A scullion came from the kitchen and laid a fresh trancher in front of the librarian. Odo rested his elbows on the table and Corbett gaped: Odo had no left hand, nothing but a polished, wooden stump. Legrave, sitting opposite, leaned across.
‘We put up with Brother Odo,’ he whispered loudly, smiling down at the librarian who stared back in mock anger. ‘He will not like us telling you this, but Odo is a hero, a veritable paladin.’
‘It’s true!’ Branquier trumpeted. ‘Why do you think we put up with his speeches and bad manners?’
Corbett felt the deep admiration, even love for the old Templar.
‘In his time,’ Symmes declared, ‘Brother Odo was a knight of whom even Arthur or Roland and Oliver would have been proud.’
‘Oh, stop it!’ The librarian gestured with his good hand, though he openly revelled in this warm-hearted badinage.
‘He was at Acre,’ Legrave continued, ‘as we all were, but he defended the breach when the walls were broken. He was the last to leave. Tell us, Brother, tell our guests what happened.’
Corbett realised this was a ritual time-honoured, only this time with a difference. These men were desperate to show Corbett that, despite the rumours and whispered allegations, once, in a different age, they had been defenders of Christendom: heroes, saints in armour. The other Templars joined in, so Odo took a deep swig of wine and raised the polished stump.
‘I lost my hand in Acre,’ he began. ‘Yes, I was there when the city fell in March 1291.’ He stared round at the four Templar commanders. ‘You were there too.’
‘We broke and ran.’ Legrave did not lift his eyes. ‘We fled the city, our shields on our backs, our faces towards the sea.’
‘No you didn’t,’ Odo replied gently. ‘You had to retreat. I have told you hundreds of times: there’s no glory in dying. There’s no honour in a bloody corpse. There’s no pride in captivity.’
‘You didn’t flee,’ Branquier remarked.
‘Brother,’ de Molay tapped the hilt of his knife on the tablecloth. ‘In truth, you all have the advantage of me, I wasn’t even there. I have never known the scorching heat of the deserts of Outremer. I have never heard the blood-curdling cry of the Mamelukes nor felt the savage fury of battle. Acre did not fall because of us. But, because . . .’ He caught Corbett’s gaze and his voice trailed off. Then the grand master looked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Tell us once again, Odo,’ he whispered. ‘Tell us how the city fell.’
‘The siege began in March.’ Odo’s voice was deep and mellow. He leaned back, closing his eyes, painting pictures with his words. ‘As you all know, Acre was a doomed city, yet the streets were full of life and the taverns thronged, feasting far into the night. Syrian and Greek girls filled the upper rooms of wine shops. A feverish excitement seized Acre as the Turks began to ring the city.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Why is it?’ he asked, ‘that when people are about to die, they dance even faster? Sir Hugh, have you ever been in battle?’
‘Ambuscades in Wales and in the wet heather on the Scottish march, but nothing like you, Brother Odo.’ Corbett glanced round at the Templars. ‘I cannot condemn any man for what he did in battle. I am not too sure how I would behave.’
Odo toasted him silently before continuing. ‘The final attack came in May. The thudding of the siege engines, the cracking of boulders against the crumbling walls of the city, the crash and roar of exploding fire – and those drums. Do you remember them, Brothers, the Mameluke drums constantly rattling?’
‘Even now,’ Branquier declared. ‘Sometimes at night, when I lie down to sleep in my cell, I can still hear that drumming.’ He stared round sheepishly. ‘I get up and stare through the window into the shadows amongst the trees. I wonder if Satan and all his army have come to taunt me.’
Odo nodded. ‘I was on the western wall,’ he continued. ‘A breach was caused and oil poured in, blackening the ground, creating a curtain of smoke. The Mamelukes filled in the ditches by stampeding columns of beasts of burden. These fell into the moat, were slaughtered, and so formed a bridge over which they could pour across. There were not many of us left. I was weary, blinded by smoke, my arms heavy.’ He paused. ‘Behind the smoke we could hear the songs of the dervishes, the rattle of their drums drawing closer. In the half-light, just before dawn, the first attack came: dark masses, as if hell was spitting out legions of demons. We fought them off but then armoured regiments of Mamelukes followed and the walls were taken. We fell back. We passed a group of monks, Dominicans. They had gathered together to sing the “Salve Regina”. We could do nothing to save them. All around us men were dying, burning in their towers, in the entrances to houses, or on the barricades across the alleyways.’
