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

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘On this occasion, Ranulf, he might well do that. But let’s not disappoint our hosts. We have to wash and change.’

  They returned to the guesthouse. For a while Corbett sat studying the books Maltote had brought. He read the first chapters of Bacon’s work, though he could find little there of interest. He cradled the book in his hands and remembered the Unknown’s dying gasps in the Lazar hospital. What, he thought, was the significance of his confession: allegations about cowardice amongst the Templars at Acre so many years ago? Was the coward here at Framlingham? Outside the storm broke: the rain splattered against the window, the thunder crashed over the manor house, whilst the lightning illuminated the trees and grounds in great bursts of white light.

  ‘Is there anything interesting in the books?’ Ranulf asked, coming up beside him.

  Corbett scratched his head. ‘Nothing.’ He got to his feet. ‘It will wait.’ He took off his jerkin. ‘I wonder what will happen now?’

  Ranulf just stared at him.

  ‘I wonder if the true assassin thought I’d be happy with naming Baddlesmere as the assassin?’

  ‘So, we are still in danger?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Possibly. But come. . . ’ He paused at the tolling of the bell, almost hidden under the rumble of thunder. ‘Our hosts await us.’

  They finished their preparations, putting their cloaks on, and ran through the rain and into the main door of the manor. De Molay and his commanders were waiting in the hall. Corbett had to hide a shiver at the scene. Outside the windows, thunder crashed and lightning flared. In the hall itself, all the torches had been lit, and a row of candles along the table threw long shadows which danced and moved against the wall. Corbett and his companions received a frosty welcome. De Molay indicated with his hand where they should sit: Corbett on his left, Ranulf and Maltote further down the table. The grand master said grace, then servants brought out the dishes from the kitchen. Corbett found it difficult to eat, scrupulously studying his goblet, only sipping from it after the others drank wine poured from the same jug.

  ‘You don’t trust us, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay murmured, popping a piece of bread into his mouth.

  ‘I have enjoyed more festive banquets,’ Corbett replied.

  The meal continued. Legrave attempted a conversation, but de Molay was lost in his own thoughts, whilst Symmes and Branquier gazed stonily down at the table, determined to ignore Corbett and his companions. The meal was drawing to an end when there was a loud knocking on the door. Corbett turned in his chair as a serjeant ran in.

  ‘Grand Master!’ he gasped. ‘Grand Master, there are royal soldiers here!’

  De Molay half rose from his chair, his surprise cut short as the door crashed open and a rain-sodden captain of the royal guard strode into the hall. Behind him, two of his men pushed a chained, manacled figure, the prisoner’s cloak dripping with water.

  ‘Grand Master,’ the captain declared, ‘I apologise for the inconvenience caused by our abrupt arrival. We believe this is one of your men.’

  Grabbing the prisoner, he thrust him forward, pulling back the cowl. Corbett stared in utter disbelief at the unshaven, rain-soaked face of Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere.

  Chapter 12

  Immediate consternation broke out: the commanders leaping up, daggers drawn, chairs falling back. More soldiers rushed into the hall, swords out, arbalests loaded. The captain of the royal guard rapped out orders, his men gathered in a small circle facing outwards round their prisoners, weapons ready. Corbett recovered from his surprise and shouted for silence. Whilst he did so, he gazed quickly at the Templar commanders; all of them, de Molay included, looked as if they had seen a ghost.

  ‘There will be silence!’ Corbett roared. He drew from his pouch the Secret Seal he always carried. ‘Every man here will put away his weapons. I am the king’s commissioner.’ He continued at the top of his voice. ‘I carry the Royal Writ. It is treason to oppose me.’

  His threats eased the tension: swords were sheathed, de Molay rapped out orders. The Templar serjeants withdrew, the royal guard also relaxed. Corbett approached their captain, who now took off his heavy conical helmet. He cradled it in his arms, wiping the sweat and water from his face. His prisoner stood swaying, oblivious to what was going on around him.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain stretched forth his hand. ‘Ebulo Montibus, Knight Banneret. I bring greetings from the king.’

  Corbett clasped his hand.

  ‘I never thought,’ the captain continued, ‘that I would receive such a welcome. After all, the man has done no wrong.’

