‘Stay where you are!’ a voice rang out.
Corbett reined in, lifting his hand in a gesture of peace. A Templar soldier walked forward, his face almost hidden by the chainmail coif and heavy helmet with broad noseguard. Questions were asked. Only when Corbett produced the king’s ring and warrants were the gates opened and he was allowed on his way. Two of the soldiers went before him, up the shady path which wound between the trees. Now and again Corbett could hear the bracken on either side of him crackle, and the barking of a dog nearby. Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.
‘What’s happening?’ he whispered. ‘The gates are fortified. Templar soldiers with war dogs are in the trees.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Corbett called out.
One of the soldiers stopped and came back. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ the Templar asked. ‘Sir Guido, the keeper of the manor, was killed early this morning. He died at the centre of the maze, consumed by fire.’
‘Fire?’ Corbett asked.
‘Aye. Whether from heaven or hell we don’t know. The grand master and all the commanders are now in council.’
He led Corbett on, they turned a corner and entered the great, grassy area which stretched in front of Framlingham Manor. This was a large, four-storeyed building, as huge as any merchant’s, greatly extended, with two wings coming out on either side. It was shaped in the form of a horseshoe: a rich, palatial residence. The bottom storey was built of stone, the upper storeys consisted of black beams, the plaster between painted a dull gold. The roof was tiled with red slate. The windows were filled with glass gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Nevertheless, the silence and sense of oppression made itself felt. The serjeant took them round the manor into the stableyard: the grooms and ostlers looked frightened. They scurried forward as if desperate for something to do to break the tension. Corbett told Ranulf and Maltote to guard the sumpter pony and followed the serjeant in through a back door along wainscoted passages.
The knight whom Sheikh Al-Jebal had called the ‘Unknown’ slipped from the saddle of his horse outside the Lazar hospital near the church of St Peter-Le-Willows just inside Walmer Gate Bar. For a while the Unknown rested against his horse, one hand on the high saddle-horn, the other on the hilt of his great two-handed sword which hung from it.
‘I am dying,’ the Unknown whispered.
The terrible sickness raging within him had manifested itself in more great open sores. He had tried to hide these behind the cowled cloak which shrouded him from head to toe, the gauntlets on his hand and the black band of cloth which covered the lower half of his face. The old war horse which he’d bought at Southampton snickered and whinnied, its head drooping in exhaustion.
‘We are both finished,’ the Unknown murmured. ‘God be my witness, I can go no further.’
He had spent days journeying around York, then out through Botham bar towards Framlingham Manor. He had seen the Templar commanders and their seigneur, Jacques de Molay, as he’d sat hidden in the shadow of the trees. The sight of their surcoats, flapping banners and pennants had tugged at his heart and brought tears to his fading eyes. Since his release, the Unknown had found his thirst for vengeance had faded. Before he died, he wanted to make peace with his brothers and with God. Death was very close. For years, in the dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain, the Unknown had evaded death, but now, out in God’s sunlight, back in a country where church bells tolled across lush green meadows, what was the use of vengeance? God had already intervened. . .
‘Can I help?’
The Unknown turned, his hand dropping to the dagger thrust in his belt. The kindly face of the aged friar didn’t flinch as the Unknown dragged down the black, silk mask over his face.
‘You are a leper,’ the brother whispered. ‘You want help?’
The Unknown nodded and stared into those gentle, rheumy eyes. He opened his scarred mouth to speak, his horse jerked and the Unknown grew dizzy; the friar was hazy, the walls of the lazar hospital behind him seemed to recede. He closed his eyes, sighed, then crumpled into a heap at the friar’s feet.
Chapter 4
At Framlingham, the Templar serjeant led Corbett up the dark mahogany staircase and along a bare, hollow-sounding gallery. Crosses and shields bearing the escutcheons of different knights hung on the walls, interspersed by the stuffed heads of wolves and stags which stared glassily down at him. Only a window at the far end lit the gallery and gave it an eerie atmosphere, where light and darkness mixed so mysteriously. On corners and in doorways, men-at-arms stood on guard, silent as statues. They went up another short flight of stairs and into the council chamber. Oval-shaped, the walls were bare apart from two great banners bearing the Templar insignia. There was no fireplace, just an open stone hearth with a flue high in the roof; it was a bleak, awesome room, bereft of furniture and carpets, the windows mere arrow-slits. It smelt strangely of sizzled fat, which curdled Corbett’s stomach and brought back memories of the burning villages in Scotland. The Templar commanders, sitting in heavy carved choir-stalls formed in the shape of a horseshoe, fell silent as he entered. De Molay, in the centre, waved Corbett forward to a stall on his immediate right. The clerk made his way past a table which bore a corpse covered by a sarcenet, gold-edged pall and ringed by purple wax candles. A ghastly sight, the source of the sour smell, made rather pathetic by the dirty boots peeping out from beneath the cloth.
‘We thought you’d come, Sir Hugh.’ De Molay gestured at the table. ‘We are holding a coroner’s court according to the rule of our Order. The keeper of the manor here, Sir Guido Reverchien, was mysteriously killed this morning, burnt alive in the centre of the maze.’
