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

by Doherty, Paul

  Corbett told them.

  ‘In the library!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Why there, Master?’

  ‘First, because the assassin knew I was there. Secondly, he wanted to stop me from finding anything.’ Corbett withdrew the scrap of parchment from his wallet. ‘Forget the scorch-marks. Maltote, I want you to go back into York.’ Corbett crossed to the table and, seizing a quill, wrote a short note listing the phrases he had found in Odo’s carrel. ‘Go to the king, he’s staying in the archbishop’s palace at York Minster!’ He handed over the message. ‘Give this to him. If he interrogates you about what has happened here, tell him—’ Corbett pulled a face ‘—well, tell him the truth. But I need an answer to that as soon as possible.’

  ‘Can I go with him?’ Ranulf asked expectantly.

  ‘No, you can’t. A few more days away from the fleshpots of York will do your soul, not to mention your body, the world of good.’

  Maltote hurriedly went to fill the saddlebag. He came back to make his farewells and almost ran down the passageway.

  ‘Well, there goes a happy man,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘But what do we do?’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, Ranulf. The sunshine and fresh air will do us good.’

  They sauntered out into the grounds. Corbett did his best to relax. They first went back to the library. The door was now open but when Corbett returned to the carrel, he found the crossbow bolts had been pulled from the woodwork. Apart from a few scratches on the carrel and postern door, there was little sign of any disturbance. They walked back to the stables. After making a few inquiries, Corbett found the serjeant who had seen Odo and his boat burst into flames.

  ‘Come,’ Corbett said, ‘let’s walk to the edge of the lake. Tell us what you saw.’

  The serjeant shrugged, threw down the belt he had been mending and walked with them, describing what he’d seen.

  ‘How long had Brother Odo been fishing?’ Corbett interrupted.

  ‘Oh, it must have been some time, two or three hours.’

  ‘And you were on guard?’

  ‘Yes, I was patrolling the meadow, bored out of my mind. Every so often I would look down at the lake. I was hot, I grew tired.’ He paused as they entered the cool shade of the trees which fringed the edge of the lake. ‘When I looked up, I saw the flame; it was as if the fire had sprung from the lake itself.’

  Corbett pointed to the wooden causeway which stretched out into the lake.

  ‘Odo’s boat, The Ghost of the Tower, was moored here?’

  ‘Oh yes. Odo would climb in, row himself out, then sit for hours with his rod and line.’

  Corbett walked on to the causeway. It felt strange to have the lake moving and shimmering on either side. At the end of the platform, he peered down at fire-blackened fragments being washed to and fro.

  ‘And you came down here?’

  ‘Well, by the time I reached where you stand there was nothing left, just fire.’

  Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the fire burnt out the bottom of the boat but the lake seemed to make little difference to it.’ The Templar looked worried. ‘That’s what made me think it was Devil’s fire.’

  ‘And when the flames did die?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘It took some time. Afterwards all that remained was wood, a few scraps of cloth and Brother Odo’s mangled remains.’

  ‘Is the lake well stocked with fish?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Of course,’ the serjeant replied. ‘Especially with trout. The kitchen often serve it, nice and fresh, covered in a cream sauce.’

  ‘But you saw no fish?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, if Brother Odo had been fishing for hours and the lake’s well stocked, he must have made a considerable catch.’

  ‘I didn’t see any fish but they may have burnt.’

  Corbett thanked him and the serjeant walked back into the line of trees.

  ‘You think Odo was already dead when the fire broke out, don’t you?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Ranulf walked carefully backwards along the wooden causeway. ‘Have you noticed, Master, how the trees on either side of the lake grow out and conceal this platform from view? Odo wouldn’t be seen until he was in the centre of the lake. I think he was killed before he ever got into that boat. His body was lashed upright. He wore his cloak and cowl so nobody from the shore would notice. And why should an old Templar wear a cloak and cowl on a warm spring day? Moreover, if he was fishing, where is his catch, burnt or not?’

  Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Ranulf, but the question still remains: how did the fire start?’

  ‘Well, that’s why I think he was dead,’ Ranulf continued. ‘Remember, Master, the serjeant said he saw flames licking the boat but Odo never moved to douse them, nor did he spring up in alarm or attempt to escape.’ He blew his breath out. ‘But that’s all I can say. How the fire was started is a mystery.’

