De Molay drew his breath in. ‘Murston was one of my men,’ he explained. ‘A member of my retinue. He was of Gascon birth and belonged to the French chapter of our Order.’
‘Why should he try to kill our king?’ Corbett asked.
De Molay tapped the side of his head. ‘Murston served in Outremer: the heat there can boil a man’s brain. He was a good serjeant but his wits were slightly addled.’
‘The same could be said of many in York, but they do not try to commit treason and regicide.’
‘There are those in our Order,’ Legrave spoke up, ‘who claim the Western princes’ lack of support cost Christendom the city of Acre. The Templar Order lost many good knights at Acre, not to mention treasure, as well as their foothold in the Holy Land. If Acre had been relieved. .’ Legrave wrinkled his brow. ‘If Edward of England had done more,’ he continued, ‘perhaps that tragedy would never have occurred.’
‘But that was twelve years ago!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Some wounds fester,’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘Others heal quickly. Murston was one of those who felt betrayed.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett continued, ‘there are others, aren’t there? Somebody else was with him.’
‘What proof do you have of that?’ Symmes shouted.
‘I simply don’t believe that fire consumes every would-be murderer, even if their intended victim is a crowned king.’
‘But you have no proof,’ Legrave said.
‘No, I don’t. But I do possess proof that, as I came through York earlier today, I received the Assassins’ warning as well. A message thrust into my hand. Someone scrawled it out then paid a beggar to give it to me. A short while later,’ Corbett continued, ‘a crossbow bolt narrowly missed my head. This was not imagination, I have all the proof I need.’ Corbett held up his hand bearing the king’s ring.
‘I see it,’ de Molay remarked softly. ‘You act for the king in this matter?’
‘So, let’s not sit here engaging in tittle-tattle,’ Corbett said. ‘Some days ago, a grisly murder occurred on the road outside York near Botham Bar. A man’s body was cut into two, the top half consumed by fire. Only a trained knight, with a two-handed sword, could have performed such a terrible feat.’ He glanced at de Molay. ‘You have recently all come from France, Grand Master.’
De Molay nodded, running his fingers through his beard.
‘We attended a grand chapter there,’ Branquier explained.
‘Aye, and shortly afterwards,’ Corbett replied, ‘a Templar serjeant tried to kill Philip of France.’
‘Rumour,’ Branquier scoffed. ‘More of your tittle-tattle, Master Clerk.’
‘You will hear the truth soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have news from France. This Templar serjeant has been captured and handed over to the Inquisition. He confessed that there’s a coven within your Order of high-ranking knights who dabble in black magic and wage a secret war against God’s anointed princes.’
Corbett’s words created an uproar. Legrave and Symmes sprang to their feet. The latter still stroked his pet weasel, so lovingly that Corbett idly wondered if it could be his familiar, but he dismissed the thought as both unfair and superstitious.
Richard Branquier put his face in his hands: he glared through his fingers at Corbett with such intense hatred that the clerk wished he had brought Ranulf and Maltote with him. Old Baddlesmere just sat shaking his head. Only when de Molay brought his high-heeled boots crashing down to the floor and shouted for silence, did the knights resume their seats.
‘We heard about this attack,’ he announced. ‘Sooner or later the Temple in Paris will send us the truth of these matters, though Edward of England’s own emissary would never lie. What else do you know, Sir Hugh?’
‘The French Templar confessed that members of this coven are led by a high-ranking officer who calls himself Sagittarius, or the Bowman.’ Corbett turned and jabbed a finger at de Molay. ‘You, Sire, know there is something wrong. It’s written on your face: that’s why your soldiers now patrol the grounds and heavily armed men stand guard in the galleries outside. What do you fear?’
‘Nothing but superstition,’ de Molay snapped back, ‘of course.’ He shrugged. ‘There are Templars who are bitter at what happened at Acre and elsewhere, just as there are English barons who do not want peace with France.’
‘Is that why you acceded so quickly to the king’s demand for money?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you trying to buy his protection?’
This time Corbett knew he had hit his mark. There were no dramatic outbursts or cries of disapproval.
De Molay smiled faintly. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he replied. ‘Templars are fighting monks. All of us here are warrior-priests. We came into this order for one purpose, and one purpose only: to defend Jerusalem and the Holy Places. To protect Christ’s fief from the infidel. Now look at us. . Merchants, bankers, farmers. Of course, we hear the rising tide of protest. They call us idle, time-wasters! But what can we do? Men like Guido Reverchien, Murston, myself; all the knights in this room who would love to give our lives on the walls of Jerusalem and spill our blood so the likes of you can kneel and kiss the ground in the Holy Sepulchre. It is politic,’ he added slowly, ‘for us to seek out friends in high places, whether it be Philip of France or Edward of England.’
‘We are the king’s loyal subjects.’ Legrave’s boyish face looked even more youthful.
‘Then you can prove it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Where were you all, today, between the hours of ten o’clock and two o‘clock, the time of the attacks on both the king and myself?’
‘Why single us out?’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘We are not the only Templars.’
‘You were in France and Philip was attacked. Murston was from Framlingham Manor. He carried a purse of silver, far too much for a common serjeant. Above all, the murderous attack outside Botham Bar was, I believe, carried out by a knight. More importantly, the only people who knew which street the king would use in going to the archbishop’s palace were me, John de Warrenne and yourselves.’
‘Nonsense!’ Baddlesmere exclaimed.
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, sir, the only time that route was mentioned was when you were present in the priory yesterday afternoon. I deliberately arranged it so that the king could take four, even five routes through the city. The decision to go up Trinity was reached just before the king met you. It was announced publicly only very shortly before the king entered York, yet Murston was in that tavern from the night before.’
The Templars now looked frightened. Baddlesmere shuffled his feet, Branquier fingered his lips, Legrave stared in outrage at Jacques de Molay, whilst Symmes sat, head bowed, stroking and muttering under his breath to his pet weasel.
‘If what you say is true,’ de Molay remarked, ‘the traitor must be in this room.’
‘You are forgetting one thing, Master Clerk,’ Branquier pointed down to the corpse covered by the pall. ‘Guido Reverchien was killed this morning just before dawn. Concedo, there is a link between the death of the stranger outside Botham Bar, that of Murston, and the mysterious death of Guido Reverchien. However, you cannot prove any person here was present on the road outside Botham Bar or with Murston. On the other hand, we can prove, every man in this room, that when Sir Guido Reverchien died we were lodged at St Leonard’s Priory.’ He saw the surprise on Corbett’s face. ‘Didn’t you know that, Clerk? We stayed there overnight. We arrived back here, shortly before you did, to discover the tragedy.’
‘And, before you ask,’ de Molay intervened, ‘this morning we were in the city. We had business there with our bankers.’
‘Together?’ Corbett asked, trying to conceal his confusion.
De Molay shrugged. ‘Of course not. Legrave came with me, my colleagues went hither and thither. There was business to be done.’
‘So, any one of you,’ Corbett asked, ‘could have been with Murston? Or written that message or loosed a crossbow bolt at me?’