Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘For the love of God, Master!’ Ranulf shouted. ‘What’s so exciting about stones and mud?’

Corbett reined in. ‘The severed, burning corpse,’ he remarked, ‘was found near here.’ He dismounted, ignoring Ranulf’s protests. ‘That’s right.’ He pointed to the trackway. ‘There, just before the corner near the small copse of trees: that’s where the good sisters found the remains.’

‘Are you sure?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, their guide said they were approaching a bend in the road. The horse came pounding round and passed them. When they turned the corner, they found the corpse, or part of it, burning like a torch.’ He remounted and grinned at Ranulf. ‘Let’s see if my memory fails me. The good sisters did say that, within half an hour of leaving the spot, they reached Botham Bar. We have travelled the same distance.’

In the end Corbett was proved right. They rode on into the small copse of trees. Corbett stared into the darkness, then down at the pebble-covered soil, and pointed to the great scorch-mark.

‘Why are you so interested in this murder?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett dismounted, crouched down, and ran the scorched earth through his fingers.

‘Here we have a traveller to York. We don’t know who he was, where he was going or what he was doing on this lonely road. But, apparently, he was attacked by a master swordsman.’

‘How do you know that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Only a professional soldier, someone capable of using a great two-handed sword could slice a man through his waist: the horse careered off, leaving the decapitated upper part of the torso to be consumed by a mysterious fire. And where did that come from, eh?’

‘The Templars?’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘They carry two-handed swords.’

Corbett smiled. ‘Now you understand my interest. So, stay where you are.’ Corbett drew his sword. ‘Right, Ranulf, you are the victim and I am your assailant.’ He grasped his sword hilt with two hands, ran forward and gently smacked the flat of the blade against Ranulf’s stomach.

‘Is that how it was done, Master?’

Corbett resheathed his sword. ‘Possibly. But why should the victim ride on to the sword? Why didn’t he turn his horse and flee?’

‘It was night,’ Ranulf remarked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why cut a man in half then burn the upper part of his body? And, if you are the victim, some innocent traveller, why not flee?’

‘How do we know he was innocent?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Well, no other weapon was found.’ Corbett stared back along the trackway. ‘So there was little resistance.’

‘Was the victim going to or from York?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘According to what I have seen, not one petition has come in asking about the whereabouts of any citizen, nor has anyone been reported missing.’

‘What makes you think,’ Maltote asked, ‘that the assailant was a Templar knight?’

Corbett patted his horse’s neck. ‘That’s what I like, Maltote. Good, searching questions. I think it was a knight,’ he continued. ‘As I’ve said, for a man to cut through another man’s body requires terrible force as well as skill. You must think, Maltote, of this murderer running towards his victim, sword in hand, then he brings it back, like a farmer’s scythe, and cuts straight through the middle just above the crotch. Now only a trained knight, an experienced warrior, could swing a sword with such position and force. I have seen it done in Scotland and Wales. Such skill only comes after years of experience in war.’

‘But why a Templar?’ Maltote insisted.

‘Because of their skill and their proximity to Framlingham. Also, as far as I know, the only other knights capable of such a blow were with the king.’

‘So, the murder on this lonely trackway, and the death of the assassin in the city are linked?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, both men were killed and their bodies burnt. But why, and by whom, is a mystery.’

‘What happens if the victim was a Templar?’ Maltote asked, now preening himself at Corbett’s praise.

‘Possible,’ Corbett replied. ‘And that could explain why no one has come forward to claim the remains, as well as why the whereabouts of the horse and the rest of the poor victim’s body remain a mystery. But,’ he added slowly, ‘somehow I think he wasn’t a Templar.’ He shrugged. ‘But there again I have no proof.’ Corbett stared down at the scorch-mark then into the green darkness of the trees. ‘We will see,’ he murmured and, mounting his horse, they continued on their journey.

For a while they jogged along in silence, Corbett assessing in his mind the sea of troubles mounting against him. Who was the victim on the lonely trackway? Why was he killed, then his body set alight? Why didn’t anyone recognise the corpse? Why had that Templar serjeant tried to kill the king and, in turn, been consumed by a mysterious fire? Was the Templar Order so rotten with intrigue and greed? Was there some dark coven plotting the destruction of princes through murder and black magic? Who was Sagittarius? Corbett closed his eyes, letting his horse find its head. Then there was this business of the coins: who had the means to issue good gold coins? Where had the precious metal come from? How was it distributed? Was that, too, linked to the Templars? Had they discovered the secret of alchemy, of transmuting base metals into gold? Corbett opened his eyes. And what could he do at Framlingham? He carried the king’s ring in his pouch and the royal authority in his wallet, but how would the Templars react? They could scarcely reject him but, there again, there was no guarantee that they would cooperate. Corbett found his mind whirling round and round like a little dog turning a kitchen spit. So engrossed was he in the problem, he was startled to find himself on the trackway leading down to the gates of Framlingham Manor. As soon as he and his companions approached the heavy, iron-studded gates, Corbett knew there was something wrong. The small watch-tower above the gates were manned and a troop of crossbowmen stood on guard, resplendent in their white livery and great red crosses.

‘Stay where you are!’ a voice rang out.

Corbett reined in, lifting his hand in a gesture of peace. A Templar soldier walked forward, his face almost hidden by the chainmail coif and heavy helmet with broad noseguard. Questions were asked. Only when Corbett produced the king’s ring and warrants were the gates opened and he was allowed on his way. Two of the soldiers went before him, up the shady path which wound between the trees. Now and again Corbett could hear the bracken on either side of him crackle, and the barking of a dog nearby. Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.

‘What’s happening?’ he whispered. ‘The gates are fortified. Templar soldiers with war dogs are in the trees.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ Corbett called out.

One of the soldiers stopped and came back. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ the Templar asked. ‘Sir Guido, the keeper of the manor, was killed early this morning. He died at the centre of the maze, consumed by fire.’

‘Fire?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye. Whether from heaven or hell we don’t know. The grand master and all the commanders are now in council.’

He led Corbett on, they turned a corner and entered the great, grassy area which stretched in front of Framlingham Manor. This was a large, four-storeyed building, as huge as any merchant’s, greatly extended, with two wings coming out on either side. It was shaped in the form of a horseshoe: a rich, palatial residence. The bottom storey was built of stone, the upper storeys consisted of black beams, the plaster between painted a dull gold. The roof was tiled with red slate. The windows were filled with glass gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Nevertheless, the silence and sense of oppression made itself felt. The serjeant took them round the manor into the stableyard: the grooms and ostlers looked frightened. They scurried forward as if desperate for something to do to break the tension. Corbett told Ranulf and Maltote to guard the sumpter pony and followed the serjeant in through a back door along wainscoted passages.