Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Sweet God in heaven!’ Corbett whispered. ‘What on earth can that refer to?’

The Devil’s fire, he thought: that’s how Odo described the flames which consumed poor Peterkin and his colleague Reverchien. The ‘Book of Fires’? Was that some sort of grimoire? A book of spells? And ‘Bacon’s Mystery’? What had that got to do with the terrible fires? Corbett, mystified, got to his feet: for a while he searched for an index to what the library contained but, when he found it, he could discover no reference to a ‘Book of Fires’, or anything which would clarify the phrase ‘Bacon’s Mystery’. He was just clearing the desk, rolling up the notes he had made, when he heard a sound at the back of the library, the creak of a door followed by the bolts being driven home. Corbett rose. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he stared down the library, but all he could see were the dustmotes dancing in the sunbeams above the highly polished floor.

‘Who’s there?’ he called. Corbett moved to one side. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated.

‘Knowest thou that we go forth and return.’ The voice was low and unrecognisable, though the words rang hollow round the library, like the sombre tolling of a death knell.

Corbett heard another sound, a metallic click. He threw himself sideways even as the crossbow bolt whipped by his head and smacked into the wall behind him.

‘Knowest thou,’ the voice grew louder, ‘that what thou possesses shall escape thee in the end and return to us.’

Again the click. Corbett, now hiding behind the shelves, heard the thud as another barbed quarrel sank into the woodwork above his head. Corbett fought hard to control his breathing. He stared wildly around: the windows were too small, no escape there.

‘Knowest thou,’ the voice again intoned, ‘that we hold you and will keep thee until the account be closed!’

Corbett, lying flat, peered round the shelves. His heart skipped a beat. At the far end of the library stood a figure, a tilting helm on his head, a jet black robe covering him from head to toe, an arbalest in his hand. Corbett watched the winch being pulled back, he heard the catch click and a third bolt speed to where his head had been. Another sound, a footfall, the assassin was slowly drawing closer. If Corbett rose and ran towards him, he’d never be fast enough: a crossbow bolt would take him before he reached his mysterious assailant. Corbett’s mouth went dry. He fought hard to curb his fear. For some strange reason he kept thinking of a royal messenger riding up the pathway to Leighton Manor, Maeve hurrying down to greet him. .

Corbett wiped the sweat from his face and gripped his Welsh dagger even more firmly. He looked across the library and glimpsed a small postern door behind one of the carrels. ‘Oh, Christ Jesus,’ he prayed, ‘let it be unlocked.’

He pushed his head out but drew back quickly as another crossbow bolt whirred like a hawk through the air. Then he was up before the mysterious archer could fit another bolt. Swearing and cursing, Corbett pulled the carrel aside and raised the latch, but the door wouldn’t move. Corbett blindly crashed against it even as the footfalls behind him drew closer. Then he glimpsed the bolts on the top. He drew these back, the door opened, creaking on its leather hinges. Corbett was through it, slamming it shut even as the crossbow bolt thudded into the other side. The door led into a passageway and Corbett ran blindly round a corner, so quickly he knocked a Templar serjeant flying. Ignoring his shouts, Corbett continued running until he was through an open door which led into a small disused garden behind the tilt-yard.

For a while Corbett crouched to catch his breath then, resheathing his dagger, he made his way back to the guesthouse. He slammed and locked the door behind him, checked the chamber carefully and sprawled on the bed. Eventually relief gave way to anger, a terrible fury at how he had been so nearly trapped. It was tempting to sweep through the manor demanding to see de Molay and seek an investigation, but what would that prove? Nothing except his own fear. The assassin would have slipped out of the library and be impossible to trace. Corbett got up and splashed water over his face. He dried himself slowly, recalling the cloaked figure, the arbalest and the bolts whistling through the air all around him.

‘At least,’ Corbett whispered, ‘I know you are not from Hell.’

He paused: the attack in the library had been a desperate move. Was that why Odo had been killed? To prevent him discovering the cause of that dreadful fire? The assassin would have checked the carrel but, unaware of the runes, he would have overlooked the piece of parchment Corbett now kept in his wallet. There was a knock on the door.

‘Master!’

Corbett went and unlocked it. Ranulf and Maltote swept excitedly into the room.

‘They are here!’ Maltote exclaimed.

‘Shut up!’ Ranulf shouted. ‘I found them, Master, scorch-marks, the same as we found on the Botham Bar road. You remember the trees which ring the curtain wall around the manor? Well, Maltote and I discovered them there.’ He peered at his master’s face. ‘Don’t you want to come? Master, what has happened?’

Corbett told them.

‘In the library!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Why there, Master?’

‘First, because the assassin knew I was there. Secondly, he wanted to stop me from finding anything.’ Corbett withdrew the scrap of parchment from his wallet. ‘Forget the scorch-marks. Maltote, I want you to go back into York.’ Corbett crossed to the table and, seizing a quill, wrote a short note listing the phrases he had found in Odo’s carrel. ‘Go to the king, he’s staying in the archbishop’s palace at York Minster!’ He handed over the message. ‘Give this to him. If he interrogates you about what has happened here, tell him-’ Corbett pulled a face ‘-well, tell him the truth. But I need an answer to that as soon as possible.’

‘Can I go with him?’ Ranulf asked expectantly.

‘No, you can’t. A few more days away from the fleshpots of York will do your soul, not to mention your body, the world of good.’

Maltote hurriedly went to fill the saddlebag. He came back to make his farewells and almost ran down the passageway.

‘Well, there goes a happy man,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘But what do we do?’

‘Let’s go for a walk, Ranulf. The sunshine and fresh air will do us good.’

They sauntered out into the grounds. Corbett did his best to relax. They first went back to the library. The door was now open but when Corbett returned to the carrel, he found the crossbow bolts had been pulled from the woodwork. Apart from a few scratches on the carrel and postern door, there was little sign of any disturbance. They walked back to the stables. After making a few inquiries, Corbett found the serjeant who had seen Odo and his boat burst into flames.

‘Come,’ Corbett said, ‘let’s walk to the edge of the lake. Tell us what you saw.’

The serjeant shrugged, threw down the belt he had been mending and walked with them, describing what he’d seen.

‘How long had Brother Odo been fishing?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘Oh, it must have been some time, two or three hours.’

‘And you were on guard?’

‘Yes, I was patrolling the meadow, bored out of my mind. Every so often I would look down at the lake. I was hot, I grew tired.’ He paused as they entered the cool shade of the trees which fringed the edge of the lake. ‘When I looked up, I saw the flame; it was as if the fire had sprung from the lake itself.’

Corbett pointed to the wooden causeway which stretched out into the lake.

‘Odo’s boat, The Ghost of the Tower , was moored here?’

‘Oh yes. Odo would climb in, row himself out, then sit for hours with his rod and line.’