Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett)

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘You went to Outremer!’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, yes. Three years in all. But we came back rich. We bought the tavern across the alleyway: Robard became a landlord, an ale-master and a taverner. My parents were dead. I became his wife, but old habits die hard, Sir Hugh. Once the rogues of the city knew he was home, we were never left alone. Robard would receive visitors at the dead of night but he always kept within the law.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘Or nearly so. Once again we were drawn into counterfeiting but, this time, I swear to God, I was not party to it. Now pride always goes before a fall. The king’s justices returned to York, a grand jury was convened, and allegations were laid against my husband.’

  Claverley interrupted. ‘Twice convicted, Robard would have hanged. Moreover, his first crimes were still remembered. Dame Jocasta came before the sheriffs and a secret pact was made. Robard would receive a pardon but Jocasta swore a great oath that in future she would let the sheriffs and thief-takers know of crimes and felonies being planned in the city.’

  ‘I turned king’s evidence,’ Dame Jocasta quietly added. ‘And my husband never knew. Oh, I was selective. I still am. The little foists, the petty criminals, I ignore, but not those who kill and maim, the rapists and violators of churches. As any tavern-keeper does, I hear the whispers and I pass them on . . .’

  ‘But your husband never knew?’

  ‘Never,’ Jocasta declared. ‘And nor does anyone else except Claverley.’ Her face became hard. ‘I don’t dress in widow’s weeds.’ She tapped her chest. ‘Robard’s still here. I close my eyes and I can hear him singing. At night, if I turn on the bolster, I see his face smiling at me. He wasn’t a bad man, Sir Hugh, but oh, Lord save us, he loved mischief.’

  ‘And yet you tell us now?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Before I left York to meet you, Sir Hugh,’ Claverley interrupted, ‘I came here. If Limner refused to help you, Dame Jocasta promised she would.’ He shrugged and turned to the woman. ‘But Limner’s hanged,’ he announced flatly.

  ‘God grant him safe passage.’

  ‘Dame Jocasta and I have known each other for years,’ Claverley explained. ‘True,’ he wagged a finger, ‘the art of counterfeiting may well be a subtle one but, in this city, Dame Jocasta knows everything about it.’

  Corbett stared through the window at the far end of the room and watched the sunshine die. A wild thought occurred to him: what if Jocasta was the master counterfeiter?

  ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she declared, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I don’t have a forge or the precious metal. More importantly, I know all the secret whispers. Yet, I’ve heard nothing.’ She held the coin up. ‘And, believe me, tongues would certainly clack about this.’

  Corbett cleared his throat and glanced away in embarrassment.

  ‘So, how is it done?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Who’s responsible?’

  Jocasta put her cup down. ‘Sir Hugh, I have never seen a coin like this before. Most counterfeiters debase the king’s coin, yes?’

  Corbett agreed.

  ‘So, why should someone produce gold coins except . . .’ She paused.

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Well, let us say, Sir Hugh, you found a pot of gold. No, not at the end of a rainbow, but a treasure trove: cups, mazers, ewers, crosses. What would you do?’

  ‘I’d take it to the sheriffs or the royal justices.’

  Dame Jocasta laughed: Claverley and Ranulf joined in. The old woman shook her head.

  ‘I am not mocking you, Sir Hugh; you are an honest man.’ Her face became serious. ‘But what would happen then?’

  Now Corbett smiled. ‘Well, the royal clerks would seize the gold. They’d examine it then come back and interrogate me.’

  ‘And how long would that last?’

  ‘A year, maybe even two: until I’d proved both my innocence and that the gold was truly treasure trove.’

  ‘So!’ Jocasta exclaimed. ‘You found some treasure. You are honest but the king’s clerks take it and all you get is a sea of troubles.’

  ‘Aye,’ Corbett added. ‘And at the end of it all, half of what I found, though, knowing the Exchequer officials as I do, I’d be lucky if I got a quarter.’

