‘We should have rode on,’ Ranulf declared, throwing the baggage to the floor, his face red with anger. ‘They wouldn’t have dared!’
‘There was only one way of knowing that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And I wasn’t prepared to find out.’
He sat at the table and began to write out a short letter to the king as well as letters of permission allowing the Templar messengers into York. He sealed these hurriedly and Ranulf gave them to one of the guards outside. Corbett was then forced to kick his heels and wait, ignoring Ranulf’s constant questioning, or Maltote’s hushed observations about how many Templars were on guard.
In the afternoon they went for a walk and the guards followed. Ranulf counted at least a dozen. Corbett was tempted to seek an audience with de Molay but decided not to. He was still not fully sure, and concluded it was best that he wait until de Craon’s arrival. He told Ranulf and Maltote to go back to their chamber and went into the Templar church. For a while he sat in the Lady Chapel, staring up at the dark mahogany, beautifully carved statue of the Virgin and Child. Above this was a small rose window with painted scenes from the life of Christ. For a while Corbett prayed: the statue and paintings reminded him of the small parish church near his father’s farm.
I should go back there, Corbett thought: make sure my parents’ tomb is well kept. He stared up at the window. Perhaps he could buy painted glass to light the dark transept where, under cold, dank slabs, his parents lay buried. He smiled; his mother would have liked that. She used to take him to church on afternoons like this, when his father and elder brothers were busy working on the land. She would describe the painted scenes on the walls or rood-screen: that’s how Father Adelbert had come to know him and later agreed to school him.
‘You are to work hard, Hugh,’ his mother would say. ‘Remember, great oak trees always start as little acorns.’
‘I wish you were here!’ Corbett whispered.
What would she have thought of him now, away from his second wife and child, preparing to confront a murderer and see justice done? That was his father’s legacy: a former soldier who had fought in the civil war, his father had constantly preached about the need for a strong prince, good judges and sound laws. Corbett sighed. He got up from the small prie-dieu and walked back to the door of the church where his guards were waiting. He still wasn’t sure what he would do: how he could trap the murderer? Evidence was one thing, proof was another. He turned and looked back at the rose window and the stories painted there: a vague idea formed in his mind.
‘I want to see de Molay,’ he told the guard. ‘Now.’
The serjeant in charge shrugged his agreement and took Corbett around the manor house to the grand master’s cell. De Molay had been busy: servants were packing chests and coffers, the bed was stripped, the desk had been cleared of all parchments and inkhorns.
‘You are leaving, Grand Master?’
De Molay gestured at the retainers to go.
‘You are my prisoner, Hugh,’ he remarked drily. ‘Whatever happens tonight, I will go back with you into York as your prisoner to meet the king.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You have not come about that, have you?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have come to ask a favour. I wish you, Branquier, Symmes and Legrave to write out an account of all that has happened since your arrival in England.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want it.’
‘What will it prove?’
‘Nothing — well, not really,’ Corbett lied. ‘But tell your commanders that, after my meeting with Monsieur de Craon, they may well wish to lodge their own complaint against me. Such an account might be useful.’ Corbett went back towards the door. ‘There are still a few hours left,’ he called out. ‘Plenty of time before dusk.’
Corbett returned to the guesthouse and dozed for a while. Food was brought in from the kitchen and, late in the afternoon, one of de Molay’s retainers came to tell him that Monsieur de Craon had arrived and would Sir Hugh prepare himself? About an hour later Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went into the refectory. The Templars were already assembled around the great table. De Craon rose as Corbett entered, his craggy face wreathed in smiles.
‘Sir Hugh, the grand master says you are leaving, though there are matters we should discuss.’
Corbett limply shook de Craon’s extended hand, fighting back the urge to smack that sharp, wily face. ‘He’s two people,’ Corbett had once told Maeve. ‘There’s de Craon the envoy, but in his eyes you can see something else, dark and malevolent.’
Branquier, Symmes and Legrave were also there, as well as one of de Craon’s black-garbed clerks: a young man, pale-faced with watchful eyes, his mousy hair cropped close to his head. He was there as de Craon’s witness.
As soon as they took their seats, de Craon rose.
‘Grand Master, I welcome Sir Hugh Corbett, but I was given to believe that you wished to consult me. Why is he present?’
De Craon’s lawyer was already writing, busily recording his master’s protests. De Molay smiled. His face became youthful, as if he thoroughly enjoyed baiting Philip’s envoy. Corbett wondered what the real relationship between the grand master and the king of France was. De Craon, confused by de Molay’s smiling silence, sat down.
‘Sir Hugh is here,’ de Molay rubbed his hands slowly together, ‘because he is a hunter of souls and the searcher out of secrets.’ He glanced down the table at Corbett. ‘Time is passing,’ he murmured. ‘Darkness is drawing in.’
Corbett rose and walked to the end of the table so they could all see him and he watch them. Ranulf, as instructed, stood near the door, Maltote beside him; both had rested their loaded arbalests against the wall.
‘Once,’ Corbett began, ‘there was a king of France, saintly but warlike; the holy Louis who wanted to plant the standard of the Cross on the towers of Jerusalem. He failed, died, and a martyr’s crown was his reward.’
De Craon, his anger forgotten, was now looking curiously at him.
‘At that time,’ Corbett continued, ‘this saintly king was helped by the Templars, a great fighting order of monks, founded on a rule drawn up by St Bernard himself. They were imbued with a vision, the capture and defence of the Holy Places in Outremer. The years passed, fortunes changed, and we now have a king of France, St Louis’s descendant, Philip Le Bel, who would prefer to see his standards flying over the towers of London and Antwerp.’
‘This is impossible!’ De Craon sprang to his feet.
‘Sit down!’ de Molay snapped. ‘And that’s the last time you interrupt, sir!’
‘But Philip’s dreams crumbled,’ Corbett continued, matter of factly. ‘So he spun another dream. What he can’t get by force, he’ll acquire by stealth. His daughter is to marry our king’s only son, so Philip knows that one day his grandson will sit on the English throne. Philip has to pay for this. He must collect a huge dowry, but his coffers, like those of Edward of England, are empty, so he looks around and sees the great Templar Order with its manors, farms, cattle and treasure. He watches closely because the Order has lost a great deal of its idealism. There are whispers of scandals; sodomy, drunkenness.’ Corbett glanced down the table and noticed Symmes’s scarred face blush slightly. ‘There are several rituals,’ Corbett continued, ‘gossip about covens and cabals; and a subtle plan forms in Philip’s devious soul. .’
De Craon made to rise but de Molay’s hand went out and pressed him firmly down in his chair.
‘The Templar Order itself,’ Corbett continued, ‘does leave a lot to be desired. There is a rottenness in it, but the Order is protected by the Holy Father in Avignon. Anyone who moves against the Templars moves against the Papacy, and Philip can’t do that. He bides his time and selects his man: a Templar who will do for his Order what Judas did for Christ: betrayal with a kiss.’