‘Yes, as soon as possible!’
‘The Templars,’ Claverley continued, ‘will be on all three lists.’
‘That’s an extra favour,’ Corbett replied. ‘On the morning of the attack on the king, the grand master, Jacques de Molay, and four of his principal commanders, Legrave, Branquier, Baddlesmere and Symmes, came into the city. Now Branquier left early, or so he said. Baddlesmere and Symmes were by themselves for a long period of time whilst Legrave accompanied the grand master to a goldsmith’s in Stonegate. Now York is a great city, but people know each other. The Templars would stand out. I want you to find just exactly what they did that morning.’
Claverley whistled under his breath. ‘And where do I start?’
Corbett grinned and gestured around him. ‘Ask the tavern-masters and landlords. Whatever you find, I’ll be grateful.’
Claverley finished his drink and made his farewells. He promised that, if he discovered any information, he would personally travel out to Framlingham. Then he went across to talk to the landlord, standing behind a counter made out of wine barrels. Corbett saw the fellow nod. Claverley lifted his hand, shouted that all would be well and went out into the street.
‘I am tired,’ Corbett declared. ‘Ranulf, Maltote, you can do what you want, provided you are back in our chamber within the hour.’
And, leaving his companions to grumble about ‘Master Long Face’, Corbett followed the landlord up to the second floor to what was grandly described as the tavern’s principal guest-chamber. The room had only two beds but the landlord promised to provide a third. Whilst servants brought up straw-filled mattresses, new bolsters, fresh jugs of water and a tray containing bread and wine, Corbett went and lay down on a bed. This time he did not think of Leighton Manor and Maeve but tried to marshal his thoughts. He heard a noise in the passage outside, then Ranulf and Maltote burst into the room.
‘For the love of God!’ Corbett groaned, swinging his legs off the bed.
Ranulf, his face a picture of innocence, pulled across a stool and sat opposite Corbett.
‘That old woman frightened you, didn’t she?’ he demanded.
‘No, she did not frighten me, Ranulf,’ Corbett replied. ‘I am already frightened.’ He pointed to his writing implements laid out on the table. ‘Think of the murderers we have hunted, Ranulf. There’s always been a motive: greed, lechery, treason. There’s always a pattern to the killings, as the assassin removes those who block his way or may have guessed his identity. Yet this is different: here we have a man killing without purpose.’
‘But you said the Templars were divided? They want revenge on the king.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett retorted, ‘why kill Reverchien? Why attack me? And what threat in God’s name did poor Peterkin pose? Moreover, there’s no connection between the three.’ Corbett continued. ‘Oh, yes, if the king was injured or killed: if his principal clerk suffered some dreadful mishap, I suppose there’s a logic to that. But why Reverchien and Peterkin?’
‘Perhaps they knew something,’ Ranulf retorted.
‘Perhaps,’ Corbett replied. ‘But then we come to the second problem. How? Murston may have shot an arrow at the king but how did he die so quickly? How was that fire caused? Reverchien died in the centre of a maze early on a spring morning, Peterkin burst into flames in the middle of a busy kitchen.’
Corbett paused, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘And what progress have we made? We know the Templar Order is demoralised, possibly splitting into factions: I’m sure that is why de Molay has come to England. These factions may be manifesting themselves through the attacks against Philip of France as well as our own king. We also have these warnings, sent by that strange sect “the Assassins”. We know there’s some mystery in the Order, hence those secret rooms at Framlingham. We’ve learnt Murston was eaten up with revenge and bitterness, yet he must have been managed by someone else.’
Corbett paused. ‘The killer,’ he continued after a while, ‘is using some form of secret fire. He was practising with it amongst the trees along the Botham Bar road: that poor pedlar paid for his curiosity with his life. We think it’s a Templar commander but, if all the Templars are confined to Framlingham and the city gates are so closely guarded, who attached that notice to Murston’s gibbeted corpse? And who could have sent a similar warning to me? Whatever the Templars did in York, we have established that by the time these arrows were fired at me, they were on the road back to Framlingham Manor.’
