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

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘Why?’ Branquier shouted.

  ‘So that the English crown would launch an attack upon the Order, seizing its properties, filling the exchequer with its treasure. And what Edward started in England, Philip of France would soon finish. And if the Holy Father complained?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Philip would simply point to Edward of England, saying he was only imitating what his brother king had already done. Philip would destroy the Order, seize its lands and treasure, fill his own coffers as well as remove a movement which constantly reminded him about how his saintly grandfather had gone on Crusade. However, the Pope would hold Edward as the main culprit. Now the assassin knew that I would be sent to investigate. Hence the warning, followed by the attempt to kill me near the Shambles.’

  ‘But we were all gone from York by then,’ de Molay intervened. ‘No Templar was in York when you were attacked.’ The grand master spread his hands. ‘True, one of us could have sent that warning to you but. . .’

  ‘You never sent the warning,’ Corbett declared. ‘Nor was the mysterious archer a Templar. Was he, Monsieur de Craon?’

  The Frenchman’s eyes never flickered.

  ‘Only you,’ Corbett continued, jabbing his finger at de Craon, ‘knew when I left for the archbishop’s palace. You had me followed. You or one of your creatures also arranged that attack and, in doing so, deepened the mystery.’

  ‘And Reverchien?’ Legrave said hoarsely, not moving his head. ‘None of us was at the manor when Reverchien died.’

  ‘No, no,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘But you were there the day before he died: that was when the assassin entered the maze, carrying the Greek fire. He went to the centre. On the stone plinth, before the cross, are three candles on their metal stand. The assassin sprinkled the Greek fire over the candles, coating them, the stone plinth and the steps where Reverchien always knelt.’

  ‘Of course,’ Branquier breathed. ‘And the old Crusader lit those candles, saying his prayers, his mind on God.’

  ‘Yes,’ Corbett replied.

  He turned and gestured at Ranulf in the corner. The manservant came over, carrying a small bowl. Corbett placed it on the table. He smiled apologetically at de Molay.

  ‘I borrowed it from the scullery.’

  He rose and brought back one of the many candles which burnt in their holders along the windowsill.

  ‘In the bowl,’ Corbett explained, ‘is a very small portion of the powder which causes Greek fire.’ He glanced up as the Templars pushed back their chairs. ‘No, there’s no danger.’ Corbett took a long piece of dried vellum from his pouch, placed it in the bowl and lit one end. The flame licked it greedily, running down into the bowl. Even Ranulf jumped in alarm at the small, angry flame which shot up into the air. ‘Reverchien did that,’ Corbett said, pulling the bowl towards him and peering warily at the black scorch-mark inside.

  ‘Reverchien lit those three candles, saying his prayers, unaware in the poor light before dawn of the death-bearing powder around him. The candles are lit. The substance is caught. The flames run down the candle stem, catching the powder on the step. It turned Reverchien into a living blaze. How subtle a way to kill your victim when you are far from the place of his death. And the flame burns fiercely,’ Corbett explained, pushing the metal bowl along the table. ‘Not only is it difficult to douse with water but the fire roars, leaving no trace of what caused it or how it began.’

  Corbett retook his seat. ‘The other deaths were similar. Peterkin the kitchen boy puts on an apron and oven cloths, not knowing they have been coated with that same powder. As he rakes the burning ash, Peterkin has a faint suspicion of what was happening before he died. Remember, his companions in the kitchen were discussing Reverchien’s death and the other strange happenings. Peterkin made a joke about the air being tinged with sulphur. It was, on the very cloths he was wearing. The rest you know,’ Corbett continued, staring at the murderer. ‘A piece of hot ash or burning charcoal caught the cloths around his hand. The man tried to beat them out against his apron. Of course, the fire spread and Peterkin dies.’

  ‘But why?’ Symmes asked. ‘Why a poor cook?’

  ‘Because the assassin wanted to create terror. Spread the rumour, deepen the darkness, how the Templars were cursed, not only harbouring a possible regicide and killing each other, but allowing the flames of hell to burn freely and fiercely even amongst the innocents in their midst.’ Corbett played with the Chancery ring on his finger. ‘On a more practical level, Peterkin’s death led to the flight of all the servants from Framlingham. Servants are curious, they look for the unexpected. Peterkin’s death ended that and so protected the assassin.’