Corbett glanced round at the Templar commanders; they looked alike with their stony, sunburn faces. Not one of them made a gesture of welcome.
‘Every morning, just before dawn,’ de Molay continued, ‘whatever the weather, Sir Guido did his own private pilgrimage to the centre of the maze. Over the years he’d come to know it so well, he could find his way in the dark, chanting psalms and carrying his beads.’
Corbett looked down at the burial pall. He’d heard about the construction of such mazes, so those who were unable to perform their vow to go on pilgrimages or Crusade, could make reparation by following the tortuous path of a carefully contrived maze to a cross or statue of Christ in the centre.
‘How could a man meet such a death in the centre of a maze?’ Corbett asked.
‘That is why we are assembled,’ Legrave explained. ‘Apparently Sir Guido reached the centre. He had lit the candles at the foot of the cross when this mysterious fire engulfed him.’
‘And no one else was present?’ Corbett asked.
‘Nobody,’ Legrave replied. ‘Very few people knew the mysteries of that maze. His old friend Odo Cressingham, our archivist, used to stand on guard at the entrance. No one had gone into the maze before Sir Guido, and no one followed him. Odo was sitting on a turf seat, as he did every morning: Sir Guido’s knees and legs would be sore by the time he left the maze and he always required help to go back to the refectory. Odo said it was a beautiful morning; the sky was lighting up when he heard Sir Guido’s terrible screams. Standing on the turf seat, Odo could see a heavy pall of smoke rising from the centre. He raised the alarm. By the time he and some serjeants reached the centre, this was what they found.’ Legrave got up and lifted back the pall.
Corbett took one look and turned away. Reverchien’s body had been reduced to a cinder. From the frizzled scalp to those pathetic boots, the fire had burnt away all features and reduced flesh, fat and muscle to a cindery ash. If it hadn’t been for the shape of the head and the holes where the eyes, nose and mouth had been, Corbett would have thought the corpse was a blackened log.
‘Cover it!’ de Molay ordered. ‘Our brother Guido has gone. His soul is in Christ’s hands. We must decide how he died.’
‘Shouldn’t the corpse be handed over to the city coroner?’ Corbett asked.
‘We have our rights,’ Branquier sna
pped. ‘Approved by the Crown.’
Corbett wiped his lips on the back of his hands.
‘And why are you here?’ the treasurer continued harshly.
‘Let’s be courteous to our guest,’ William Symmes intervened.
Sitting next to Corbett, he smiled across the choir-stall, but then the clerk started as a small, furry bundle leapt from Symmes’s lap into his. Corbett’s consternation eased the tension. Symmes sprang to his feet apologising, and deftly plucked the little weasel from Corbett’s lap.
‘It’s my pet,’ Symmes explained.
Corbett peered over the stall at the weasel’s small, russet body, its white pointed features, twitching nose and the unblinking stare of those little black eyes. Symmes cradled it as if it was a baby, stroking it gently.
‘He’s always like this,’ Symmes explained. ‘Curious but friendly.’
De Molay rapped his fingers on the side of the stall and all eyes turned to him.
‘You are here, aren’t you, Sir Hugh, because of recent happenings in the city? The attack on the king!’
‘Aye, by a serjeant of your Order, Walter Murston.’ Corbett ignored the indrawn hiss of breath. ‘According to the evidence, Murston fired two crossbow bolts at the king as the royal procession was moving up Trinity.’
‘And?’
‘By the time I reached the tavern garret where Murston was lurking, he, too, had been killed by a mysterious fire which consumed the top half of his body.’
‘How do you know it was Murston?’ Legrave asked.
‘We found his saddlebag, Templar’s surcoat and a list of provisions in his name. I am sure,’ Corbett added, ‘that if you search, you will find the serjeant gone and your armoury lacking an arbalest.’ The clerk stared across at Branquier. ‘And you will not be sitting in judgement on his corpse. Sir John de Warrenne, Earl Marshall of England, has ordered it to be gibbeted on the Pavement in York.’
De Molay leaned back in his choir-stall. Corbett saw how his saintly, ascetic face had now turned an ashen grey. Dark rings under the grand master’s eyes showed he had slept very little, and betrayed the anxieties seething within him. You know, don’t you, Corbett thought; you know there’s something rotten here. Something festering within your Order.
De Molay drew his breath in. ‘Murston was one of my men,’ he explained. ‘A member of my retinue. He was of Gascon birth and belonged to the French chapter of our Order.’
‘Why should he try to kill our king?’ Corbett asked.
De Molay tapped the side of his head. ‘Murston served in Outremer: the heat there can boil a man’s brain. He was a good serjeant but his wits were slightly addled.’
‘The same could be said of many in York, but they do not try to commit treason and regicide.’
‘There are those in our Order,’ Legrave spoke up, ‘who claim the Western princes’ lack of support cost Christendom the city of Acre. The Templar Order lost many good knights at Acre, not to mention treasure, as well as their foothold in the Holy Land. If Acre had been relieved . . .’ Legrave wrinkled his brow. ‘If Edward of England had done more,’ he continued, ‘perhaps that tragedy would never have occurred.’
