‘To eat a horse!’ he kept exclaiming. ‘To eat a horse!’
‘You would,’ Claverley called back. ‘My father told me how, in the great famine outside Carlisle, they caught rats and sold them as a delicacy.’
Corbett urged his horse on, only stopping when he came to the place where Wulfstan’s burnt remains had been found.
‘What are you looking for?’ Claverley called out as Corbett dismounted and walked into the line of trees.
‘I’ll tell you when I find it,’ Corbett replied.
He walked further in and crouched down to examine the great scorch-marks on the earth. He then drew his sword and began cutting the brambles and long grass. As he did so, Corbett glimpsed more, though much smaller, scorch-marks. And on the trees which fringed the undergrowth, Corbett noticed scratch-marks, as if some great cat had clawed the back, gouging and scarring it.
‘What on earth caused this?’ Claverley exclaimed, coming up behind him.
Corbett looked back towards the road where Maltote sat on his horse staring soulfully at them.
‘This is what I think happened,’ Corbett explained. ‘Someone came here to practise with the fire which burnt Wulfstan and the others.’
‘It looks as if the devil himself has swept up from hell,’ Claverley intervened. ‘His tail scorched the earth and his claws gouged the trees.’
‘Yes, you could sell such a story in York marketplace,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am sure the Lord Satan has better things to do than journey up from hell to burn grass and brambles on the Botham Bar road. No. Somebody was practising with that fire, whilst the marks on the trees are made by arrows.’
‘So, the killer was firing arrows?’
‘Possibly,’ Corbett explained. ‘He created small fires, for God knows what reason, and practised shooting arrows using the trees as targets. Now I think he was so busy, so confident under the cover of dusk, that he failed to notice Wulfstan. Our poor relic-seller came trotting along the Botham Bar road, journeying to some village or market town to sell his geegaws. Now anyone else would have gone hastily by or even turned back. Wulfstan, however, was a pedlar, a man who loved to travel and collect stories as he did. He stopped where Maltote now is, probably calling out through the dusk. The assassin turns. He has been recognised. His horse stands nearby. He hurries up, draws his great two-handed sword hanging from the saddlehorn and rushes towards Wulfstan. The relic-seller would sit startled, frightened, immobile as a rabbit. He’d raise his hands to his face as the assassin swings that terrible sword, slicing his body in two with one savage cut.’
‘And the horse bolts?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, the violent stench of blood sends the poor nag stampeding down the road. Our killer then sets the top half of the corpse alight. In doing so, he not only prevents any identification but finds out, for his own devilish curiosity, the effect of this strange fire on human flesh.’
‘And, of course,’ Claverley intervened, ‘Wulfstan being a pedlar, a stranger to these parts, no one came forward to declare he is missing.’
‘Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the scorch-marks on the ground. ‘How can a man control fire? We have a tinder which can be clumsy to strike, especially in the open air. Or you can kindle a fire and take a burning stick or piece of charcoal, but this killer seems to be able to summon it out of the air.’ Ranulf stared into the green darkness of the trees. ‘Isn’t that magic? The use of the black arts?’
‘No,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I could call up Satan from hell but, whether he comes or not is another matter. This killer wants us to believe he has magical powers, the key to all sorcery.’
‘And this mysterious rider,’ Claverley asked. ‘He might be the killer; he did carry a great two-handed sword.’
Corbett kicked at the scorched path. ‘Perhaps. But, Master Under-sheriff, we must go: other matters, just as pressing, await us.’
They remounted their horses and rode down Botham Bar road. As they approached York, the road became busier: traders and pedlars making their way out of the city, packs and fardels on their backs: a dusty-gowned Franciscan of the Order of the Sack leading an even more tired mule. A beggar pushed a wheelbarrow in which an old man sprawled, his legs shorn from the knees down: both looked happy enough after a day’s begging and, drunk as sots, raucously bawled out filthy songs as the barrow staggered along the road. Peasants huddled in their carts, their produce sold, and a woman and two children walked wearily, leading a cow. A royal messenger galloped by, his white wand of office tucked into his belt; the soldier riding behind him wore the resplendent livery of the king’s chamber. Everyone drew aside to let them pass and, shortly afterwards, had to do the same again as a Templar soldier urged his foam-flecked horse along the road.
‘I thought all Templars were confined to Framlingham?’ Claverley asked.
‘Probably a messenger,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wonder what’s so urgent?’
They pressed on. Botham Bar came into sight, the great iron portcullis raised like jagged teeth over the people passing through. On top of the gatehouse were poles bearing the severed heads of malefactors and, on either side of the gateway, makeshift gallows had been set up. Each bore its own grisly corpse twirling in the late afternoon breeze, placards slung round the necks proclaiming their crimes.