  ‘So,’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘Dame Jocasta, this gold.’ He paused. ‘By the way, Master, Maltote has not returned.’

  ‘Oh, he’s probably in the tavern,’ Corbett replied. ‘You know Maltote: he’ll be talking horses with the stable boy and grooms and downing tankards as if his life depended on it. What were you going to say?’

  ‘Someone in York,’ Ranulf continued, ‘has found a treasure trove, melted it down and made coins. He has then used those coins to buy comforts and luxuries for himself.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Dame Jocasta agreed. ‘It’s the only way. If you take gold and silver objects to a goldsmith, you immediately become suspect, either as a felon or someone who’s found treasure trove and is flouting the king’s rights in the matter. Now, such treasure is easy to trace. No goldsmith would be party to that.’ She played with the coin in her hand. ‘Whoever made this has a very good forge and the means to buy all the coining tools.’

  ‘But wouldn’t anyone become suspicious?’ Claverley asked. ‘If gold vessels can be traced back to their original owner, so can gold coins.’

  ‘Not if fifty or sixty appeared at the same time,’ Jocasta replied. ‘And that’s what Robard used to do with his counterfeit coins. The more you distribute, the safer you are. The man who counterfeited these coins did the same. He must have the means to move round York and bring these coins into circulation without raising suspicion.’ She rubbed the coin between her fingers. ‘And that’s the whole beauty of it. All a goldsmith and a banker will do is weigh coins on a scale. After all, its not their fault if these coins end up in their possession. They have become party to the crime but can act the innocent. They have sold foodstuffs or cloths, wines or whatever. They have a right to be paid: the coins are accepted and people become forgetful.’

  Corbett leaned back in the chair. ‘Brilliant,’ he whispered. ‘You find gold. You melt it down into coins, you distribute them and, by doing so, bring everyone else into your game. At the same time you evade the law and become very, very rich.’ He looked at Dame Jocasta. ‘And you have no idea . . .?’

  ‘Don’t stare at me like that, Clerk,’ she teased back. ‘This counterfeiter is no ruffian or miscreant clipping coins or melting them down over a charcoal fire. This cunning man is very wealthy: he has the means and the wherewithal.’

  ‘But couldn’t the coins be traced?’ Ranulf asked insistently. ‘Someone, somewhere, would remember?’

  Dame Jocasta pointed to Corbett’s purse. ‘Master Clerk, you have good silver there? Can you remember exactly which coin was given to you by what person?’

  ‘But I’d remember a gold coin,’ Ranulf replied.

  ‘Would you?’ Jocasta retorted. ‘If you thought it might be seized and taken away from you? However,’ she handed the coin back to Corbett, ‘you have a point. This counterfeiter probably doesn’t use coins to buy anything from city merchants. After all, anyone paying gold here and there would eventually be recognised.’

  ‘So?’ Corbett asked.

  Dame Jocasta looked into the flames of the fire. She watched the small, sweet-smelling pine logs crackle and snap on their charcoal bed.

  ‘I wish Robard was here,’ she whispered. ‘He’d know.’ She glanced up quickly. ‘You are staying at Framlingham, the Templar manor?’

  Corbett nodded.

  ‘Why not start there?’ Jocasta murmured. ‘The Templars have the means: woods and copses to hide a secret forge. They import foodstuffs and goods from abroad. They have connections with bankers and goldsmiths. And, unless I am mistaken, this gold appeared at the time the Templars arrived in York.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Corbett replied. ‘The king and Court moved down from the Scottish march and stayed outside York. Shortly after the Templar commanders arrived, these coins began to appear
.’

  ‘But where would they get the gold from?’ Claverley asked.

  Corbett toyed with his Chancery ring which bore the insignia of the Secret Seal.

  ‘They did grant the king a huge gift,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘And they have treasures not known to anyone.’

  Corbett recalled the secret room at Framlingham. Was there a connection between this gold and the murders?

