Corbett placed the rag carefully on the bed. He took each scrap, scrutinising it closely before putting it back. He then got to his feet, stretched, and took off his jerkin and shirt. He went across to wash his face and hands, telling Maltote to get seme hot water from the scullery as he also wished to shave.
‘Well?’ Ranulf asked anxiously. ‘What do you think?’
‘They are burnt scraps of leather,’ Corbett replied, rubbing his hands with the small bar of soap he’d bought from a merchant in Beverley. ‘They may be fragments of a sack used to carry what the Ancients called “Devil’s fire”.’
Ranulf immediately began to question him, but Corbett just shook his head and, when Maltote returned, concentrated on his shaving, asking Ranulf to hold the mirror steady in his hands.
‘Once I am finished,’ Corbett smiled at Ranulf, ‘get me some food from the kitchen – but make sure you see who handles it. Whilst I eat, I’ll tell you a story.’
As Corbett dried himself off, Ranulf hurried out and returned with a linen cloth bearing loaves and a stoup of ale.
‘So,’ Corbett rubbed his chin and sat down at the table. ‘Now I have finished my ablutions, let me tell you what those books contained. First, the fire is not from hell, it’s man-made.’
Corbett bit into one of the loaves, Ranulf shuffled his feet impatiently.
‘At first,’ Corbett continued, ‘I thought the fire could have been started by some form of oil but that’s not safe. Sometimes oil is difficult to burn, especially when it congeals. Now Brother Odo, God rest his soul, also realised this. He must have examined his chronicle and recalled the fire missiles the Turks threw into Acre. Now these were nothing extraordinary: a mixture of tar and pitch, poured over some rags, torched as they lay in a catapult, then cast in amongst the defenders. I’ve seen the same happen at sieges: straw or rags coated with sulphur and then lit.
‘But this fire is different. Odo realised that. A student of warfare, he recalled two books. The first is an ancient tract called the “Liber Ignium” or “Book of Fires”. The second is much more interesting: Friar Bacon’s letter, “De Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae”. Now both these works describe a very dangerous substance, a mixture of elements which, if exposed to the naked flame, creates fire difficult to put out even with water.’
‘And you think this caused these murders?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps. The “Liber” describes the mixture as sulphur, tartar and a substance called “Sal Coctum” or cooked salt. Bacon is more specific: he mentions a substance called saltpetre. Now Friar Bacon conceals his discovery behind riddles and anagrams but, if he is to be believed, this saltpetre mixed with sulphur and tartar will ignite immediately.’
‘But you said,’ Ranulf declared, ‘that Bacon was regarded by many as witless.’
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Friar Bacon acquired his learning from the Arabs. According to them, this substance was known to the ancient Greeks as well as the armies of Byzantium which used it to destroy a Muslim fleet; hence its name: “Greek” or “Sea fire”.’
‘And, of course,’ Ranulf added, ‘all the Templar commanders have served in Outremer. They might know of this secret.’
Corbett popped a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘More importantly, the Templars have some of the finest libraries in the world, especially in London and in Paris,’ he said. ‘However, though de Molay and his companions might know the secret, they are too engrossed in what is happening to their Order: all they can see are these dreadful deaths and the consequent scandals.’ Corbett sipped at the ale. ‘Brother Odo was different: more detached, more serene, he was a born scholar. The assassination of Reverchien must have stirred memories. He was searching for what I’ve found.’
‘But can you prove all this?’ Ranulf asked.
‘If necessary but — ’
The door was abruptly thrown open and de Molay burst into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, you must come immediately! It’s Baddlesmere. . .’
The grand master strode out, leaving Corbett no choice but to follow, Ranulf and Maltote hurrying behind. De Molay strode ahead, not even bothering to look back. He went round the back of the manor into the servants’ quarters, up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway. The guards outside the chamber opened the door, de Molay went in and Corbett followed.
‘Oh, my God!’
The clerk immediately turned away. Baddlesmere, dressed in shirt and hose, swung from the end of a sheet which had been tied round one of the rafters. He looked grisly yet pathetic: his face had turned a dark purple, eyes popping, tongue clenched between half-opened lips. His corpse twirled like some grotesque doll in the breeze coming through the arrow-slit window. Corbett drew his dagger and, helped by Ranulf, got the corpse down and laid him on the trestle bed. De Molay stood just inside the door, his face marble-white, dark circles round his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but instead just shook his head.