‘That masked rider, maybe he’s the assassin?’ Maltote asked hopefully. ‘Or one of the commanders in disguise?’
‘The counterfeit coins,’ Ranulf interjected, ‘may also be Templar villainy.’
‘Possibly,’ Corbett said. ‘But whatever, Ranulf. .’ He lay back on his bed. ‘If there’s no method in this madness, if the assassin is killing for the sake of it, then he’ll strike again and again.’
‘And what will we do?’ Ranulf asked.
‘In the end,’ Corbett replied, ‘we will go back to the king and report what we have found: a divided, demoralised Order, bereft of its original purpose.’ He half sat up, leaning on one arm. ‘And if I report that,’ he concluded, ‘it will only be a matter of time before the Exchequer officials begin to ask why such a wealthy Order should exist when it lacks purpose and, moreover, is riddled with treason, sorcery, murder and other scandals?’
The serjeant patrolling the great meadow at Framlingham Manor stared down at the boat bobbing on the lake. ‘It’s time the old man came in,’ he grumbled.
Hitching his swordbelt higher, he began the long walk down to the lakeside. Nevertheless, the sunset was glorious, and a cool evening breeze soothed the serjeant’s sweat-soaked brow.
‘Oh, let the old one fish,’ he muttered to himself.
He sat down on the grass, took off his helmet and pulled back the mail coif beneath. He studied Odo: the old librarian had taken his boat The Ghost of the Tower, and had been fishing for some time.
‘More bloody use than what I’ve been doing,’ the serjeant grumbled as he grabbed a clump of grass to cool his sweaty cheeks.
The garrison at Framlingham had relaxed after that snooping royal clerk and his companions had left: that is, until the messenger had arrived and de Molay and the other great ones had gathered in the hall for a secret council. Orders had gone out, reinforcing the grand master’s edict that no one was to leave Framlingham, whilst any stranger found wandering on the estate was to be arrested immediately. The Templar serjeant chewed on a piece of grass, narrowing his eyes against the setting sun as he watched Brother Odo’s black cloak flap and curl in the evening breeze. The old librarian was apparently fighting to hold the long rod and line he was wielding. The Templar serjeant envied the serenity of the scene after the turbulence of the last few days. The news of the attack upon the king, the killing of Reverchien and Peterkin the cook were known to all. Very few mentioned Murston’s death, though many felt guilty at what he had done. Nevertheless, Murston had always been a hothead: just because he had served in Outremer, he’d set himself up as an authority on what was right and what was wrong.
The Templar lay back in the grass and stared up at the fleecy clouds.
‘I wish I was away from here,’ he whispered. ‘But where?’ The fall of Acre had put a stop to service abroad. No more dark-skinned girls, no more wandering around the bazaars. There was now little excitement about battle or talk of guarding the holy sepulchre. The best one could expect was lonely garrison duty in a God-forsaken manor house or, if you were lucky, some expedition into the Middle Sea to fight the corsairs. The serjeant rubbed his eyes; it wasn’t his duty to wonder or to speculate. Murston’s fate had put an end to all that. And who was he to question the masters of his Order? They knew best. They had the secret knowledge which they discussed behind closed doors. The serjeant remembered that lonely garret at the top of Frarnlingham Manor. What did go on there, he wondered? Why were only de Molay and Branquier allowed to go in? Why the purple wax candles and the chanting? He’d once been on guard outside, when his superiors had come out, he’d noticed how both were covered in dust from head to toe. What was so special in that room, the serjeant wondered, that such important men should lie face down in the dust? He heard a sound and struggled to his feet. Odo was moving as if straining at the rod, but then the Templar serjeant glimpsed the fire burning in the prow of the boat. He dropped his helmet and began to run.