Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘I wonder if the true assassin thought I’d be happy with naming Baddlesmere as the assassin?’

‘So, we are still in danger?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Possibly. But come. . ’ He paused at the tolling of the bell, almost hidden under the rumble of thunder. ‘Our hosts await us.’

They finished their preparations, putting their cloaks on, and ran through the rain and into the main door of the manor. De Molay and his commanders were waiting in the hall. Corbett had to hide a shiver at the scene. Outside the windows, thunder crashed and lightning flared. In the hall itself, all the torches had been lit, and a row of candles along the table threw long shadows which danced and moved against the wall. Corbett and his companions received a frosty welcome. De Molay indicated with his hand where they should sit: Corbett on his left, Ranulf and Maltote further down the table. The grand master said grace, then servants brought out the dishes from the kitchen. Corbett found it difficult to eat, scrupulously studying his goblet, only sipping from it after the others drank wine poured from the same jug.

‘You don’t trust us, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay murmured, popping a piece of bread into his mouth.

‘I have enjoyed more festive banquets,’ Corbett replied.

The meal continued. Legrave attempted a conversation, but de Molay was lost in his own thoughts, whilst Symmes and Branquier gazed stonily down at the table, determined to ignore Corbett and his companions. The meal was drawing to an end when there was a loud knocking on the door. Corbett turned in his chair as a serjeant ran in.

‘Grand Master!’ he gasped. ‘Grand Master, there are royal soldiers here!’

De Molay half rose from his chair, his surprise cut short as the door crashed open and a rain-sodden captain of the royal guard strode into the hall. Behind him, two of his men pushed a chained, manacled figure, the prisoner’s cloak dripping with water.

‘Grand Master,’ the captain declared, ‘I apologise for the inconvenience caused by our abrupt arrival. We believe this is one of your men.’

Grabbing the prisoner, he thrust him forward, pulling back the cowl. Corbett stared in utter disbelief at the unshaven, rain-soaked face of Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere.

Immediate consternation broke out: the commanders leaping up, daggers drawn, chairs falling back. More soldiers rushed into the hall, swords out, arbalests loaded. The captain of the royal guard rapped out orders, his men gathered in a small circle facing outwards round their prisoners, weapons ready. Corbett recovered from his surprise and shouted for silence. Whilst he did so, he gazed quickly at the Templar commanders; all of them, de Molay included, looked as if they had seen a ghost.

‘There will be silence!’ Corbett roared. He drew from his pouch the Secret Seal he always carried. ‘Every man here will put away his weapons. I am the king’s commissioner.’ He continued at the top of his voice. ‘I carry the Royal Writ. It is treason to oppose me.’

His threats eased the tension: swords were sheathed, de Molay rapped out orders. The Templar serjeants withdrew, the royal guard also relaxed. Corbett approached their captain, who now took off his heavy conical helmet. He cradled it in his arms, wiping the sweat and water from his face. His prisoner stood swaying, oblivious to what was going on around him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain stretched forth his hand. ‘Ebulo Montibus, Knight Banneret. I bring greetings from the king.’

Corbett clasped his hand.

‘I never thought,’ the captain continued, ‘that I would receive such a welcome. After all, the man has done no wrong.’

‘It’s a long story, Captain.’

Symmes came forward: he caught Baddlesmere just before he fell and helped him to a chair.

‘If he’s done no wrong, why is he chained?’ Branquier snapped. He filled a goblet of wine and passed it down to the prisoner.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Montibus snorted. ‘The king’s proclamation was very clear: no Templar was to leave Framlingham Manor.’

‘And where did you find him?’ Corbett asked.

‘Trying to smuggle his way through Micklegate Bar. He wore no Templar livery but the saddlebags he carried contained enough evidence about who he was. The city bailiffs arrested him. He was detained in the castle and the king ordered him to be brought back here.’ The captain smacked his lips and looked at the table. ‘It’s a witch’s night,’ he continued. ‘My men are cold, hungry.’

‘Then be our guest.’ De Molay intervened smoothly. ‘Legrave, take our guests into the kitchen. The chains can be removed, can’t they?’

Montibus agreed. Baddlesmere’s leg irons and wrist gyves were unlocked, falling to a heap on the floor. Baddlesmere, however, sat like a man poleaxed. Now and again he would blink or drink greedily from the goblet. His escort disappeared into the kitchen; only Montibus stayed. Corbett took his seat. Maltote stood staring, open-mouthed, like a cow over a hedge.

Ranulf, delighted by the surprising diversion, grinned from ear to ear. He came down and whispered an Corbett’s ear, ‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

‘Did he commit a crime?’ de Molay asked.

‘Not that we know of,’ Montibus replied. ‘Except that he broke the royal prohibition.’

‘It’s the first time ever,’ Ranulf remarked with a laugh, retaking his seat, ‘that I have sat at table with a man who is supposed to be dead, buried and his Requiem sung.’

‘Shut up!’ Branquier snarled, his face white with fury.

Ranulf just smiled back. Baddlesmere slammed the goblet down on the table. He gave a deep sigh then slouched forward, shoulders hunched, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Montibus was ignoring all this, piling the trancher in front of him with scraps of chicken and pork. He began to eat hungrily then, struck at last by Ranulf’s words, and by the tense silence, looked up. ‘What is this?’ His face grew serious as he stared round at the company. ‘What did you mean, a man who’s supposed to be dead and buried?’

‘Captain,’ Corbett intervened. ‘Eat your food and drink your wine. You and your men can stay the night. I am sure the grand master’s hospitality will extend to that. Sir Bartholomew, there are questions I must ask, though this is not the place.’

‘No, it is not,’ de Molay remarked, rising to his feet. ‘Branquier, Sir Hugh, bring Baddlesmere to my chamber.’

Corbett whispered to Ranulf to look after the royal guard, then followed a shuffling Baddlesmere, held by Branquier, out of the hall and along the corridors into the grand master’s chamber. For a while Baddlesmere just sat muttering to himself, rubbing his mouth and staring vacuously around.

‘He’s lost his wits,’ Branquier commented.

‘Sir Bartholomew,’ de Molay thundered. ‘You must tell us what happened! Your chamber was burnt. The corpses of two men were found on the bed, blackened and burnt beyond recognition. We thought one of them was you.’

Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘I am a worm and no man,’ he intoned. ‘My sins, my sins are always before me!’

‘What sins?’ Corbett asked quietly, moving the stool so he sat directly opposite the Templar. ‘What sins, Bartholomew?’

Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘The sin of sodomy,’ he rasped. ‘Which cries out to God for vengeance.’

‘And yet,’ Corbett replied, quoting from the Bible, “‘though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” You loved Scoudas, didn’t you?’

Baddlesmere plucked at a loose thread in his rain-sodden hose.

‘I became a Templar,’ he began slowly, ‘as a young man. I wanted to be a knight in shining armour, dying for the Cross. No, even before that, as a child: I used to sleep in my mother’s room. She would bring men home. I’d hear her groaning and scrabbling in the bed. I was only a stripling. By the time I was fourteen, I knew I could never take a woman. I wanted to be pure, cold as ice and white as snow: clean and God-fearing before the Lord.’ Baddlesmere pulled a face. ‘And so I was. I became a Templar, a warrior, a monk, a priest. I had temptations of the flesh but I could control them, until I met Scoudas. At first I loved him like the son I never had but always wanted. His skin was smooth, white as satin. .’