Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘I have seen similar accidents,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Men getting burnt, in cookshops in London.’

‘Not like that,’ Corbett replied, sitting down opposite de Molay.

The grand master looked up. He seemed to have aged years; his iron-grey hair was tousled, dark shadows ringed his eyes. His face had lost that serene, rather imperious look. ‘Satan attacks us on every side,’ he murmured.

‘Why do you say that?’ Corbett asked. ‘What happened in the kitchen could have been an accident.’

De Molay leaned back in his chair. ‘That was no accident, Corbett. The murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king, the death of Sir Guido. Now this!’

‘So why should Satan attack you?’

‘I don’t know,’ the grand master snarled, rising to his feet, ‘but when you meet him, Corbett, ask him the same question!’ De Molay strode out of the refectory, slamming the door behind him.

Corbett, too, rose, beckoning Ranulf and Maltote to follow.

‘Listen! From now on, we sleep in the same chamber. Each does a watch. Be careful what you eat and drink. No one travels round the manor by themselves.’ Corbett sighed. ‘As far as I am concerned, we’re back on the Scottish march. The only difference being that there we knew our enemy, here we don’t!’

They walked back towards the guesthouse: Corbett stopped, heart in his throat, as a figure came rushing out of the darkness but it was only a servant, belongings packed into a fardel, scurrying towards the gates.

‘By morning they’ll all be gone,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘If I had my way, Master, we’d follow!’

‘Where to?’ Corbett asked. ‘Edward in York or Leighton Manor?’

Ranulf refused to answer. Once they were back in the guesthouse, a sleepy-eyed Maltote stood guard outside whilst Corbett told Ranulf to join him. The servant sat down on a stool. Corbett studied him curiously: Ranulf’s usual cheeky face was now pallid, his attitude no longer devil-may-care.

‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Ranulf kicked at the rushes. ‘I am so happy I am thinking of becoming a Templar.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I hate this bloody place. I don’t like the Templars. I can’t make them out, monks or soldiers. The librarian may be a grand old man but the rest make my skin crawl.’

‘You are frightened, aren’t you?’ Corbett sat down on the edge of the bed.

Ranulf scratched his head. ‘No, Master, I’m not frightened. I am terrified. All Maltote thinks about is horses, that’s all he talks about. What’s happening here hasn’t yet sunk into his thick skull.’ Ranulf plucked at the dagger in his belt. ‘I can deal with enemies, Master: the footpad in the alleyway, the assassin in the darkened chamber. But this? Men mysteriously bursting into flames, Reverchien at the centre of a maze, that poor bastard in the kitchen. .’

‘For every natural phenomenon,’ Corbett replied, ‘Aristotle said there must be a natural cause.’

‘Bugger that!’ Ranulf snarled. ‘Bloody Aristotle’s not here. If he was, the silly bastard would soon change his mind!’

Corbett began to laugh.

‘Oh, you’re amused, Master,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘We have only been here a few hours and we’ve been threatened, shot at and hunted in a maze.’

Corbett grasped Ranulf’s hand. ‘Yes, I am frightened, Ranulf.’

He got to his feet, stretched and stared at the black carved crucifix on the wall. ‘In all my years of pursuing murderers I have never seen the like. Yes, I was hunted in the maze.’ He turned, his face set hard. ‘I don’t like being hunted, Ranulf. I don’t like being threatened. I don’t like nightmares about a royal messenger telling Maeve and Baby Eleanor that I am gone but my corpse will soon arrive for burial.’ He sat down. ‘I am a clerk. I deal with wax and parchment. I resolve problems. I protect the king and hunt down his enemies. Sometimes I am frightened; so terrified that I wake up sweating from head to toe.’ Corbett paused. ‘This morning I was frightened. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have fled. But that’s what the assassin wants, everything to be in chaos. But we will impose order and, once we do, we wait!’

‘If we live long enough.’

‘We’ll live. I’ll make my mistakes, but in the end I’m going to see the cruel bastard behind all this arrested and pay the price. So, let’s impose order. We have the Templars. They have houses in England and throughout Western Europe. They have been driven from the Holy Land. They have lost their purpose and have provoked the hostility and, because of their wealth, the envy of men. They, too, are frightened: that’s why they have offered our king the princely sum of fifty thousand pounds. That cunning old fox knew he could get it. So come on Ranulf, Clerk of the Green Wax, what has happened so far?’

‘It began with the Grand Chapter in Paris.’

‘De Molay presided over that meeting,’ Corbett continued. ‘The four English Commanders were present. They left for England just after the attack on Philip IV was launched. Whilst they are in London, the Assassins’ warning is pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral. They come to York; there is unease about their stay here at Framlingham. The manor house is heavily defended, certain places carefully guarded. Then we have the deaths: the strange murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king and on me. The slaying of Reverchien and now the death of Peterkin the pastry cook. Well, Ranulf, what logic is there to all this?’

Ranulf scratched his head. ‘Only one: where de Molay and his four commanders are, trouble occurs. There is neither rhyme nor reason for what happens. Most assassins have a motive. True, there could be divisions in the Templar Order, a secret coven dabbling in black magic. One or all of the Commanders, even de Molay, could be intent on wrecking vengeance against the kings of France and England.’

‘But that does not explain,’ Corbett added, ‘the strange deaths outside Botham Bar and the slaying of Peterkin. Why should a poor pastry cook be consumed by fire? And, more importantly, how do these strange fires occur?’

Ranulf got up and paced restlessly up and down the chamber. ‘Master, you said that for every natural phenomenon there’s a natural cause. But what happens if this is not natural? People don’t just break into flames?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. Yet, I suspect, that’s what we are supposed to think.’

‘But how can it happen?’ Ranulf persisted. ‘True, the Templars were in the city when the attack was launched on the king. But they weren’t here when Reverchien was killed. We know that for a fact.’

‘Brother Odo was,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was here. He may be old but, by his own confession, he is a fighting man. He could have killed Sir Guido, left the manor, joined Murston, then prowled the streets of York waiting for us. After that he could have hastened back to Framlingham before the others arrived. Legrave did say he found him asleep.’

‘He’s missing one hand.’

‘So? I have heard of men with greater handicaps committing murder. How do we know he didn’t follow Reverchien into the maze and kill him? Or somehow arrange for Peterkin’s death?’

‘And outside Botham Bar?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Swinging a two-handed sword?’

Corbett spread his hands. ‘Concedo, that would be difficult — but not impossible. There again, the cook told me of a masked horseman lurking in the woods near the manor.’

‘An assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Possibly, though the cook could be lying. Finally one other matter remains. The counterfeit coins. Or perhaps they are not counterfeit. .’ Corbett continued, ‘Anyway, these appeared in York just after the Templars arrived.’