  ‘And who, sir, is that?’ Legrave snarled.

  ‘Why sir, you sir,’ Corbett remarked quietly.

  Chapter 14

  De Molay took some time to calm the subsequent uproar. Legrave rose and lunged at Corbett but Symmes, sitting between them, pushed back his chair. De Craon sprang to his feet, snapping his fingers at his black-garbed clerk as if they were on the point of departure. Corbett knew his old enemy and recognised the mummery for what it was: de Craon would only leave when it was to his advantage. Corbett was pleased the other Templars did not spring to Legrave’s defence. There were shouts of disapproval, looks of concern, but the grand master’s stem face and Branquier’s troubled gaze reassured Corbett.

  They know something, he thought; what I have said has touched secrets they harbour.

  At last Legrave, red with fury, was forced back in his chair.

  ‘You have no proof!’ he spluttered.

  ‘I will come to that in due course,’ Corbett replied, ‘when I have described the other deaths. Poor Brother Odo. You caught him as he went out to fish, didn’t you? Waiting for him amongst the trees near the entrance to the jetty. I saw no blood there so you must have struck him a blow on the head, probably cracking his skull. Then you lowered him into the boat, fastening him upright in the seat, whilst in the stem and prow you sprinkled the Greek fire. The oars were tied to the old man’s hands and fastened to their ratchet rings; the fishing line was slipped between the dead man’s fingers and The Ghost of the Tower pushed out into the centre of the lake. A common sight here at Framlingham: old Odo dressed in his usual cloak and cowl, bending over a fishing rod, his boat bobbing on the lake. You hid amongst the trees, shot a fire arrow into the boat, and so the terror spreads. If a man like Odo, a hero of his Order, is devoured by the flames of hell, who can be safe? What is wrong at Framlingham? What is wrong with the Templars? And so the pool of poison spreads.’

  ‘Why Odo?’ de Molay asked. ‘Why a gentle old man?’

  ‘Because he was a scholar,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘And Baddlesmere?’

  ‘Because he was a source of scandal,’ Corbett continued. ‘Legrave knew about Baddlesmere’s little secrets, his passion for young men and the chilled white wine standing in his chamber. A sleeping potion was sprinkled into the jug; the fire powder spread on the floor beneath the rushes as well as along the leather sheet which hung against the door to keep out the draughts. Only Baddlesmere is not present: there’s been a lovers’ quarrel. Scoudas and Joscelyn drink the wine. Night falls whilst Baddlesmere sulks amongst the trees.’ Corbett looked at Legrave’s ashen face. ‘And back you go, possibly carrying a small bowl containing a piece of burning charcoal. You slip that under the door. The rushes are dry, the powder is caught, the fire rages whilst those two drugged young men slip into death.’

  ‘Grand Master.’ Legrave pushed himself away from the table but, as he did so, Symmes placed his pet weasel on the floor; the creature scampered off into the darkness as its master caught Legrave’s arm.

  ‘I think you’d best stay, Brother,’ Symmes remarked quietly. ‘What Corbett says makes sense.’

  ‘Of course,’ Corbett continued. ‘There was a connection between Baddlesmere and Brother Odo’s death. The librarian was becoming curious. He was beginning to remember stories about the mysterious fire from the east. Leg
rave, however, was watching him. Perhaps Odo talked to him, told him what he was doing: that’s why you came back into the library when I was there. If that door had not opened,’ Corbett snapped, ‘you’d have killed me as well!’

  Legrave stared back, glassy-eyed, jaw tense. He kept gulping and glanced quickly at de Craon who refused to meet his gaze.

  Corbett sighed: that glance alone confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘For all his faults,’ he continued, ‘Baddlesmere was also edging towards the truth: he wondered who could have been behind Murston’s death. On the morning the king was attacked, Baddlesmere knew where he was and where the grand master had gone. He also reached the conclusion, as I did, that two of his companions, Symmes and Branquier, had been at the other end of York near Botham Bar well away from Trinity when the attack was carried out.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Branquier interrupted. ‘Baddlesmere kept questioning all of us: where we had gone, which streets we’d walked down.’

  ‘Even which taverns we’d drunk in,’ Symmes added drily.

