Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

Corbett stared at his inveterate enemy: Philip’s spy-master and the source of all his intrigues. He admired the Frenchman’s ostentatious dress: the damask tunic, edged at the neck and cuffs with gold; the hem over shiny red leather boots, studded with miniature gems.

‘And you, Sir Amaury, have not changed.’

De Craon smiled, though, keeping his back to the king, his eyes betrayed a deep antipathy for this English clerk he’d love to kill.

‘Congratulate me, Sir Hugh. I am married and my wife is already with child.’

‘Then you are twice blessed, Sir Amaury.’

‘But I did not come to share pleasantries.’ De Craon turned. ‘Nor even to rejoice in His Grace’s narrow escape.’

‘Then what?’ Corbett snapped.

‘Warnings from my master,’ de Craon continued. ‘You heard of a similar attack on him whilst hunting in the Bois de Boulogne?’

‘Continue,’ Edward said softly.

‘The culprit was found,’ de Craon explained. ‘A Templar, a high-ranking serjeant from their fortress in Paris. My master’s agents arrested him. He made a full confession after a short sojourn in the dungeon of the Louvre.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘Apparently there are high-ranking Templars who view their expulsion from the Holy Land as the fault of the Western kings, the Holy Roman Emperor, even the Pope himself; more especially, Philip of France and Edward of England.’

Corbett walked across. ‘And so you bring warnings?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I bring warnings. England and France are about to sign a great treaty of peace. It will be cemented by a royal marriage between the two houses. Both our countries have had their differences. However, this is a common danger which threatens us both and could shatter that peace.’

‘And what else did this serjeant confess?’ Edward asked.

De Craon plucked a parchment from his sleeve and thrust it at Corbett. ‘See for yourself!’

Corbett unrolled the parchment and read it; as he did so, he realised that his suspicions about de Craon were, on this occasion, apparently unfounded.

‘What does it say?’ the king asked, sitting down on a bench.

Corbett studied the manuscript, taking it over to a window for better light. ‘It’s a confession,’ Corbett explained. ‘By a serjeant based in the Temple at Paris. He admits to trying to kill Philip in the Bois de Boulogne. Apparently, the serjeant was carrying out the orders of a high ranking officer known only to him as “Sagittarius” or “The Archer”.’

‘And Philip’s torturers wrung this out of him?’ Edward asked.

‘No,’ Corbett looked up, ‘not the royal torturers.’ He saw de Craon’s smile of satisfaction. ‘No less a person than the grand inquisitor.’

‘And you know,’ de Craon intervened, ‘the Holy Inquisition is a law unto itself.’

‘Apparently,’ Corbett continued, studying the manuscript carefully, ‘certain artefacts were found in the Templar’s possession: a pentangle, a picture of an inverted cross, and other tools of the black magician.’ He glanced up. ‘Which is why the Inquisition took the matter over. The serjeant maintained that he and other Templars were part of a warlock’s coven, participating in Satanic practices, the worship of demons and a disembodied head.’

Corbett glanced at the bottom of the paper. He studied the blood-red seal of the Holy Inquisition as well as the personal signature of the master grand inquisitor and his two witnesses.

‘So,’ Edward leaned forward, ‘this is a serious threat.’

De Craon nodded tersely. ‘My master has already written to Pope Boniface the Eighth demanding the order be investigated.’ He rose and sank to one knee before the king. ‘But I shall inform my master about your safe deliverance. And,’ he added slyly, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Corbett, ‘your sacred vow to go on Crusade.’

‘In which,’ Corbett intervened, ‘my master will call on other Western princes to join him.’

De Craon got to his feet and bowed at Corbett. ‘You shall not find Philip of France lacking. He is ready to spill his blood, as his grandfather did, to win back God’s fief.’ And, making further obeisances, de Craon left the room as swiftly as he had arrived.

‘It must have been hard,’ Corbett declared, going over to make sure the door was closed. ‘For de Craon, once in his life, to tell the truth.’

‘Go to Framlingham,’ Edward declared. ‘Take up residence there. Tell their grand master that if any Templar is found outside the grounds of that manor, he will be arrested on suspicion of high treason!’

Ranulf and Maltote complained bitterly at being pulled away from their game of dice with the royal archers. Their wails grew even louder as Corbett told them where they were going.

‘Stop moaning,’ their master ordered. ‘First, it’s only a matter of time before the archers realise you cheat. Secondly, Ranulf, a period of abstinence from chasing the ladies will do your soul the world of good.’

As they later rode through the streets of York, Corbett did not bother to look, though he knew Ranulf was scowling behind him and muttering under his breath about ‘Master Long Face’ and his killjoy actions. Maltote was more resigned. As long as he was with horses and able to know what the great lords of the soil were planting, he was content. So, he let Ranulf mutter on whilst trying to manage a vicious sumpter pony who deeply resented being plucked from a comfortable stable and taken through the noisy, dusty streets of York.

Ranulf, who had got to know the city well, eventually pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘Master, surely we should be going in the other direction? Framlingham lies beyond Botham Bar to the north of the city.’

Corbett paused just before they entered the Shambles, York’s great meat-market.

‘We have business, Ranulf, with Master Hubert Seagrave, King’s vintner and proud owner of the Greenmantle tavern in Coppergate. We are to take the grand master a present.’

Corbett stared down the narrow streets ahead of him. He saw the blood and offal which coated the cobbles in a bloody mess; from the stalls on either side of the street hung the gutted carcases of sheep, lambs and pigs. He pulled his horse’s head round.

‘Let’s find another way.’

As he turned, an arrow bolt whirred by his face, smashing into the plaster wall of the house alongside. Corbett stared open-mouthed: Ranulf seized the reins of his horse, pulling it into a gallop down a narrow alleyway leading into Coppergate. Tradesmen, apprentices, beggars, children, scavenging dogs and cats fled before the pounding hooves. The more quick-witted picked up fistfuls of refuse and threw it at these three riders, for Maltote had quickly followed suit. Once in Coppergate, Corbett reined in.

‘Who fired that?’ he demanded.

Ranulf wiped the sweat from his face. ‘God knows, but I don’t intend to go back and find out.’

Corbett hurriedly dismounted, ordering Ranulf and Maltote to do the same.

‘Keep the horses on the outside!’ he urged.

They walked down Coppergate. A trader ran up, protesting at their feckless ride. Ranulf drew his sword, shouting that they were on the king’s business, so the fellow backed away.

‘What was it, a warning?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I had not turned, that arrow would have found its mark.’

‘Shall we go back?’ Maltote asked. ‘Perhaps — ’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Ranulf snarled. He gestured at the houses on either side. ‘Windows, doors, alleyways, nooks and crannies; you could hide an army in York.’

Corbett walked on. He just wished his stomach would stop heaving. The narrowness of his escape made him feel light-headed, and the sweat coating his body was turning cold. He tried to distract himself by looking at the crowds on either side, the different colours, the shouts and cries, but he was afraid. He felt like drawing his sword and dashing into the crowd. He also found he could not stop thinking about Maeve and his baby daughter Eleanor. They will be cleaning the rooms, he thought, now spring was here; Maeve will turn the house inside out. Oh God! he thought. Would she be doing that when the messenger came riding up the manor path? Would she run down to meet him? How would she take the message sent by the king that his trusted and well-beloved clerk, her husband, was dead, killed by some assassin in York? He heard, as if from far off, his name being called.