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

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘And you?’ Corbett asked, curious at what Philip had offered this Judas.

  ‘To be a knight banneret at the French court,’ Legrave answered. ‘Yes, to have manors and estates, a release from my vows. The opportunity to make up the time lost; to marry, to beget an heir. At least there’s purpose in that. Sooner or later the storm will come, and the house of the Templars, built upon sand, will shatter and fall; and great will that fall be.’

  Corbett went and stood over him. ‘You’re a liar,’ he accused. ‘You were a coward: you betrayed your Order years ago at Acre.’

  Legrave’s head snapped back at the hiss of anger from his companions.

  ‘What, what are you saying?’ he stuttered.

  ‘I met a knight, a Templar in the Lazar hospital in York. A man kept prisoner for years by the Assassins: he did not give me his name. He called himself the “Unknown” but he talked of an English Templar who ran from his post in Acre and doomed his companions.’

  ‘I have heard of such rumours,’ Branquier interrupted.

  ‘You ran, didn’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘And the French found out. They not only offered you wealth but threatened to reveal your cowardice.’

  Legrave just nodded and, putting his face in his hands, sobbed quietly.

  ‘You admit the charges?’ Branquier whispered.

  ‘He must stand trial,’ Symmes barked.

  ‘He has stood trial,’ de Molay replied, rising to his feet. ‘And has been found guilty.’

  The grand master drew his great sword from its scabbard hanging on the corner of his chair. He walked down the other side of the table then stopped, glaring down at Legrave. He held the sword up just beneath the hilt like a priest holds a cross.

  ‘I, Jacques de Molay, Grand Master in the Order of the Templars, do find you, Sir Ralph Legrave, knight of that same order, guilty by your hand of the terrible crimes of murder and treason. What have you to say?’

  Legrave raised his head.

  ‘Sentence is passed,’ de Molay intoned. ‘Execution will be carried out at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘You cannot do that!’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘Go back to your Chancery!’ de Molay retorted. ‘Look amongst the deeds and muniments, your royal charters and licences. I have the power of the axe, the scaffold and the tumbrel, Brother.’ De Molay looked back at Legrave. ‘I ask you for the final time: do you have anything to say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Legrave replied. ‘Except, Grand Master. . .’ He stared round the hall, seeing it for the last time. ‘All this will pass,’ Legrave whispered, ‘for our cause is finished. Our days are numbered. Our house will surely fall.’

  De Molay went towards the door and came back, leading a group of serjeants. Symmes pulled Legrave to his feet. De Molay removed Legrave’s swordbelt, the sign of a knight.

  ‘Give him a priest,’ de Molay rasped. ‘Let his sins be shriven.’

  The prisoner turned and, without a backward glance, was led out of the hall.

  Corbett went towards the grand master, hands extended. ‘Sir, I bid you adieu.’

  De Molay grasped his wrist; Corbett grew alarmed as the Templar seized it, holding it with all his strength. Ranulf cursed and stepped forward.

  ‘You are our guest,’ de Molay declared. ‘It is too late for you to return. You are the king’s commissioners. You must be his witnesses to our justice.’

  Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. De Molay was right. Legrave’s execution would have to be witnessed. The king would demand that.

  ‘You object?’ de Molay asked curiously, still gripping Corbett’s hand.

  ‘I do not like to see any man die,’ Corbett replied. ‘Least of all at the block.’

  De Molay released his hand. ‘It will be swift,’ he murmured. ‘So, sir, tell your servant to withdraw. Branquier and I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Master,’ Ranulf protested. ‘It is not — ’

  ‘Sir Hugh is safe,’ de Molay reiterated. ‘No harm will come to him. You have my oath.’

  Corbett nodded; Ranulf and Maltote reluctantly went to the door.

  ‘Wait for him in the guesthouse,’ the grand master called out. ‘He may be some time. You have nothing to fear.’

  Once the door closed behind them, de Molay gestured Corbett to sit, he and Branquier on either side of him.

  ‘You suspected,’ Corbett began.

  ‘I understood Baddlesmere’s riddle,’ de Molay replied. ‘Though I could not see how it could be true.’

