‘Oh, well done!’ de Molay cried, sitting on his throne-like chair under a silken canopy. He beckoned Corbett forward.
‘Did you see Legrave? He changed his lance, held it in his left! Such expertise! Come, Sir Hugh, have you seen that amongst the king’s knights?’
‘No, Grand Master, I have not.’
Corbett spoke the truth. Ever since they had broken their fast after the morning Requiem Mass, the Templars had jousted. Corbett, though tired and suffering rather badly from the heat and dust, had been quick to admire the consummate skill of the Knights Templars. He looked across the tilt-yard where squires were now helping Symmes to his feet, taking off his helmet, offering him ladles of water to slake the dust from his throat and the sweat from his face. Legrave also dismounted and took off his helmet. He walked over to his fallen opponent. Symmes was a little dazed and shaken, but he met his former adversary: they embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace on each other’s cheeks.
‘If only all such differences were settled so peacefully,’ de Molay murmured. He passed a cup of chilled white wine to Corbett, indicating to a servitor that the same be given to Ranulf and Maltote. ‘Sir Hugh, I would like to thank you.’ De Molay leaned forward so only Corbett could hear. ‘It was chivalrous of you to let us bury our dead and salute his memory in a passage of arms.’ He sighed. ‘Now it’s all finished. You wish to speak to us?’
‘Yes, Grand Master.’
De Molay shrugged. ‘I have instructed my comrades. You can question us in the refectory.’
Corbett drained his cup and handed it back to the servitor, motioning to Ranulf and Maltote to follow him. They walked across the tilt-yard, which lay at the opposite side of the manor to their quarters, and returned to the guesthouse.
‘Thank God,’ Ranulf groaned, easing himself down on a stool, ‘I am not a Templar. They attack with such vehemence.’
‘They are superb horsemen,’ Maltote declared. ‘Did you see how they guide their war-horses with the inside of their knees?’
‘We are wasting time,’ Ranulf replied crossly. ‘I thought that Requiem Mass would never end!’
Corbett, standing at the window to catch the cool breeze, thought differently but kept his own counsel. The Requiem had been beautiful. Reverchien’s body, in a wooden casket draped with the flags and banners of the Order, had been placed in front of the high altar of the beautifully decorated Templar chapel. The small church had been packed and the deep voiced singing of the Templars intoning the ‘Requiem Dona Ei’ had possessed its own solemn majesty. Corbett had sat in one of the side aisles, moved by de Molay’s elegant panegyric on Sir Guido Reverchien. True, now and again, the clerk had carefully studied the congregation. The four Templar commanders had sat with their grand master in the sanctuary, whilst the serjeants, squires and other retainers had stood in the nave of the church just beyond the wooden rood-screen.
Corbett had tried to concentrate on the Mass but the cook’s story was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered which of the Templar commanders and other members of this congregation were enjoying a homosexual relationship. Time and again the clerk had tried to dismiss this as a distraction for himself and a terrible danger to those concerned: in the eyes of the Church, homosexuality was a great sin. If the culprits were found they would face the cruellest of deaths. Yet his curiosity got the better of him. At the ‘osculum pacis’, the kiss of peace just before communion, he’d watched Baddlesmere and a young Templar serjeant meet at the entrance to the rood-screen. Now the kiss of peace was exchanged by all, but Corbett glimpsed something different between the grizzled Templar knight and the youthful, fair-haired serjeant. Ranulf, of course, found it very difficult to keep his eyes open in church but, alerted by his master’s tenseness, followed his gaze. He leaned forward.
‘God forgive me, but, are you thinking what I am?’
Corbett had grabbed Ranulf by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on his cheek.
‘Pax frater,’ he whispered. ‘Peace brother.’
‘Et cum spirituo tuo,’ Ranulf whispered back.
‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Corbett had hissed, and returned to concentrate on the Mass.
After Reverchien’s body had been buried in the vaults below the chapel, Corbett and Ranulf had attended a light collation in the refectory, followed by the tournament held in memory of the dead knight.
‘Do you think they’ll come?’ Ranulf broke into his reverie.
Corbett turned away from the window. ‘If de Molay has ordered them to, they will.’
‘Do they like women?’ Ranulf abruptly blurted out.
Corbett shrugged. ‘They are supposed to. The only difference between them and us, Ranulf, is they take vows of celibacy and chastity. Their bride is Christ’s Church.’
Ranulf whistled under his breath. ‘But they must have feelings,’ he added teasingly.
Corbett sat down at the small table and undid the saddle panniers containing his writing equipment. ‘Why not be more blunt, Ranulf? Every member of the Templar Order is dedicated to a life of celibacy and chastity. It’s part of their sacrifice. However, like all such male communities, there are men attracted to each other.’
‘But that’s a sin,’ Maltote declared. ‘And if they are caught?’
‘God help them: the Templar Order has been known to put such men into a cell, brick the doors and windows up and leave them to starve.’
‘Will you question de Molay about the secret chamber?’ Ranulf asked. ‘On the second floor where there’s one window extra. I checked it again this morning after Mass. Between two of the chambers there’s fresh wooden panelling. I think a door was once there.’
‘The grand master has many questions to answer,’ Corbett answered. ‘I’m eager to learn what they keep hidden here.’
‘Could that be the cause of the fire? Some secret weapon or even powerful relic!’ Maltote exclaimed. ‘I met a man in London who claimed to have travelled deep into Egypt, beyond Alexandria, to a tribe who possessed the Ark of the Covenant. They say that, if you touched it, strange fire burst out and consumed you. It’s true!’ Maltote’s voice rose as Ranulf began to laugh behind his hand. ‘I paid him tuppence for a piece of the wood!’
‘I’ll wager, the fellow never got further than Southampton,’ Ranulf chortled. ‘Have you seen Maltote’s collection of relics, Master? It includes a rusty sword which Herod’s soldiers are supposed to have used when killing the Holy Innocents. .’
A sudden rap on the door ended the banter. Corbett answered it, expecting to find a messenger from the grand master. Instead the young Templar serjeant he had glimpsed during Mass stood there. Beside him was a squat, thickset man with the features of a fighting mastiff. He had a jutting jaw, firmly clenched mouth, eyes which never blinked, and ridiculously cropped black hair shaved high on all sides, leaving the rest to stand up like some unruly bush.
‘Well?’ Corbett asked.
‘A visitor for you, Sir Hugh.’
‘Didn’t you expect me?’ the stranger barked and, without further ado, walked into the chamber. He almost knocked Corbett aside, slamming the door behind him in the young Templar’s face. He stood, his squat legs apart, his fingers jammed into his swordbelt. He took off his dark-maroon cloak and slung it over a chair.
‘Devil’s tits!’ He smacked his lips. ‘I’m as dry as a whore’s armpit!’
‘You’ll be drier still if you don’t explain yourself!’
Ranulf got to his feet. ‘Who in God’s name are you?’
‘Roger Claverley, Under-sheriff of York.’ Their visitor unbuckled his pouch, took out a warrant and thrust a piece of parchment at Corbett. ‘This is my warrant from the mayor and sheriff. I’m here to help you.’