‘Grand Master, what did you say?’
De Molay’s lips moved but no sound came out. Instead he clutched his stomach, pushed Corbett aside and rushed out towards one of the latrines built into an alcove in the corridor. They heard him being violently sick.
‘Is it suicide?’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett studied the corpse, examining the nails carefully, the position of the knot behind the left ear. He lifted the shirt, examined the man’s torso, then sawed through the knot with his dagger. He tried to arrange the corpse in as dignified a pose as possible and covered it with Baddlesmere’s cloak.
‘He committed suicide,’ Corbett muttered. He pointed up at the rafters then at the bed. ‘So simple, to walk from life into death. Baddlesmere stood on the bed, fashioned that noose, put it round his neck and kicked the bed away.’
‘What’s this?’ Ranulf leaned across the bed and pointed to a carved scrawl on the wall.
Corbett studied this carefully and, looking amongst Baddlesmere’s possessions, realised the dead man had carved this, using the buckle of his belt, now worn down on one corner.
‘What does it say?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett studied the words. ‘“Veritas,”’ he read, “‘Stat in ripa.” Truth stands on the bank,’ he muttered. ‘What on earth did Baddlesmere mean by that? The tag usually reads, “Veritas stat in media via”; “Truth stands in the Middle way”.’
‘I found him hanging!’
Corbett whirled round: de Molay stood in the doorway.
‘He was here last night, with a jug of water and bread. Two guards stood outside.’
‘And they heard nothing?’
De Molay shook his head. ‘They heard him moving around early in the morning: he was singing the “Dies Irae”. You know the sequence from the Mass of the Dead. How does it go, Corbett? “O Day of Wrath! O Day of Mourning! Heaven and Earth in Ashes Burning”.’
“‘See What Fear Man’s Bosom Renders,”’ Corbett continued, “‘When from Heaven the Judge Descendeth on Whose Sentence All Dependeth!”’
De Molay knelt by the bed, crossing himself. When the others came, Branquier. Legrave and Symmes, Corbett walked back down the stairs and out into the fresh air. De Molay joined him there, Legrave beside him.
‘Before you ask, Grand Master, Sir Bartholomew committed suicide.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Overcome by remorse, fearful of what he had been implicated in, unable to accept the disgrace.’
‘I came up,’ de Molay remarked, ‘just to greet him as a brother.’ He glanced at Legrave. ‘He can’t be buried in hallowed ground.’
‘But, Grand Master,’ Legrave exclaimed, ‘he was my brother as well! I knew Sir Bartholomew. We fought at Acre together.’
De Molay glanced expectantly at Corbett.
‘Charity lies at the root of all laws,’ Corbett declared. ‘I do not think Christ will judge him as harshly as you do.’
‘Strange,’ de Molay murmured. ‘All these deaths by fire. When I was a child, Corbett, playing in the fields outside Carcassone, I taunted a witch, an ol
d woman, who lived in a shabby hut built against the wall overlooking the ditch. With all the foolishness and ignorance of youth, I shouted that she should burn. She approached me, eyes gleaming. “No, de Molay,” she screeched back. “You will die in fire and smoke!”’ De Molay rubbed his eyes. ‘I always wondered what she meant. Now I know: there are different forms of fire and there are different kinds of death.’
And, not waiting for an answer, the grand master spun on his heel and walked away. Legrave followed him. Corbett watched them go then beckoned Ranulf and Maltote over.
‘Get your horses ready,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to go to York. Seek out Claverley.’ He dug into his pouch and handed them a small scrap of parchment. ‘Scour the city, buy these mixtures, but keep each separate. Claverley will assist you.’
‘Where shall we look?’
‘Among the charcoal-burners of the city. It may take some time, but remember what I said: keep each substance separate and bring them back as soon as you can.’
