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

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘Hide the books Maltote brought,’ he hissed. ‘And the three bags of powder?’

  ‘They are kept separate,’ Ranulf assured him.

  They left the guesthouse and went down to the stableyard. Maltote had already led their horses out: he was busily trying to harness the small but evil-tempered sumpter pony. Corbett helped, checking harness and saddle girths. He was surprised at the silence of the manor, then he heard the clink of metal behind him and Ranulf’s muttered curse. He swung round: the mouth of the stableyard was now cordoned off by Templar soldiers, helmeted and armed, each carrying an arbalest. On either flank stood their serjeants and officers.

  ‘Mount,’ Corbett ordered. ‘If necessary, ride through them!’

  Corbett edged his own horse forward. An order rang out: one of the crossbowmen raised his crossbow and a bolt whirred through the air over Corbett’s head. Fighting to control his panic as well as his restless horse, Corbett rode on. Again the order was issued. This time the crossbow bolt whirred past his face; another smacked the cobbles in front of his horse, making it whinny and shy.

  ‘That’s as far as I’m going,’ Maltote muttered.

  Corbett reined in his horse: de Molay came out of the buildings and walked through the line of men. The grand master was dressed in half-armour, as were the other commanders, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He came up and grasped the bridle of Corbett’s horse.

  ‘You are not leaving us, Sir Hugh, without so much as a fond farewell?’

  ‘You have no authority,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I intend to ride through and you must take the consequences!’

  ‘Please.’ De Molay’s red-rimmed eyes had a pleading look. ‘Corbett,’ he whispered. ‘You know the assassin, don’t you? Your face betrays you.’

  ‘These matters are for the king to decide upon,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘No, Sir Hugh, this is Templar land. I am the grand master. I must have some control, some say in what happens here. Templar justice is just as thorough and exacting as any king’s.’

  Corbett relaxed in the saddle. ‘You know the murderer, don’t you, Grand Master?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think I do: proving it is another matter.’

  ‘And if I stay,’ Corbett volunteered, ‘I have your word that justice will be done and I will be allowed to go on my way?’

  De Molay raised his hand. ‘My oath on the Cross.’

  Corbett dismounted. ‘Then send four of your men to York. Don’t worry, I will give them warrants and passes. They are to go to Monsieur Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s envoy at the archbishop’s palace.’ Corbett made sure he kept his voice low. ‘Tell him what you like but invite him to come here as your guest. Say you wish to reveal secret matters affecting the Crown of France. Couch your letters in the friendliest terms.’ Corbett glanced up at the pale-blue sky. ‘It’s about noon now. He’s to be here by dusk.’

  ‘I, too, studied Bartholomew’s message scrawled on the wall,’ de Molay retorted. ‘It fits other pieces, fragments, mere morsels.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘By nightfall we will all know,’ de Molay whispered.

  Corbett turned, telling Ranulf and Maltote to dismount: their horses were to go back to the stables, their baggage to the guesthouse. The Templars stood aside and Corbett returned to his own chamber. Guards soon followed, taking up position in the gallery.

  ‘We should have rode on,’ Ranulf declared, throwing the baggage to the floor, his face red with anger. ‘They wouldn’t have dared!’

  ‘There was only one way of knowing that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And I wasn’t prepared to find out.’

  He sat at the table and began to write out a short letter to the king as well as letters of permission allowing the Templar messengers into York. He sealed these hurriedly and Ranulf gave them to one of the guards outside. Corbett was then forced to kick his heels and wait, ignoring Ranulf’s constant questioning, or Maltote’s hushed observations about how many Templars were on guard.

  In the afternoon they went for a walk and the guards followed. Ranulf counted at least a dozen. Corbett was tempted to seek an audience with de Molay but decided not to. He was still not fully sure, and concluded it was best that he wait until de Craon’s arrival. He told Ranulf and Maltote to go back to their chamber and went into the Templar church. For a while he sat in the Lady Chapel, staring up at the dark mahogany, beautifully carved statue of the Virgin and Child. Above this was a small rose window with painted scenes from the life of Christ. For a while Corbett prayed: the statue and paintings reminded him of the small parish church near his father’s farm.