‘The king’s justices have been busy,’ Claverley declared. ‘There’s been sessions of gaol delivery all of yesterday.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ Corbett asked.
‘To see the Limner.’
‘The what?’
‘The Greyhound: my nickname for the best counterfeiter in York.’
They continued under Botham Bar, along Petersgate, past the foul-smelling public latrines built next to St Michael the Belfry Church, and into the busiest part of the city. The market stalls were still open. The narrow streets thronged. The taverns were doing a roaring trade. One man lay in the middle of the street in a drunken stupor whilst a friend lying alongside tried to beat off marauding hogs, much to the delight of passers-by. The stocks were also full. Some malefactors were fastened by the neck, others by the arms and legs. One apprentice had his thumbs only clasped into a finger press for helping himself to his master’s food. Two whores stood in the pillory, heads shaven, shouting abuse at the crowd whilst a drunken bagpipe player tried to drown their cries as a bailiff birched their bare bottoms. On the corner of a street Corbett and his party had to stay for a while: a group of officials from the alderman’s court had raided a tavern to search out old wine, long past its freshness. They’d seized three barrels and were trying to stave these in whilst, from the windows above, the landlord, his wife and family pelted the bailiffs and everyone else with the smelly contents of their chamberpots.
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 fr
om 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.’
‘Are there many such rivers?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, Lord above.’ Jocasta twirled her cup, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, between her hands. ‘York is two cities, Sir Hugh. There’s what you see in the streets, but—’ her voice dropped to a deep whisper ‘—underneath the lanes there’s another city built by the Romans: it has sewers and paths, long forgotten.’ She grinned. ‘I know, my husband and I used those sewers a great deal. Oh, don’t look so puzzled,’ she rattled on. ‘Hasn’t Claverley told you?’
‘That’s the reason I brought him here!’ Claverley declared. ‘I haven’t yet told him our secrets, Dame Jocasta, but I thought you could help. There’s a counterfeiter in York,’ he continued hurriedly.
‘Then trap and hang him!’
‘This is different,’ Corbett replied. He took a gold coin and handed it over.
Jocasta’s hand was warm and soft, her fingers covered with expensive rings. She grasped the coin and examined it with a sigh of admiration, letting it drop from hand to hand, weighing it carefully, studying the rim and the cross carved on either side.
‘This is pure gold.’
‘Whatever they are,’ Corbett intervened, ‘they are not from the king’s Mint and are issued without royal licence. Now, I agree, Dame Jocasta, counterfeiters usually take one good coin and make two bad, adulterating the silver with base alloys and metals. However, I’ve never heard of anyone using the finest gold to counterfeit coins.’
Dame Jocasta lifted her head. ‘Sir Hugh, you need not te
ll me about counterfeiting. Forty years ago – aye I look younger than I am,’ she added merrily, her small eyes bright with laughter. ‘. . . Forty years ago I ran wild in this city. My parents could not control me. On a hot midsummer’s day I went to a fair outside Micklegate Bar. I met the merriest rogue on God’s own earth, my husband, Robard. Now he was a clerk, fallen on hard times. He couldn’t abide the stuffy Chanceries and the long, miserable-faced clerks.’
She paused as Ranulf choked on the biscuit he was eating. Corbett’s glare soon made him clear his throat. Ranulf hid his face, staring into the wine cup as if something very precious lay there.
‘Robard was a knave born and bred,’ Jocasta continued. ‘He could sing like a robin and dance the maypole into the ground. He was attracted to mischief like a cat to cream. I loved him immediately. I still do, even though he’s ten years dead.’
Claverley stretched over and touched her hand. ‘Finish your story,’ he murmured.
‘Well, well, well.’ Jocasta held up the gold piece, she turned it so it caught the candlelight. ‘Robard would have loved this. He wanted to be rich, amass silver and go to foreign parts to be a great merchant or warrior. I became part of his knavery. I’d steal out of my house at night and join him in the moonlight. We’d lie on the tombstones of St Peter’s Church and he would tell me tales of what we could do. We became handfast, betrothed, then Robard’s desire to become rich led him into counterfeiting. He became known amongst the cunning and upright men of the city, the cranks, the palliards, the foists, pickpockets, all the scum of the earth.’ She shrugged. ‘We hired a small forge just off Coney Street and began to counterfeit coins. This was in the old king’s time, when the governance of the city was not what it should be . . . Then we were caught. At the assizes Robard was given two choices: either hang from the gallows on the Pavement or join Prince Edward’s Crusade. Of course, he chose the latter. The levies massed outside in the meadows in Bishop’s Fields just across the river. Robard, however, was a pressed man: he was kept in chains until he boarded the king’s ships. I went with him.’
Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 13
