Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Perhaps they knew something,’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Perhaps,’ Corbett replied. ‘But then we come to the second problem. How? Murston may have shot an arrow at the king but how did he die so quickly? How was that fire caused? Reverchien died in the centre of a maze early on a spring morning, Peterkin burst into flames in the middle of a busy kitchen.’

Corbett paused, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘And what progress have we made? We know the Templar Order is demoralised, possibly splitting into factions: I’m sure that is why de Molay has come to England. These factions may be manifesting themselves through the attacks against Philip of France as well as our own king. We also have these warnings, sent by that strange sect “the Assassins”. We know there’s some mystery in the Order, hence those secret rooms at Framlingham. We’ve learnt Murston was eaten up with revenge and bitterness, yet he must have been managed by someone else.’

Corbett paused. ‘The killer,’ he continued after a while, ‘is using some form of secret fire. He was practising with it amongst the trees along the Botham Bar road: that poor pedlar paid for his curiosity with his life. We think it’s a Templar commander but, if all the Templars are confined to Framlingham and the city gates are so closely guarded, who attached that notice to Murston’s gibbeted corpse? And who could have sent a similar warning to me? Whatever the Templars did in York, we have established that by the time these arrows were fired at me, they were on the road back to Framlingham Manor.’

‘That masked rider, maybe he’s the assassin?’ Maltote asked hopefully. ‘Or one of the commanders in disguise?’

‘The counterfeit coins,’ Ranulf interjected, ‘may also be Templar villainy.’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett said. ‘But whatever, Ranulf. .’ He lay back on his bed. ‘If there’s no method in this madness, if the assassin is killing for the sake of it, then he’ll strike again and again.’

‘And what will we do?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In the end,’ Corbett replied, ‘we will go back to the king and report what we have found: a divided, demoralised Order, bereft of its original purpose.’ He half sat up, leaning on one arm. ‘And if I report that,’ he concluded, ‘it will only be a matter of time before the Exchequer officials begin to ask why such a wealthy Order should exist when it lacks purpose and, moreover, is riddled with treason, sorcery, murder and other scandals?’

The serjeant patrolling the great meadow at Framlingham Manor stared down at the boat bobbing on the lake. ‘It’s time the old man came in,’ he grumbled.

Hitching his swordbelt higher, he began the long walk down to the lakeside. Nevertheless, the sunset was glorious, and a cool evening breeze soothed the serjeant’s sweat-soaked brow.

‘Oh, let the old one fish,’ he muttered to himself.

He sat down on the grass, took off his helmet and pulled back the mail coif beneath. He studied Odo: the old librarian had taken his boat The Ghost of the Tower , and had been fishing for some time.

‘More bloody use than what I’ve been doing,’ the serjeant grumbled as he grabbed a clump of grass to cool his sweaty cheeks.

The garrison at Framlingham had relaxed after that snooping royal clerk and his companions had left: that is, until the messenger had arrived and de Molay and the other great ones had gathered in the hall for a secret council. Orders had gone out, reinforcing the grand master’s edict that no one was to leave Framlingham, whilst any stranger found wandering on the estate was to be arrested immediately. The Templar serjeant chewed on a piece of grass, narrowing his eyes against the setting sun as he watched Brother Odo’s black cloak flap and curl in the evening breeze. The old librarian was apparently fighting to hold the long rod and line he was wielding. The Templar serjeant envied the serenity of the scene after the turbulence of the last few days. The news of the attack upon the king, the killing of Reverchien and Peterkin the cook were known to all. Very few mentioned Murston’s death, though many felt guilty at what he had done. Nevertheless, Murston had always been a hothead: just because he had served in Outremer, he’d set himself up as an authority on what was right and what was wrong.

The Templar lay back in the grass and stared up at the fleecy clouds.

‘I wish I was away from here,’ he whispered. ‘But where?’ The fall of Acre had put a stop to service abroad. No more dark-skinned girls, no more wandering around the bazaars. There was now little excitement about battle or talk of guarding the holy sepulchre. The best one could expect was lonely garrison duty in a God-forsaken manor house or, if you were lucky, some expedition into the Middle Sea to fight the corsairs. The serjeant rubbed his eyes; it wasn’t his duty to wonder or to speculate. Murston’s fate had put an end to all that. And who was he to question the masters of his Order? They knew best. They had the secret knowledge which they discussed behind closed doors. The serjeant remembered that lonely garret at the top of Frarnlingham Manor. What did go on there, he wondered? Why were only de Molay and Branquier allowed to go in? Why the purple wax candles and the chanting? He’d once been on guard outside, when his superiors had come out, he’d noticed how both were covered in dust from head to toe. What was so special in that room, the serjeant wondered, that such important men should lie face down in the dust? He heard a sound and struggled to his feet. Odo was moving as if straining at the rod, but then the Templar serjeant glimpsed the fire burning in the prow of the boat. He dropped his helmet and began to run.

‘Brother Odo! Brother Odo!’ He shouted, but still that black cowled figure sat as if impervious to the leaping flames. The serjeant undid his swordbelt, running until his lungs were fit to burst. He watched as the boat and Brother Odo suddenly erupted into a sheet of fire. The Templar fell to his knees, shaking with fright. He watched the fire consuming the boat and its occupant from prow to stem; even the water of the lake seemed to provide no protection.

‘Oh, Lord save us,’ he gasped, ‘from Satan’s fire!’

Corbett and his companions arrived back at Framlingham to find the manor in complete uproar. As soon as they dismounted in the stable yard, Baddlesmere, whiskers bristling, hurried out to greet them.

‘Sir Hugh!’ He swallowed hard. ‘You’d best come to see the grand master!’

Despite the warm sun and blue skies, Corbett felt his feeling of oppression return. He glanced round the stables: Templar soldiers, now doing the tasks of the ostlers and grooms, stared blankly at him.

‘There’s been another death, hasn’t there?’ Corbett asked.

Baddlesmere nodded, indicating with his hand for Corbett to follow him.

The clerk told Maltote to take care of the horses and, with Ranulf striding beside him, walked into the manor. Baddlesmere took them across a small cloister-garth and into the grand master’s chamber: a stark, unfurnished cell, much bigger than Corbett’s but just as austere with its whitewashed walls, black crucifix, and its stone floor covered with rushes. De Molay sat behind a small table, a metal crucifix in the centre. The other Templar commanders were already assembled, their agitation apparent from their grave faces and red-rimmed eyes.

De Molay rose as Corbett came in, snapping at Baddlesmere to bring in extra chairs. Once they were seated, the grand master tapped the top of the table.

‘Sir Hugh, whilst you were gone yesterday, Brother Odo died. Or rather, he was killed. Late in the afternoon he went fishing, as he often did, in his small boat, The Ghost of the Tower . He stayed on the lake some time: this was not out of the ordinary. A Templar serjeant watched him and was about to go down to tell him it was time for Vespers and the evening meal, when he saw flames in the prow. He was too late: Brother Odo and the boat were consumed in a sheet of fire.’