  ‘It’s a long story, Captain.’

  Symmes came forward: he caught Baddlesmere just before he fell and helped him to a chair.

  ‘If he’s done no wrong, why is he chained?’ Branquier snapped. He filled a goblet of wine and passed it down to the prisoner.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ Montibus snorted. ‘The king’s proclamation was very clear: no Templar was to leave Framlingham Manor.’

  ‘And where did you find him?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Trying to smuggle his way through Micklegate Bar. He wore no Templar livery but the saddlebags he carried contained enough evidence about who he was. The city bailiffs arrested him. He was detained in the castle and the king ordered him to be brought back here.’ The captain smacked his lips and looked at the table. ‘It’s a witch’s night,’ he continued. ‘My men are cold, hungry.’

  ‘Then be our guest.’ De Molay intervened smoothly. ‘Legrave, take our guests into the kitchen. The chains can be removed, can’t they?’

  Montibus agreed. Baddlesmere’s leg irons and wrist gyves were unlocked, falling to a heap on the floor. Baddlesmere, however, sat like a man poleaxed. Now and again he would blink or drink greedily from the goblet. His escort disappeared into the kitchen; only Montibus stayed. Corbett took his seat. Maltote stood staring, open-mouthed, like a cow over a hedge.

  Ranulf, delighted by the surprising diversion, grinned from ear to ear. He came down and whispered an Corbett’s ear, ‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

  ‘Did he commit a crime?’ de Molay asked.

  ‘Not that we know of,’ Montibus replied. ‘Except that he broke the royal prohibition.’

  ‘It’s the first time ever,’ Ranulf remarked with a laugh, retaking his seat, ‘that I have sat at table with a man who is supposed to be dead, buried and his Requiem sung.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Branquier snarled, his face white with fury.

  Ranulf just smiled back. Baddlesmere slammed the goblet down on the table. He gave a deep sigh then slouched forward, shoulders hunched, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Montibus was ignoring all this, piling the trancher in front of him with scraps of chicken and pork. He began to eat hungrily then, struck at last by Ranulf’s words, and by the tense silence, looked up. ‘What is this?’ His face grew serious as he stared round at the company. ‘What did you mean, a man who’s supposed to be dead and buried?’

  ‘Captain,’ Corbett intervened. ‘Eat your food and drink your wine. You and your men can stay the night. I am sure the grand master’s hospitality will extend to that. Sir Bartholomew, there are questions I must ask, though this is not the place.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ de Molay remarked, rising to his feet. ‘Branquier, Sir Hugh, bring Baddlesmere to my chamber.’

  Corbett whispered to Ranulf to look after the royal guard, then followed a shuffling Baddlesmere, held by Branquier, out of the hall and along the corridors into the grand master’s chamber. For a while Baddlesmere just sat muttering to himself, rubbing his mouth and staring vacuously around.

  ‘He’s lost his wits,’ Branquier commented.

  ‘Sir Bartholomew,’ de Molay thundered. ‘You must tell us what happened! Your chamber was burnt. The corpses of two men were found on the bed, blackened and burnt beyond recognition. We thought one of them was you.’

  Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘I am a worm and no man,’ he intoned. ‘My sins, my sins are al
ways before me!’

  ‘What sins?’ Corbett asked quietly, moving the stool so he sat directly opposite the Templar. ‘What sins, Bartholomew?’

  Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘The sin of sodomy,’ he rasped. ‘Which cries out to God for vengeance.’

  ‘And yet,’ Corbett replied, quoting from the Bible, “‘though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” You loved Scoudas, didn’t you?’

  Baddlesmere plucked at a loose thread in his rain-sodden hose.

  ‘I became a Templar,’ he began slowly, ‘as a young man. I wanted to be a knight in shining armour, dying for the Cross. No, even before that, as a child: I used to sleep in my mother’s room. She would bring men home. I’d hear her groaning and scrabbling in the bed. I was only a stripling. By the time I was fourteen, I knew I could never take a woman. I wanted to be pure, cold as ice and white as snow: clean and God-fearing before the Lord.’ Baddlesmere pulled a face. ‘And so I was. I became a Templar, a warrior, a monk, a priest. I had temptations of the flesh but I could control them, until I met Scoudas. At first I loved him like the son I never had but always wanted. His skin was smooth, white as satin . . .’

