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

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘But that’s a sin,’ Maltote declared. ‘And if they are caught?’

  ‘God help them: the Templar Order has been known to put such men into a cell, brick the doors and windows up and leave them to starve.’

  ‘Will you question de Molay about the secret chamber?’ Ranulf asked. ‘On the second floor where there’s one window extra. I checked it again this morning after Mass. Between two of the chambers there’s fresh wooden panelling. I think a door was once there.’

  ‘The grand master has many questions to answer,’ Corbett answered. ‘I’m eager to learn what they keep hidden here.’

  ‘Could that be the cause of the fire? Some secret weapon or even powerful relic!’ Maltote exclaimed. ‘I met a man in London who claimed to have travelled deep into Egypt, beyond Alexandria, to a tribe who possessed the Ark of the Covenant. They say that, if you touched it, strange fire burst out and consumed you. It’s true!’ Maltote’s voice rose as Ranulf began to laugh behind his hand. ‘I paid him tuppence for a piece of the wood!’

  ‘I’ll wager, the fellow never got further than Southampton,’ Ranulf chortled. ‘Have you seen Maltote’s collection of relics, Master? It includes a rusty sword which Herod’s soldiers are supposed to have used when killing the Holy Innocents . . .’

  A sudden rap on the door ended the banter. Corbett answered it, expecting to find a messenger from the grand master. Instead the young Templar serjeant he had glimpsed during Mass stood there. Beside him was a squat, thickset man with the features of a fighting mastiff. He had a jutting jaw, firmly clenched mouth, eyes which never blinked, and ridiculously cropped black hair shaved high on all sides, leaving the rest to stand up like some unruly bush.

  ‘Well?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘A visitor for you, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Didn’t you expect me?’ the stranger barked and, without further ado, walked into the chamber. He almost knocked Corbett aside, slamming the door behind him in the young Templar’s face. He stood, his squat legs apart, his fingers jammed into his swordbelt. He took off his dark-maroon cloak and slung it over a chair.

  ‘Devil’s tits!’ He smacked his lips. ‘I’m as dry as a whore’s armpit!’

  ‘You’ll be drier still if you don’t explain yourself!’

  Ranulf got to his feet. ‘Who in God’s name are you?’

  ‘Roger Claverley, Under-sheriff of York.’ Their visitor unbuckled his pouch, took out a warrant and thrust a piece of parchment at Corbett. ‘This is my warrant from the mayor and sheriff. I’m here to help you.’

  Corbett chewed his lip to stop himself smiling: the more he watched Claverley’s confrontation with Ranulf, the more his visitor reminded him of the small fighting mastiff that Uncle Morgan, Maeve’s kinsman, always had trotting behind him. The mastiff didn’t like Ranulf and the feeling was warmly reciprocated.

  ‘Get our visitor some wine, Ranulf,’ Corbett said, studying the letter closely. ‘He’s a very important official and, if this letter is correct, he can provide us with valuable information about the gold coins as well as other matters.’ Corbett put the parchment down on the table and came forward, extending a hand.

  Claverley clasped it in a bone-crushing grip.

  ‘You are very welcome, Roger,’ Corbett said, trying to hide his wince.

  The under-sheriff relaxed, his ugly face breaking into a warm smile.

  ‘I am really the city thief-taker,’ he declared grandly. ‘I know all the villains of the city and they know me. A bit like the good shepherd, only in reverse: where they go, I follow.’

  Corbett waved him to a seat, warning Ranulf with his eyes to stand off. Claverley looked first at Maltote who, as usual, was staring open-mouthed, and then at Ranulf.

  ‘I’ll wager a month’s provisions you have seen the inside of a gaol, my lad. Even across a crowded room, I know a felon when I see one.’

  ‘Yes, I have been inside Newgate.’ Ranulf replied tartly. ‘I ran wild with the rufflers, the foists, the palliards, the upright men. But tell me, Claverley, were you just born this discourteous? Or does it come with the office you hold?’