‘But you stopped them,’ Branquier intervened. ‘For a while, Brother Odo, you stopped them.’
‘Aye. There was a street leading down to the docks; everyone was fleeing there. All command had collapsed and the ships were filling up as fast as they could. I and about two dozen other Templars — chosen men — manned the last barricade.’ Odo straightened up. His face became youthful, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘We fought all afternoon,’ he declared. ‘And, as we did, we sang the “Paschale Laudes”, the Easter hymn, until even the Infidels pulled back and promised us our lives. We laughed at them. They closed again. Balls of fire rained down on the barricades; then there was blackness.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘When I woke up I was in one of the transports fleeing out to the open sea. My left hand was gone; Acre had fallen. I later learnt one man had survived; he’d dragged me down to the quayside steps. He found a boat.’ Odo’s voice trembled. ‘Sometimes, I wish to God I had died there with my brothers.’
‘Nonsense.’ William Symmes, his scarred face now softer, rose and went to kneel beside the old librarian. ‘If you had died,’ he said softly, ‘we would never have heard the story and Framlingham would not have its favourite librarian.’
‘So,’ Corbett asked, ‘apart from the grand master, you were all in Acre?’
‘We came back with the rest,’ Legrave replied. ‘Each of us is now a principal commander. I at Beverley, Baddlesmere in London, Symmes at Templecombe in Dorset, Branquier in Chester.’
‘And at your Grand Chapter,’ Corbett insisted, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, ‘were fresh plans laid? Will the Order attempt to regain what it has lost?’
‘In time,’ de Molay replied. ‘But where are your questions leading, Sir Hugh?’ He flicked his fingers and a servant came out of the shadows to fill their wine goblets.
‘Perhaps this is not the time nor occasion.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf and Maltote who, having filled their stomachs, were now staring, round-eyed, at these strange men who had witnessed scenes they could never imagine.
‘Nonsense,’ de Molay replied. ‘What is it you want to know, Corbett?’
‘You all went to France for the Grand Chapter? Grand Master, why did you come back to England? And why did you all stay together instead of returning to your different posts?’
‘It is my duty to visit every province,’ de Molay replied. ‘And when I do, I am to be attended by the senior commanders.’
‘When did you return?’
‘Seven days before the warning was pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral,’ de Molay replied sardonically, ‘and a few days after the attack on Philip of France in the Bois de Boulogne.’
‘Do continue.’ Legrave put his elbows on the table, licking his fingers.
‘And you came to Framlingham?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes,’ Legrave replied, taunting him. ‘We were here at Framlingham when that terrible murder occurred outside Botham Bar.’
‘And we were in York,’ Branquier spoke up. ‘When your king was attacked and you were so nearly assassinated.’
‘But all this,’ Baddlesmere declared, ‘is coincidence, not proof of any treason.’
‘And remember,’ Brother Odo intervened, ‘none of my comrades was here when Sir Guido died at the centre of that ma
ze. They had all left Framlingham the previous evening for their meeting with the king at St Leonard’s Priory.’
‘Sir Guido was your friend?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes and, before you ask, the reason why I am not grieving is that I am glad Sir Guido is dead. He was a man who constantly tortured himself. Now he’s at peace in the arms of Christ. No more pain, no more doubt.’ The old librarian’s eyes blinked quickly. ‘Tomorrow we bury him and he’ll be at rest.’
‘You were there,’ Corbett said. ‘You went to the mouth of the maze with him?’
‘Yes, I did, just before dawn. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was turning a deep blue. Sir Guido said it reminded him of Outremer. He knelt down, his rosary in his hand, and began his pilgrimage. I just sat there, as I always did, revelling in the sweet smells of the morning breeze and wishing Sir Guido would not torture himself. I was dozing when I heard his terrible screams. I stood up and saw a black pall of smoke rising above the maze. The rest you know.’