  They walked back up the meadow. Half-way up, Corbett sat down, stretching his legs in the long grass. He leaned back on his hands, stared up at the blue sky, then closed his eyes. He savoured the warmth, the sweet smell of crushed grass and wild flowers, the chattering of birds in the trees and the melodious bee hum.

  ‘If I keep my eyes closed,’ he murmured, ‘I’d say this was paradise.’

  Ranulf moaned. ‘If I was in a tavern in Cheapside with a blackjack of ale in my right hand and the other on the knee of a pretty doxy, I’d agree, Master.’ He tore at the grass. ‘Master, these warnings from the sect of Assassins. Why has the killer chosen them?’

  Corbett opened his eyes. ‘The Assassins are an Islamic sect,’ he replied. ‘Garbed in white, with blood-red girdles and slippers. They live under the command of their leader, the Old Man of the Mountain, in their castle, the Eagle’s Nest near the Dead Sea. I have heard the king speak of them. Their fortress stands on the summit of an unclimbable mountain. Inside it are walled gardens filled with exotic trees, marble fountains, beautiful flowerbeds and silk-carpeted pavilions. The members of this sect, the ‘Devoted Ones’, are fed saffron cakes and wine drugged with opiates. They dream of Paradise: every so often the Old Man sends them out to kill those he has marked down for death.

  ‘Now the Assassins did terrible work amongst the Crusaders.’ Corbett sat up and stared down at the lake. ‘They are a nightmare, phantoms from hell, who stir up black terrors, particularly in our king’s soul. Edward still dreams about the attack on him some thirty years ago.’

  ‘Could there be Assassins in the Templar Order?’ Ranulf asked, ‘apostates who have renounced their vows? Or better still,’ he hurried on, ‘what if the Assassins are using this Templar coven to weaken the Western Kingdoms?’

  Corbett got to his feet, brushing the grass from his hose.

  ‘I can’t answer, Ranulf, but I do think it’s time we spoke to the grand master.’

  They returned to the manor house and, after a while, secured an audience with de Molay. The grand master sat at his desk littered with manuscripts. He gestured for them to sit.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ De Molay rubbed his face. ‘This cannot go on for ever. I have to travel back to France. The king’s ban must be lifted.’

  ‘Why?’ Corbett asked, recalling the messenger he had seen pounding along the Botham Bar road. ‘Is there a fresh crisis in Paris?’

  De Molay sifted amongst the documents. ‘Yes, of course there is. The attack on Philip of France was carried out by a Templar. The serjeant in question was one of those hotheads. He was handed over to the Inquisition and, yes, he did confess.’

  ‘But I told you that.’

  ‘What you don’t know,’ de Molay replied, ‘is that a few days ago Philip of France was crossing the Grand Ponte, returning to the Louvre Palace after visiting the tombs at St Denis. Apparently,’ de Molay threw the piece of parchment back on the desk, ‘another attempt was made on his life. Paris is swept by rumours and scandals, the Chapter demands my return.’

  ‘And is there any truth in the rumo
urs?’

  De Molay refused to meet his gaze.

  ‘Grand Master,’ Corbett insisted, ‘I am not your enemy. I admire your Order. Men like Brother Odo and Sir Guido were true knights of the Cross but, for God’s sake, open your eyes, there’s something rotten here. Did you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘about the rumours and allegations of sodomy amongst your company?’

  De Molay glanced up angrily. ‘Don’t preach to me, Corbett! I can list bishops and their mistresses, priests who visit whores, noble lords with a penchant for page-boys. Of course there are brethren here who are subject to the frailties of the flesh, as you or I!’ he snapped.

  ‘And these murders?’ Corbett asked. ‘Grand Master, can you explain them? Or why a Templar should send the same warnings as those of the Old Man of the Mountain? Could one of your Order, or more, be apostates, Assassins? What is your relationship with that sect?’

  De Molay leaned back in his chair, playing with a thin-bladed parchment knife. ‘For centuries,’ he replied, ‘the Templar Order guarded the Holy Places. We built our castles. We put down roots. We made peace with those around us. Just because a man worships Allah and meets you in battle does not mean that in peace you can’t sit down at the same table to exchange ideas, gifts and presents.’

