framlingham as well as the attack on the king this morning.’
Corbett gently detached his arm. ‘Aye, tell a taverner,’ he said. ‘And you have told the world. But you shouldn’t listen to every bit of tittle-tattle.’
Seagrave agreed. ‘I have a cask,’ he declared, ‘from the best year in Gascony. Ten years it has been in my cellar. I hoped to give it to the king. My servants will pull it out but, come, you wish some refreshment?’
‘In a while, Master Seagrave, there is another matter: the two messuages of land you wish to purchase.’
Seagrave became even more servile, rubbing his hands together as if he sensed a profit. He insisted on taking Corbett, a cynical Ranulf and an awe-struck Maltote, on a tour of his domain: the stores and smithies in the courtyard, the deep cellars where Seagrave pointed out the tun of wine he had selected. He then took them up through sweet-smelling rooms where the scent of fresh rushes mingled with the cooking smells from the kitchen, and out into the pleasant garden beyond. This was bounded on all four sides by a high bricked wall covered by creepers and lichen. The garden itself was divided into small patches where, Seagrave explained, the tavern grew its own herbs and vegetables for the kitchen.
Ranulf impatiently asked about the two messuages, so Seagrave led them over to a small postern gate. Corbett paused just before this and stared at the sheet which covered a great yawning hole near the wall.
‘You are building again, Master Seagrave?’
‘Aye. We intend to build arbours, small drinking places screened against the wind, where select customers can sit and eat during the pleasant days of summer.’
Corbett nodded and stared round. The garden was beautiful; a small dovecote stood at the far end with beehives on either side. He closed his eyes, smelt the fragrance of the flowers, and listened to the gentle hum of the hunting bees.
‘A pleasant place, eh, Sir Hugh?’
‘Aye, it makes me homesick.’ Corbett opened his eyes: Ranulf was still looking at him curiously. ‘But come, Master Seagrave, let me see the land you wish to buy.’
The taverner opened the gate and led him through. The area beyond was nothing more than a common where wild grass and brambles grew, a broad triangle of land stretching between the tavern and the back of houses on either side.
‘Who owns this?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, at first I thought the city but, on examination of the deeds, I discovered it was granted to the Order of the Templars. They own many such plots throughout the city.’
‘Ah!’ Corbett sighed. ‘And, of course, such sales can only be made with the permission of the king.’
Seagrave drew his bushy brows together. ‘Of course, Sir Hugh. No land granted to a religious Order can be resold without royal permission.’
They returned to the tavern. Corbett gathered from Ranulf’s hungry look that they should accept Seagrave’s offer of refreshments, so they stayed for a while sharing a dish of lampreys and succulent chicken slices. Seagrave himself served them a white wine specially chilled in his cellars. After they had eaten, the taverner’s ostlers fastened the small tun of wine on to the sumpter pony and they made their farewells. They went up Colney Gate through Lock Lane, up Petergate and under the yawning, cavernous mouth of Botham Bar. Corbett rode ahead. Ranulf and Maltote felt better after eating what they described as the best meal they’d been served since arriving at York.
The afternoon was now drawing on, and Corbett wondered how he would manage his meeting with the Templars.
‘Do you think they’ll know?’ he called out over his shoulder.
‘What, Master?’
‘Do you think the Templars have heard about the attack on the king?’
‘God knows, Master.’
Ranulf pulled a face at Maltote. Despite all the banter on their journey to Framlingham, Ranulf was anxious. Corbett was determined to leave the royal service and go back to Leighton Manor. The recent attack would only strengthen his resolve. But what, Ranulf wondered, would happen to him? Leighton could be beautiful, particularly in summer. However, as he had often told Maltote, one sheep tends to look like another, whilst trees and hedgerows do not contain the same excitement as the crooked alleyways of London. He now began to discuss this with Maltote, as the houses and small cottages gave way to green open fields and they entered the open countryside which Ranulf disliked so much. He watched Corbett tense in the saddle and Ranulf himself grew uneasy as the trackway narrowed. Thick hedgerows rose high on either side, and the trees leaned so close that their branches entwined to form a canopy over their heads. Now and again a wood-pigeon’s liquid cooing would be offset by the raucous cawing of hunting rooks. Ranulf tried to ignore these, listening for any sound, any movement which could presage danger. He relaxed as the hedgerows gave way and the road became broader. Corbett, however, would stop now and again, muttering to himself. He would look down at the trackway and then ride on.
‘For the love of God, Master!’ Ranulf shouted. ‘What’s so exciting about stones and mud?’
Corbett reined in. ‘The severed, burning corpse,’ he remarked, ‘was found near here.’ He dismounted, ignoring Ranulf’s protests. ‘That’s right.’ He pointed to the trackway. ‘There, just before the corner near the small copse of trees: that’s where the good sisters found the remains.’