  ‘But I was with the grand master,’ Legrave shouted. He glanced down the table but de Molay just stared at him.

  ‘The grand master was with the goldsmiths for at least two hours,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were supposed to stay outside.’

  ‘And I did.’

  ‘But if you look at Baddlesmere’s map of York, you can travel from Stonegate to the tavern in Trinity where Murston was in a matter of minutes.’

  De Molay took his hands away from his mouth. ‘Sir Hugh speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘We visited two goldsmiths on that street. On one occasion I came out and did not find you there.’

  ‘I was amongst the stalls,’ Legrave cried.

  ‘Oh, yes, so you were,’ Corbett declared. ‘Buying what?’

  Legrave licked his lips.

  ‘Gloves,’ Branquier replied, ‘or gauntlets: that’s what you told us.’

  ‘Where are these?’ Corbett asked. ‘You bought more than one pair. Different stall-owners will attest to that. Why should any man want more than one or two pairs of gauntlets? You are a soldier-monk, Legrave, not some foppish courtier.’

  ‘Where are the gauntlets?’ de Molay demanded.

  ‘Oh, you’ll find them gone,’ Corbett interjected. ‘You see the powder Legrave used can be very dangerous. It leaves a stain: the grains become embedded in the cloth. Once used, they must be destroyed. Legrave did this. He burnt them in isolated spots in the manor. My companions found the remains.’

  ‘You are lying! You are lying!’ Legrave beat the table with his fists.

  ‘We can search your chamber,’ Corbett offered. ‘We could ask you to produce these gauntlets. Who knows what we might find there. Some traces of the substances you used? It would leave its mark on boots and clothes. Perhaps traces of blood on a knife or sword?’

  ‘Ralph.’ Branquier leaned forward, looking down the table. ‘You have the opportunity to answer these charges.’

  Legrave refused to look up.

  ‘Baddlesmere, too, studied the Assassins’ warning,’ Corbett continued. ‘You see, the warning nailed to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral read as follows:

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

  Corbett closed his eyes.

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

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

  ‘That is the warning I read out at the priory when I was present with the king. However, the warning given to me on Ouse Bridge read a little differently:

  ‘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.’

  ‘And the same is true of the warning which Master Claverley took from Murston’s gibbet.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It was that which made me wonder. Were there two parties to this macabre game? Legrave in England and de Craon in France? Legrave posted the warning at St Paul’s when the Templars passed through London. De Craon passed me the second rendering of the message as I travelled through York. He also had one of his clerks display one on Murston’s gibbet just to deepen the mystery.’ Corbett smiled bleakly at the Frenchman. ‘You’ll have to tell your master in France that you made a terrible mistake: you copied out a message wrongly.’

  The French envoy did not stir but sat, head back, staring up at the ceiling, running his hands through his sparse red beard.

  ‘But what’s this connection?’ Symmes asked. ‘How did you know Legrave and de Craon were fellow conspirators?’

  Corbett turned to him. ‘Because on my arrival here – and you may not recall this – I told you that I had received a similar death threat but I did not tell you where. Later on, in discussion with all of you, Legrave casually remarked on how I was threatened as I crossed Ouse Bridge. How did he know that unless he and de Craon were fellow conspirators?’ Corbett pointed to Symmes. ‘You have written out your account, as the grand master ordered, of this whole sorry tale?’

  The Templar nodded.

  ‘And you, Branquier?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Legrave?’

  ‘I was too busy,’ he retorted.

  ‘Whatever,’ Symmes barked. ‘I never knew about the warning being given on Ouse bridge.’ He pointed at Legrave. ‘Yet I do remember you saying it and Branquier kept a record of that meeting.’

  ‘But this manor has been secured,’ de Molay explained. ‘None of us could enter York, nor has Monsieur de Craon been here.’