  ‘And Philip of France’s meddling?’

  ‘The thought crossed my mind,’ de Molay replied. ‘At the Chapter in Paris, Legrave was often missing. I wondered if he was meeting some of Philip’s coven. The French king has always found us an irritation. We constantly remind him about how his sainted grandfather went to the aid of the Holy Places in Outremer. But something else; about eighteen months ago Philip, now a widower, actually applied to be admitted into our Order.’

  ‘Why?’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘For the glory. Perhaps our treasure. Or to learn our Great Mystery.’

  ‘What Great Mystery?’ Corbett asked.

  De Molay looked across the table at Branquier.

  ‘He deserves to know,’ he remarked quietly.

  Branquier breathed out noisily.

  ‘I have decided,’ de Molay repeated. He loosened the collar of his shirt, took out a gold reliquary, covered at the front by a piece of thick glass, and placed it on the table. He pulled the candle closer.

  ‘What is it?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘A piece of the true cross,’ de Molay explained. ‘Taken before we lost it at the Battle of Hattin. Put your hand over it.’

  Corbett obeyed.

  ‘Now swear,’ the grand master insisted, ‘that what you see tonight, you will not describe, or hint at in any way, to another living soul.’

  ‘I swear!’ Corbett replied. He knew the Templars were about to reveal the Great Mystery of their Order: the source of all their secret rituals, hidden chambers, and ceremonies held at the dead of night.

  ‘I swear,’ he repeated, ‘by the Saviour’s Cross!’

  De Molay slipped the reliquary back round his neck and, without another word, he and Branquier led Corbett out of the hall. They went up the stairs on to the gallery towards the secret chamber, still closely guarded by a company of soldiers. De Molay unlocked the room but he did not take Corbett aside. Instead, he came out carrying the tapestry Corbett had noticed hanging there on his first visit. The Templar soldiers stood like statues, heads lowered as Corbett was led up another flight of stairs and into a secret chapel. The tapestry was hung on a small hook thrust into the rim of the altar standing on the dais. Sconce torches were lit, as were the candles and the dark chamber flared into light. Three cushions were placed on the floor. Branquier gestured at Corbett to kneel, the Templar beside him. De Molay then played with the wooden rim round the tapestry. He took this and the tapestry away, revealing a pale linen sheet. Corbett could see the cloth was very old, yellowing with age, with a faint outline on it. De Molay then put two candles on either side of the sheet, etching more sharply the image it held. He came and knelt beside Corbett.

  ‘Look, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay whispered. ‘Look and adore.’

  Corbett stared. As he did so, he lost all awareness of his two companions or the chamber. His eyes adjusted to the contrast of light and dark, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt the sweat break out on his body: the image, as if painted in a rusty coloured substance, depicted a head crowned with thorns. The eyes were closed, the hair matted and bloody on either side of a long face, the nose sharply etched in death; the lips full, slightly parted, high cheekbones still bearing marks, cuts and bruises. De Molay and Branquier leaned forward, faces to the ground, chanting the prayer: ‘We adore you O Christ and we praise Thee; because, by your holy Cross, you have redeemed the whole world.’

  Corbett could only gaze. The image was so life-like; if he could stretch out and touch
it, the head would surely move, the face would live, the eyes would open.

  ‘Is it . . . ?’ he whispered, and then recalled the stories and legends about a sacred cloth which once covered the face of the crucified Jesus. Some said it was at Lucca in Italy. Others in Rome, Cologne or Jerusalem. De Molay straightened up. He let Corbett stare for a while before going forward; he extinguished the candles and covered that haunting face behind the tapestry. He then sat down on the dais opposite Corbett.

  ‘It is what you think,’ he murmured. ‘The sacred Mandylion. The cloth which Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus used to cover Christ’s face in the tomb. Somehow the cloth took on the imprint of his face. For centuries it was hidden but when invading armies sacked Constantinople in 1204, it came into our Order.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘This is what we venerate in the dead of night. This is the source of the garbled stories about Templars worshipping severed heads or indulging in secret rituals. This is our Great Mystery, and it is this which Philip of France would like to seize.’

