Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘But that’s a sin,’ Maltote declared. ‘And if they are caught?’

‘God help them: the Templar Order has been known to put such men into a cell, brick the doors and windows up and leave them to starve.’

‘Will you question de Molay about the secret chamber?’ Ranulf asked. ‘On the second floor where there’s one window extra. I checked it again this morning after Mass. Between two of the chambers there’s fresh wooden panelling. I think a door was once there.’

‘The grand master has many questions to answer,’ Corbett answered. ‘I’m eager to learn what they keep hidden here.’

‘Could that be the cause of the fire? Some secret weapon or even powerful relic!’ Maltote exclaimed. ‘I met a man in London who claimed to have travelled deep into Egypt, beyond Alexandria, to a tribe who possessed the Ark of the Covenant. They say that, if you touched it, strange fire burst out and consumed you. It’s true!’ Maltote’s voice rose as Ranulf began to laugh behind his hand. ‘I paid him tuppence for a piece of the wood!’

‘I’ll wager, the fellow never got further than Southampton,’ Ranulf chortled. ‘Have you seen Maltote’s collection of relics, Master? It includes a rusty sword which Herod’s soldiers are supposed to have used when killing the Holy Innocents. .’

A sudden rap on the door ended the banter. Corbett answered it, expecting to find a messenger from the grand master. Instead the young Templar serjeant he had glimpsed during Mass stood there. Beside him was a squat, thickset man with the features of a fighting mastiff. He had a jutting jaw, firmly clenched mouth, eyes which never blinked, and ridiculously cropped black hair shaved high on all sides, leaving the rest to stand up like some unruly bush.

‘Well?’ Corbett asked.

‘A visitor for you, Sir Hugh.’

‘Didn’t you expect me?’ the stranger barked and, without further ado, walked into the chamber. He almost knocked Corbett aside, slamming the door behind him in the young Templar’s face. He stood, his squat legs apart, his fingers jammed into his swordbelt. He took off his dark-maroon cloak and slung it over a chair.

‘Devil’s tits!’ He smacked his lips. ‘I’m as dry as a whore’s armpit!’

‘You’ll be drier still if you don’t explain yourself!’

Ranulf got to his feet. ‘Who in God’s name are you?’

‘Roger Claverley, Under-sheriff of York.’ Their visitor unbuckled his pouch, took out a warrant and thrust a piece of parchment at Corbett. ‘This is my warrant from the mayor and sheriff. I’m here to help you.’

Corbett chewed his lip to stop himself smiling: the more he watched Claverley’s confrontation with Ranulf, the more his visitor reminded him of the small fighting mastiff that Uncle Morgan, Maeve’s kinsman, always had trotting behind him. The mastiff didn’t like Ranulf and the feeling was warmly reciprocated.

‘Get our visitor some wine, Ranulf,’ Corbett said, studying the letter closely. ‘He’s a very important official and, if this letter is correct, he can provide us with valuable information about the gold coins as well as other matters.’ Corbett put the parchment down on the table and came forward, extending a hand.

Claverley clasped it in a bone-crushing grip.

‘You are very welcome, Roger,’ Corbett said, trying to hide his wince.

The under-sheriff relaxed, his ugly face breaking into a warm smile.

‘I am really the city thief-taker,’ he declared grandly. ‘I know all the villains of the city and they know me. A bit like the good shepherd, only in reverse: where they go, I follow.’

Corbett waved him to a seat, warning Ranulf with his eyes to stand off. Claverley looked first at Maltote who, as usual, was staring open-mouthed, and then at Ranulf.

‘I’ll wager a month’s provisions you have seen the inside of a gaol, my lad. Even across a crowded room, I know a felon when I see one.’

‘Yes, I have been inside Newgate.’ Ranulf replied tartly. ‘I ran wild with the rufflers, the foists, the palliards, the upright men. But tell me, Claverley, were you just born this discourteous? Or does it come with the office you hold?’

Claverley suddenly leaned forward, hands extended, that charming smile back on his face. Ranulf clasped his hand.

‘I didn’t mean to give offence. I have been there as well,’ Claverley remarked. ‘After all, the best gamekeepers were once poachers. Now, Sir Hugh, I have been told to assist you, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be honest: if I help, would you mention my name to the king?’

Corbett grinned at this ambitious little man’s blunt honesty.

‘Master Claverley, I will not forget you.’

‘Good,’ the under-sheriff replied. ‘First, we’ve found the remains, the decomposing bottom half of that man’s corpse. Do you remember, the good sisters’ guide, Thurston, glimpsed it as the horse careered by them. Some of our young merchants went hunting and their dogs unearthed it.’

‘And the horse?’

‘Neither hide nor hair has been seen.’

‘Anything else?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, the Templar crossbowman: I was responsible for having him gibbeted on the pavement. Hung him up in a nice metal cage I did. With a placard, proclaiming this to be the fate of traitors and regicides, tied to it.’

‘And?’

‘Well, this morning the placard was removed. This was attached by a piece of wire to the gibbet cage.’ Claverley handed over a piece of parchment.

‘Oh Lord!’ Corbett groaned as he read it.

‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

‘KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.’

Corbett held the parchment up. ‘The verses are slightly changed but it is the Assassins’ warning.’

‘But the Templars could not have done that,’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘They are confined here at Framlingham on the king’s orders.’

‘They can climb a wall as easily as anyone,’ Maltote declared.

‘I doubt it,’ Claverley intervened. ‘We have our orders in the city. No Templar is allowed in.’

‘He might have gone disguised,’ Maltote added.

Claverley shrugged. ‘The guards at the gates have been doubled. Strangers have been stopped and searched but, I suppose, it’s possible.’

‘There might be an assassin in York,’ Corbett replied, and described the masked horseman the cook had seen.

Claverley scratched his chin. ‘An assassin hiding along the Botham Bar road?’ He pulled a face. ‘I’ve heard nothing about that. Anyway,’ Claverley indicated with his head, ‘what’s happening here? There are no servants, just Templar soldiers and squires.’

‘They have all fled,’ Corbett retorted. ‘There was a death here last night.’

He paused at a knock on the door and Legrave came in. ‘Sir Hugh, we are ready in the refectory. The grand master. .’ He paused and glared at Claverley. ‘Your visitor from the king?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf, you stay here and tell our guest what we know. Sir Ralph, I’ll join you now.’

Corbett followed the Templar out of the guesthouse and across into the refectory. De Molay was seated at the head of the table, his companions on either side. De Molay indicated for Corbett to sit at the far end facing him. He noticed the leather bag of writing implements which Corbett laid out on the table, together with parchment, pen and ink-horn.

‘Sir Hugh, this is a formal occasion.’

Corbett agreed.

‘You will interrogate us on behalf of the king. So you will not object if we, too, keep a fair record of what is said. Sir Richard Branquier will be our clerk.’