Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘And the horse bolts?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the violent stench of blood sends the poor nag stampeding down the road. Our killer then sets the top half of the corpse alight. In doing so, he not only prevents any identification but finds out, for his own devilish curiosity, the effect of this strange fire on human flesh.’

‘And, of course,’ Claverley intervened, ‘Wulfstan being a pedlar, a stranger to these parts, no one came forward to declare he is missing.’

‘Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the scorch-marks on the ground. ‘How can a man control fire? We have a tinder which can be clumsy to strike, especially in the open air. Or you can kindle a fire and take a burning stick or piece of charcoal, but this killer seems to be able to summon it out of the air.’ Ranulf stared into the green darkness of the trees. ‘Isn’t that magic? The use of the black arts?’

‘No,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I could call up Satan from hell but, whether he comes or not is another matter. This killer wants us to believe he has magical powers, the key to all sorcery.’

‘And this mysterious rider,’ Claverley asked. ‘He might be the killer; he did carry a great two-handed sword.’

Corbett kicked at the scorched path. ‘Perhaps. But, Master Under-sheriff, we must go: other matters, just as pressing, await us.’

They remounted their horses and rode down Botham Bar road. As they approached York, the road became busier: traders and pedlars making their way out of the city, packs and fardels on their backs: a dusty-gowned Franciscan of the Order of the Sack leading an even more tired mule. A beggar pushed a wheelbarrow in which an old man sprawled, his legs shorn from the knees down: both looked happy enough after a day’s begging and, drunk as sots, raucously bawled out filthy songs as the barrow staggered along the road. Peasants huddled in their carts, their produce sold, and a woman and two children walked wearily, leading a cow. A royal messenger galloped by, his white wand of office tucked into his belt; the soldier riding behind him wore the resplendent livery of the king’s chamber. Everyone drew aside to let them pass and, shortly afterwards, had to do the same again as a Templar soldier urged his foam-flecked horse along the road.

‘I thought all Templars were confined to Framlingham?’ Claverley asked.

‘Probably a messenger,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wonder what’s so urgent?’

They pressed on. Botham Bar came into sight, the great iron portcullis raised like jagged teeth over the people passing through. On top of the gatehouse were poles bearing the severed heads of malefactors and, on either side of the gateway, makeshift gallows had been set up. Each bore its own grisly corpse twirling in the late afternoon breeze, placards slung round the necks proclaiming their crimes.

‘The king’s justices have been busy,’ Claverley declared. ‘There’s been sessions of gaol delivery all of yesterday.’

‘Where are you taking us?’ Corbett asked.

‘To see the Limner.’

‘The what?’

‘The Greyhound: my nickname for the best counterfeiter in York.’

They continued under Botham Bar, along Petersgate, past the foul-smelling public latrines built next to St Michael the Belfry Church, and into the busiest part of the city. The market stalls were still open. The narrow streets thronged. The taverns were doing a roaring trade. One man lay in the middle of the street in a drunken stupor whilst a friend lying alongside tried to beat off marauding hogs, much to the delight of passers-by. The stocks were also full. Some malefactors were fastened by the neck, others by the arms and legs. One apprentice had his thumbs only clasped into a finger press for helping himself to his master’s food. Two whores stood in the pillory, heads shaven, shouting abuse at the crowd whilst a drunken bagpipe player tried to drown their cries as a bailiff birched their bare bottoms. On the corner of a street Corbett and his party had to stay for a while: a group of officials from the alderman’s court had raided a tavern to search out old wine, long past its freshness. They’d seized three barrels and were trying to stave these in whilst, from the windows above, the landlord, his wife and family pelted the bailiffs and everyone else with the smelly contents of their chamberpots.

At last the bailiffs restored order and Claverley led them on along Patrick Pool and into the Shambles. The smells and dust caught at their noses and mouths: the butchers’ and fletchers’ narrow street, which ran between the overhanging houses, was covered in offal and black blood. Flies massed there, dogs and cats fought over scraps. The crowd, eager to buy fresh meat, thronged around the stalls from which gutted pigs, decapitated geese, chickens and other fowl hung. At last Claverley lost his temper. He drew his sword and, shouting, ‘ Le roi, le roi! ’ forced a passage out on to the Pavement, the great open area fronting All Saints Church.

Here the crowds thronged before the grim city prison. Outside its main door stood a line of scaffolds, each three-branched, on which executions were being carried out. The condemned felons were led out from the prison, taken on to a platform, pushed up a ladder, where a noose was fixed round their neck. The ladder was then turned and the felon would dance and kick as the hempen cord tightened round his throat, choking his life out. Corbett had seen such sights before in many of the king’s great cities. The royal justices would arrive, the gaols would be emptied, courts held and swift sentence passed. Most of the felons didn’t even have time to protest. Dominicans, dressed in their black and white robes, moved from one scaffold to another whispering the final absolution. The crowd thronging there sometimes greeted the appearance of a prisoner with curses and yells. Now and again a friend or relative would shout their farewells and lift a tankard in salute. Claverley waited until the prison door opened, then pushed his way through into the sombre gatehouse. The doorkeeper recognised him.

‘We are nearly finished, Claverley!’ he shouted. ‘And by dusk York will be a safer place.’

‘I’ve come for the Limner!’ Claverley snapped, leaning down from his horse. ‘Where is he?’

The porter’s beer-sodden face stared up. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘Well, only if you know the path to hell.’

Claverley groaned and beat his saddlehorn.

‘The bugger’s dead,’ the porter laughed. ‘Hanged not an hour since.’

Claverley, conscious of his companions, their horses growing restless in the enclosed space, cursed colourfully.

‘What now?’ Corbett asked.

Claverley turned, spat in the direction of the porter, then tapped the side of his nose.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ he whispered. ‘Let me introduce you to one of my great secrets!’

On the other side of York, another man was dying. The Unknown lay on a pallet bed in a small, stark chamber of the Lazar hospital, his sweat-soaked hair fanned out against the white bolster.

‘It’s all over,’ he whispered. ‘I shall not leave here alive.’ The Franciscan, crouching by the bed, grasped his hand and did not disagree.

‘I can feel no life in my legs,’ the Unknown muttered. He forced a smile. ‘In my youth, Father, I was a superb horseman. I could ride like the wind.’ He moved his head slightly. ‘What happens after death, Father?’

‘Only God knows,’ the Franciscan replied. ‘But I think it’s like a journey, like being born all over again. A baby struggles against leaving the womb, we struggle against leaving life but, as we do after we’re born, we forget and journey on. What is important,’ the Franciscan added, ‘is how prepared we are for that journey.’