‘And Sir Bartholomew?’ Corbett made a few notes on the parchment.
‘I went to Jubbergatc where the armourers and fletchers keep their shops. I was to buy arms.’
‘And you were alone?’ Corbett asked innocently.
‘No, I was with a serjeant.’
‘And his name?’ Corbett asked.
The Templar swallowed hard. ‘John Scoudas. He’s here in the manor.’
‘You needn’t ask me!’ Branquier almost shouted down the table. ‘I left St Leonard’s Priory after the rest. When I reached York, its streets were thronged because of the royal procession. I lingered for a while but the city grew hot and packed. I came back here, as Brother Odo will tell you.’
Corbett quickly studied what he’d written: de Molay and Legrave, he reasoned swiftly, could vouch for each other, Brother Odo for Branquier. But Baddlesmere? Corbett suspected he was lying. And the same went for Symmes, who sat stroking his pet weasel which he kept under the rim of the table. Corbett stared at the parchment. He was aware that the Templars were becoming impatient: chairs were scraped back with loud sighs of exasperation.
‘Where do you think we were?’ Legrave abruptly asked. ‘Helping Murston to try and kill the king? Or sending you messages on Ouse Bridge?’
‘Or setting an ambush for you?’ Baddlesmere scoffed.
‘Grand Master.’ Branquier threw his quill down, splashing the table with ink. ‘This is the last time I will answer such questions. Just because an idiot of a serjeant, with addled wits, attempts to kill the king, and silly pretentious warnings are sent hither and thither, does that make us all guilty?’
His words provoked a murmur of assent. De Molay looked distinctly uncomfortable, his dark, aristocratic face betrayed an unease. Corbett glanced to the left and right. Baddlesmere sat scratching his grizzled, weather-beaten face. Was he the murderer, Corbett wondered, with his secret sin? Or Legrave, with his neatly combed brown hair and olive-skinned, boyish face? A consummate soldier. Or one-eyed Symmes? Or Branquier, tall and stooping over the table? Yet Corbett was certain that one of these men, or perhaps all, were assassins, and that other murders could soon occur.
‘We have sent Peterkin’s body into the city,’ de Molay spoke up, ‘suitably coffined.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry. No Templars accompanied it, only one of our stewards with a letter of commiseration and a purse of silver for the man’s mother. Sir Hugh, why should anyone kill a poor cook? What profit lay in his death?’
‘Or even poor Reverchien?’ Baddlesmere snapped.
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Grand Master, why have you come to York?’
‘I have told you: it is the duty of every grand master to visit each province.’
‘And, before you came,’ Corbett continued easily, ‘Framlingham Manor was supervised by Sir Guido Reverchien, its bailiff and steward?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why are certain stairwells now guarded? What other secrets does this manor hold?’
‘Such as?’
‘A masked horseman has been seen hiding in the woods near Framlingham.’
De Molay looked at his companions then shook his head. ‘We know nothing of that. What else?’
‘A sealed room on the second floor of the manor?’
‘Silence!’ de Molay ordered as his companions began to accuse Corbett of snooping. ‘Have you finished your questioning, Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let me show you our secret room.’
De Molay rose. Corbett put away his writing implements as quickly as possible and followed him out of the room.
‘Sir Richard Branquier,’ de Molay called over his shoulder. ‘You may follow us.’
The grand master, fighting hard to control his temper, led Corbett up the stairs and along the second gallery, a wooden-floored passageway with carved panelling on the walls on either side. De Molay walked half-way down and stopped.
‘Branquier, open this room for Sir Hugh!’
The Templar shouldered by Corbett roughly, almost knocking him aside. He pulled open a panelling and pressed a lever. There was a click and part of the wooden wainscoting came away to reveal a door. De Molay took a key from his pouch, inserted this into the lock and a door opened. Inside was a small, narrow cell, the floor bare, the walls whitewashed. A small casement window provided light.
Corbett, slightly embarrassed, stared round at the trunks and coffers stored there.
‘It’s our treasure house,’ Branquier explained. ‘Many of our houses and manors have such a room. Doesn’t the king have the same?’ Branquier pushed his face near Corbett’s. ‘Perhaps even you, Keeper of His Secret Seal. Are all your rooms and chambers, Sir Hugh, open to the curious and inquisitive?’
‘I simply asked,’ Corbett replied.
‘And you have your answer.’
Corbett stared at a tapestry on the walclass="underline" a beautifully embroidered piece of cloth held in place by a thin wooden frame. The tapestry depicted the taking of Christ down from the cross by Nicodemus and St John. Mary knelt, arms outstretched, waiting to receive him. The artist had executed a brilliant scene: the gold, blue, red, green and purple colours seemed more like a picture than a tapestry.
‘It’s very costly,’ de Molay explained. ‘Done by an Italian artist. The goldwork alone is worth the profits of this manor. But come, Sir Hugh, we have more to show you.’
Corbett left the chamber. De Molay made the door secure and Branquier closed the wooden partition before leading him along the gallery and up some steps. In the stairwell at the top, two soldiers guarded a flight of stairs to what must be the garret. De Molay told them to stand aside. He unlocked the door, ushering Corbett inside. The room was long, rather musty, a small oval window at the far end just above a makeshift dais on which stood a wooden altar with candlesticks at either end.
‘Look around,’ Branquier taunted Corbett.
‘There’s no need to,’ Corbett retorted. ‘It’s as bare as a hay-loft.’
He glanced up at the slanted ceiling and, through chinks in the tiles, glimpsed the sky beyond. He walked towards the altar, noticing the two cushions on the floor before it. He picked at the wax on top of the table.
‘There’s nothing here!’ Branquier snapped, but he looked uneasy, as if frightened to be here.
‘So why is it guarded so securely?’ Corbett asked.
Branquier, startled, opened his mouth to reply. De Molay, however, was quicker.
‘Sir Hugh, you are so suspicious. We are the Templar Order. We have our own rites and rituals.’
‘You have a fair enough chapel downstairs.’
‘True. True,’ the grand master replied. ‘But go to any religious house in York: Cistercians, Carthusians, the Crutched Friars, Friars of the Sack. They all have their own private chanceries and chapels well away from the public gaze. This is what happens here.’
‘For everyone?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, no,’ de Molay replied. ‘Only Sir Richard and myself. We have reached that stage of development in our Order.’
De Molay kept in the shadows, his face turned away. Corbett intuitively knew he was hiding something, but what else could he say? He’d asked his questions and de Molay had replied.
‘Grand Master.’ He walked to the door. ‘I thank you for your courtesy. This morning my servant left the king’s gift of wine in your kitchens.’ He smiled over his shoulder. ‘A poor token compared to the trouble I have caused.’
Chapter 7
Corbett left the garret but turned half-way down the stairs.
‘Oh, by the way, Grand Master, did anyone leave Framlingham Manor last night?’
‘Apart from the servants who fled, no. The rest of our community are under strict orders: they are not to leave Framlingham.’
Corbett thanked him and returned to his quarters. Ranulf and Maltote were deep in conversation with Claverley over the intricacies of spoilt dice and how easy it was to cheat at shuffle penny.