  Claverley suddenly leaned forward, hands extended, that charming smile back on his face. Ranulf clasped his hand.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give offence. I have been there as well,’ Claverley remarked. ‘After all, the best gamekeepers were once poachers. Now, Sir Hugh, I have been told to assist you, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be honest: if I help, would you mention my name to the king?’

  Corbett grinned at this ambitious little man’s blunt honesty.

  ‘Master Claverley, I will not forget you.’

  ‘Good,’ the under-sheriff replied. ‘First, we’ve found the remains, the decomposing bottom half of that man’s corpse. Do you remember, the good sisters’ guide, Thurston, glimpsed it as the horse careered by them. Some of our young merchants went hunting and their dogs unearthed it.’

  ‘And the horse?’

  ‘Neither hide nor hair has been seen.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well, the Templar crossbowman: I was responsible for having him gibbeted on the pavement. Hung him up in a nice metal cage I did. With a placard, proclaiming this to be the fate of traitors and regicides, tied to it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, this morning the placard was removed. This was attached by a piece of wire to the gibbet cage.’ Claverley handed over a piece of parchment.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ Corbett groaned as he read it.

  ‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

  ‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

  ‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.’

  Corbett held the parchment up. ‘The verses are slightly changed but it is the Assassins’ warning.’

  ‘But the Templars could not have done that,’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘They are confined here at Framlingham on the king’s orders.’

  ‘They can climb a wall as easily as anyone,’ Maltote declared.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Claverley intervened. ‘We have our orders in the city. No Templar is allowed in.’

  ‘He might have gone disguised,’ Maltote added.

  Claverley shrugged. ‘The guards at the gates have been doubled. Strangers have been stopped and searched but, I suppose, it’s possible.’

  ‘There might be an assassin in York,’ Corbett replied, and described the masked horseman the cook had seen.

  Claverley scratched his chin. ‘An assassin hiding along the Botham Bar road?’ He pulled a face. ‘I’ve heard nothing about that. Anyway,’ Claverley indicated with his head, ‘what’s happening here? There are no servants, just Templar soldiers and squires.’

  ‘They have all fled,’ Corbett retorted. ‘There was a death here last night.’

  He paused at a knock on the door and Legrave came in. ‘Sir Hugh, we are ready in the refectory. The grand master . . .’ He paused and glared at Claverley. ‘Your visitor from the king?’

  ‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf, you stay here and tell our guest what we know. Sir Ralph, I’ll join you now.’

  Corbett followed the Templar out of the guesthouse and across into the refectory. De Molay was seated at the head of the table, his companions on either side. De Molay indicated for Corbett to sit at the far end facing him. He noticed the leather bag of writing implements which Corbett laid out on the table, together with parchment, pen and ink-horn.

  ‘Sir Hugh, this is a formal occasion.’

  Corbett agreed.

  ‘You will interrogate us on behalf of the king. So you will not object if we, too, keep a fair record of what is said. Sir Richard Branquier will be our clerk.’

  ‘Grand Master, do what you wish, but time is short, so I’ll be blunt. If I give offence then I apologise. And you’ll forgive me if I repeat what I have asked before?’

  De Molay nodded.

&
nbsp; ‘Grand Master, are there divisions in your Order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are there those, amongst your principal commanders, who are bitter at the lack of support from the Western Princes?’

  ‘Of course, but that does not mean we are traitors!’

  ‘Have you ever heard,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘of a high-ranking officer in the Templars who carries the nickname of Sagittarius, the Archer?’ He watched the rest but they remained inscrutable.

  ‘Never!’ de Molay snapped. ‘Though some of the knights, indeed all, are accomplished archers, with the arbalest, the Welsh longbow and even with Saracen weapons.’

  ‘Have you heard any news about the Templar interrogated by the Inquisition?’

  ‘No, but we expect news daily. We do not even know his name.’

  ‘But you knew Murston?’

  Corbett watched as Branquier, holding his pen in his left hand, conscientiously scribbled what was being said.

  ‘Murston was my retainer. A weak man, not liked by his colleagues. He drank a lot. He had become bitter.’

  ‘But not a traitor?’

  ‘No, Sir Hugh, I think not.’

