Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Nonsense.’ William Symmes, his scarred face now softer, rose and went to kneel beside the old librarian. ‘If you had died,’ he said softly, ‘we would never have heard the story and Framlingham would not have its favourite librarian.’

‘So,’ Corbett asked, ‘apart from the grand master, you were all in Acre?’

‘We came back with the rest,’ Legrave replied. ‘Each of us is now a principal commander. I at Beverley, Baddlesmere in London, Symmes at Templecombe in Dorset, Branquier in Chester.’

‘And at your Grand Chapter,’ Corbett insisted, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, ‘were fresh plans laid? Will the Order attempt to regain what it has lost?’

‘In time,’ de Molay replied. ‘But where are your questions leading, Sir Hugh?’ He flicked his fingers and a servant came out of the shadows to fill their wine goblets.

‘Perhaps this is not the time nor occasion.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf and Maltote who, having filled their stomachs, were now staring, round-eyed, at these strange men who had witnessed scenes they could never imagine.

‘Nonsense,’ de Molay replied. ‘What is it you want to know, Corbett?’

‘You all went to France for the Grand Chapter? Grand Master, why did you come back to England? And why did you all stay together instead of returning to your different posts?’

‘It is my duty to visit every province,’ de Molay replied. ‘And when I do, I am to be attended by the senior commanders.’

‘When did you return?’

‘Seven days before the warning was pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral,’ de Molay replied sardonically, ‘and a few days after the attack on Philip of France in the Bois de Boulogne.’

‘Do continue.’ Legrave put his elbows on the table, licking his fingers.

‘And you came to Framlingham?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes,’ Legrave replied, taunting him. ‘We were here at Framlingham when that terrible murder occurred outside Botham Bar.’

‘And we were in York,’ Branquier spoke up. ‘When your king was attacked and you were so nearly assassinated.’

‘But all this,’ Baddlesmere declared, ‘is coincidence, not proof of any treason.’

‘And remember,’ Brother Odo intervened, ‘none of my comrades was here when Sir Guido died at the centre of that maze. They had all left Framlingham the previous evening for their meeting with the king at St Leonard’s Priory.’

‘Sir Guido was your friend?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes and, before you ask, the reason why I am not grieving is that I am glad Sir Guido is dead. He was a man who constantly tortured himself. Now he’s at peace in the arms of Christ. No more pain, no more doubt.’ The old librarian’s eyes blinked quickly. ‘Tomorrow we bury him and he’ll be at rest.’

‘You were there,’ Corbett said. ‘You went to the mouth of the maze with him?’

‘Yes, I did, just before dawn. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was turning a deep blue. Sir Guido said it reminded him of Outremer. He knelt down, his rosary in his hand, and began his pilgrimage. I just sat there, as I always did, revelling in the sweet smells of the morning breeze and wishing Sir Guido would not torture himself. I was dozing when I heard his terrible screams. I stood up and saw a black pall of smoke rising above the maze. The rest you know.’

‘And you are sure no one else was there?’ Corbett asked.

‘God be my witness, Sir Hugh, there was no one.’

Corbett now looked at the Templars. ‘And then you all came back, late in the afternoon?’

‘As we have said,’ de Molay replied. ‘We were in the city. We had business to do. Brother Odo could see no point in sending a message to us. Sir Guido was dead, no hustle or bustle would bring him back.’

‘Except Branquier,’ Odo declared. ‘He came back early. He had asked to meet me at one o’clock.’ He smiled and picked at his food. ‘I was asleep, Branquier had to wake me.’ He grinned. ‘Sometimes I feel my age,’ he added. ‘But what hour was it?’

‘The hour candle had scarcely reached the thirteenth ring,’ Branquier replied. ‘You saw that yourself.’ He glanced across at Corbett. ‘I wanted Brother Odo to find me a book. However, when I arrived at Framlingham, a servant told me about Sir Guido, so I went to my cell, left my belongings, then visited Brother Odo.’

‘And this is the information I need,’ Corbett declared. ‘Grand Master, I apologise, but I must interrogate all of you about your precise movements.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of peace. ‘I am sure these questions will clarify matters. Neither I, nor His Grace the King intend insult. Indeed, Grand Master, I have brought a tun of wine from the Greenmantle tavern, the best wine Gascony has ever produced, as a gift from His Grace.’

‘Ah.’ De Molay smiled his thanks. ‘From the king’s own vintner, Hubert Seagrave. He has applied to purchase certain lands from us. A waste area. .’

He broke off at the terrible screaming from the kitchen. Ranulf was the first to react: throwing back his chair, he hastened into the kitchen. Corbett and the rest followed into a large, cavernous room, its walls lined with hooks from which skillets, pots and pans hung. Now it was transformed into a scene from hell: near the oven one of the cooks stood screaming, watched by his horror-struck companions, as flames roared about him. The fire had run along the man’s apron, which was fully alight, whilst tongues of flame caught his hose and the cloth around his neck. He staggered forward then crumpled to his knees. Ranulf poured a large bucket of water over him and, helped by Maltote, seized a piece of heavy sacking lying near a bread basket and threw it over the tortured man to damp down the flames. Corbett quickly glanced at the Templars. De Molay had turned away, his face to the wall. Brother Odo and the four commanders just stared, a look of horror on their faces as the cook’s screams faded to a whimper then died completely. At last, the writhing figure lay still. Ranulf, his hands and face black with smoke, pulled back the sacking. The cook lay dead, his entire body terribly burnt. A horrid sight. Maltote retched and headed straight for the door leading to the yard.

The other servants, spit boys, scullions and cooks, edged away from the Templars. One knocked a pewter pot, which fell with a resounding crash.

‘He was laughing,’ one of the cooks whispered. ‘He was just laughing, then he was on fire. You saw it? Flames all over him.’ The man’s eyes rolled in panic. ‘We were just having a joke. He was laughing.’ The fellow’s hand flew to his nose as he became aware of the terrible stench.

‘Who was he?’ Corbett asked quietly.

‘Peterkin. He lived with his mother in Coppergate. Had grand ambitions, he did, to open his own cookshop.’

‘Take him away.’ De Molay turned to the Templar serjeants now thronging in at the door of the refectory. ‘Cover him with a sheet and take him to the Infirmary.’

The servants continued to edge to the door. The principal cook, with massive shoulders and balding head, stepped forward. He took off his leather apron and threw it on the floor.

‘That’s it!’ he snorted. ‘We are leaving. Try and stop us, but in the morning we’ll be gone.’ He pushed his hand towards the Templars. ‘We want payment and then we’ll be gone.’

Corbett saw the red, angry abscess on the palm of the man’s hand, and his stomach churned a little at what he had eaten. The cook’s demands were echoed by the rest. The mood in the kitchen perceptibly changed. One of the scullions picked up a fleshing knife, another a cleaver still red with the blood of the meat it had cut. Behind him Corbett heard the Templar serjeants drawing their swords.