‘A good game?’ Corbett asked.
His manservant grinned.
‘You look more like an imp from hell than ever. Be careful, Ranulf,’ Corbett added. ‘People might want to examine the dice you are using.’
‘I always throw honest,’ Ranulf replied.
‘Aye, and pigs fly,’ Corbett replied.
Ranulf left to change and wash, Corbett finished his food and went and sat on a stone bench outside the front door of the manor. He revelled in the sun’s warmth, his mind still concentrating on those warnings; he was trying to remember something which was out of place, but he couldn’t for his life remember it. He closed his eyes, letting himself relax, and thought of Maeve’s last letter.
‘You must come home,’ she had written. ‘Eleanor misses you. Uncle Morgan swears you have some pretty doxy in every city. I lie awake every night hoping that the next morning I’ll hear the servants’ excited cries and you will be back.’
‘Sir Hugh?’
Corbett’s eyes flew open. Claverley was standing staring anxiously down at him.
‘Roger!’
The under-sheriff’s ugly face broke into a smile.
‘How long have you been here?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, I left my horse in the stables and went up to your chamber. Ranulf was there.’ Claverley’s face grew serious. ‘He told me the news.’ The under-sheriff sat on the bench beside Corbett. ‘This place is like a morgue,’ he murmured. ‘And when the news gets out. .’
‘What has happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, we have already received our orders. Any Templar seen in the city of York is to be arrested on sight. In the Guildhall there are whispers and rumours that the king has sent messengers ordering the keepers of all the ports and the harbourmasters to seize any Templar coming into the country, as well as all letters and writs bearing their seal. Finally, under pain of forfeiture of life and limb, no Templar is allowed to leave the kingdom.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘I just hope,’ he declared, ‘that His Grace knows what he is doing. The Templars are under the direct control of the Pope. Any attack on them,’ he added drily, ‘is seen as an attack upon Christ’s Vicar himself.’ Corbett linked his arm through Claverley’s and they walked back into the manor. ‘The king doesn’t give a damn about the Templars,’ Corbett continued. ‘He and his great lords would love to get their fingers on their possessions. Anyway, Claverley, what else do you have for me?’
Claverley handed him a small scroll of parchment.
‘Bad news going to worse,’ he replied. ‘I have had my clerks list all those who have access to forges, all those who have licences to import into York, as well as all those who’ve applied for licence to build.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked, ushering Claverley into his chamber.
‘See for yourself.’
Corbett unrolled the small parchment. Each of the three lists were very short. Corbett recognised the names of some of the leading aldermen and merchants of York, including Hubert Seagrave, vintner and owner of the Greenmantle tavern. However, the only name which appeared in each of the three small columns was that of the Templars. They owned smithies and forges in York. They had the right to import foodstuffs and other goods into the city. They also owned tenements and dwelling houses under the care of their steward, the now deceased Sir Guido Reverchien; he had apparently sought permission from the mayor and aldermen to build or renovate some of those places. Corbett groaned and tossed the parchment on to the bed.
‘There’s nothing new here!’ he exclaimed.
Claverley handed him a gold coin. ‘I went to see Mistress Jocasta. She thanks you for your gift but, in view of her past history, she thought it best to send it back. She asked you to examine the coin carefully, especially the rim.’
Corbett did so and saw the faint red marks.
‘What are they?’ Corbett asked, scraping at one and noticing how it came away under his nail.
‘Mistress Jocasta thinks it’s wax. She also said the gold is very old.’ Claverley sat down on the stool, undoing his swordbelt. ‘Apparently gold is like cloth, of different textures and makes: this is soft, precious and very rarely seen nowadays.’
‘But why should the Templars be minting their own coins?’ Corbett asked.
‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. They may be bankrupt and beginning to melt down their bullion, or they may have simply found treasure trove which they do not wish to hand over to the king. Sir Hugh, I travelled fast, the road was dusty. .’
Corbett apologised and poured out a goblet of wine. He’d hardly finished when Ranulf burst into the room, loudly protesting at how he had been searching high and low. He forgot his moans when Corbett handed him a cup of wine.
‘Thank God you’ve come, Claverley!’ Ranulf exclaimed between sips from his cup. ‘As I said, this is a morgue, a death-house.’
‘Did you make inquiries about the Templars in York, the morning the king was attacked?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, and I didn’t find much. Apparently one of them left the city early.’
‘Yes, that would be Branquier.’
‘And one of the guards near Botham Bar definitely saw the grand master and the others meet and ride off.’
‘But what were they doing before?’
Claverley explained. ‘Well, the one-eyed one, Symmes, he apparently spent a great deal of his time in the tavern watching the doxies, though he wandered about and was seen in different locations throughout the morning.’
‘And the dead one, Baddlesmere?’
‘Well, some of the market bailiffs remember him, walking amongst the stalls near the Pavement. They definitely saw him and a young serjeant standing there when Murston’s corpse was gibbeted.’
‘And the grand master and Legrave?’
‘De Molay did visit the goldsmith’s but, Legrave spent a great deal of the time in the streets outside. It’s the glovers’ quarter, and some of the shopkeepers recall him making purchases. They thought he was guarding the entrance whilst de Molay was inside.’
‘So any of them could have slipped down to that tavern near Trinity where Murston was lurking?’
‘Yes they could have done so,’ Claverley replied. ‘Oh, and one final thing.’ Claverley sipped from the goblet. ‘Much later in the afternoon, the guards at Botham Bar remember a Templar serjeant, the same young, blond-haired one glimpsed with Baddlesmere, leaving the city. He was riding fast, shouting at people to get out of his way.’
Corbett sighed. ‘That would be Scoudas, who’s also died. So we know all the Templars, including Baddlesmere, were in York when the attack was launched on the king. We know they separated, but that they met before Botham Bar and left the city before I received that threatening message on Ouse Bridge. They were certainly gone by the time that hidden archer tried to kill me. The only Templar in York when that happened was Scoudas.’
Corbett sat down on the edge of his bed. Was it possible, he thought, that the men behind these attacks — Baddlesmere and Scoudas — were already dead? Is that why Baddlesmere had left the city with de Molay, to put himself beyond suspicion whilst his friend and lover, Scoudas, carried out the attack? If that was the case, Corbett hid the tingle of excitement in his stomach, there would be no more deaths and he could report as much to the king. He glanced at his two companions.
‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’ he murmured.
Claverley drained his cup. ‘I have another message.’