Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Lord save us!’ Corbett whispered as he stared up at the thick green bushes on either side. ‘Guido Reverchien must have been a glutton for punishment.’

He started as a bird flew out of the hedge and soared above him in a whirr or wings. The sound reminded Corbett of a crossbow bolt. He walked on: the maze became silent, as if he was lost in some magical, secret forest. He followed the rope along the path. The ominous silence seemed to intensify; he felt his heart skip a beat and sweat prickle the nape of his neck. Shadows were beginning to fall and, in some places, the high hedgerows blocked the rays of the dying sun. Corbett trudged on. He was regretting not waiting till the following morning when suddenly he heard a crunch on the gravel. Corbett whirled round. Was someone following him? Or did the sound come from some bird or animal on the other side of the hedgerow? He stood listening for any noise then, satisfied, walked on. At last the rope snaked round a corner and into the centre of the maze. A large stone crucifix stood here; in front of it were paved steps on which Reverchien must have knelt. Now the stonework and the heavy iron candelabra were cracked and scorched. Corbett stared up at the carved face of his Saviour.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘How can an old soldier saying his prayers be consumed by a mysterious fire?’

Corbett studied the area where the fire had blazed: he could not detect how the inferno had been caused. The candles were gone, mere streaks of wax: these might spark or scorch but not turn a man into a living flame. Corbett sat on a turf seat and tried to visualise the scene: Reverchien would have come out along the same path he had, chanting his psalms, his beads in his hand. Dawn would be breaking, there would be enough light for Reverchien to notice anyone hiding in this small enclosure. Moreover, although Reverchien was old, he had been a soldier: his hearing would be sharp and sensitive. He would know if someone had followed him through the maze. Yet if the killer was a Templar commander, one of the five he had met in the council chamber, he could not have possibly been here when Reverchien had died. Corbett stared at the great scorch-mark.

‘But what happens,’ he murmured, ‘if there was more than one killer? If there was a coven here at Framlingham? If someone entered the maze long before Sir Guido?’

But if that was the case, the killer would have to have got out again, and that would have been impossible without being detected.

Corbett looked up at the sky. As he did so, he heard the crunch of a boot on gravel from behind the wall of privet, then a creak, like a door opening. Corbett immediately threw himself to the right as a long yew arrow smashed into the cross. Corbett moved behind this, drawing his dagger. Again the crunch on the gravel and an arrow whipped by his head into the privet beyond. Corbett did not wait for a third but ran to the entrance where he could see the rope lying. He fled, keeping his eyes on that rope as it wound and snaked through the maze. Behind him Corbett heard the sounds of quiet pursuit. He turned a corner and suddenly the rope was no longer there. Corbett stopped, sobbing for breath. Should he go to the left or the right? He tried to climb the hedge but the branches were stubby, pointed, and cut his hands. He found it impossible to gain a foothold. Corbett crouched, fighting for breath, trying to calm the thudding of his heart. He remembered how far he had run and quickly gauged that he must be somewhere near the entrance. However, if he took the wrong path he could find himself lost, trapped, a clear target for the assassin. For a while Corbett waited, straining his ears, listening for any sound: all he could hear was the cawing of the crows and an occasional rustle as some bird nesting in the hedgerow burst up into the sky.

At last Corbett felt he was calm enough to move. He took off his cloak and began to cut strips of cloth from it, which he tied around twigs.

‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I will know if I am going round in circles.’

He crept forward, trying to recall how he had entered the maze.

‘Turning left,’ he whispered. ‘I kept turning left.’

He chose the path to his right and began to work his way forward. Now and again he lost his way, coming round to find a strip of cloth hanging from the bush. He cursed and tried again, a mixture of trial and error. Only once did he hear the pursuer. A crunch of gravel and his heart skipped a beat, the assailant was now in front of him. Darkness was beginning to fall. Somewhere a dog howled mournfully as the daylight began to fade. After a while Corbett felt secure, no longer pursued or watched. He realised the rope had been removed, not to trap him, but as a means of delaying him, should he survive and the assailant had to flee. Corbett edged forward, then he heard Ranulf’s voice.

‘Master?’

‘Here!’ Corbett shouted and, doffing his cloak, waved it high above his head.

‘I saw that!’ Ranulf shouted back.

‘Keep shouting!’ Corbett ordered.

Ranulf happily obliged, bawling out encouragement as Corbett made his way, following the sound of Ranulf’s voice. The hedgerows thinned and he was out on the path where Ranulf and Maltote stood, grinning from ear to ear.

‘You should be more careful,’ his manservant exclaimed.

‘I was bloody careful,’ Corbett grunted. ‘Some bastard removed the rope and tried to kill me.’

Ranulf looked round. ‘Then where is he? He must be still in the maze.’

‘No, he’s gone. Ranulf, did you see anyone?’

‘Only a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He wore a cowl and cloak, Master. But the manor is full of servants.’

Corbett closed his eyes. He remembered seeing a wheelbarrow near the maze, covered by a dirty sheet.

‘Why should they kill me?’ he rasped. ‘If this secret coven of Templars wants the destruction of the king, how can murdering me bring that about?’

‘They don’t want you to investigate.’

‘But the king will send someone else. Why create more suspicion?’ Corbett glanced up at the darkened sky. ‘Well, they failed for the second time today. That’s the last time I’m wandering round this benighted manor by myself. Well, what did you find?’

A bell began to toll, the sign for evening supper. They walked back to the main entrance, Ranulf explaining how they had wandered the galleries and passageways. He paused, clutching his master’s arm.

‘Framlingham is a mysterious place. There are chambers, stairways, cellars, even a dungeon. The place is well guarded: armed men everywhere. Never once did they try to stop us, except when we tried to climb to the garret at the top of the manor. The stairway is guarded by soldiers. They were polite and shook their heads. When I asked them why not, they just smiled and told me to mind my own business.’

‘Oh, and tell him the other thing,’ Maltote interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, Master.’ Ranulf leaned closer. ‘On the second floor of the main building there are eight windows.’

‘So?’ Corbett asked.

‘But, Master, on the gallery inside there are only seven chambers.’

Corbett and his companions returned to the guesthouse and changed for supper.

‘Make no mention about the attack on me,’ Corbett warned them as they returned along the passageway to the refectory.

The Templars were already assembled, seated round a table down the centre of the hall, which was a small, comfortable room, brightly caparisoned by banners hanging from the hammer-beam rafters. De Molay quickly said grace, blessing the food on the table, but then, before they sat down, a servant came in bearing a tray with goblets and an equal number of dishes containing bread sprinkled with salt. Each Templar and their three guests were given a cup and a piece of the salted bread.