‘If what you say is true,’ de Molay remarked, ‘the traitor must be in this room.’
‘You are forgetting one thing, Master Clerk,’ Branquier pointed down to the corpse covered by the pall. ‘Guido Reverchien was killed this morning just before dawn. Concedo, there is a link between the death of the stranger outside Botham Bar, that of Murston, and the mysterious death of Guido Reverchien. However, you cannot prove any person here was present on the road outside Botham Bar or with Murston. On the other hand, we can prove, every man in this room, that when Sir Guido Reverchien died we were lodged at St Leonard’s Priory.’ He saw the surprise on Corbett’s face. ‘Didn’t you know that, Clerk? We stayed there overnight. We arrived back here, shortly before you did, to discover the tragedy.’
‘And, before you ask,’ de Molay intervened, ‘this morning we were in the city. We had business there with our bankers.’
‘Together?’ Corbett asked, trying to conceal his confusion.
De Molay shrugged. ‘Of course not. Legrave came with me, my colleagues went hither and thither. There was business to be done.’
‘So, any one of you,’ Corbett asked, ‘could have been with Murston? Or written that message or loosed a crossbow bolt at me?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ de Molay almost shouted, raising his voice over the cries of protest, ‘you have no proof of these matters!’
‘I returned here just after noon,’ Branquier protested, ‘to speak to Brother Odo our archivist.’
‘And the rest?’ Corbett asked.
Different replies were given; clearly all the Templars had been back at Framlingham shortly before Corbett’s arrival.
‘We heard about Guido’s death,’ Branquier explained. ‘We deemed it mysterious. The gates were locked, the guards doubled and this court held.’
‘You may well be innocent,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I act on orders from my king: no Templar may leave the grounds of Framlingham Manor until this matter is resolved. None of you is to enter the city of York.’
‘Agreed,’ de Molay answered quickly. ‘And I suppose you and your companions are to be our guests?’
‘Until these matters are resolved,’ Corbett replied. ‘Yes, we are.’
‘In which case Ralph,’ de Molay gestured at Legrave, ‘will show you to our guesthouse.’
Corbett pointed to the corpse. ‘And your companion’s death?’
De Molay pulled a face and got to his feet. ‘Either an act of God or . . .’
‘Murder,’ Corbett added.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, murder. In which case we can use your skills. After Legrave has shown you your chambers, you are free to go into the maze. A rope has been laid, as a guide, from the centre to the entrance. Use that and you’ll not get lost!’
Corbett followed Legrave to the door.
‘Sir Hugh!’ De Molay came forward. ‘Tomorrow morning, the brothers will sing a Requiem Mass for Sir Guido. You are most welcome to attend. As for the rest, you are an honoured guest. However, we ask you to observe the courtesies. We are a monastic Order; certain parts of this building are our enclosure: outsiders are not permitted to enter.’
Corbett nodded and followed Legrave out into the corridor and back to the hallway where Ranulf and Maltote were sitting in a small recess just inside the front door. Legrave took them all out across the gravel path to the bottom floor of the east wing.
‘They are just cells,’ Legrave explained. He opened one door. ‘Sir Hugh, your servants can share this.’
He then pushed open another chamber door and ushered Corbett into a large, cavernous cell with a single arrow-slit window. The walls were lime-washed. A large crucifix hung above the trestle bed; at the foot of this stood a large, leather chest with an iron-bound coffer on the table beside it. Beneath the window was a writing table and a throne-like chair, its back and arms intricately carved.
‘You may join us in the refectory for meals,’ Legrave told him. He looked over his shoulder at Maltote and Ranulf who were still standing in the corridor. He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes crinkled into a smile.
‘Sir Hugh, do not take offence at the reception given. Our Order is in turmoil. We are like a ship without a rudder, blown this way and that by different winds. The Holy Land is lost. The Infidels squat in our sacred places and what are we supposed to do now? Many of our companions left family, home and hearth to become Templars. This is their family, yet all they can see is their beloved Order being plundered by princes.’
‘There is still no excuse for murder or treason,’ Corbett retorted.