‘And you are sure no one else was there?’ Corbett asked.
‘God be my witness, Sir Hugh, there was no one.’
Corbett now looked at the Templars. ‘And then you all came back, late in the afternoon?’
‘As we have said,’ de Molay replied. ‘We were in the city. We had business to do. Brother Odo could see no point in sending a message to us. Sir Guido was dead, no hustle or bustle would bring him back.’
‘Except Branquier,’ Odo declared. ‘He came back early. He had asked to meet me at one o’clock.’ He smiled and picked at his food. ‘I was asleep, Branquier had to wake me.’ He grinned. ‘Sometimes I feel my age,’ he added. ‘But what hour was it?’
‘The hour candle had scarcely reached the thirteenth ring,’ Branquier replied. ‘You saw that yourself.’ He glanced across at Corbett. ‘I wanted Brother Odo to find me a book. However, when I arrived at Framlingham, a servant told me about Sir Guido, so I went to my cell, left my belongings, then visited Brother Odo.’
‘And this is the information I need,’ Corbett declared. ‘Grand Master, I apologise, but I must interrogate all of you about your precise movements.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of peace. ‘I am sure these questions will clarify matters. Neither I, nor His Grace the King intend insult. Indeed, Grand Master, I have brought a tun of wine from the Greenmantle tavern, the best wine Gascony has ever produced, as a gift from His Grace.’
‘Ah.’ De Molay smiled his thanks. ‘From the king’s own vintner, Hubert Seagrave. He has applied to purchase certain lands from us. A waste area . . .’
He broke off at the terrible screaming from the kitchen. Ranulf was the first to react: throwing back his chair, he hastened into the kitchen. Corbett and the rest followed into a large, cavernous room, its walls lined with hooks from which skillets, pots and pans hung. Now it was transformed into a scene from hell: near the oven one of the cooks stood screaming, watched by his horror-struck companions, as flames roared about him. The fire had run along the man’s apron, which was fully alight, whilst tongues of flame caught his hose and the cloth around his neck. He staggered forward then crumpled to his knees. Ranulf poured a large bucket of water over him and, helped by Maltote, seized a piece of heavy sacking lying near a bread basket and threw it over the tortured man to damp down the flames. Corbett quickly glanced at the Templars. De Molay had turned away, his face to the wall. Brother Odo and the four commanders just stared, a look of horror on their faces as the cook’s screams faded to a whimper then died completely. At last, the writhing figure lay still. Ranulf, his hands and face black with smoke, pulled back the sacking. The cook lay dead, his entire body terribly burnt. A horrid sight. Maltote retched and headed straight for the door leading to the yard.
The other servants, spit boys, scullions and cooks, edged away from the Templars. One knocked a pewter pot, which fell with a resounding crash.
‘He was laughing,’ one of the cooks whispered. ‘He was just laughing, then he was on fire. You saw it? Flames all over him.’ The man’s eyes rolled in panic. ‘We were just having a joke. He was laughing.’ The fellow’s hand flew to his nose as he became aware of the terrible stench.
‘Who was he?’ Corbett asked quietly.
‘Peterkin. He lived with his mother in Coppergate. Had grand ambitions, he did, to open his own cookshop.’
‘Take him away.’ De Molay turned to the Templar serjeants now thronging in at the door of the refectory. ‘Cover him with a sheet and take him to the Infirmary.’
The servants continued to edge to the door. The principal cook, with massive shoulders and balding head, stepped forward. He took off his leather apron and threw it on the floor.
‘That’s it!’ he snorted. ‘We are leaving. Try and stop us, but in the morning we’ll be gone.’ He pushed his hand towards the Templars. ‘We want payment and then we’ll be gone.’
Corbett saw the red, angry abscess on the palm of the man’s hand, and his stomach churned a little at what he had eaten. The cook’s demands were echoed by the rest. The mood in the kitchen perceptibly changed. One of the scullions picked up a fleshing knife, another a cleaver still red with the blood of the meat it had cut. Behind him Corbett heard the Templar serjeants drawing their swords.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘I am the king’s commissioner here. Grand Master, pay these men, and, once they’ve answered certain questions, let them go. But not here. God save the poor wretch but the place stinks with his burning.’
