Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘This is ridiculous,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘I am the king’s commissioner here. Grand Master, pay these men, and, once they’ve answered certain questions, let them go. But not here. God save the poor wretch but the place stinks with his burning.’

De Molay turned to his commanders. ‘Make sure the manor’s secure.’ He declared, ‘Our supper is ended. Sir Hugh and I will question these good people,’ adding diplomatically, ‘and don’t worry.’ De Molay smiled faintly. ‘I am sure Master Ranulf here will protect us all.’

At first all four commanders seemed about to refuse. Hands on dagger hilts, they glared at the cooks and then at Corbett.

‘Go on,’ de Molay urged quietly.

The group broke up. Corbett led the cooks back into the refectory towards the dais. He stood on this, the cooks thronging together. Out of their kitchen they became more anxious, frightened, shifting their feet, eager to be away.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘It’s as they say,’ the principal cook spoke up. ‘The meal was finished. We were clearing up the kitchen. Peterkin was pastry cook. He was raking the coals out of the oven, laughing and talking. The next minute I heard him scream. I turned round and there was fire all along his front.’

He turned and snapped his fingers. One of the scullions took off a thin, leather apron and handed it to Corbett.

‘He was wearing one of these.’

Corbett examined it curiously. The leather was very thin, a loop at the neck so it could go over the head and a cord to fasten it around the middle. It would protect a man against stains and the occasional spark but not the angry fire Corbett had seen.

‘What was he wearing on his hands?’

‘Thick woollen mittens,’ the cook replied. ‘They covered his arms up to the elbow.’

‘Show me what he was doing,’ Corbett urged. ‘Come, just you and me.’

The cook was about to protest, but Corbett stepped off the dais and held a silver coin in front of the cook’s face.

‘I’ll be with you all the time,’ Corbett assured him.

The silver coin disappeared and the two went into the kitchen. The cook led Corbett to the great fire-grate: on either side of this was a large oven built into the wall.

‘He was here,’ the cook explained, pulling open the iron door.

Corbett gingerly peered in, only to flinch at the blast of heat from the burning charcoal piled high beneath a steel wire netting. The cook picked up a pole with a wooden board at the end. He pointed into the oven.

‘You see, Master, Peterkin would put the pies on to the netting, shut the door and allow them to bake. He knew exactly how long to leave them.’ The man’s greasy face broke into a sad smile. ‘He was a good cook. The crusts of his pies were always golden and light, the meat fresh and savoury. He leaves a mother,’ he continued. ‘And she is a widow.’

Corbett put a silver piece into the man’s blackened hand. ‘Then give her that,’ he said. ‘Now the king is in York,’ he added, ‘tell her to petition him for mercy.’

‘Much good that will do,’ the fellow grunted.

‘No, it won’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘The petition will come to me. Now, what was Peterkin doing?’

The cook pointed to an iron tray full of dust which lay on the floor.

‘Once the baking’s done, the ovens have to be doused. Peterkin always insisted on doing it himself in preparation for the next day. He knew exactly how clean the oven must be, how to spread the charcoal. Well, he was raking it all out into the tray when I heard him scream.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Corbett asked, walking away from the oven.

The cook followed. ‘I don’t know, sir. Oh, I have seen men burnt in kitchens, especially when they mix oil with fire — bad burns to hands and faces. Now and again we scald our legs or feet.’ The man took a rag from beneath his leather apron and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘But, Master,’ he edged so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour. ‘But, Master,’ he repeated, ‘I have seen nothing like that. A good man turned into a sheet of flame within seconds.’

Corbett walked to the back door of the kitchen which had been flung open. The acrid smell of burning flesh still hung heavily in the air. From the hall he could hear the faint murmur of voices, as well as the clink of mailed men outside in the darkness. He stood, just within the kitchen, watching the moonlight reflected in the puddles in the cobbled yard.

‘What did you see?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, the first time you saw Peterkin burn?’

‘The flames.’ The man brushed his apron. ‘Along his front, chest, stomach and his hands. Yes, even the woollen mittens were ablaze.’

‘And did you notice anything untoward during the evening?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Nothing?’ Corbett asked.

‘We were busy, sir.’

‘And no one came in? Either before the meal or during the day?’

‘Not that I saw, sir!’

‘Then what have you seen?’

The cook pulled a face. ‘There’s the horseman. .’

‘What horseman?’

‘Masked and cowled, a great two-handed sword hanging from his saddlebag.’ The man shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’ve only seen him once. I was, er, hunting for rabbits in the woods nearby. He was sitting like the shadow of death amongst the trees, staring at the manor. He never moved — I just fled.’

Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Was there, he wondered, a secret assassin lurking in the woods between Framlingham and York?

‘Do you think this masked horseman was from Framlingham?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, but this place is accursed,’ the cook continued in a rush. ‘Some of us live here. Others, like Peterkin, live in the city. We heard about the strange murder outside Botham Bar. This was a quiet manor, sir, before those commanders arrived with their soldiers. Now they are singing strange hymns at night, up all hours. You can’t go here and you can’t go there! Then there’s the death of Sir Guido. He was a good man. A little forbidding, but kind — that’s what Peterkin was laughing about.’

Corbett turned abruptly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He said the fire which killed Guido came from hell: Satan’s fire.’

‘Why should it?’ Corbett asked.

The man glanced back at the door to the refectory, then at another silver coin held between Corbett’s fingers.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are rumours.’

‘Rumours about what?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Come on, man, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Well, a scullion saw one of the Templars.’ The cook paused.

‘You mean one of the commanders?’

‘Yes. I don’t know which one but, well, he saw him kissing a man. You know, sir, like you would a woman. And before you ask, he couldn’t make out who it was.’

‘You are sure?’ Corbett asked.

‘Certain. He was coming down a passageway. He glimpsed the commander who had his back to him. He knew it was one of the visitors from the cloak he wore. I think the other was one of the Templar serjeants, a youngish man. You’ve seen how dark this place is, sir. They were in the shadows. The scullion was frightened so he turned and fled. Anyway, Peterkin was laughing about that. He made a joke of everything. He said the place smelt of Satan’s sulphur and then it happened.’ The man plucked the coin from Corbett’s fingers. ‘And now I am going, sir.’

He strode out of the kitchen in the hall. Corbett heard raised voices and, by the time he returned, the cook was marching the rest down towards the door.

‘I couldn’t stop them,’ de Molay murmured. ‘They can visit the almoner, collect their wages and go. What do you think, Sir Hugh?’ The grand master stepped into the pool of light from the candles on the table and wearily sat down, face in hands. Ranulf and Maltote also took their seats. Both had drunk deeply and were now feeling its effect.