‘But that was twelve years ago!’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Some wounds fester,’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘Others heal quickly. Murston was one of those who felt betrayed.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett continued, ‘there are others, aren’t there? Somebody else was with him.’
‘What proof do you have of that?’ Symmes shouted.
‘I simply don’t believe that fire consumes every would-be murderer, even if their intended victim is a crowned king.’
‘But you have no proof,’ Legrave said.
‘No, I don’t. But I do possess proof that, as I came through York earlier today, I received the Assassins’ warning as well. A message thrust into my hand. Someone scrawled it out then paid a beggar to give it to me. A short while later,’ Corbett continued, ‘a crossbow bolt narrowly missed my head. This was not imagination, I have all the proof I need.’ Corbett held up his hand bearing the king’s ring.
‘I see it,’ de Molay remarked softly. ‘You act for the king in this matter?’
‘So, let’s not sit here engaging in tittle-tattle,’ Corbett said. ‘Some days ago, a grisly murder occurred on the road outside York near Botham Bar. A man’s body was cut into two, the top half consumed by fire. Only a trained knight, with a two-handed sword, could have performed such a terrible feat.’ He glanced at de Molay. ‘You have recently all come from France, Grand Master.’
De Molay nodded, running his fingers through his beard.
‘We attended a grand chapter there,’ Branquier explained.
‘Aye, and shortly afterwards,’ Corbett replied, ‘a Templar serjeant tried to kill Philip of France.’
‘Rumour,’ Branquier scoffed. ‘More of your tittle-tattle, Master Clerk.’
‘You will hear the truth soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have news from France. This Templar serjeant has been captured and handed over to the Inquisition. He confessed that there’s a coven within your Order of high-ranking knights who dabble in black magic and wage a secret war against God’s anointed princes.’
Corbett’s words created an uproar. Legrave and Symmes sprang to their feet. The latter still stroked his pet weasel, so lovingly that Corbett idly wondered if it could be his familiar, but he dismissed the thought as both unfair and superstitious.
Richard Branquier put his face in his hands: he glared through his fingers at Corbett with such intense hatred that the clerk wished he had brought Ranulf and Maltote with him. Old Baddlesmere just sat shaking his head. Only when de Molay brought his high-heeled boots crashing down to the floor and shouted for silence, did the knights resume their seats.
‘We heard about this attack,’ he announced. ‘Sooner or later the Temple in Paris will send us the truth of these matters, though Edward of England’s own emissary would never lie. What else do you know, Sir Hugh?’
‘The French Templar confessed that members of this coven are led by a high-ranking officer who calls himself Sagittarius, or the Bowman.’ Corbett turned and jabbed a finger at de Molay. ‘You, Sire, know there is something wrong. It’s written on your face: that’s why your soldiers now patrol the grounds and heavily armed men stand guard in the galleries outside. What do you fear?’
‘Nothing but superstition,’ de Molay snapped back, ‘of course.’ He shrugged. ‘There are Templars who are bitter at what happened at Acre and elsewhere, just as there are English barons who do not want peace with France.’
‘Is that why you acceded so quickly to the king’s demand for money?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you trying to buy his protection?’
This time Corbett knew he had hit his mark. There were no dramatic outbursts or cries of disapproval.
De Molay smiled faintly. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he replied. ‘Templars are fighting monks. All of us here are warrior-priests. We came into this order for one purpose, and one purpose only: to defend Jerusalem and the Holy Places. To protect Christ’s fief from the infidel. Now look at us . . . Merchants, bankers, farmers. Of course, we hear the rising tide of protest. They call us idle, time-wasters! But what can we do? Men like Guido Reverchien, Murston, myself; all the knights in this room who would love to give our lives on the walls of Jerusalem and spill our blood so the likes of you can kneel and kiss the ground in the Holy Sepulchre. It is politic,’ he added slowly, ‘for us to seek out friends in high places, whether it be Philip of France or Edward of England.’
‘We are the king’s loyal subjects.’ Legrave’s boyish face looked even more youthful.
‘Then you can prove it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Where were you all, today, between the hours of ten o’clock and two o‘clock, the time of the attacks on both the king and myself?’
‘Why single us out?’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘We are not the only Templars.’
‘You were in France and Philip was attacked. Murston was
from Framlingham Manor. He carried a purse of silver, far too much for a common serjeant. Above all, the murderous attack outside Botham Bar was, I believe, carried out by a knight. More importantly, the only people who knew which street the king would use in going to the archbishop’s palace were me, John de Warrenne and yourselves.’
‘Nonsense!’ Baddlesmere exclaimed.
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, sir, the only time that route was mentioned was when you were present in the priory yesterday afternoon. I deliberately arranged it so that the king could take four, even five routes through the city. The decision to go up Trinity was reached just before the king met you. It was announced publicly only very shortly before the king entered York, yet Murston was in that tavern from the night before.’
The Templars now looked frightened. Baddlesmere shuffled his feet, Branquier fingered his lips, Legrave stared in outrage at Jacques de Molay, whilst Symmes sat, head bowed, stroking and muttering under his breath to his pet weasel.
Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 7
