Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

Corbett walked on to the causeway. It felt strange to have the lake moving and shimmering on either side. At the end of the platform, he peered down at fire-blackened fragments being washed to and fro.

‘And you came down here?’

‘Well, by the time I reached where you stand there was nothing left, just fire.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the fire burnt out the bottom of the boat but the lake seemed to make little difference to it.’ The Templar looked worried. ‘That’s what made me think it was Devil’s fire.’

‘And when the flames did die?’ Corbett asked.

‘It took some time. Afterwards all that remained was wood, a few scraps of cloth and Brother Odo’s mangled remains.’

‘Is the lake well stocked with fish?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Of course,’ the serjeant replied. ‘Especially with trout. The kitchen often serve it, nice and fresh, covered in a cream sauce.’

‘But you saw no fish?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, if Brother Odo had been fishing for hours and the lake’s well stocked, he must have made a considerable catch.’

‘I didn’t see any fish but they may have burnt.’

Corbett thanked him and the serjeant walked back into the line of trees.

‘You think Odo was already dead when the fire broke out, don’t you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Ranulf walked carefully backwards along the wooden causeway. ‘Have you noticed, Master, how the trees on either side of the lake grow out and conceal this platform from view? Odo wouldn’t be seen until he was in the centre of the lake. I think he was killed before he ever got into that boat. His body was lashed upright. He wore his cloak and cowl so nobody from the shore would notice. And why should an old Templar wear a cloak and cowl on a warm spring day? Moreover, if he was fishing, where is his catch, burnt or not?’

Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Ranulf, but the question still remains: how did the fire start?’

‘Well, that’s why I think he was dead,’ Ranulf continued. ‘Remember, Master, the serjeant said he saw flames licking the boat but Odo never moved to douse them, nor did he spring up in alarm or attempt to escape.’ He blew his breath out. ‘But that’s all I can say. How the fire was started is a mystery.’

They walked back up the meadow. Half-way up, Corbett sat down, stretching his legs in the long grass. He leaned back on his hands, stared up at the blue sky, then closed his eyes. He savoured the warmth, the sweet smell of crushed grass and wild flowers, the chattering of birds in the trees and the melodious bee hum.

‘If I keep my eyes closed,’ he murmured, ‘I’d say this was paradise.’

Ranulf moaned. ‘If I was in a tavern in Cheapside with a blackjack of ale in my right hand and the other on the knee of a pretty doxy, I’d agree, Master.’ He tore at the grass. ‘Master, these warnings from the sect of Assassins. Why has the killer chosen them?’

Corbett opened his eyes. ‘The Assassins are an Islamic sect,’ he replied. ‘Garbed in white, with blood-red girdles and slippers. They live under the command of their leader, the Old Man of the Mountain, in their castle, the Eagle’s Nest near the Dead Sea. I have heard the king speak of them. Their fortress stands on the summit of an unclimbable mountain. Inside it are walled gardens filled with exotic trees, marble fountains, beautiful flowerbeds and silk-carpeted pavilions. The members of this sect, the ‘Devoted Ones’, are fed saffron cakes and wine drugged with opiates. They dream of Paradise: every so often the Old Man sends them out to kill those he has marked down for death.

‘Now the Assassins did terrible work amongst the Crusaders.’ Corbett sat up and stared down at the lake. ‘They are a nightmare, phantoms from hell, who stir up black terrors, particularly in our king’s soul. Edward still dreams about the attack on him some thirty years ago.’

‘Could there be Assassins in the Templar Order?’ Ranulf asked, ‘apostates who have renounced their vows? Or better still,’ he hurried on, ‘what if the Assassins are using this Templar coven to weaken the Western Kingdoms?’

Corbett got to his feet, brushing the grass from his hose.

‘I can’t answer, Ranulf, but I do think it’s time we spoke to the grand master.’

They returned to the manor house and, after a while, secured an audience with de Molay. The grand master sat at his desk littered with manuscripts. He gestured for them to sit.

‘Sir Hugh.’ De Molay rubbed his face. ‘This cannot go on for ever. I have to travel back to France. The king’s ban must be lifted.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked, recalling the messenger he had seen pounding along the Botham Bar road. ‘Is there a fresh crisis in Paris?’

De Molay sifted amongst the documents. ‘Yes, of course there is. The attack on Philip of France was carried out by a Templar. The serjeant in question was one of those hotheads. He was handed over to the Inquisition and, yes, he did confess.’

‘But I told you that.’

‘What you don’t know,’ de Molay replied, ‘is that a few days ago Philip of France was crossing the Grand Ponte, returning to the Louvre Palace after visiting the tombs at St Denis. Apparently,’ de Molay threw the piece of parchment back on the desk, ‘another attempt was made on his life. Paris is swept by rumours and scandals, the Chapter demands my return.’

‘And is there any truth in the rumours?’

De Molay refused to meet his gaze.

‘Grand Master,’ Corbett insisted, ‘I am not your enemy. I admire your Order. Men like Brother Odo and Sir Guido were true knights of the Cross but, for God’s sake, open your eyes, there’s something rotten here. Did you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘about the rumours and allegations of sodomy amongst your company?’

De Molay glanced up angrily. ‘Don’t preach to me, Corbett! I can list bishops and their mistresses, priests who visit whores, noble lords with a penchant for page-boys. Of course there are brethren here who are subject to the frailties of the flesh, as you or I!’ he snapped.

‘And these murders?’ Corbett asked. ‘Grand Master, can you explain them? Or why a Templar should send the same warnings as those of the Old Man of the Mountain? Could one of your Order, or more, be apostates, Assassins? What is your relationship with that sect?’

De Molay leaned back in his chair, playing with a thin-bladed parchment knife. ‘For centuries,’ he replied, ‘the Templar Order guarded the Holy Places. We built our castles. We put down roots. We made peace with those around us. Just because a man worships Allah and meets you in battle does not mean that in peace you can’t sit down at the same table to exchange ideas, gifts and presents.’

‘But the Assassins?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, even with the Assassins. They control some trade routes: certain territories are under their jurisdiction. They are as amenable to bribes as any other.’

‘So, your Order did business with them?’

‘Yes and, before you ask, Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere and William Symmes once served an embassy to the Eagle’s Nest. They were entertained by the Old Man of the Mountain.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and Symmes have seen the beautiful gardens, drunk the iced sherbert, listened to the Old Man’s speeches. Yes, they’ve been his guests, but that does not make them apostates. The Assassins are not our enemies.’

‘Then who are?’ Corbett asked.

‘The Western princes,’ de Molay replied. ‘They see our manors, our granges, our barns, our well-stocked herds and fertile fields. The treasures of the Temple in Paris, London, Cologne, Rome and Avignon make their fingers itch. What do the Templars do, they ask? Why do they need such power and wealth? Should it not be better used for other purposes?’