‘No, no, there isn’t, but that, Sir Hugh, is still to be proved. Anyway, you’ll hear the bells ring for supper.’ And with that Legrave slipped quietly out of the room.
Ranulf and Maltote entered, carrying Corbett’s saddlebags.
‘The horses are stabled,’ Maltote said. ‘Including that vicious brute of a sumpter pony: it gave the stable boys all the devil’s bother.’
‘What do you think, Master?’ Ranulf asked, placing Corbett’s saddlebags into the great trunk and pulling across a stool.
‘Mysterious,’ Corbett replied. ‘The Templars are a closed book: hard-bitten, fighting men. They don’t like us. They resent our interference, yet, beneath it all, there is something wrong.’
‘You mean the death of the keeper? We heard all about it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Oh, not from the Templars, they’re all tight-lipped and soft-footed, but from the ordinary servants.’
‘And did you learn anything?’
‘No, they are just terrified. The usual mumblings about strange lights at night, comings and goings. Apparently, all was peace and quiet until de Molay and the commanders arrived. Usually, the manor is left empty under its keeper and a few servants. Now everything has been turned topsy-turvy. They believe the keeper was murdered by black magic, consumed by flames sent up from hell. They are already deserting, refusing to work here.’
Corbett stared out of the window. The sky was scarred with the red-gold flashes of a setting sun. He wanted to lie down and compose his thoughts but he kept remembering that grisly burden lying on the table in the council chamber.
‘Look, Ranulf, Maltote, unpack our belongings. Lock the door after me. I am going down to the maze. Meanwhile you two can try blundering about, acting the innocent.’ Corbett winked at Maltote. ‘For you, that won’t be hard. Try and see where you can go. Ranulf, if you are turned away, don’t argue. We’ll meet back here within the hour.’
Corbett left the guesthouse and walked round the manor. He sauntered by the stables, smithies, outhouses and, going through a huge gate, entered a large garden, a place of silent peace, beautifully laid out. It contained a tunnelled arbour along one side, covered by white roses, lily of the valley and honeysuckle. Corbett sat down on a turf seat and stared round in admiration.
‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘If only Maeve could see this!’
His wife had a passion for gardens, yet this was better than any Corbett had seen even in Edward’s palaces. There were chequerboard beds in one corner, and the sweet fragrance from the herbs growing there hung heavily in the evening air. After a while Corbett rose, walked across and stared down at the periwinkle, polypody, fennel, cowslip and white orris. Next to these were nerbers, small raised flower beds containing yarrow, daisy and Lady’s bedstraw. Corbett walked on, into a small orchard with apple, pear and black mulberry trees, all providing cool shade against the brightness of the setting sun. He looked back towards the manor, its arrow-slit windows and small bays full of glass, and wondered if he was being watched.
He left the garden through a small postern gate built into the wall. This led to a meadow, which sloped down to a small copse at the edge of a broad, shimmering lake. From the nearby byres, Corbett heard the cattle lowing as they were brought in for the night. A man was singing and, on the breeze, he heard the crash of a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. An idyllic scene which brought back bitter-sweet memories of his own manor at Leighton. Nevertheless, Cor
bett felt uneasy: he was sure someone was studying his every movement. He turned right and walked behind the manor house to a fringe of trees. Behind these stood the maze, a sea of high, green, prickly hedgerows which stretched out to the curtain wall of the manor. He walked along, staring into each entrance, then he found the long line of rope lying on the ground. Corbett made his way, following the rope as it twisted through the hedgerows.
‘Lord save us!’ Corbett whispered as he stared up at the thick green bushes on either side. ‘Guido Reverchien must have been a glutton for punishment.’