Within the hour, Ranulf and Maltote had left the manor. Corbett decided to stay in his own chamber. He examined this carefully, locking the shutters on the window before going out to find a long ash pole to lie across the bottom of the door. As he did this, Corbett noticed the gap between the door and floor. For a while, he stood and stared at the long piece of leather hung on the back of the door to exclude draughts. Corbett smiled. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured.
He had a vague idea how each of the victims had died, but not of the motive or the identity of the assassin. He laid out his writing implements on the table and, for a while, studied what he had written, trying to recall conversations, incidents, gestures and expressions. His mind kept going back to Baddlesmere’s death scene: the corpse swaying slightly and that enigmatic inscription carved on the wall.
‘Truth doesn’t stand on the bank,’ Corbett murmured. ‘It stands in the middle way. What did Baddlesmere mean by that nonsense?’
He slept for a while, then got up and went down to the kitchen to beg for some food; a surly, hard-eyed retainer almost flung it at him. Later in the afternoon there was a knock on the door, de Molay asking if all was well? Corbett shouted that it was and returned to his studies. He decided to concentrate on the first item of evidence: the assassins’ warning. Once again Corbett noticed how there were two versions.
‘Why, why, why?’ Corbett muttered to himself. ‘Why are they different?’
There was the message left in St Paul’s with which the Baddlesmere version agreed, as did the words spoken in the library: these three differed slightly from Claverley’s and the one pushed into his hand on Ouse bridge. Every story, Corbett thought, has a common source, be it a love poem or some message. It only changes when it’s passed on. Baddlesmere learnt about the warning when the king met de Molay and the other Templar commanders at the Priory. But why was the warning delivered to him on Ouse bridge the same as that given by Claverley? Corbett’s hand went to his face.
‘Oh, sweet God!’ he murmured. ‘So much for your fine logic, Corbett!’
He returned to his scribblings, following a new direction, concentrating on when the warnings were given as well as the recent attack on him in York.
Corbett looked up. ‘The Templars may have been in York when the warning was passed,’ he whispered, ‘but they were definitely gone when I was attacked.’
He snatched his pen up. Ergo, he wrote, the attack was planned by someone else. Corbett nibbled the tip of the quill. Once he had suspected Baddlesmere and Scoudas; in reality both men were innocent, more absorbed in their own sin than anything else. Corbett drew two circles on the parchment, then drew a line joining them. He got up, opened the shutter and stared out at the dusk. Some of the riddle was resolved, the how and the why, but who? Whom did Baddlesmere suspect? And what did that inscription mean? Was it a pointer to the truth? A warning to the assassin, or both? ‘Veritas stat’ Corbett translated as ‘Truth stands’, but ‘in ripa’? He went back and began to play with the words, changing them round, but this proved nothing. He picked up the warning the little boy had given him on Ouse Bridge, then he looked down at his jottings: did I, Corbett wondered, tell anyone about that? And, if not, who amongst the Templars mentioned it? He racked his brains but his eyes were growing heavy. He made sure the door was secure, wrapped his cloak around him and lay down on the bed.
Chapter 13
Ranulf and Maltote returned later the next morning. Both were unshaven, rather bleary-eyed, but loudly protesting how they’d only found what Corbett had ordered after a thorough search. Night had fallen, the curfew had been proclaimed, the city gates shut, so they’d hired a room in a tavern just near Botham Bar Gate.
‘Aye, and you tasted the local ale?’ Corbett observed crossly.
Ranulf held his hands up, his eyes round with innocence.
‘Master, a mere drop, a mere drop.’
‘Let us see what you have brought,’ Corbett snapped.
Ranulf undid the saddlebag and brought out three large pouches, each containing a powder. Corbett opened, sniffed and felt each of them carefully. The smell was acrid but not pungent.
‘In the open air,’ he observed, ‘it would raise no alarm or suspicion.’
They slipped out of the guesthouse, around the manor and into the maze. Corbett took his hornspoon out of his pouch and, following Bacon’s instructions, carefully mixed the powders together. He stirred them with his fingers until all three substances were mingled. He then piled it in a heap, took a lighted candle out of Ranulf’s hand and placed it near the fire, urging Ranulf and Maltote to stand back. The candle flame gutted and went out. With some difficulty Corbett relit it. This time the flame was stronger, the candle melted, the flame moving back to where the dark powder lay in a small heap. Corbett’s heart sank in despair but then the flame caught the powder, there was a crackle and the flames leapt greedily into the air, scorching the earth beneath. Corbett studied the flames’ blueish tint whilst Ranulf and Maltote stared in amazement.