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett shook himself from his reverie. ‘I am sorry, Dame Jocasta.’ He rose to his feet, took her hand and pressed it with his lips. ‘I thank you for your help.’

  ‘You are not just hunting a counterfeiter, are you?’ she asked shrewdly. ‘Not the king’s principal clerk!’

  Corbett stroked her cheek gently with his finger. ‘No, Domina, I am not. As usual,’ he added bitterly, ‘I am hunting demons: men who kill for the-devil-knows-what reason.’

  ‘Then you should be careful, Clerk,’ she replied softly. ‘For those who hunt demons either become hunted, or demons themselves.’

  Ranulf, standing in the shadows of the doorway, saw his master start, as if Jocasta’s words had struck home, but then the old lady smiled and the tension eased. Corbett and Claverley made their farewells and followed Ranulf out and across into the yard of the Jackanapes tavern: here, a guilty-faced Maltote, brimming tankard to his lips, was declaiming to the round-eyed ostlers and slatterns what an important man he was. Ranulf, ever with an eye for mischief, joined the group and began to tease Maltote, whilst Corbett and Claverley went into the taproom. They took a table overlooking the small garden. For a while Corbett stared out, watching the sun set in a glorious explosion of colours. Claverley ordered some ale. Corbett sipped his, thinking of Dame Jocasta’s warning as he fought the waves of homesickness. The flowers and the garden reminded him of home and, in his heart, Corbett knew that he would not stay here much longer. He wanted Maeve and Eleanor. He’d even sit for hours and listen to Uncle Morgan’s fabulous boasting about the great Welsh heroes. He wanted to sleep in a bed with no dagger by his side and walk without a warbelt strapped round his waist.

  ‘Was that helpful?’ Claverley interrupted.

  ‘Oh, yes, it was.’ Corbett smiled an apology. ‘We at least know the counterfeiter is powerful, wealthy, has access to gold and knows how to distribute these coins.’

  ‘Could it be the Templars?’ Claverley asked. ‘At the Guildhall we’ve heard rumours . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. He leaned across the table and clapped the man on his shoulder. ‘I am not the best of companions: Roger, are you a family man?’

  ‘Twice married,’ the under-sheriff replied with a grin. ‘My first wife died but my second has given me lovely children.’

  ‘Do you ever tire of hunting demons?’ Corbett asked.

  Claverley shook his head. ‘I heard what Dame Jocasta said, Sir Hugh.’ He sipped from his tankard and continued. ‘We all bear the mark of Cain. Like you, Sir Hugh, I’ve seen the breakdown of law and order, when the demons come out of the shadows. So no, I don’t ever tire of fighting them. If we don’t hunt them, as God is my witness, they’ll eventually come hunting us.’

  Across the rim of his tankard, Corbett stared at Claverley. A good man, Corbett thought, just and upright. He promised himself to mention Claverley’s name to the king. Ranulf and Maltote joined him: they would have continued their banter but one look at Corbett’s face made Ranulf change his mind.

  ‘Where now, Master?’

  Corbett leaned back against the wall. ‘We are not going back to Framlingham,’ he declared. ‘Not tonight. The Botham Bar road is dark and dangerous. Master Claverley, one favour, or rather four.’

  ‘My orders are to give you every assistance.’

  ‘First, I’d like rooms here.’

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  ‘Secondly,’ Corbett said, ‘our counterfeiter must have a forge. Now the city has tax rolls, forges are always part of an assessment.’

  ‘Unless it’s a secret one,’ Claverley added.

  ‘I also want a list,’ Corbett persisted, ‘of all those who have a licence to import goods into the city. Finally, if this gold is treasure trove, it must have been found during some building work. No burgess can do that without a licence from the aldermen.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Claverley said. ‘So, you want a list of blacksmiths or anyone owning a forge: those with a licence to import and any citizen who has received a writ permitting him to build?’

  ‘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.