  ‘But the Assassins?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Aye, even with the Assassins. They control some trade routes: certain territories are under their jurisdiction. They are as amenable to bribes as any other.’

  ‘So, your Order did business with them?’

  ‘Yes and, before you ask, Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere and William Symmes once served an embassy to the Eagle’s Nest. They were entertained by the Old Man of the Mountain.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and Symmes have seen the beautiful gardens, drunk the iced sherbert, listened to the Old Man’s speeches. Yes, they’ve been his guests, but that does not make them apostates. The Assassins are not our enemies.’

  ‘Then who are?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘The Western princes,’ de Molay replied. ‘They see our manors, our granges, our barns, our well-stocked herds and fertile fields. The treasures of the Temple in Paris, London, Cologne, Rome and Avignon make their fingers itch. What do the Templars do, they ask? Why do they need such power and wealth? Should it not be better used for other purposes?’

  ‘So you have no idea who the assassin could be?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘No more than you do, Sir Hugh!’ De Molay pushed the parchment aside and picked up a letter. ‘I am sending a messenger to the king.’

  Corbett nodded.

  ‘I am going to beg him,’ de Molay continued, ‘for licence to return to France.’ He leaned on the table and glared across at Corbett. ‘Now there’s a thought, Sir Hugh: here am I, Grand Master of Christendom’s premier fighting Order, yet I have to beg to travel home, offer money as a surety for my good conduct.’ De Molay’s face became suffused with rage. ‘Now, God forgive me Sir Hugh for saying so, but such humiliation would make a saint plot revenge!’

  A few hours later, in the woods overlooking the lake, Sagittarius sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. He picked at the lichen and moss and stared at the cross-hilt of his sword buried in the ground before him. He looked at the cross engraved on the hilt and his face became hard. He rocked himself backwards and forwards. His master, or at least his new one, was right, the Order was finished. And what good would it do then? He stared out across the lake and thought of Brother Odo.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.

  Yes, he was truly sorry the old one had to die but, with his long memory and meddling ways, the librarian could have proved a danger. Sagittarius licked his lips as he remembered the wine tun Corbett had brought. He had seen it broached, noticing the red seal with the vintner’s mark stamped on it, round as a coin, boldly displaying the year 1292. The wine had tasted rich and mellow on his tongue. Perhaps one day he would have such riches and be able to call up what he wanted. And who could oppose him? The Templars? Stupid, brawny men, frightened by their own secrets and mysterious rituals, scampering about like chickens without their heads. He grasped the hilt of his sword, pulled it out of the soil and lay it over his lap, cleaning the dirt from its point. Corbett was his only danger. The first time the clerk should have been frightened but, in the library, if it hadn’t been for that bloody door, he’d have caught and killed him. What a storm that would have provoked! He dared not creep out of the manor and try to enter York, that would be dangerous. So what next? He recalled the gossip and rumours he had heard, the hints and the sniggers. The assassin sat down on the log and coolly planned other murders.

  Chapter 10

  The tolling of the bell woke Corbett. Ranulf was already up, searching for his swordbelt. Outside the corridors echoed with the running of feet and shouted orders. Other bells in the Templar manor began to toll. Corbett dressed hurriedly. He wrapped his swordbelt around him and peered through the window: the darkened sky was brightening under the first light of dawn.

  ‘Are we under attack?’ Ranulf exclaimed, hopping around, putting his boots on.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Corbett gasped.

  There was a hammering at the door. Ranulf drew back the bolts. A Templar serjeant, his face blackened, hair awry, his surcoat and hose scorched and filthy, almost fell into the room.

  ‘Sir Hugh!’ he gasped. ‘The grand master’s compliments but you are to come. There’s a fire in the main building!’

  Once outside the guesthouse, Corbett saw the smoke billowing out of the far wing of the manor. The courtyard was now filling with Templars: half-dressed, coughing and spluttering, they were forming a chain so buckets could be passed along. Corbett pushed his way through the door. Inside the passage was full of smoke and, as it parted in a breeze, Corbett saw the orange glow of fire at the far end. Now and again a Templar would dash in, a slopping pail of water in his hand. Branquier, followed by de Molay, came out of the smoke coughing and spluttering. They pushed by Corbett, staggering into the morning air.