  Corbett leaned back on his heels and nodded. Any king would give a fortune for what he’d seen. If Philip owned it, he would use the cloth to underline the sacredness of his rule and, if circumstances demanded, sell it on the open market for a fabulous sum. All of Christendom would bid to own it.

  De Molay came over and helped Corbett to his feet.

  ‘Only the chosen few in the Order are ever allowed to see what you have seen,’ he explained. ‘Now go, Sir Hugh, but never utter a word about what you have witnessed.’

  Corbett rose and left the small, mysterious chapel. He returned to his own chamber in the guesthouse. Maltote was already asleep, but Ranulf was eager to congratulate his master and ply him with questions about what had happened. Corbett just shook his head. He took off his boots and climbed on to the bed, wrapping his cloak around him.

  ‘Surely, Master,’ Ranulf wailed, ‘you can tell me.’

  Corbett half rose, resting on one elbow. ‘I’ll say one thing, Ranulf, and you must not question me again. I am a singular man: in one night I have looked into the heart of evil and the source of light. I have glimpsed both heaven and hell!’

  And, with Ranulf’s muttered curses ringing in his ears, Corbett lay back down on the bed, praying daylight would soon come and this business would be finished.

  The next morning Corbett, with Ranulf and Maltote in attendance, stood outside the front door of the manor house. The sun had not yet broken through the cloying mist which hung heavy amongst the trees, shifting under a sharp cold breeze which gave the manor gardens a ghostly appearance. De Molay had insisted that every Templar be present, formed in a square around a crude wooden platform on which a block had been set with a large, two-headed axe lying on one side. On the other stood a small basket filled with straw and coated with sawdust. The grand master stood on the platform intoning the ‘De Profundis’, the psalm for the dead. He moved aside as a Templar soldier, dressed in black from head to toe, a red mask covering his face, stepped on to the makeshift scaffold. A single drum began to beat as Legrave, dressed in boots, hose and a white linen shirt, was led out through the main door of the manor. He looked pale but, apart from that, showed no sign of fear. He went on up on to the scaffold and knelt before the block. De Molay approached and whispered into his ear. Legrave smiled slightly but shook his head, refusing to listen. De Molay stepped back. The executioner lashed Legrave’s hands behind his back and thrust his head forward over the block. For a few seconds the prisoner remained motionless, neck extended, eyes closed. He then abruptly lifted his head. The executioner was about to thrust him down again but de Molay shook his head. Legrave looked up at the sky and then round at the host of witnesses to his death.

  ‘It will be a fine day,’ he declared in a clear voice. ‘The sun will rise, the mist will burn off. Brothers . . .’ His voice shook a little. ‘Brothers, remember me.’ He laid his head on the block, the executioner pulled back his shirt a little then moved back. The drum beat began. The great axe went up. There was a shimmer of light as it swooped, cutting the air, piercing Legrave’s neck, veins and sinews. Corbett closed his eyes, murmured a prayer and moved away, back through the crowd.

  In the solar of the Archbishop of York’s palace, Edward, King of England and John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, sat in the cushioned windowseat staring down at the scene in the courtyard below. Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote were preparing horses and two sumpter ponies, loaned from the royal stables, for their journey south. Corbett was on his horse, staring out through the yard gate, lost in thought, as if calculating how long it would take to travel from York to his manor at Leighton. The king stifled his annoyance and, opening his hand, stared down at the Secret Seal.

  ‘Your Grace, I am going,’ Corbett had declared. ‘I wish to be on the road by midday. I kept my word and now you must keep yours.’

  The king had fumed, sulked, shouted and pleaded, but Corbett was obdurate.

  ‘Your king needs you!’ Edward yelled in exasperation.

  ‘So does my wife and family,’ Corbett retorted and, taking the ring from his finger and the Seal from his purse, he’d walked over and thrust them into the king’s hands.

  ‘My Lord King,’ the clerk had whispered, ‘even a good dog gets his bone as a reward.’

  ‘But why now?’ Edward grasped Corbett by the front of his tunic.