  I should go back there, Corbett thought: make sure my parents’ tomb is well kept. He stared up at the window. Perhaps he could buy painted glass to light the dark transept where, under cold, dank slabs, his parents lay buried. He smiled; his mother would have liked that. She used to take him to church on afternoons like this, when his father and elder brothers were busy working on the land. She would describe the painted scenes on the walls or rood-screen: that’s how Father Adelbert had come to know him and later agreed to school him.

  ‘You are to work hard, Hugh,’ his mother would say. ‘Remember, great oak trees always start as little acorns.’

  ‘I wish you were here!’ Corbett whispered.

  What would she have thought of him now, away from his second wife and child, preparing to confront a murderer and see justice done? That was his father’s legacy: a former soldier who had fought in the civil war, his father had constantly preached about the need for a strong prince, good judges and sound laws. Corbett sighed. He got up from the small prie-dieu and walked back to the door of the church where his guards were waiting. He still wasn’t sure what he would do: how he could trap the murderer? Evidence was one thing, proof was another. He turned and looked back at the rose window and the stories painted there: a vague idea formed in his mind.

  ‘I want to see de Molay,’ he told the guard. ‘Now.’

  The serjeant in charge shrugged his agreement and took Corbett around the manor house to the grand master’s cell. De Molay had been busy: servants were packing chests and coffers, the bed was stripped, the desk had been cleared of all parchments and inkhorns.

  ‘You are leaving, Grand Master?’

  De Molay gestured at the retainers to go.

  ‘You are my prisoner, Hugh,’ he remarked drily. ‘Whatever happens tonight, I will go back with you into York as your prisoner to meet the king.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You have not come about that, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have come to ask a favour. I wish you, Branquier, Symmes and Legrave to write out an account of all that has happened since your arrival in England.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want it.’

  ‘What will it prove?’

  ‘Nothing – well, not really,’ Corbett lied. ‘But tell your commanders that, after my meeting with Monsieur de Craon, they may well wish to lodge their own complaint against me. Such an account might be useful.’ Corbett went back towards the door. ‘There are still a few hours left,’ he called out. ‘Plenty of time before dusk.’

  Corbett returned to the guesthouse and dozed for a while. Food was brought in from the kitchen and, late in the afternoon, one of de Molay’s retainers came to tell him that Monsieur de Craon had arrived and would Sir Hugh prepare himself? About an hour later Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went into the refectory. The Templars were already assembled around the great table. De Craon rose as Corbett entered, his craggy face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Sir Hugh, the grand master says you are leaving, though there are matters we should discuss.’

  Corbett limply shook de Craon’s extended hand, fighting back the urge to smack that sharp, wily face. ‘He’s two people,’ Corbett had once told Maeve. ‘There’s de Craon the envoy, but in his eyes you can see something else, dark and malevolent.’

  Branquier, Symmes and Legrave were
also there, as well as one of de Craon’s black-garbed clerks: a young man, pale-faced with watchful eyes, his mousy hair cropped close to his head. He was there as de Craon’s witness.

  As soon as they took their seats, de Craon rose.

  ‘Grand Master, I welcome Sir Hugh Corbett, but I was given to believe that you wished to consult me. Why is he present?’

  De Craon’s lawyer was already writing, busily recording his master’s protests. De Molay smiled. His face became youthful, as if he thoroughly enjoyed baiting Philip’s envoy. Corbett wondered what the real relationship between the grand master and the king of France was. De Craon, confused by de Molay’s smiling silence, sat down.

  ‘Sir Hugh is here,’ de Molay rubbed his hands slowly together, ‘because he is a hunter of souls and the searcher out of secrets.’ He glanced down the table at Corbett. ‘Time is passing,’ he murmured. ‘Darkness is drawing in.’

  Corbett rose and walked to the end of the table so they could all see him and he watch them. Ranulf, as instructed, stood near the door, Maltote beside him; both had rested their loaded arbalests against the wall.

  ‘Once,’ Corbett began, ‘there was a king of France, saintly but warlike; the holy Louis who wanted to plant the standard of the Cross on the towers of Jerusalem. He failed, died, and a martyr’s crown was his reward.’