  ‘Wasn’t he missed from his quarters? After all, he hired the garret in that tavern the night before the attack on the king?’

  ‘You must remember, Sir Hugh, all of us had met the king at St Leonard’s Priory the previous day. My companions and I then went into York. It could have been some days before Murston was missed.’

  Corbett paused to write down what he had learnt. His quill skimmed across the soft parchment, writing in a cipher known only to himself.

  ‘And on the day the king entered York?’ he asked, placing the quill down.

  ‘We left the priory of St Leonard,’ de Molay replied, ‘and entered York. Legrave and I visited our bankers, goldsmiths in Stonegate.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Coningsby,’ Legrave replied. ‘William Coningsby and Peter Lamode.’

  ‘And you stayed there all the morning?’

  ‘There is no need for this,’ Branquier broke in. ‘We are knights of the Cross, not felons seized by the Crown!’

  ‘Hush!’ De Molay raised his hand. ‘All we are telling, Brother, is the truth. Legrave and myself were in Stonegate well into the afternoon. I inspected our accounts, then journeyed up Petergate and through Botham Bar. The king’s procession was in the grounds of York Minster. I would have liked to have visited the place.’ The grand master smiled thinly. ‘But I let it wait for another day.’

  ‘And you, Sir William?’ Corbett asked.

  Not a muscle moved in Symmes’s scarred face, though his good eye looked threateningly at Corbett.

  ‘For a while I was with the grand master, but then I visited merchants in Goodramgate and journeyed to see a friend, a priest who serves the church of St Mary. I arranged to meet the grand master just outside the parchmenters’ house within sight of Botham bar. I journeyed back with him.’

  ‘And Sir Bartholomew?’ Corbett made a few notes on the parchment.

  ‘I went to Jubbergatc where the armourers and fletchers keep their shops. I was to buy arms.’

  ‘And you were alone?’ Corbett asked innocently.

  ‘No, I was with a serjeant.’

  ‘And his name?’ Corbett asked.

  The Templar swallowed hard. ‘John Scoudas. He’s here in the manor.’

  ‘You needn’t ask me!’ Branquier almost shouted down the table. ‘I left St Leonard’s Priory after the rest. When I reached York, its streets were thronged because of the royal procession. I lingered for a while but the city grew hot and packed. I came back here, as Brother Odo will tell you.’

  Corbett quickly studied what he’d written: de Molay and Legrave, he reasoned swiftly, could vouch for each other, Brother Odo for Branquier. But Baddlesmere? Corbett suspected he was lying. And the same went for Symmes, who sat stroking his pet weasel which he kept under the rim of the table. Corbett stared at the parchment. He was aware that the Templars were becoming impatient: chairs were scraped back with loud sighs of exasperation.

  ‘Where do you think we were?’ Legrave abruptly asked. ‘Helping Murston to try and kill the king? Or sending you messages on Ouse Bridge?’

  ‘Or setting an ambush for you?’ Baddlesmere scoffed.

  ‘Grand Master.’ Branquier threw his quill down, splashing the table with ink. ‘This is the last time I will answer such questions. Just because an idiot of a serjeant, with addled wits, attempts to kill the king, and silly pretentious warnings are sent hither and thither, does that make us all guilty?’

  His words provoked a murmur of assent. De Molay looked distinctly uncomfortable, his dark, aristocratic face betrayed an unease. Corbett glanced to the left and right. Baddlesmere sat scratching his grizzled, weather-beaten face. Was he the murderer, Corbett wondered, with his secret sin? Or Legrave, with his neatly combed brown hair and olive-skinned, boyish face? A consummate soldier. Or one-eyed Symmes? Or Branquier, tall and stooping over the table? Yet Corbett was certain that one of these men, or perhaps all, were assassins, and that other murders could soon occur.

  ‘We have sent Peterkin’s body into the city,’ de Molay spoke up, ‘suitably coffined.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry. No Templars accompanied it, only one of our stewards with a letter of commiseration and a purse of silver for the man’s mother. Sir Hugh, why should anyone kill a poor cook? What profit lay in his death?’

