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At last the bailiffs restored order and Claverley led them on along Patrick Pool and into the Shambles. The smells and dust caught at their noses and mouths: the butchers’ and fletchers’ narrow street, which ran between the overhanging houses, was covered in offal and black blood. Flies massed there, dogs and cats fought over scraps. The crowd, eager to buy fresh meat, thronged around the stalls from which gutted pigs, decapitated geese, chickens and other fowl hung. At last Claverley lost his temper. He drew his sword and, shouting, ‘Le roi, le roi!’ forced a passage out on to the Pavement, the great open area fronting All Saints Church.

Here the crowds thronged before the grim city prison. Outside its main door stood a line of scaffolds, each three-branched, on which executions were being carried out. The condemned felons were led out from the prison, taken on to a platform, pushed up a ladder, where a noose was fixed round their neck. The ladder was then turned and the felon would dance and kick as the hempen cord tightened round his throat, choking his life out. Corbett had seen such sights before in many of the king’s great cities. The royal justices would arrive, the gaols would be emptied, courts held and swift sentence passed. Most of the felons didn’t even have time to protest. Dominicans, dressed in their black and white robes, moved from one scaffold to another whispering the final absolution. The crowd thronging there sometimes greeted the appearance of a prisoner with curses and yells. Now and again a friend or relative would shout their farewells and lift a tankard in salute. Claverley waited until the prison door opened, then pushed his way through into the sombre gatehouse. The doorkeeper recognised him.

‘We are nearly finished, Claverley!’ he shouted. ‘And by dusk York will be a safer place.’

‘I’ve come for the Limner!’ Claverley snapped, leaning down from his horse. ‘Where is he?’

The porter’s beer-sodden face stared up. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘Well, only if you know the path to hell.’

Claverley groaned and beat his saddlehorn.

‘The bugger’s dead,’ the porter laughed. ‘Hanged not an hour since.’

Claverley, conscious of his companions, their horses growing restless in the enclosed space, cursed colourfully.

‘What now?’ Corbett asked.

Claverley turned, spat in the direction of the porter, then tapped the side of his nose.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ he whispered. ‘Let me introduce you to one of my great secrets!’

On the other side of York, another man was dying. The Unknown lay on a pallet bed in a small, stark chamber of the Lazar hospital, his sweat-soaked hair fanned out against the white bolster.

‘It’s all over,’ he whispered. ‘I shall not leave here alive.’ The Franciscan, crouching by the bed, grasped his hand and did not disagree.

‘I can feel no life in my legs,’ the Unknown muttered. He forced a smile. ‘In my youth, Father, I was a superb horseman. I could ride like the wind.’ He moved his head slightly. ‘What happens after death, Father?’

‘Only God knows,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘But I think it’s like a journey, like being born all over again. A baby struggles against leaving the womb, we struggle against leaving life but, as we do after we’re born, we forget and journey on. What is important,’ the Franciscan added, ‘is how prepared we are for that journey.’

‘I have sinned,’ the Unknown whispered. ‘I have sinned against Heaven and earth. I, a knight of the Temple, a defender of the city of Acre, have committed dreadful sins of hate and a desire for vengeance.’

‘Tell me,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘Make your confession now. Receive absolution.’

The Unknown needed no further prompting but, staring up at the ceiling, began to recite his life: his youth on a farm in Barnsleydale; his admission to the Temple; those final, bloody days at Acre followed by the long years of pent-up bitterness in the dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain. The Franciscan listened quietly; only now and again did he interrupt and softly ask a question. The knight always answered. At the end the Franciscan lifted his hand, carefully enunciating the words of absolution. He promised that, the following morning, he’d bring the Viaticum after Mass. The Unknown grasped the friar’s hand.

‘Father, in all truth, I must tell what I know to someone else.’

‘A Templar?’ the Franciscan asked. ‘The commanders are gathered at Framlingham.’

The Unknown closed his eyes and sighed. ‘No, the traitor may be there.’ He opened his cracked lips, gasping for air. ‘The King’s Council is in York, yes?’

The Franciscan nodded. The Unknown squeezed his hand tightly.

‘For the love of God, Father, I must speak to one of the King’s Council. A man I can trust. Please, Father.’ The eyes in that thin, disfigured face burned with life. ‘Please, before I die!’

Chapter 8

Claverley led Corbett and his companions from the Pavement up towards the Minster, and into a more refined, serene quarter of the city. The streets were broad and clean, the houses on either side had their plaster painted pink and white, the upright beams a polished or a dark mahogany, sometimes gilt-edged around windows and doors. Each stood, four or five storeys high, in its own little garden. The windows on the bottom floors were filled with glass and on the top storey with horn or oiled linen. Claverley stopped in front of one which stood on a corner of an alleyway, across from the Jackanapes tavern. He brought up the iron clanger carved in the shape of a monk’s face, and rapped loudly. At first there was no sound, though Corbett could see the glow of candlelight through the windows.

‘Don’t worry.’ Claverley grinned over his shoulder. ‘She’ll be at home.’

At last the door swung open. A maid poked her head out. Claverley whispered to her and the door closed. Corbett heard chains being removed, then it swung open and a small, grey-haired lady, dressed in a white, gold-edged veil and a gown of dark burgundy, came out. She smiled and kissed Claverley on his cheek; bright button eyes in a swarthy face studied Corbett and his companions.

‘Well, you’d best come in,’ she said huskily. ‘You can leave your horses in the stable at the Jackanapes.’

Whilst Maltote led their mounts off, the woman took them into what she called ‘her downstairs parlour’, a long, comfortable chamber which must have stretched the length of the house. Through the open window at the far end, Corbett glimpsed flowerbeds and a small orchard of apple trees. The room was luxurious. There had been rushes in the passageway outside, but in here carpets lay on the floor and broad strips of bright cloth hung against the wall. A tapestry was fixed above the hearth, and on a long beam which spanned the ceiling stood row upon row of flickering candles.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ Claverley made the introductions. ‘May I introduce Jocasta Kitcher, gentlewoman, merchant, the maker of fine cloth, owner of the Jackanapes tavern and, in her time, a much travelled lady.’

‘Once a flatterer always a flatterer,’ Jocasta retorted.

She ushered her visitors towards the hearth as a maid, hurrying from the kitchens, pulled up chairs around the weak fire. At first there was confusion: Ranulf knocked a stool over and then Dame Jocasta insisted that they ‘partake of her hospitality’, telling the maid to bring goblets of wine and a tray of marzipan biscuits.

Corbett’s stomach was still unsettled after the executions, but the effusive bonhomie of this little lady and the air of mystery around her soon distracted him. He sat on his chair and sipped the wine, surprised at its sweet coolness.

Dame Jocasta leaned forward. ‘My cellars are always flooded,’ she declared. ‘Oh, not with sewer muck. York has underground rivers and the water is icy cold, it keeps the white wine chilled.’