Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘You are forgetting one thing, Master Clerk,’ Branquier pointed down to the corpse covered by the pall. ‘Guido Reverchien was killed this morning just before dawn. Concedo, there is a link between the death of the stranger outside Botham Bar, that of Murston, and the mysterious death of Guido Reverchien. However, you cannot prove any person here was present on the road outside Botham Bar or with Murston. On the other hand, we can prove, every man in this room, that when Sir Guido Reverchien died we were lodged at St Leonard’s Priory.’ He saw the surprise on Corbett’s face. ‘Didn’t you know that, Clerk? We stayed there overnight. We arrived back here, shortly before you did, to discover the tragedy.’

‘And, before you ask,’ de Molay intervened, ‘this morning we were in the city. We had business there with our bankers.’

‘Together?’ Corbett asked, trying to conceal his confusion.

De Molay shrugged. ‘Of course not. Legrave came with me, my colleagues went hither and thither. There was business to be done.’

‘So, any one of you,’ Corbett asked, ‘could have been with Murston? Or written that message or loosed a crossbow bolt at me?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ de Molay almost shouted, raising his voice over the cries of protest, ‘you have no proof of these matters!’

‘I returned here just after noon,’ Branquier protested, ‘to speak to Brother Odo our archivist.’

‘And the rest?’ Corbett asked.

Different replies were given; clearly all the Templars had been back at Framlingham shortly before Corbett’s arrival.

‘We heard about Guido’s death,’ Branquier explained. ‘We deemed it mysterious. The gates were locked, the guards doubled and this court held.’

‘You may well be innocent,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I act on orders from my king: no Templar may leave the grounds of Framlingham Manor until this matter is resolved. None of you is to enter the city of York.’

‘Agreed,’ de Molay answered quickly. ‘And I suppose you and your companions are to be our guests?’

‘Until these matters are resolved,’ Corbett replied. ‘Yes, we are.’

‘In which case Ralph,’ de Molay gestured at Legrave, ‘will show you to our guesthouse.’

Corbett pointed to the corpse. ‘And your companion’s death?’

De Molay pulled a face and got to his feet. ‘Either an act of God or. .’

‘Murder,’ Corbett added.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, murder. In which case we can use your skills. After Legrave has shown you your chambers, you are free to go into the maze. A rope has been laid, as a guide, from the centre to the entrance. Use that and you’ll not get lost!’

Corbett followed Legrave to the door.

‘Sir Hugh!’ De Molay came forward. ‘Tomorrow morning, the brothers will sing a Requiem Mass for Sir Guido. You are most welcome to attend. As for the rest, you are an honoured guest. However, we ask you to observe the courtesies. We are a monastic Order; certain parts of this building are our enclosure: outsiders are not permitted to enter.’

Corbett nodded and followed Legrave out into the corridor and back to the hallway where Ranulf and Maltote were sitting in a small recess just inside the front door. Legrave took them all out across the gravel path to the bottom floor of the east wing.

‘They are just cells,’ Legrave explained. He opened one door. ‘Sir Hugh, your servants can share this.’

He then pushed open another chamber door and ushered Corbett into a large, cavernous cell with a single arrow-slit window. The walls were lime-washed. A large crucifix hung above the trestle bed; at the foot of this stood a large, leather chest with an iron-bound coffer on the table beside it. Beneath the window was a writing table and a throne-like chair, its back and arms intricately carved.

‘You may join us in the refectory for meals,’ Legrave told him. He looked over his shoulder at Maltote and Ranulf who were still standing in the corridor. He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes crinkled into a smile.

‘Sir Hugh, do not take offence at the reception given. Our Order is in turmoil. We are like a ship without a rudder, blown this way and that by different winds. The Holy Land is lost. The Infidels squat in our sacred places and what are we supposed to do now? Many of our companions left family, home and hearth to become Templars. This is their family, yet all they can see is their beloved Order being plundered by princes.’

‘There is still no excuse for murder or treason,’ Corbett retorted.

‘No, no, there isn’t, but that, Sir Hugh, is still to be proved. Anyway, you’ll hear the bells ring for supper.’ And with that Legrave slipped quietly out of the room.

Ranulf and Maltote entered, carrying Corbett’s saddlebags.

‘The horses are stabled,’ Maltote said. ‘Including that vicious brute of a sumpter pony: it gave the stable boys all the devil’s bother.’

‘What do you think, Master?’ Ranulf asked, placing Corbett’s saddlebags into the great trunk and pulling across a stool.

‘Mysterious,’ Corbett replied. ‘The Templars are a closed book: hard-bitten, fighting men. They don’t like us. They resent our interference, yet, beneath it all, there is something wrong.’

‘You mean the death of the keeper? We heard all about it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Oh, not from the Templars, they’re all tight-lipped and soft-footed, but from the ordinary servants.’

‘And did you learn anything?’

‘No, they are just terrified. The usual mumblings about strange lights at night, comings and goings. Apparently, all was peace and quiet until de Molay and the commanders arrived. Usually, the manor is left empty under its keeper and a few servants. Now everything has been turned topsy-turvy. They believe the keeper was murdered by black magic, consumed by flames sent up from hell. They are already deserting, refusing to work here.’

Corbett stared out of the window. The sky was scarred with the red-gold flashes of a setting sun. He wanted to lie down and compose his thoughts but he kept remembering that grisly burden lying on the table in the council chamber.

‘Look, Ranulf, Maltote, unpack our belongings. Lock the door after me. I am going down to the maze. Meanwhile you two can try blundering about, acting the innocent.’ Corbett winked at Maltote. ‘For you, that won’t be hard. Try and see where you can go. Ranulf, if you are turned away, don’t argue. We’ll meet back here within the hour.’

Corbett left the guesthouse and walked round the manor. He sauntered by the stables, smithies, outhouses and, going through a huge gate, entered a large garden, a place of silent peace, beautifully laid out. It contained a tunnelled arbour along one side, covered by white roses, lily of the valley and honeysuckle. Corbett sat down on a turf seat and stared round in admiration.

‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘If only Maeve could see this!’

His wife had a passion for gardens, yet this was better than any Corbett had seen even in Edward’s palaces. There were chequerboard beds in one corner, and the sweet fragrance from the herbs growing there hung heavily in the evening air. After a while Corbett rose, walked across and stared down at the periwinkle, polypody, fennel, cowslip and white orris. Next to these were nerbers, small raised flower beds containing yarrow, daisy and Lady’s bedstraw. Corbett walked on, into a small orchard with apple, pear and black mulberry trees, all providing cool shade against the brightness of the setting sun. He looked back towards the manor, its arrow-slit windows and small bays full of glass, and wondered if he was being watched.

He left the garden through a small postern gate built into the wall. This led to a meadow, which sloped down to a small copse at the edge of a broad, shimmering lake. From the nearby byres, Corbett heard the cattle lowing as they were brought in for the night. A man was singing and, on the breeze, he heard the crash of a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. An idyllic scene which brought back bitter-sweet memories of his own manor at Leighton. Nevertheless, Corbett felt uneasy: he was sure someone was studying his every movement. He turned right and walked behind the manor house to a fringe of trees. Behind these stood the maze, a sea of high, green, prickly hedgerows which stretched out to the curtain wall of the manor. He walked along, staring into each entrance, then he found the long line of rope lying on the ground. Corbett made his way, following the rope as it twisted through the hedgerows.