Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘I’ve been waiting!’ he snapped. ‘Maltote, bring those books! Ranulf, your crossbow!’

Outside the day was dying. The sky was purple-black and, in the distance, came the first faint rumble of thunder and the faint flash of lightning above the forests to the north of the manor. They made their way past the church where the Templars were still gathered, the faint strains of the Requiem Mass echoing eerily through the stained-glass windows. The library was unlocked but dark. Corbett lit a few candles, making sure their capped hoods were secured, then walked down to where he had been sitting when the assassin struck. He told Maltote and Ranulf to stay by the door, then instructed his manservant to pretend he was attacking him.

‘I am right-handed, Master,’ Ranulf called. ‘As most men are: I hold the arbalest steady with my right and pull back the winch with my left.’

Corbett studied him.

‘If I was left-handed.’ Ranulf continued, ‘then it would be the other way round, like this.’ He moved the arbalest to the other hand, holding it more clumsily as he winched back the lever.

Corbett closed his eyes, trying to recall that fateful afternoon. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

‘Do it again, Ranulf. Walk forward slowly.’

Ranulf obeyed. Maltote, still holding the books, stood by the door.

‘Well, Master?’ Ranulf asked, now only a yard away from him. ‘Can you remember?’

‘He held it in his right hand,’ Corbett declared. ‘Yes, definitely his right.’

‘So, the assassin could have been Symmes or de Molay? Legrave and Branquier are left-handed. Baddlesmere’s a blackened corpse, and the same goes for Scoudas. Moreover, we now know, or think we do,’ Ranulf continued, ‘that neither Baddlesmere nor Scoudas had a hand in this business.’

Corbett just shook his head and extinguished the candles. They walked out of the library, back across the square. The Templars were now leaving the chapel; de Molay, surrounded by his commanders, beckoned Corbett over.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The grand master forced a smile. ‘We wondered where you were. We even thought you might have forgotten us.’

‘King’s business in York,’ Corbett replied. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and thanked God Maltote had had the sense to hide the books under his cloak.

‘We buried our dead,’ de Molay continued flatly, staring up at the darkening sky. ‘And it seems their passing will not go unnoticed by the weather. Sir Hugh, we have certain decisions to make. You will be our guest at dinner tonight?’

‘No funeral obsequies?’ Corbett asked.

‘Not for Baddlesmere!’ Branquier snapped, stepping forward. ‘Sir Hugh, this business is finished.’

‘And Baddlesmere is the guilty party?’ Corbett retorted.

‘The evidence points that way,’ de Molay replied. ‘His lustful relationship with Scoudas; his resentments; the map of York showing where the king was stopping; the Assassins’ warning. What further proof do we need? Royal writ or no, we have been prisoners here far too long. In three days’ time I intend to go into York to seek audience with the king. My companions here also have business. We cannot wait. These matters are resolved: Baddlesmere was the guilty party.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Corbett replied.

The Templar commanders, openly hostile, now took up a more threatening stance. They moved round him, throwing back the white ceremonial robes of their Order, hands touching the swords and daggers in their belts. Corbett stood his ground.

‘Don’t threaten me, Grand Master.’

‘I am not threatening,’ de Molay retorted. ‘I am sick and tired of the intrigue and the mystery, the fires and the murder of old companions. Those things are a tragedy, but I am a French subject, Grand Master of the Order of Templars. I object to being a prisoner in one of my own manors.’

‘Then go if you wish, Grand Master. But I tell you this, everyone of you will be arrested as a traitor. And don’t quote Baddlesmere’s name to me. He may have been a sodomite, a man who grumbled, but he was totally innocent of any crime. The day the king was attacked in York he was closeted with his lover in a chamber at the Greenmantle tavern. He’d left before I was warned. Nor could Scoudas have had that warning pushed into my hand, or tried to kill me as I went through York.’

De Molay’s gaze faltered. ‘But the map?’ he questioned. ‘The warning? The receipt of monies?’

‘Aye, I’ve reflected on that,’ Corbett replied. He glanced sideways at Symmes, his dagger half-drawn from his belt. ‘Keep your hand away from your dagger,’ he warned. ‘And look after your pet weasel.’

Symmes’s good eye glared at de Molay, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘You were telling us about Baddlesmere,’ the grand master said.

‘Baddlesmere believed that the assassin was a member of his Order,’ Corbett continued. ‘He was making his own inquiries. He drew that map for some purpose which, at this moment in time, I don’t understand. He also transcribed that warning so as to study it more closely. To put it bluntly, Grand Master, the man I am hunting still lives and breathes. Poor Baddlesmere died as a pretext, nothing more.’

They all turned as a serjeant ran up and, pushing his way through, whispered into de Molay’s ear.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett asked.

‘Something or nothing,’ the grand master replied. ‘But one of our squires, Joscelyn, is missing, probably deserted.’ De Molay looked over Corbett’s shoulder at Ranulf. ‘Tell your manservant to lower that arbalest.’ De Molay raised his hands, snapping his fingers. ‘The rest of you follow me. Sir Hugh,’ he smiled apologetically, ‘you are still our guest. Do join us for supper tonight.’

Corbett stood his ground as the Templars swept away in a flurry of cloaks, their boots crunching on the pebbles. Maltote gave a groan and crouched down.

‘Master, these books weigh like a sack of stones.’

Ranulf tucked the crossbow bolt back into his pouch. Corbett turned clumsily. His legs felt heavy as lead. He moved his neck to ease the cramp.

Ranulf asked, ‘Do you think Baddlesmere was killed because he knew too much?’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I still don’t see any pattern to these killings. The grand master is correct: we cannot detain him here for much longer.’

‘And would the king arrest them?’

‘I doubt it. De Molay is a lord in his own right, as well as a subject of Philip of France. The king could huff and puff, detain him at some port and threaten to confiscate Templar goods. But de Molay would eventually leave and appeal to the Pope.’

‘And so the killer will walk free?’

‘On this occasion, Ranulf, he might well do that. But let’s not disappoint our hosts. We have to wash and change.’

They returned to the guesthouse. For a while Corbett sat studying the books Maltote had brought. He read the first chapters of Bacon’s work, though he could find little there of interest. He cradled the book in his hands and remembered the Unknown’s dying gasps in the Lazar hospital. What, he thought, was the significance of his confession: allegations about cowardice amongst the Templars at Acre so many years ago? Was the coward here at Framlingham? Outside the storm broke: the rain splattered against the window, the thunder crashed over the manor house, whilst the lightning illuminated the trees and grounds in great bursts of white light.

‘Is there anything interesting in the books?’ Ranulf asked, coming up beside him.

Corbett scratched his head. ‘Nothing.’ He got to his feet. ‘It will wait.’ He took off his jerkin. ‘I wonder what will happen now?’

Ranulf just stared at him.