  ‘It’s Baddlesmere’s cell!’ de Molay gasped. ‘It’s a lighted torch from one end to another.’ He squatted on the cobbles and greedily drank from the water stoup a servant brought, then threw the rest over his face. ‘The water’s having no effect,’ he muttered.

  Corbett crouched beside him. Branquier stumbled off into the darkness, unable to speak, his eyes streaming because of the acrid smoke. Other Templars were now staggering out of the building, shouting that they could do nothing.

  ‘The cell’s burning!’ de Molay exclaimed. ‘If the flames are not brought under control, it will engulf the entire manor house.’

  His frustration soon spread to the rest: the chain of buckets faltered. Legrave, a wet cloak covering his nose and mouth, dashed into the passageway. A few minutes later he re-emerged, the top part of his face a mask of ash. Corbett recalled Murston’s smouldering corpse.

  ‘Forget the water!’ the clerk exclaimed. He pointed across the cobbles where a huge mound of sand, probably used in some building work, lay heaped against the wall. ‘Use that!’ he said. ‘Sand, dirt, soil. Smother the flames rather than drown them!’

  At first everything was confusion but then Symmes arrived, his pet weasel popping his little head out of the top of his tunic. He forced the retainers into one long line. Soldiers were sent in, wet cloths over their nostrils and mouths: each carried buckets of sand whilst another was armed with a heavy blanket. An hour passed, eventually the flames died and the fire was brought under control.

  ‘Thank God!’ de Molay murmured. ‘Thank God, Sir Hugh, the walls are of stone, as is the floor: the whole manor could have been turned into a blazing pyre.’

  ‘It’s bad enough,’ Legrave remarked, coming up. ‘The cell on the other side is damaged, as are the two rooms above. The beams and floor joists are burnt away.’ He stared around. ‘Where’s Baddlesmere?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m s
ure I saw . . .’ His voice faltered.

  Branquier hastened away, calling Baddlesmere’s name. He came back, shaking his head.

  ‘That was Baddlesmere’s chamber?’ Corbett asked.

  Symmes nodded.

  ‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

  Symmes turned away and shouted out names. Two Templars hurried up, stripped to the waist, their bodies covered in soot. They looked like two demons from hell.

  ‘You raised the alarm?’ Branquier asked one of them.

  ‘Yes, Domine. I was on patrol. I turned the corridor and saw the smoke coming out beneath the door. I hurried down and banged with all my might.’ He extended his bloody, scorched fist. ‘The door was boiling hot so I called for help. Waldo and Gibner came. Gibner ran off to ring the bell and raise the alarm, whilst Waldo and I tried to force the door, which was locked and barred. We took a bench from the corridor and smashed it on the left so as to snap the hinges. We were successful,’ he gasped, ‘but the flames and the smoke seemed to leap out at us. Inside it was terrible, fire and smoke. It was like the heart of hell, an inferno.’

  ‘Did you see Sir Bartholomew?’ Legrave snapped. ‘Speak the truth!’

  ‘Yes, he was lying on the bed. The flames had already reached it. I only saw him for a few seconds.’ He stammered. ‘Him and. . .’

  ‘And?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘There was another,’ the Templar mumbled. ‘They were sprawled on the bed: the flames were already taking hold of the tester and counterpane. I shouted once, then we ran. Honestly, Master, we could do nothing.’

  ‘Who was the other?’ Branquier cried. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man! We have lost two of our Order!’

  ‘One was Sir Bartholomew,’ the serjeant replied. ‘I think the other was Scoudas.’

  De Molay cursed under his breath and walked away. Corbett stood aside, watching the dirty and blackened Templars wash themselves in buckets of water from the well. Above him the sun was rising fast and strong whilst, a short distance away, de Molay and his commanders waited for it to be safe before reentering the building. Eventually a serjeant reported the fire was extinguished. De Molay ordered his companions to stay where they were and, beckoning Corbett and Ranulf, entered the charred, stinking corridor. The walls and woodwork were all scorched; when they reached Baddlesmere’s chamber, Corbett was surprised at the intensity of the fire. It had reduced the chamber to nothing but a blackened charnel-house. The floor was ankle-deep in ash. The bedding, furniture and ornaments had been turned to cinder. Above them, the ceiling had been gutted; they stared into the upper chamber where the hungry flames had roared, consuming all in its path.