He started as a bird flew out of the hedge and soared above him in a whirr or wings. The sound reminded Corbett of a crossbow bolt. He walked on: the maze became silent, as if he was lost in some magical, secret forest. He followed the rope along the path. The ominous silence seemed to intensify; he felt his heart skip a beat and sweat prickle the nape of his neck. Shadows were beginning to fall and, in some places, the high hedgerows blocked the rays of the dying sun. Corbett trudged on. He was regretting not waiting till the following morning when suddenly he heard a crunch on the gravel. Corbett whirled round. Was someone following him? Or did the sound come from some bird or animal on the other side of the hedgerow? He stood listening for any noise then, satisfied, walked on. At last the rope snaked round a corner and into the centre of the maze. A large stone crucifix stood here; in front of it were paved steps on which Reverchien must have knelt. Now the stonework and the heavy iron candelabra were cracked and scorched. Corbett stared up at the carved face of his Saviour.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘How can an old soldier saying his prayers be consumed by a mysterious fire?’
Corbett studied the area where the fire had blazed: he could not detect how the inferno had been caused. The candles were gone, mere streaks of wax: these might spark or scorch but not turn a man into a living flame. Corbett sat on a turf seat and tried to visualise the scene: Reverchien would have come out along the same path he had, chanting his psalms, his beads in his hand. Dawn would be breaking, there would be enough light for Reverchien to notice anyone hiding in this small enclosure. Moreover, although Reverchien was old, he had been a soldier: his hearing would be sharp and sensitive. He would know if someone had followed him through the maze. Yet if the killer was a Templar commander, one of the five he had met in the council chamber, he could not have possibly been here when Reverchien had died. Corbett stared at the great scorch-mark.
‘But what happens,’ he murmured, ‘if there was more than one killer? If there was a coven here at Framlingham? If someone entered the maze long before Sir Guido?’
But if that was the case, the killer would have to have got out again, and that would have been impossible without being detected.
Corbett looked up at the sky. As he did so, he heard the crunch of a boot on gravel from behind the wall of privet, then a creak, like a door opening. Corbett immediately threw himself to the right as a long yew arrow smashed into the cross. Corbett moved behind this, drawing his dagger. Again the crunch on the gravel and an arrow whipped by his head into the privet beyond. Corbett did not wait for a third but ran to the entrance where he could see the rope lying. He fled, keeping his eyes on that rope as it wound and snaked through the maze. Behind him Corbett heard the sounds of quiet pursuit. He turned a corner and suddenly the rope was no longer there. Corbett stopped, sobbing for breath. Should he go to the left or the right? He tried to climb the hedge but the branches were stubby, pointed, and cut his hands. He found it impossible to gain a foothold. Corbett crouched, fighting for breath, trying to calm the thudding of his heart. He remembered how far he had run and quickly gauged that he must be somewhere near the entrance. However, if he took the wrong path he could find himself lost, trapped, a clear target for the assassin. For a while Corbett waited, straining his ears, listening for any sound: all he could hear was the cawing of the crows and an occasional rustle as some bird nesting in the hedgerow burst up into the sky.
At last Corbett felt he was calm enough to move. He took off his cloak and began to cut strips of cloth from it, which he tied around twigs.
‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I will know if I am going round in circles.’
He crept forward, trying to recall how he had entered the maze.
‘Turning left,’ he whispered. ‘I kept turning left.’
He chose the path to his right and began to work his way forward. Now and again he lost his way, coming round to find a strip of cloth hanging from the bush. He cursed and tried again, a mixture of trial and error. Only once did he hear the pursuer. A crunch of gravel and his heart skipped a beat, the assailant was now in front of him. Darkness was beginning to fall. Somewhere a dog howled mournfully as the daylight began to fade. After a while Corbett felt secure, no longer pursued or watched. He realised the rope had been removed, not to trap him, but as a means of delaying him, should he survive and the assailant had to flee. Corbett edged forward, then he heard Ranulf’s voice.
‘Master?’
‘Here!’ Corbett shouted and, doffing his cloak, waved it high above his head.
‘I saw that!’ Ranulf shouted back.
‘Keep shouting!’ Corbett ordered.
Ranulf happily obliged, bawling out encouragement as Corbett made his way, following the sound of Ranulf’s voice. The hedgerows thinned and he was out on the path where Ranulf and Maltote stood, grinning from ear to ear.
‘You should be more careful,’ his manservant exclaimed.
‘I was bloody careful,’ Corbett grunted. ‘Some bastard removed the rope and tried to kill me.’