‘I’ve never seen oil burn so quickly or so fiercely,’ Ranulf muttered.
‘I’ve seen something like it,’ Corbett declared. ‘When farmers burn the dry stubble in autumn: sometimes the fire runs faster than a man.’ He stamped on the flame, wary lest it raise the alarm.
They left the maze and walked into the ring of trees where Corbett picked up a dry stick. Once again he mixed the substance: he smeared the wood, leaving one end free which he lit with Ranulf’s tinder. This time the effect was even greater. The flame, as soon as it reached the substance, burnt so fast and greedily that Corbett had to stamp it out with his boot.
‘You should have used gloves,’ Ranulf remarked, watching his master clean his hands on his jerkin. ‘A thick, leather pair of gauntlets.’
Corbett looked down at his hands then back up at Ranulf.
‘Gloves?’ he whispered. ‘Do you remember the leather fragments you found? Gauntlets!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the only trace the assassin left.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ranulf asked.
‘The fragments of leather,’ Maltote volunteered, ‘that we found near the scorch-marks: the assassin must have burnt the gauntlets he used.’
Corbett walked deeper into the trees. He now knew who the assassin was, but how could he prove it? What evidence could he offer? He told Ranulf to conceal the bags of powder and they returned to the guesthouse. Corbett asked his companions to find something to eat whilst he returned to studying Baddlesmere’s map.
‘It’s not of the entire city,’ Corbett murmured, ‘but only the area around Trinity.’
He then studied the inscription Baddlesmere had written on the wall. Last night Corbett had thought the words formed an anagram, a complicated puzzle or riddle. He translated them back into English, rearranging the letters, but all his conclusions were nonsense. Finally he translated them into French and clapped his hands in surprise: Baddlesmere, too, knew the identity of the assassin. However, in those last moments before death, h
e could not bring himself to name his brother Templar, so he had purged his conscience by leaving this mysterious phrase.
Ranulf and Maltote returned, bringing food from the kitchen. By Corbett’s face, Ranulf realised that ‘Old Master Long Face’ was closing his trap. ‘Drawing up a bill of indictment,’ he whispered to Maltote. ‘Like any hanging judge.’
‘You do know, don’t you?’ he called out.
Corbett put his pen down and turned. ‘Yes, I know the assassin and I think I can prove it.’
‘Logic,’ Ranulf exclaimed, ‘as always.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, Ranulf, not logic. I applied that and made a dreadful mistake. You work on a premise and then believe that everything will fit into place.’ He rose and stretched. ‘Because of my arrogance and because of my logic, I made a terrible error. Poor Baddlesmere was closer to the truth than I.’
‘What’s a premise?’ Maltote asked, his mouth full of bread and cheese.
‘You start with a statement,’ Corbett replied. ‘Such as “All Men drink ale; Maltote is a man; therefore he drinks ale.” But the premise is wrong. All men don’t drink ale: it’s not an undisputed fact. Therefore, every statement you make based on that must be wrong.’ Corbett pulled his stool over to where his companions sat with their backs to the wall, sharing the bread and cheese piled on a pewter plate. ‘I believed there was a coven in the Templar Order intent on wreaking vengeance against the Crown both here and in France. I therefore concluded that the murders here at Framlingham and elsewhere were merely the work of that coven. I was wrong.’
‘So, what is the truth?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett shook his head. ‘Eat your bread and cheese.’ He paused as he heard a sound in the gallery outside. ‘We have to leave here as quickly as possible,’ he urged. ‘Ranulf, pack our bags; Maltote, go down to the stables, saddle the horses. I want to be gone within the hour.’
Maltote grabbed a chunk of cheese and hurried out. Ranulf took one look at Corbett’s drawn face and hurriedly packed their belongings. Corbett carefully put away his writing implements, checking the chamber, ensuring they had left nothing behind.
Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 21