De Molay turned to his commanders. ‘Make sure the manor’s secure.’ He declared, ‘Our supper is ended. Sir Hugh and I will question these good people,’ adding diplomatically, ‘and don’t worry.’ De Molay smiled faintly. ‘I am sure Master Ranulf here will protect us all.’
At first all four commanders seemed about to refuse. Hands on dagger hilts, they glared at the cooks and then at Corbett.
‘Go on,’ de Molay urged quietly.
The group broke up. Corbett led the cooks back into the refectory towards the dais. He stood on this, the cooks thronging together. Out of their kitchen they became more anxious, frightened, shifting their feet, eager to be away.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘It’s as they say,’ the principal cook spoke up. ‘The meal was finished. We were clearing up the kitchen. Peterkin was pastry cook. He was raking the coals out of the oven, laughing and talking. The next minute I heard him scream. I turned round and there was fire all along his front.’
He turned and snapped his fingers. One of the scullions took off a thin, leather apron and handed it to Corbett.
‘He was wearing one of these.’
Corbett examined it curiously. The leather was very thin, a loop at the neck so it could go over the head and a cord to fasten it around the middle. It would protect a man against stains and the occasional spark but not the angry fire Corbett had seen.
‘What was he wearing on his hands?’
‘Thick woollen mittens,’ the cook replied. ‘They covered his arms up to the elbow.’
‘Show me what he was doing,’ Corbett urged. ‘Come, just you and me.’
The cook was about to protest, but Corbett stepped off the dais and held a silver coin in front of the cook’s face.
‘I’ll be with you all the time,’ Corbett assured him.
The silver coin disappeared and the two went into the kitchen. The cook led Corbett to the great fire-grate: on either side of this was a large oven built into the wall.
‘He was here,’ the cook explained, pulling open the iron door.
Corbett gingerly peered in, only to flinch at the blast of heat from the burning charcoal piled high beneath a steel wire netting. The cook picked up a pole with a wooden board at the end. He pointed into the oven.
‘You see, Master, Peterkin would put the pies on to the netting, shut the door and allow them to bake. He knew exactly how long to leave them.’ The man’s greasy face broke into a sad smile. ‘He was a good cook. The crusts of his pie
s were always golden and light, the meat fresh and savoury. He leaves a mother,’ he continued. ‘And she is a widow.’
Corbett put a silver piece into the man’s blackened hand. ‘Then give her that,’ he said. ‘Now the king is in York,’ he added, ‘tell her to petition him for mercy.’
‘Much good that will do,’ the fellow grunted.
‘No, it won’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘The petition will come to me. Now, what was Peterkin doing?’
The cook pointed to an iron tray full of dust which lay on the floor.
‘Once the baking’s done, the ovens have to be doused. Peterkin always insisted on doing it himself in preparation for the next day. He knew exactly how clean the oven must be, how to spread the charcoal. Well, he was raking it all out into the tray when I heard him scream.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Corbett asked, walking away from the oven.
The cook followed. ‘I don’t know, sir. Oh, I have seen men burnt in kitchens, especially when they mix oil with fire – bad burns to hands and faces. Now and again we scald our legs or feet.’ The man took a rag from beneath his leather apron and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘But, Master,’ he edged so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour. ‘But, Master,’ he repeated, ‘I have seen nothing like that. A good man turned into a sheet of flame within seconds.’
Corbett walked to the back door of the kitchen which had been flung open. The acrid smell of burning flesh still hung heavily in the air. From the hall he could hear the faint murmur of voices, as well as the clink of mailed men outside in the darkness. He stood, just within the kitchen, watching the moonlight reflected in the puddles in the cobbled yard.
‘What did you see?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, the first time you saw Peterkin burn?’
‘The flames.’ The man brushed his apron. ‘Along his front, chest, stomach and his hands. Yes, even the woollen mittens were ablaze.’
‘And did you notice anything untoward during the evening?’
Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 9