  De Craon, his anger forgotten, was now looking curiously at him.

  ‘At that time,’ Corbett continued, ‘this saintly king was helped by the Templars, a great fighting order of monks, founded on a rule drawn up by St Bernard himself. They were imbued with a vision, the capture and defence of the Holy Places in Outremer. The years passed, fortunes changed, and we now have a king of France, St Louis’s descendant, Philip Le Bel, who would prefer to see his standards flying over the towers of London and Antwerp.’

  ‘This is impossible!’ De Craon sprang to his feet.

  ‘Sit down!’ de Molay snapped. ‘And that’s the last time you interrupt, sir!’

  ‘But Philip’s dreams crumbled,’ Corbett continued, matter of factly. ‘So he spun another dream. What he can’t get by force, he’ll acquire by stealth. His daughter is to marry our king’s only son, so Philip knows that one day his grandson will sit on the English throne. Philip has to pay for this. He must collect a huge dowry, but his coffers, like those of Edward of England, are empty, so he looks around and sees the great Templar Order with its manors, farms, cattle and treasure. He watches closely because the Order has lost a great deal of its idealism. There are whispers of scandals; sodomy, drunkenness.’ Corbett glanced down the table and noticed Symmes’s scarred face blush slightly. ‘There are several rituals,’ Corbett continued, ‘gossip about covens and cabals; and a subtle plan forms in Philip’s devious soul. . .’

  De Craon made to rise but de Molay’s hand went out and pressed him firmly down in his chair.

  ‘The Templar Order itself,’ Corbett continued, ‘does leave a lot to be desired. There is a rottenness in it, but the Order is protected by the Holy Father in Avignon. Anyone who moves against the Templars moves against the Papacy, and Philip can’t do that. He bides his time and selects his man: a Templar who will do for his Order what Judas did for Christ: betrayal with a kiss.’

  The Templars stirred. Corbett fleetingly wondered how many of them had at least considered the path which the assassin had trod. Only de Molay remained impassive, hands before his mouth. He watched Corbett with the look of a hunting cat.

  ‘A new grand master to the Order is elected.’ Corbett leaned on the table. ‘He holds a Grand Chapter in Paris. He wishes the Order to be revitalised and loudly proclaims his intention to make a progress through all its provinces. England will be first. He leaves Paris, lands in Dover and travels to London but, before he leaves France, the scandal breaks. A Templar serjeant, stupid and witless, is captured on suspicion of trying to kill Philip of France. A degenerate, probably dabbling in the occult, this Templar is handed over to the Inquisition. I suppose,’ Corbett smiled thinly, ‘if I was hung in the dungeons of the Louvre and left to the subtle cruelty of the Inquisition, I would swear black was white and white was black. God forgive me, I might even deny my faith, my family, even as I cursed myself as a coward. For that serjeant it was easier: bitter and resentful, he readily answered the Inquisitor, damning himself and the Order he once served.’

  Branquier pushed himself forward. ‘Are you saying that the serjeant was no assassin?’

  ‘He was no assassin,’ Corbett replied. ‘A mere dupe. Philip was not attacked in the Bois de Boulogne or crossing the Grand Ponte: that was only to make us believe a sinister plot existed. There is no “Sagittarius”,’ Corbett continued. ‘Or secret covens or cabals amongst the Templars: just a great deal of grumbling which a sinister Judas was willing to exploit.’ He glanced at de Craon, who snatched the quill from his scribe’s fingers.

  ‘In England,’ Corbett continued, ‘the real plot began. King Edward had once fought in Outremer. The Assassins had tried to kill him. Such memories die hard and, naturally, when the Assassins’ warning was pinned on the door of St Paul’s, Edward paid heed. Such news chilled his blood. He came to York to hold a great council. He met our noble envoy de Craon to discuss the marriage terms. Our king, too, is bankrupt, so he also sought a loan from the Templar Order.’

  ‘But the warning in London?’ Branquier shouted.

  ‘Oh, that was pinned to the door by one of you. A Judas who had become Philip of France’s secret agent.’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ De Craon snapped. ‘Stupid speculation . . .’

