Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Grand Master, do what you wish, but time is short, so I’ll be blunt. If I give offence then I apologise. And you’ll forgive me if I repeat what I have asked before?’

De Molay nodded.

‘Grand Master, are there divisions in your Order?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are there those, amongst your principal commanders, who are bitter at the lack of support from the Western Princes?’

‘Of course, but that does not mean we are traitors!’

‘Have you ever heard,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘of a high-ranking officer in the Templars who carries the nickname of Sagittarius, the Archer?’ He watched the rest but they remained inscrutable.

‘Never!’ de Molay snapped. ‘Though some of the knights, indeed all, are accomplished archers, with the arbalest, the Welsh longbow and even with Saracen weapons.’

‘Have you heard any news about the Templar interrogated by the Inquisition?’

‘No, but we expect news daily. We do not even know his name.’

‘But you knew Murston?’

Corbett watched as Branquier, holding his pen in his left hand, conscientiously scribbled what was being said.

‘Murston was my retainer. A weak man, not liked by his colleagues. He drank a lot. He had become bitter.’

‘But not a traitor?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, I think not.’

‘Wasn’t he missed from his quarters? After all, he hired the garret in that tavern the night before the attack on the king?’

‘You must remember, Sir Hugh, all of us had met the king at St Leonard’s Priory the previous day. My companions and I then went into York. It could have been some days before Murston was missed.’

Corbett paused to write down what he had learnt. His quill skimmed across the soft parchment, writing in a cipher known only to himself.

‘And on the day the king entered York?’ he asked, placing the quill down.

‘We left the priory of St Leonard,’ de Molay replied, ‘and entered York. Legrave and I visited our bankers, goldsmiths in Stonegate.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Coningsby,’ Legrave replied. ‘William Coningsby and Peter Lamode.’

‘And you stayed there all the morning?’

‘There is no need for this,’ Branquier broke in. ‘We are knights of the Cross, not felons seized by the Crown!’

‘Hush!’ De Molay raised his hand. ‘All we are telling, Brother, is the truth. Legrave and myself were in Stonegate well into the afternoon. I inspected our accounts, then journeyed up Petergate and through Botham Bar. The king’s procession was in the grounds of York Minster. I would have liked to have visited the place.’ The grand master smiled thinly. ‘But I let it wait for another day.’

‘And you, Sir William?’ Corbett asked.

Not a muscle moved in Symmes’s scarred face, though his good eye looked threateningly at Corbett.

‘For a while I was with the grand master, but then I visited merchants in Goodramgate and journeyed to see a friend, a priest who serves the church of St Mary. I arranged to meet the grand master just outside the parchmenters’ house within sight of Botham bar. I journeyed back with him.’

‘And Sir Bartholomew?’ Corbett made a few notes on the parchment.

‘I went to Jubbergatc where the armourers and fletchers keep their shops. I was to buy arms.’

‘And you were alone?’ Corbett asked innocently.

‘No, I was with a serjeant.’

‘And his name?’ Corbett asked.

The Templar swallowed hard. ‘John Scoudas. He’s here in the manor.’

‘You needn’t ask me!’ Branquier almost shouted down the table. ‘I left St Leonard’s Priory after the rest. When I reached York, its streets were thronged because of the royal procession. I lingered for a while but the city grew hot and packed. I came back here, as Brother Odo will tell you.’

Corbett quickly studied what he’d written: de Molay and Legrave, he reasoned swiftly, could vouch for each other, Brother Odo for Branquier. But Baddlesmere? Corbett suspected he was lying. And the same went for Symmes, who sat stroking his pet weasel which he kept under the rim of the table. Corbett stared at the parchment. He was aware that the Templars were becoming impatient: chairs were scraped back with loud sighs of exasperation.

‘Where do you think we were?’ Legrave abruptly asked. ‘Helping Murston to try and kill the king? Or sending you messages on Ouse Bridge?’

‘Or setting an ambush for you?’ Baddlesmere scoffed.

‘Grand Master.’ Branquier threw his quill down, splashing the table with ink. ‘This is the last time I will answer such questions. Just because an idiot of a serjeant, with addled wits, attempts to kill the king, and silly pretentious warnings are sent hither and thither, does that make us all guilty?’

His words provoked a murmur of assent. De Molay looked distinctly uncomfortable, his dark, aristocratic face betrayed an unease. Corbett glanced to the left and right. Baddlesmere sat scratching his grizzled, weather-beaten face. Was he the murderer, Corbett wondered, with his secret sin? Or Legrave, with his neatly combed brown hair and olive-skinned, boyish face? A consummate soldier. Or one-eyed Symmes? Or Branquier, tall and stooping over the table? Yet Corbett was certain that one of these men, or perhaps all, were assassins, and that other murders could soon occur.

‘We have sent Peterkin’s body into the city,’ de Molay spoke up, ‘suitably coffined.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry. No Templars accompanied it, only one of our stewards with a letter of commiseration and a purse of silver for the man’s mother. Sir Hugh, why should anyone kill a poor cook? What profit lay in his death?’

‘Or even poor Reverchien?’ Baddlesmere snapped.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Grand Master, why have you come to York?’

‘I have told you: it is the duty of every grand master to visit each province.’

‘And, before you came,’ Corbett continued easily, ‘Framlingham Manor was supervised by Sir Guido Reverchien, its bailiff and steward?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why are certain stairwells now guarded? What other secrets does this manor hold?’

‘Such as?’

‘A masked horseman has been seen hiding in the woods near Framlingham.’

De Molay looked at his companions then shook his head. ‘We know nothing of that. What else?’

‘A sealed room on the second floor of the manor?’

‘Silence!’ de Molay ordered as his companions began to accuse Corbett of snooping. ‘Have you finished your questioning, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let me show you our secret room.’

De Molay rose. Corbett put away his writing implements as quickly as possible and followed him out of the room.

‘Sir Richard Branquier,’ de Molay called over his shoulder. ‘You may follow us.’

The grand master, fighting hard to control his temper, led Corbett up the stairs and along the second gallery, a wooden-floored passageway with carved panelling on the walls on either side. De Molay walked half-way down and stopped.

‘Branquier, open this room for Sir Hugh!’

The Templar shouldered by Corbett roughly, almost knocking him aside. He pulled open a panelling and pressed a lever. There was a click and part of the wooden wainscoting came away to reveal a door. De Molay took a key from his pouch, inserted this into the lock and a door opened. Inside was a small, narrow cell, the floor bare, the walls whitewashed. A small casement window provided light.

Corbett, slightly embarrassed, stared round at the trunks and coffers stored there.

‘It’s our treasure house,’ Branquier explained. ‘Many of our houses and manors have such a room. Doesn’t the king have the same?’ Branquier pushed his face near Corbett’s. ‘Perhaps even you, Keeper of His Secret Seal. Are all your rooms and chambers, Sir Hugh, open to the curious and inquisitive?’