Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘Are the beams safe?’ Corbett asked.

‘We always build well,’ de Molay replied. ‘Fire is our great enemy. Three, possibly four, chambers will have to be gutted and repaired.’

He walked across and stopped where the bed had been. Very little remained of the two dead Templars: charred skeletons lying next to each other made unrecognisable by the horror which had occurred. Despite the ash and dirt, de Molay, tears streaming down his face, knelt down and crossed himself.

‘ Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine, ’ he intoned. ‘Eternal rest give unto them oh Lord and let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He blessed the remains with his hand. ‘Turn not your face away from them,’ he prayed. ‘And, in your infinite mercy, forgive their offence.’

He rose to his feet, stumbled, and would have fallen if Corbett had not grasped his arm. De Molay lifted his face. Corbett was shocked: the grand master had aged, his face grey, mouth slack, eyes like a lost child.

‘What is happening, Corbett?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘For the love of God, what is happening? The fire is terrible enough but Bartholomew? A good soldier, to die in his bed with another man beside him. How will that be seen by the Judge of us all? What terrible damage to the name of our Order!’

He pulled his hand away and stumbled towards the door. Corbett indicated Ranulf to help him. The grand master hobbled like an old man into the passageway. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

‘I have heard the rumours,’ he whispered. ‘Friendships are formed. Sometimes we, who can have no sons, look for someone we would have liked to have had as one. Perhaps that was the case with Bartholomew. Now God’s judgement has caught up with him and the power of the Evil One has made itself felt.’

Corbett wiped the soot and ash away from his face. ‘Nonsense!’ he snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and his companion were murdered. Their deaths were planned.’

‘But rumours will go out amongst the wicked.’ De Molay looked glassy-eyed at him. ‘He cast his lot.’

‘Shut up!’ Corbett shouted.

The grand master bowed his head. For a while he stood sobbing quietly, then, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he grasped Corbett’s arm like a man who had lost his sight. He stumbled down the passageway towards the door. Outside he ignored his companions but, accompanied by Corbett and Ranulf, walked slowly back to his own chamber. Once there, the grand master relaxed a little, bathing his face in a bowl of water, washing the grime and sweat from his face and hands. He then poured three goblets of wine, serving Ranulf and Corbett. He apologised deeply for the early hour, but quoted St Paul that they should take a little wine for their stomach’s sake. Then he sat for a while, staring out of the window, mouth open, now and again sipping from the wine goblet. Ranulf looked at Corbett but he shook his head, bringing his finger to his lips. The door opened. Branquier, Symmes and Legrave crept into the room and sat down. At last de Molay sighed and, turning, looked squarely at Corbett.

‘It was no accident, was it?’

‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘It was murder.’

‘But how?’ Symmes exclaimed. ‘Grand Master, I have just studied what remains of the lock and bolts. The key was welded into the lock on the inside. The bolts at top and bottom were secure.’

‘What about the window?’ Ranulf asked. ‘If that was open, a firebrand could have been tossed through.’

‘I have checked that,’ Symmes retorted. ‘The serjeants on duty outside say that the shutters of Bartholomew’s window were firmly closed.’

Everyone concentrated on the fire: no one dared to mention the circumstances in which Baddlesmere had died.

‘The flames were so intense,’ de Molay exclaimed, ‘burning savagely. What on God’s earth would cause such a fire?’ He waved his hand. ‘Oh, accidents happen. Candles fall on to the rushes or an oil-lamp is tipped over, but the speed of that fire!’ He shook his head. ‘It can’t have been anything like that.’

‘And if such an accident had occurred?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Why didn’t Baddlesmere and his companion raise the alarm, douse the flames themselves?’

‘According to the serjeant,’ Legrave said. ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were either unconscious or dead.’

‘They were sodomites.’ Symmes’s face twisted in revulsion. ‘They died in their sin.’ His voice had risen.

‘That’s for God to decide,’ Corbett retorted. ‘What concerns me is how they died. The windows and doors were barred, so how could someone get into a room and start such an inferno?’ He stared round. ‘Did anything untoward happen yesterday evening?’

His question was answered by headshakes and murmurs of dissent.

‘Was Baddlesmere. .’ Corbett paused to marshal his words more carefully. ‘Was his liaison with Scoudas well known?’

‘There were rumours,’ Symmes replied. ‘You know, the sort of gossip which runs like a river through any enclosed community. .’

He paused at a knock on the door. A serjeant hurried in. He whispered in Branquier’s ear, laid a pair of saddlebags at his feet and left. Branquier undid the straps carefully. He shook the contents into his lap whilst the rest watched curiously.

‘The bag belongs to Scoudas,’ Branquier explained. ‘I told the serjeant to collect anything he might find in his quarters.’

He held up a small steel ring by its stem. Corbett recognised a sighting which skilled arbalesters used on their crossbows. The rest were a few paltry objects: a knife, a sheath and small squares of parchment. Branquier undid these, cursed and handed them over to Corbett.

The first was a diagram: Corbett recognised it as a street plan of York: Trinity, the road the king had ridden up, its line of houses, the place where Murston had lurked, was marked with a cross.

‘It’s in Baddlesmere’s hand,’ Branquier explained. ‘As are the rest.’

Corbett stared down at the cramped writing and the fatal message it bore.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE GO FORTH AND RETURN AS BEFORE AND BY NO MEANS CAN YOU HINDER US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WHAT THOU POSSESSES SHALL ESCAPE THEE IN THE END AND RETURN TO US.

KNOWEST THOU, THAT WE HOLD YOU AND WILL KEEP THEE UNTIL THE ACCOUNT BE CLOSED.

‘It’s the Assassin’s warning.’ Corbett put the parchment on the table in front of the grand master. De Molay studied it.

‘Sir Hugh?’ he asked. ‘Could the assassin have been Baddlesmere? Remember the morning we entered York, Baddlesmere was with Scoudas.’

‘But he returned to Framlingham with us,’ Symmes intervened. ‘He couldn’t possibly have been in York when Corbett received his warning or narrowly missed the assailant’s arrows.’

‘True,’ de Molay replied, ‘but Scoudas was. He came back much later in the afternoon. . He was Genoese by birth, a professional crossbowman.’

‘And this,’ Branquier held up a yellowing stub of parchment he’d taken from the saddlebag, ‘is a billa with Murston’s mark on it, acknowledging the receipt of certain monies.’

‘Are you saying,’ Corbett looked at the billa and passed it over to de Molay, ‘that Baddlesmere and his lover Scoudas were the assassins?’

‘It stands to reason,’ Branquier retorted.

‘Yes, it does,’ de Molay declared. ‘Baddlesmere was discontented. He had knowledge of the Assassins and their secrets. He attended the Chapter in Paris after which Philip of France was attacked. He was in London when the Assassins’ message was pinned to the door of St Paul’s Cathedral. He knew when the king was entering York and what route he would take. Scoudas, his lover, paid Murston, the most harebrained of men, a large amount of money. Copies of the Assassins’ message are found in Scoudas’s saddlebag together with a map of York. Finally, Scoudas was a professional crossbowman.’