  ‘I. . .’ Corbett had glanced away. ‘I am tired,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am tired of the blood, the violence. I resign my office. I wish to sit in my manor and count my sheep. Go to bed with my wife and stop sleeping with a dagger beneath my pillow whilst Ranulf and Maltote guard the door.’

  Corbett had closed the king’s fingers around the Seal and ring, then strode out of the royal chamber, shouting at Ranulf and Maltote that they were leaving. De Warrenne followed Edward’s stare.

  ‘I could stop him,’ the earl offered. ‘Give me ten good archers. I’ll seize him at the city gates and bring him back.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God, don’t be stupid!’ Edward groaned. He leaned over and tweaked his earl marshal’s cheek. ‘You are a good man, John. If I told you to mount a destrier and charge the moon you probably would.’ Edward tossed Corbett’s ring and Seal into the rushes, though he made careful note where they fell. ‘I made Corbett what he is,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘What I fashioned once, I can fashion again.’

  Even as the words were out of his mouth, Edward knew he was lying. He would miss Corbett: dark, secretive, with his wry sense of humour, his love of law. Corbett, his shadow-master or ‘guardian angel’, as the king had once referred to him.

  ‘He did well,’ de Warrenne grudgingly conceded. ‘Do you believe Master Hubert Seagrave?’

  Edward grinned. ‘No, I don’t. Truth comes in many guises, but a rich vintner coming to confess his sins, his chests full of ancient gold, craving the royal pardon for a momentary lapse. . .’ Edward shrugged: he jabbed a finger at the courtyard below. ‘Corbett’s brain may be of steel, but he has a heart of wax. I suspect he had a hand in it. However, my coffers are full, my Exchequer clerks are dancing with delight at the profits, not to mention the low price Seagrave will charge for every tun of wine delivered to the royal household.’

  ‘And de Craon?’ the earl asked.

  ‘Huffing and puffing,’ Edward replied. ‘Shocked, outraged. The lying bastard protests too much. He’ll go back to my sweet brother of France and I’ll have letters! Oh, by the moon’s tits, I’ll have letters! Angry protestations, fierce denunciations, then Philip will scuttle back to his spiderweb and plot again. He’s set his heart on the Templars and the Templars he will have; but not while I sit on the throne at Westminster . . .’

  Edward rose and went across to the table. ‘Legrave is dead,’ he continued. ‘De Molay will return to France to accept Philip’s protestations of innocence. He will even offer the French king a loan.’ Edward sat down and began to leaf through the books Corbett had borrowed from the Archbishop’s library. ‘But this fire .
. .’

  ‘You had heard about it before, your Grace?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Edward lied, snapping his fingers at de Warrenne to join him. The king leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands. ‘In the summer,’ he mused, ‘I intend to cross the Scottish march. I will teach Wallace and his rebels a lesson they’ll never forget.’ He tapped the pages of the book. ‘I want my Clerks of Stores to read this. What Corbett discovered, so can they. That rogue Claverley, whom I’m going to reward, can help. Let us, my good Earl, take this fire north. I’ll set the very heather ablaze!’

  Edward heard a sound from the courtyard below. He pushed back his stool and went to look out of the window. His heart skipped a beat: Corbett was gone.

  Author’s Note

  The events of this novel are based on historical fact. The city of York is as I described it, though sometimes I have used other spellings of well-known landmarks, e.g. Botham Bar for Bootham Bar.

  The introduction of gunpowder into English warfare is well described by Henry W. Hine in his book Gunpowder and Ammunition, Their Origin and Progress, published by Longmans (1904). He gives a scholarly analysis of gunpowder, talks of the ‘Liber Ignium’ as well as the secrets of Friar Bacon’s work mentioned in the text. Even today scholars are puzzled by the complex anagrams and cryptic language in which Bacon conceals his formula. Perhaps the good friar realised the latent dangers of his discovery! Greek fire was used by the Byzantines and, for a while, was their jealously guarded secret. Edward I’s remarks at the end of the novel are probably based on fact: the events of Satan’s Fire are set in 1303: according to Hine’s book (page 50), Edward did sweep north in 1304 and used this fire, for the first time, in the siege of Stirling Castle. By 1319 the Scots had learnt their lesson and also had the secret from a Flemish engineer.