Ranulf looked round. ‘Then where is he? He must be still in the maze.’
‘No, he’s gone. Ranulf, did you see anyone?’
‘Only a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He wore a cowl and cloak, Master. But the manor is full of servants.’
Corbett closed his eyes. He remembered seeing a wheelbarrow near the maze, covered by a dirty sheet.
‘Why should they kill me?’ he rasped. ‘If this secret coven of Templars wants the destruction of the king, how can murdering me bring that about?’
‘They don’t want you to investigate.’
‘But the king will send someone else. Why create more suspicion?’ Corbett glanced up at the darkened sky. ‘Well, they failed for the second time today. That’s the last time I’m wandering round this benighted manor by myself. Well, what did you find?’
A bell began to toll, the sign for evening supper. They walked back to the main entrance, Ranulf explaining how they had wandered the galleries and passageways. He paused, clutching his master’s arm.
‘Framlingham is a mysterious place. There are chambers, stairways, cellars, even a dungeon. The place is well guarded: armed men everywhere. Never once did they try to stop us, except when we tried to climb to the garret at the top of the manor. The stairway is guarded by soldiers. They were polite and shook their heads. When I asked them why not, they just smiled and told me to mind my own business.’
‘Oh, and tell him the other thing,’ Maltote interrupted.
‘Oh, yes, Master.’ Ranulf leaned closer. ‘On the second floor of the main building there are eight windows.’
‘So?’ Corbett asked.
‘But, Master, on the gallery inside there are only seven chambers.’
Chapter 5
Corbett and his companions returned to the guesthouse and changed for supper.
‘Make no mention about the attack on me,’ Corbett warned them as they returned along the passageway to the refectory.
The Templars were already assembled, seated round a table down the centre of the hall, which was a small, comfortable room, brightly caparisoned by banners hanging from the hammer-beam rafters. De Molay quickly said grace, blessing the food on the table, but then, before they sat down, a servant came in bearing a tray with goblets and an equal number of dishes containing bread sprinkled with salt. Each Templar an
d their three guests were given a cup and a piece of the salted bread.
‘Let us remember,’ de Molay intoned, ‘those of our brothers who have gone before us. Those of our comrades who have gone down into the dust.’
‘Amen!’ the Templars chorused.
Corbett glanced round the shadow-filled hall and suppressed a shiver, as if the ghosts of those on whom de Molay had called were now thronging all around them. He sipped from his cup and bit into the salted bread. Ranulf began to cough, but Corbett nudged him and Ranulf hurriedly ate the salted morsels.
‘Let us remember,’ de Molay continued, ‘those fair cities and fortresses which have fallen to our foes.’
Again the wine and bread were tasted.
‘Let us remember,’ de Molay spoke for a third time, ‘the Holy Places where the Lord Jesus ate, drank, suffered, died and rose again.’
After this the cups and plates were cleared. De Molay gestured at them to sit and the supper began. Despite such a sombre toast, the meal proved to be delicious: spiced pheasant, jugged hare, dishes of fresh vegetables, cups of claret, and whilst the sweetmeats were served, iced wine from Alsace. Corbett sipped the wine and remembered the king’s gift to de Molay as he listened to the conversation around him. Most of the talk was about matters abroad, as if the Templars wished to forget the recent occurrences. They talked of ships, corsairs in the Middle Sea, the recent Chapter in Paris and the great question of whether they should unite with the Hospitaller Order. Corbett and his two companions were not ignored, but never once were they drawn into the conversation. Only when Odo the librarian, a thin, bald-pated man with a flowing white beard joined them, did the conversation lighten. Odo was a carefree soul with a smiling mouth and laughter-filled eyes. Corbett immediately warmed to him.
‘You are boring our guests,’ Odo declared from the foot of the table. ‘You are not knights and gentlemen but grizzled old soldiers who don’t know any better.’ He bowed to de Molay. ‘Grand Master, I apologise for being late.’
‘Nonsense.’ De Molay smiled back. ‘We know you and your books. Brother Odo, and what you say is right. We should improve our manners.’
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