  ‘And on the morning you went to York,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘you saw Murston being gibbeted and then went to the tavern, the Greenmantle?’

  Baddlesmere nodded.

  ‘And Scoudas went with you?’

  ‘Yes, we shared the same chamber. However, Scoudas had changed. He began to threaten me, insinuate that he would complain.’ Baddlesmere paused. ‘He shouldn’t have done that: he mocked me as an old man, telling me that he had met someone else, Joscelyn, a member of Branquier’s retinue. I left in a temper, rejoined de Molay and journeyed back to Framlingham.’

  ‘And the night of the fire?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Scoudas came to my chamber. I thought he’d come to make his peace. Joscelyn was with him. They sat and baited me, threatening to disgrace me. I couldn’t bear their taunts any longer. I walked out of the room, slamming the door behind me, their laughter ringing in my ears. The manor was quiet. I’d left my wine in my chamber so I took a jug from the buttery and went into the grounds. I deliberately hid myself because I didn’t want to meet or talk to anyone. I went around the maze and across into the trees. The night was warm. I fell asleep. I was tired and exhausted. I’d drunk a little too much. When I woke, it was dark, though I could see the sun was about to rise. I got up stiff and sore. I was about to go back to the manor when I heard the cries and saw the flames. Even from where I stood, the smoke hung heavy in the air.’ He paused and scratched his chin.

  ‘And you fled?’ Branquier asked.

  Baddlesmere paused as the door opened and Symmes and Legrave slipped in.

  ‘The royal guards are feeding their faces,’ Symmes barked. ‘And, when they’ve finished at the trough, I will show them their sties.’

  Corbett ignored the insult. ‘Why did you flee?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose I panicked,’ Baddlesmere replied. ‘It was obvious someone had died in the room. I would be blamed. Whatever I did, I’d be damned. My secret sin would be revealed. Worse, I might be accused of starting the fire and held responsible for the other deaths. It was quite easy: I had my saddlebag with me so I simply climbed the wall. For a while I stayed in the open countryside around York, but I needed a horse and a change of clothing.’ He flailed his hands. ‘The rest you know.’

  ‘You guessed someone was in your chamber?’

  ‘I went as close as I could to the manor house, I could tell from the shouts and cries. I started to think: was the assassin after my life? Even if I could prove my innocence, they’d still say I killed Scoudas.’ He put his face in his hands and sobbed quietly.

  ‘Joscelyn died too,’ Corbett remarked.

  ‘But why?’ Baddlesmere asked. ‘Both men were young and vigorous. They could have escaped.’

  ‘You left a jug of wine?’ Corbett insisted.

  Baddlesmere blinked slowly.

  ‘The wine?’ Corbett repeated. ‘How much did you leave?’

  ‘A jug, five or six cups.’ Baddlesmere’s jaw sagged. ‘You are saying it was tainted? They were poisoned or drugged?’

  ‘That is the only explanation.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t hurt him!’ Baddlesmere wailed. ‘I would never hurt Scoudas!’

  ‘When did you put the wine in your room?’

  ‘Early in the afternoon: the best Rhenish. I placed it in a bowl of cold water to chill.’

  ‘And did you drink it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did, half a cup: then Scoudas and Joscelyn arrived. I became so angry at their taunting, I threw the cup on the floor and left.’

  ‘Sir Bartholomew,’ Corbett continued, ‘all your possessions were destroyed in the fire but, amongst Scoudas’s, we found a map of York and the assassins’ warning, both in your hand, as well as a receipt signed by Murston for monies received.’

  Baddlesmere’s eyes took on a secretive, cunning look: the change of mood was so quick that Corbett wondered whether the man was fully in his wits, or even if he might truly be the assassin, Sagittarius.

  ‘The papers,’ Corbett insisted, ‘please. Why should Scoudas be holding these papers?’

  Baddlesmere coughed and licked his lips. ‘I’d like some wine, Sir Hugh.’

  Branquier filled a cup from the side-table and thrust it in his hands.

  ‘Answer my question,’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘You have no authority here,’ Branquier broke in.