  Corbett asked. ‘If you wanted to correspond with someone just beyond the walls of this manor, would it be difficult? Baddlesmere found it very easy to slip away. I am sure Monsieur de Craon has envoys and clerks to run his errands – and so each kept the other informed about what was happening.’ Corbett paused and stared at the window. The storm had passed but the rain was still splattering against the windows. ‘In the end,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I must confess, I made a terrible mistake.’ He glanced round the table. ‘I thought this Order was rotten but, as in any community, there are bad and there are good. Grand Master, for my suspicions against you and the rest of your brothers, I apologise.’ Corbett rubbed his face. ‘But I am tired and my heart is elsewhere. “Veritas in ripa”,’ he murmured. ‘Truth stands on the bank.’ He stared at Legrave. ‘That’s what Baddlesmere scrawled on the wall of his cell before he hanged himself. He, too, had guessed the identity of the assassin. Perhaps he had seen something. Perhaps he had reflected on how close Legrave had been to Trinity when the king had been attacked. Perhaps he remembered what an excellent archer Legrave had been. A born warrior, he was not left-handed or right-handed but ambidextrous, who could shift a lance so easily from one hand to another. When I recalled the assassin in the library and asked my servant to play the part, I became confused until I remembered how the assassin kept moving the crossbow from hand to hand.’ Corbett looked at the grand master. ‘You know what the inscription meant?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ de Molay replied. “‘Ripa” in Latin means bank, but in French bank is “la grève”.’

  Corbett pushed back his chair. ‘Baddlesmere knew that,’ he said. ‘But he could not betray an old friend, a brother of his Order. Moreover, he lacked any evidence so, in leaving that cryptic message, he purged his conscience.’ Corbett rose to his feet. ‘I have finished. Grand Master,’ he declared, ‘there is no secret coven or conspiracy amongst the Templars but instead, as I have described, there has been an attempt to bring the Order into discredit, to provoke Edward of England into seizing it and thus pave the way for Philip of France to act. Legrave was their tool but the conspiracy had its roots—’ Corbett glanced at de Craon ‘—with those dark souls who advise the French king.’

>   ‘I, too, am finished.’ De Craon sprang to his feet, his chair crashing back to the floor. ‘Grand Master, I refuse to stay here and listen to this nonsense: these insults offered to myself and my master. A formal protest will be lodged both with Edward of England and the Temple in Paris.’

  ‘You can go when you want,’ de Molay uttered drily. ‘As you say, you are an accredited envoy. I have no power over you.’

  De Craon opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it and, with his black-garbed clerk following, strode out of the room. Only when he passed Corbett did his eyes shift; the clerk flinched at the malevolent hatred in the man’s eyes. Corbett waited until the door slammed behind him and listened to de Craon’s fading shouts for his horses and the rest of his servants to join him.

  ‘He will return to York,’ Corbett declared, ‘then protest most effusively to His Grace and, by this time tomorrow, he will be travelling to the nearest port for a ship back to France. Now I, too, must go.’

  He glanced at Legrave who sat, hands clasped together, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Corbett still hoped to spare this man the ultimate degradation.

  ‘You cannot go,’ de Molay declared.

  ‘But you gave your word.’

  ‘When these matters are finished!’ de Molay snapped. ‘And they are not finished yet!’ He turned. ‘Sir Ralph Legrave, Commander of this Order, what answer do you make to these accusations?’

  Symmes, sitting next to the accused, grasped him by the arm and shook him. Legrave pulled his arm away as if he could see something in the shadows on the other side of the hall.

  ‘What answer do you make?’ de Molay demanded harshly.

  ‘I am a Templar,’ Legrave replied.

  ‘You are accused of terrible crimes,’ Branquier retorted. ‘Your chamber and possessions will be searched!’

  Legrave shook himself from his reverie. ‘There’s no need for that.’ He ran a finger round his lips. ‘Search my room and you’ll find the evidence.’ He chewed the corner of his lip and glanced fleetingly at Corbett. ‘They might not find it but you will. De Craon warned me about you. I should have killed you immediately. We all deserved to die.’ His voice rose. ‘We are the Templars, men devoted to war against the Infidel. Now look at us: bankers, merchants, farmers. Men like Brother Odo living on past glories. Reverchien and his stupid pilgrimage every morning; Baddlesmere with his boys; Symmes and his drinking; Branquier and his accounts. What hope is there for any of us? I came into this Order because of a vision just as noble, just as holy as the search for any Grail.’ He jabbed a finger towards de Molay. ‘Philip of France is right. Our Order is finished. Why should we hug our riches to us? The Order should be dissolved, united with others, given a fresh purpose.’