  ‘Or even poor Reverchien?’ Baddlesmere snapped.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Grand Master, why have you come to York?’

  ‘I have told you: it is the duty of every grand master to visit each province.’

  ‘And, before you came,’ Corbett continued easily, ‘Framlingham Manor was supervised by Sir Guido Reverchien, its bailiff and steward?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why are certain stairwells now guarded? What other secrets does this manor hold?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A masked horseman has been seen hiding in the woods near Framlingham.’

  De Molay looked at his companions then shook his head. ‘We know nothing of that. What else?’

  ‘A sealed room on the second floor of the manor?’

  ‘Silence!’ de Molay ordered as his companions began to accuse Corbett of snooping. ‘Have you finished your questioning, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let me show you our secret room.’

  De Molay rose. Corbett put away his writing implements as quickly as possible and followed him out of the room.

  ‘Sir Richard Branquier,’ de Molay called over his shoulder. ‘You may follow us.’

  The grand master, fighting hard to control his temper, led Corbett up the stairs and along the second gallery, a wooden-floored passageway with carved panelling on the walls on either side. De Molay walked half-way down and stopped.

  ‘Branquier, open this room for Sir Hugh!’

  The Templar shouldered by Corbett roughly, almost knocking him aside. He pulled open a panelling and pressed a lever. There was a click and part of the wooden wainscoting came away to reveal a door. De Molay took a key from his pouch, inserted this into the lock and a door opened. Inside was a small, narrow cell, the floor bare, the walls whitewashed. A small casement window provided light.

  Corbett, slightly embarrassed, stared round at the trunks and coffers stored there.

  ‘It’s our treasure house,’ Branquier explained. ‘Many of our houses and manors have such a room. Doesn’t the king have the same?’ Branquier pushed his face near Corbett’s. ‘Perhaps even you, Keeper of His Secret Seal. Are all your rooms and chambers, Sir Hugh, open to the curious and inquisitive?’

  ‘I simply asked,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘And you have your answer.’

  Corbett stared at a tapestry on the wall: a beautifully embroidered piece of cloth held in place by a thin wooden frame. The tapestry depicted the taking
of Christ down from the cross by Nicodemus and St John. Mary knelt, arms outstretched, waiting to receive him. The artist had executed a brilliant scene: the gold, blue, red, green and purple colours seemed more like a picture than a tapestry.

  ‘It’s very costly,’ de Molay explained. ‘Done by an Italian artist. The goldwork alone is worth the profits of this manor. But come, Sir Hugh, we have more to show you.’

  Corbett left the chamber. De Molay made the door secure and Branquier closed the wooden partition before leading him along the gallery and up some steps. In the stairwell at the top, two soldiers guarded a flight of stairs to what must be the garret. De Molay told them to stand aside. He unlocked the door, ushering Corbett inside. The room was long, rather musty, a small oval window at the far end just above a makeshift dais on which stood a wooden altar with candlesticks at either end.

  ‘Look around,’ Branquier taunted Corbett.

  ‘There’s no need to,’ Corbett retorted. ‘It’s as bare as a hay-loft.’

  He glanced up at the slanted ceiling and, through chinks in the tiles, glimpsed the sky beyond. He walked towards the altar, noticing the two cushions on the floor before it. He picked at the wax on top of the table.

  ‘There’s nothing here!’ Branquier snapped, but he looked uneasy, as if frightened to be here.

  ‘So why is it guarded so securely?’ Corbett asked.

  Branquier, startled, opened his mouth to reply. De Molay, however, was quicker.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you are so suspicious. We are the Templar Order. We have our own rites and rituals.’

  ‘You have a fair enough chapel downstairs.’

  ‘True. True,’ the grand master replied. ‘But go to any religious house in York: Cistercians, Carthusians, the Crutched Friars, Friars of the Sack. They all have their own private chanceries and chapels well away from the public gaze. This is what happens here.’

  ‘For everyone?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘No, no,’ de Molay replied. ‘Only Sir Richard and myself. We have reached that stage of development in our Order.’