  ‘Wait awhile,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, when the traitor was in London, he not only nailed that message to the door of St Paul’s, he also visited certain London merchants to purchase quantities of saltpetre, sulphur and other substances. This Templar had once served in Outremer where he had learnt of a mysterious fire which burns so fiercely that not even water can quench it: mingled with other substances and exposed to a naked flame, it seems the fires of Hell have erupted.’

  ‘I have heard of that.’ Symmes now put his pet weasel on the table: he stroked its ears and offered it a tidbit of dried meat. The Templar’s good eye gleamed. ‘We have all heard of it!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Byzantines used it to burn a great Muslim fleet.’

  ‘No secret really,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘Certain books discuss such a fire, and did not your Franciscan scholar, Bacon, analyse such mysteries?’

  ‘The assassin certainly did,’ Corbett answered. ‘And it would not be difficult. Both the libraries in Paris and London are visited by scholars from all corners of God’s earth. The fire itself is easy to make, once you know what to buy and how to use it.’ Corbett now kept his eyes firmly on de Molay. ‘Now this assassin,’ Corbett continued, ‘arrived in York. He mingles the substances and experiments with it here at Framlingham, in the woods, away from the inquisitive. Even so, the gossip begins. How the Devil’s fire is seen. So, one night, he leaves the manor and goes along the lonely road towards Botham Bar. He hobbles his horse and, once again, experiments with the strange fire, perfecting its use. At the same time, being a consummate archer, he practises with an arbalest, loosing fire arrows into a tree: even in the dark his aim is true.

  Now, all should have been well. However, on that night, a relic-seller, Wulfstan of Beverley, probably half-drunk, had left York to sell his tawdry goods in the villages beyond. Wulfstan, curious, ever eager for new stories, saw the fires, so he pushed his nag off the path and into the trees. The killer cannot allow this. Wulfstan will remember both his face and horse. He draws his great two-handed sword and strikes with such a great and powerful blow that he severs poor Wulfstan in two.’

  ‘That death?’ Branquier barked.

  ‘Yes, that death,’ Corbett echoed. ‘As Wulfstan’s horse bolts into the darkness, the assassin realises he has human flesh to play with. The fire will also destroy the identity of the victim. The remains are set alight but the assassin hears the cries of two good sisters and t
heir guide, so he goes deeper into the trees and waits until they pass. He then leaves, removes the arrows from the trees: the burnt patches, the scratches on the bark and Wulfstan’s mangled, burning remains are the only traces left.’

  ‘Who?’ de Craon shouted. ‘Who is this assassin?’

  ‘In a while,’ Corbett taunted back. ‘This assassin, Monsieur de Craon, is now ready to spread his web. Murston was a Templar serjeant, someone very much like the one who is lured into Paris. On the night before Edward of England enters York, Murston is told to go to a tavern near Trinity where the king will pass. He is ordered to hire a chamber and wait there.’

  ‘Murston was a killer,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘An assassin.’

  ‘He was no assassin,’ Corbett replied. ‘Just a stupid man, carrying out the orders of a superior officer. He stays the night like a good soldier would: the king enters York and so do you, Grand Master, with your commanders. However, one of them slips back along the streets to the tavern where Murston is waiting. He goes upstairs, slits Murston’s throat and takes the crossbow Murston brought into the city. When the king processes up Trinity, the assassin fires two bolts, narrowly missing His Grace.’

  Corbett turned and pointed to a chair standing in the corner, gesturing at Maltote to bring it across. Corbett sat down, easing the cramp in the small of his back.

  ‘Murston was dead before those bolts were ever shot,’ he continued. ‘Greek fire has already been sprinkled over his corpse. Once the second bolt has been loosed, the assassin ignites the powder and flees down the stairs. He protects his face and body in a ragged cloak he’d bought from some beggar. I was the first to reach that garret but the assassin was already gone, leaving me to wonder how a man like Murston could shoot two crossbow bolts and then be half-consumed by those yellow-blue flames.’

  ‘Did the assassin intend to kill the king?’ de Molay asked.

  ‘No, that was just the start. What the assassin really wanted – what Philip of France wanted – was to create a great scandal in the Templar Order.’