  ‘Yes he has,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Sir Bartholomew, answer the question!’

  ‘Yes, I’ll answer your question.’ Baddlesmere sat up. ‘Though I don’t like snooping clerks. Whatever my sins, I’m still a Templar. I resent you, Corbett. I resent you being here. The Order has its own rituals and rule.’

  ‘The papers?’ Corbett demanded harshly.

  ‘I was making my own inquiries,’ Baddlesmere snapped back. ‘I drew that map and the warning to help myself. I gave a copy to Scoudas and asked him to keep his eyes and ears open. If my chamber hadn’t burst into flames, you’d have found other copies there as well.’ He shrugged. ‘I know nothing about a receipt for Murston.’

  ‘Why did your room burn?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There was nothing in it which could start such an inferno?’

  ‘Nothing. Clothing, parchment, some books but nothing else!’

  ‘An oil-lamp?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I said nothing.’ Baddlesmere’s eyes slid away. Corbett knew this disgraced Templar had his own suspicions.

  ‘What will happen to me?’ Baddlesmere whispered. His eyes pleaded with de Molay.

  ‘You will be confined to a chamber on bread and water,’ the grand master replied. ‘And, when these matters are finished and the king’s clerk has left us alone, you will stand trial before your peers. The Crown, if it so wishes, may also punish you for defiance of its writ.’

  Baddlesmere nodded. ‘I’ll be broken, won’t I?’ he murmured as if to himself. ‘I’ll have my spurs hacked off, my knighthood removed. Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere, Commander of the Order of the Temple, reduced to a kitchen scullion in some lonely castle.’ He clenched a hand, glaring at Corbett so furiously that the clerk’s hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger. Behind him he could feel the hate of Sir Bartholomew’s companions: disgraced though Baddlesmere was, like any enclosed community, the Templars deeply resented the intrusion of outsiders. Corbett got to his feet.

  ‘Grand Master, I am finished. I must insist that Sir Bartholomew is kept secure.’ He walked to the door.

  ‘Corbett!’ Baddlesmere was staring oddly at him. ‘Truth stands on the bank.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Baddlesmere began to laugh, shaking his head, gesturing at him to go. Corbett bowed at de Molay and left for his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote immediately began to question him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘I do
n’t know if Baddlesmere is telling the truth, has lost his wits, or whether he is actually the assassin. Maltote, where are those books?’

  The messenger pulled them out from beneath the bed.

  ‘We’ll all sleep in this chamber,’ Corbett declared. ‘But for tonight—’ he eased himself on the bed and opened one of the books ‘—I’ll see what secrets these hold.’

  Corbett spent the night reading and rereading different pages whilst his companions snored, sleeping as peacefully as babes. Sometimes Corbett’s eyes would grow heavy. He dozed for a while and then shook himself awake, going across to splash water on his face or replenish the candles when they burnt too low. At last he could do no more. The last chapters of Bacon’s work were a mystery but Corbett felt elated. He knew the source of that mysterious fire and, just before dawn, drifted into nightmares lit by the roaring flames of the Devil’s fire.

  Ranulf shook him awake. ‘Master, it’s ten o’clock.’

  Corbett rose and groaned, shielding his eyes against the sunlight pouring in through the open shutters.

  ‘Maltote and I have been up hours. We broke our fast in the refectory, gobbling away whilst the community just glared at us. Montibus has gone.’

  Corbett groaned. ‘Oh, no!’ He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face, pushing the books away. ‘I wanted him to stay. He might have afforded us some protection.’

  Ranulf’s face became serious. ‘The Templars wouldn’t attack us surely, not royal envoys?’

  ‘Oh, not attack, but you or I, my dear Ranulf, could suffer some dreadful accident.’

  ‘Tell him what we found,’ Maltote urged from where he sat perched on a stool busily sewing a stirrup leather.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Ranulf handed Corbett a rag tied in a knot at the neck.

  ‘Undo it carefully, Master.’

  Corbett did so and stared at the burnt leather fragments.

  ‘What’s this?’ He touched one piece and it crumbled into flakes. One small part, however, still remained firm and smooth.

  ‘It’s leather,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Scraps of leather. We found them in the woods where those scorch-marks were: little pieces blown about by the breeze.’