Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Then we are back to alchemy or magic,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘Master, when I ran wild in the streets of London, I knew some counterfeiters. What they do is take a good coin and make two bad ones out of it. I have never heard of anyone producing solid gold coins.’

Corbett sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “‘If you analyse everything,”’ he quoted, “‘And you can only reach one conclusion, then that conclusion must be the truth.”’ he glanced over at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps it is magic.’ He added slowly, ‘Perhaps Satan’s fire is burning amongst us.’

The two knights took up position at either end of the tilt-yard. Down the dusty yard which separated them ran the tilt barrier, a long wooden fence covered with a leather sheet. The knights were fully armoured, great jousting helmets on their heads. Squires passed up shields and then the long wooden tourney lances. Corbett watched as each rider, guiding his horse with his legs, balanced his lance expertly. A trumpet shrilled. The knights began to move slowly. Another trumpet call and the horses burst into a gallop, their iron-shod hooves kicking up the dust, heads straining as each knight, keeping to the tilt barrier on his left, headed straight for his opponent. Shields came up, lances lowered. They met with a resounding crash in the centre. Lances shattered. Both knights swayed in the saddle but both kept their seats and passed to the other end of the tilt-yard.

‘Well done!’ Brother Odo cried, leaning against the wall and banging his stick on the ground. ‘Good lance, Legrave. Symmes!’ the old librarian bawled, ‘bring your lance down sooner or you’ll land on your arse!’

This sally provoked laughter from the watching knights and serjeants. Corbett and his two companions kept to the shadows of the wall. The sun was strong and the dust from the tilt-yard caught at their eyes and throats. Again the knights prepared. Fresh lances, shields in position and, with another trumpet call, the great destriers, caparisoned in gaily coloured harnesses, lunged forward, breaking into a gallop as each rider bore down on his opponent. The two jousters met, but this time Symmes was too slow: his lance missed Legrave whilst at the same time his shield slipped, making him vulnerable to his opponent’s lance. There was a terrible crash. Symmes’s horse went down on its hind legs and Symmes toppled from the saddle.

‘Oh, well done!’ de Molay cried, sitting on his throne-like chair under a silken canopy. He beckoned Corbett forward.

‘Did you see Legrave? He changed his lance, held it in his left! Such expertise! Come, Sir Hugh, have you seen that amongst the king’s knights?’

‘No, Grand Master, I have not.’

Corbett spoke the truth. Ever since they had broken their fast after the morning Requiem Mass, the Templars had jousted. Corbett, though tired and suffering rather badly from the heat and dust, had been quick to admire the consummate skill of the Knights Templars. He looked across the tilt-yard where squires were now helping Symmes to his feet, taking off his helmet, offering him ladles of water to slake the dust from his throat and the sweat from his face. Legrave also dismounted and took off his helmet. He walked over to his fallen opponent. Symmes was a little dazed and shaken, but he met his former adversary: they embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace on each other’s cheeks.

‘If only all such differences were settled so peacefully,’ de Molay murmured. He passed a cup of chilled white wine to Corbett, indicating to a servitor that the same be given to Ranulf and Maltote. ‘Sir Hugh, I would like to thank you.’ De Molay leaned forward so only Corbett could hear. ‘It was chivalrous of you to let us bury our dead and salute his memory in a passage of arms.’ He sighed. ‘Now it’s all finished. You wish to speak to us?’

‘Yes, Grand Master.’

De Molay shrugged. ‘I have instructed my comrades. You can question us in the refectory.’

Corbett drained his cup and handed it back to the servitor, motioning to Ranulf and Maltote to follow him. They walked across the tilt-yard, which lay at the opposite side of the manor to their quarters, and returned to the guesthouse.

‘Thank God,’ Ranulf groaned, easing himself down on a stool, ‘I am not a Templar. They attack with such vehemence.’

‘They are superb horsemen,’ Maltote declared. ‘Did you see how they guide their war-horses with the inside of their knees?’

‘We are wasting time,’ Ranulf replied crossly. ‘I thought that Requiem Mass would never end!’

Corbett, standing at the window to catch the cool breeze, thought differently but kept his own counsel. The Requiem had been beautiful. Reverchien’s body, in a wooden casket draped with the flags and banners of the Order, had been placed in front of the high altar of the beautifully decorated Templar chapel. The small church had been packed and the deep voiced singing of the Templars intoning the ‘Requiem Dona Ei’ had possessed its own solemn majesty. Corbett had sat in one of the side aisles, moved by de Molay’s elegant panegyric on Sir Guido Reverchien. True, now and again, the clerk had carefully studied the congregation. The four Templar commanders had sat with their grand master in the sanctuary, whilst the serjeants, squires and other retainers had stood in the nave of the church just beyond the wooden rood-screen.

Corbett had tried to concentrate on the Mass but the cook’s story was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered which of the Templar commanders and other members of this congregation were enjoying a homosexual relationship. Time and again the clerk had tried to dismiss this as a distraction for himself and a terrible danger to those concerned: in the eyes of the Church, homosexuality was a great sin. If the culprits were found they would face the cruellest of deaths. Yet his curiosity got the better of him. At the ‘osculum pacis’, the kiss of peace just before communion, he’d watched Baddlesmere and a young Templar serjeant meet at the entrance to the rood-screen. Now the kiss of peace was exchanged by all, but Corbett glimpsed something different between the grizzled Templar knight and the youthful, fair-haired serjeant. Ranulf, of course, found it very difficult to keep his eyes open in church but, alerted by his master’s tenseness, followed his gaze. He leaned forward.

‘God forgive me, but, are you thinking what I am?’

Corbett had grabbed Ranulf by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

‘ Pax frater ,’ he whispered. ‘Peace brother.’

‘ Et cum spirituo tuo ,’ Ranulf whispered back.

‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Corbett had hissed, and returned to concentrate on the Mass.

After Reverchien’s body had been buried in the vaults below the chapel, Corbett and Ranulf had attended a light collation in the refectory, followed by the tournament held in memory of the dead knight.

‘Do you think they’ll come?’ Ranulf broke into his reverie.

Corbett turned away from the window. ‘If de Molay has ordered them to, they will.’

‘Do they like women?’ Ranulf abruptly blurted out.

Corbett shrugged. ‘They are supposed to. The only difference between them and us, Ranulf, is they take vows of celibacy and chastity. Their bride is Christ’s Church.’

Ranulf whistled under his breath. ‘But they must have feelings,’ he added teasingly.

Corbett sat down at the small table and undid the saddle panniers containing his writing equipment. ‘Why not be more blunt, Ranulf? Every member of the Templar Order is dedicated to a life of celibacy and chastity. It’s part of their sacrifice. However, like all such male communities, there are men attracted to each other.’