Read Online Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page A

it, a warning?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I had not turned, that arrow would have found its mark.’
    ‘Shall we go back?’ Maltote asked. ‘Perhaps — ’
    ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf snarled. He gestured at the houses on either side. ‘Windows, doors, alleyways, nooks and crannies; you could hide an army in York.’
    Corbett walked on. He just wished his stomach would stop heaving. The narrowness of his escape made him feel light-headed, and the sweat coating his body was turning cold. He tried to distract himself by looking at the crowds on either side, the different colours, the shouts and cries, but he was afraid. He felt like drawing his sword and dashing into the crowd. He also found he could not stop thinking about Maeve and his baby daughter Eleanor. They will be cleaning the rooms, he thought, now spring was here; Maeve will turn the house inside out. Oh God! he thought. Would she be doing that when the messenger came riding up the manor path? Would she run down to meet him? How would she take the message sent by the king that his trusted and well-beloved clerk, her husband, was dead, killed by some assassin in York? He heard, as if from far off, his name being called.
    ‘Master? Sir Hugh?’
    Corbett stopped and glanced at Ranulf.
    ‘What is it?’ Corbett rasped. His throat and lips were bone dry.
    ‘Do you know where we are going?’ Ranulf asked quietly, alarmed by Corbett’s pallid face.
    ‘I made a mistake, Ranulf,’ Corbett confessed. ‘I am sorry. We should have left York.’
    ‘Nonsense.’ Ranulf leaned over and gripped his master’s hand, ice-cold to the touch. ‘We are going to the Greenmantle tavern,’ Ranulf said quietly. ‘We’ll collect the tun of wine, Master, and go on to Framlingham. We’ll tell those Templar bastards they cannot leave the place: then you’ll ask your questions. You’ll sit and you’ll brood like you always do. And, before Ascension Day has arrived, you’ll have dispatched another felon to his well-deserved fate. Now, come on,’ Ranulf urged. ‘Cheer up. After all, I am leaving Lucia.’
    ‘Lucia?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Master, she’s the most beautiful girl in York.’ Ranulf walked on. ‘She has hair as black as midnight, skin like white silk and eyes,’ he pointed to the sky between the overhanging houses, ‘bluer than that.’ He looked over his shoulder at Maltote. ‘And she has a sister. Indeed,’ Ranulf chattered on, ‘the two of them remind me of a story I heard about the bishop of Lincoln who had to take refuge in a farmhouse at the dead of night. . .’
    Soothed by Ranulf’s chatter, Corbett found himself relaxing. They paused at the corner of Hosier Lane where Ranulf hired a young lad who led them down into the courtyard of Master Seagrave’s tavern.
    The Greenmantle was a spacious, four-storeyed mansion with wings built on either side, standing in its own grounds off Newgate. The courtyard at the front was bounded by a curtain wall: the tavern was really a small village in itself, with outhouses, smithies, stables, a small tannery, and workshops for coopers and carpenters. Its owner, Hubert Seagrave, came out to greet them. He was dressed like a merchant rather than a landlord, in pure woollen robes. A straw hat was perched on his balding head against the heat of the day. He swaggered across the courtyard, swinging his cane.
    ‘Just like a bishop in his palace,’ Ranulf whispered.
    Seagrave was apparently used to meeting royal officials, but his harsh face and gimlet eyes became more servile when Corbett introduced himself.
    ‘I am sorry, sir, I did not realise,’ he stammered. ‘Usually servants from the royal household come . . .’
    ‘The king wants a tun of your best wine, Master Seagrave,’ Corbett remarked casually. ‘And I mean your best. It’s his gift to the Templar grand master.’
    Seagrave’s face became worried.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you out