Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘But why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why did the fire break out in Baddlesmere’s room? And, when it did, surely he and Scoudas would have tried to escape?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ the grand master replied. ‘Perhaps they held some secret which went wrong and they were overcome by the smoke.’

‘Did any of you see Baddlesmere last night?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Branquier replied. ‘We dined together.’ He smiled weakly. ‘We finished up the excellent wine you brought. Baddlesmere did like his wine. He always took a small jug into his chamber.’

‘And Scoudas?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Legrave exclaimed, ‘we are a fighting community, bound by vows and a rule of discipline. Nevertheless, we are free men. Our Order is our family; friendships are formed. We do not poke our fingers into every man’s pie. We have enough troubles without checking on every man, where he goes and what he does.’

‘May I have those pieces of parchment?’ Corbett asked, getting to his feet.

De Molay handed them over. Corbett abruptly made his farewells and returned to the guesthouse.

‘Do you believe all that?’ Ranulf asked, hurrying beside him.

‘It’s possible,’ Corbett replied. ‘It would make sense: Scoudas was in York when I was threatened and later attacked. I believe the grand master; this map of York and the Assassins’ warning is written in Baddlesmere’s hand. But why was it found in Scoudas’s possession? Why wasn’t it better hidden?’

‘Perhaps Scoudas was his messenger boy?’

‘In which case we face three possibilities,’ Corbett retorted as they entered his chamber.

‘First, Scoudas and Bartholomew were the assassins and, due to some dreadful accident, they were killed: that seems a strong possibility. We have documentary evidence and there is no valid explanation of how the fire could begin.’ Corbett went over to the table and laid the scraps of parchment out. ‘Secondly, Bartholomew and Scoudas were part of a coven, so others in this manor and elsewhere could be implicated in their treason.’

‘And thirdly?’ Ranulf asked.

‘That Baddlesmere and Scoudas were victims and the real assassin, the Sagittarius, still walks free. Now,’ Corbett sat down at the table, ‘we are still awaiting Claverley and Maltote’s return.’ He grinned over his shoulder at Ranulf. ‘You are free to play dice whenever you wish. I am going to be busy.’

For a while Ranulf stayed, kicking his heels, pacing up and down the chamber, peering through the window, muttering about Maltote’s good luck at getting away. At last Corbett told him to shut up and go for a walk. Ranulf needed no second bidding and sped off like a greyhound. Corbett returned to drafting the letter he was writing, then threw his quill down in exasperation. Murder, treason, attempted regicide, sodomy, perhaps black magic! He got up and went to the door and bolted it. Corbett knew how Edward would react. He would rant and rave, but others in the Council would urge more pragmatic steps: the closing of all ports to the Templars as well as the possible seizure of their lands and chattels.

Corbett abandoned the letter and, for the next two hours, began to write down everything that had happened, everything he had heard and seen since this business began: conversations and conclusions. These, however, led nowhere, so he went back to the scraps of parchment he had found in Brother Odo’s desk, as well as the ones taken from Scoudas’s saddlebags. Corbett scrutinised the Assassins’ warning again. The first pinned on the doors of St Paul’s; the second given to him in York; the third handed over by Claverley, and the fourth plucked from Scoudas’s saddlebag. Corbett rose and stretched. And the fifth? Ah yes, the assassin in the library. Corbett seized his quill and wrote this down. He looked at all five, particularly the last, then, his curiosity aroused, he studied them again. There was a difference: he had noticed it before, but was it significant? Corbett bit his lips in excitement. The one delivered by Claverley and the one given to him in York were different. In the other three the message had stated:

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.

Now the scribbled notice mysteriously attached to Murston’s gibbet and the one given to him in York had read as follows:

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

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

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

Why the difference, Corbett wondered? A simple error? He went to the window and stared down into the yard, watching the Templar soldiers hurry backwards and forwards as they began to clear up the debris from the burnt chambers. Was it a simple mistake? But, if it wasn’t, what was the significance?

‘Let us say,’ Corbett murmured, ‘that there were three conspirators: Murston, Baddlesmere and Scoudas. Each delivered warnings at certain times. Would that explain why the message was written out wrongly?’

Corbett went across to the lavarium and splashed water over his face. He looked down at the grimy water and realised that he had been so absorbed that he still bore traces of the smoke and fire, so he went into the corridor and asked a serjeant to bring fresh water. The man agreed and, once he’d returned, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved himself in a small steel mirror, then changed into fresh clothes. Still thinking of the problem, he went down to the kitchen where he begged some bread, cheese and a jug of ale. Everyone else ignored him. The murders, the secret scandals and the hard work in dousing the flames had all wrought their effect on the Templar community. Ranulf joined him, his grimy face now furrowed by streaks of sweat.

‘A good game?’ Corbett asked.

His manservant grinned.

‘You look more like an imp from hell than ever. Be careful, Ranulf,’ Corbett added. ‘People might want to examine the dice you are using.’

‘I always throw honest,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Aye, and pigs fly,’ Corbett replied.

Ranulf left to change and wash, Corbett finished his food and went and sat on a stone bench outside the front door of the manor. He revelled in the sun’s warmth, his mind still concentrating on those warnings; he was trying to remember something which was out of place, but he couldn’t for his life remember it. He closed his eyes, letting himself relax, and thought of Maeve’s last letter.

‘You must come home,’ she had written. ‘Eleanor misses you. Uncle Morgan swears you have some pretty doxy in every city. I lie awake every night hoping that the next morning I’ll hear the servants’ excited cries and you will be back.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett’s eyes flew open. Claverley was standing staring anxiously down at him.

‘Roger!’

The under-sheriff’s ugly face broke into a smile.

‘How long have you been here?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, I left my horse in the stables and went up to your chamber. Ranulf was there.’ Claverley’s face grew serious. ‘He told me the news.’ The under-sheriff sat on the bench beside Corbett. ‘This place is like a morgue,’ he murmured. ‘And when the news gets out. .’

‘What has happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, we have already received our orders. Any Templar seen in the city of York is to be arrested on sight. In the Guildhall there are whispers and rumours that the king has sent messengers ordering the keepers of all the ports and the harbourmasters to seize any Templar coming into the country, as well as all letters and writs bearing their seal. Finally, under pain of forfeiture of life and limb, no Templar is allowed to leave the kingdom.’