Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘And on the morning you went to York,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘you saw Murston being gibbeted and then went to the tavern, the Greenmantle?’

Baddlesmere nodded.

‘And Scoudas went with you?’

‘Yes, we shared the same chamber. However, Scoudas had changed. He began to threaten me, insinuate that he would complain.’ Baddlesmere paused. ‘He shouldn’t have done that: he mocked me as an old man, telling me that he had met someone else, Joscelyn, a member of Branquier’s retinue. I left in a temper, rejoined de Molay and journeyed back to Framlingham.’

‘And the night of the fire?’ Corbett asked.

‘Scoudas came to my chamber. I thought he’d come to make his peace. Joscelyn was with him. They sat and baited me, threatening to disgrace me. I couldn’t bear their taunts any longer. I walked out of the room, slamming the door behind me, their laughter ringing in my ears. The manor was quiet. I’d left my wine in my chamber so I took a jug from the buttery and went into the grounds. I deliberately hid myself because I didn’t want to meet or talk to anyone. I went around the maze and across into the trees. The night was warm. I fell asleep. I was tired and exhausted. I’d drunk a little too much. When I woke, it was dark, though I could see the sun was about to rise. I got up stiff and sore. I was about to go back to the manor when I heard the cries and saw the flames. Even from where I stood, the smoke hung heavy in the air.’ He paused and scratched his chin.

‘And you fled?’ Branquier asked.

Baddlesmere paused as the door opened and Symmes and Legrave slipped in.

‘The royal guards are feeding their faces,’ Symmes barked. ‘And, when they’ve finished at the trough, I will show them their sties.’

Corbett ignored the insult. ‘Why did you flee?’ he asked.

‘I suppose I panicked,’ Baddlesmere replied. ‘It was obvious someone had died in the room. I would be blamed. Whatever I did, I’d be damned. My secret sin would be revealed. Worse, I might be accused of starting the fire and held responsible for the other deaths. It was quite easy: I had my saddlebag with me so I simply climbed the wall. For a while I stayed in the open countryside around York, but I needed a horse and a change of clothing.’ He flailed his hands. ‘The rest you know.’

‘You guessed someone was in your chamber?’

‘I went as close as I could to the manor house, I could tell from the shouts and cries. I started to think: was the assassin after my life? Even if I could prove my innocence, they’d still say I killed Scoudas.’ He put his face in his hands and sobbed quietly.

‘Joscelyn died too,’ Corbett remarked.

‘But why?’ Baddlesmere asked. ‘Both men were young and vigorous. They could have escaped.’

‘You left a jug of wine?’ Corbett insisted.

Baddlesmere blinked slowly.

‘The wine?’ Corbett repeated. ‘How much did you leave?’

‘A jug, five or six cups.’ Baddlesmere’s jaw sagged. ‘You are saying it was tainted? They were poisoned or drugged?’

‘That is the only explanation.’

‘But I wouldn’t hurt him!’ Baddlesmere wailed. ‘I would never hurt Scoudas!’

‘When did you put the wine in your room?’

‘Early in the afternoon: the best Rhenish. I placed it in a bowl of cold water to chill.’

‘And did you drink it?’

‘Yes, yes, I did, half a cup: then Scoudas and Joscelyn arrived. I became so angry at their taunting, I threw the cup on the floor and left.’

‘Sir Bartholomew,’ Corbett continued, ‘all your possessions were destroyed in the fire but, amongst Scoudas’s, we found a map of York and the assassins’ warning, both in your hand, as well as a receipt signed by Murston for monies received.’

Baddlesmere’s eyes took on a secretive, cunning look: the change of mood was so quick that Corbett wondered whether the man was fully in his wits, or even if he might truly be the assassin, Sagittarius.

‘The papers,’ Corbett insisted, ‘please. Why should Scoudas be holding these papers?’

Baddlesmere coughed and licked his lips. ‘I’d like some wine, Sir Hugh.’

Branquier filled a cup from the side-table and thrust it in his hands.

‘Answer my question,’ Corbett insisted.

‘You have no authority here,’ Branquier broke in.

‘Yes he has,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Sir Bartholomew, answer the question!’

‘Yes, I’ll answer your question.’ Baddlesmere sat up. ‘Though I don’t like snooping clerks. Whatever my sins, I’m still a Templar. I resent you, Corbett. I resent you being here. The Order has its own rituals and rule.’

‘The papers?’ Corbett demanded harshly.

‘I was making my own inquiries,’ Baddlesmere snapped back. ‘I drew that map and the warning to help myself. I gave a copy to Scoudas and asked him to keep his eyes and ears open. If my chamber hadn’t burst into flames, you’d have found other copies there as well.’ He shrugged. ‘I know nothing about a receipt for Murston.’

‘Why did your room burn?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘There was nothing in it which could start such an inferno?’

‘Nothing. Clothing, parchment, some books but nothing else!’

‘An oil-lamp?’ Corbett asked.

‘I said nothing.’ Baddlesmere’s eyes slid away. Corbett knew this disgraced Templar had his own suspicions.

‘What will happen to me?’ Baddlesmere whispered. His eyes pleaded with de Molay.

‘You will be confined to a chamber on bread and water,’ the grand master replied. ‘And, when these matters are finished and the king’s clerk has left us alone, you will stand trial before your peers. The Crown, if it so wishes, may also punish you for defiance of its writ.’

Baddlesmere nodded. ‘I’ll be broken, won’t I?’ he murmured as if to himself. ‘I’ll have my spurs hacked off, my knighthood removed. Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere, Commander of the Order of the Temple, reduced to a kitchen scullion in some lonely castle.’ He clenched a hand, glaring at Corbett so furiously that the clerk’s hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger. Behind him he could feel the hate of Sir Bartholomew’s companions: disgraced though Baddlesmere was, like any enclosed community, the Templars deeply resented the intrusion of outsiders. Corbett got to his feet.

‘Grand Master, I am finished. I must insist that Sir Bartholomew is kept secure.’ He walked to the door.

‘Corbett!’ Baddlesmere was staring oddly at him. ‘Truth stands on the bank.’

‘What do you mean?’

Baddlesmere began to laugh, shaking his head, gesturing at him to go. Corbett bowed at de Molay and left for his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote immediately began to question him.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘I don’t know if Baddlesmere is telling the truth, has lost his wits, or whether he is actually the assassin. Maltote, where are those books?’

The messenger pulled them out from beneath the bed.

‘We’ll all sleep in this chamber,’ Corbett declared. ‘But for tonight-’ he eased himself on the bed and opened one of the books ‘-I’ll see what secrets these hold.’

Corbett spent the night reading and rereading different pages whilst his companions snored, sleeping as peacefully as babes. Sometimes Corbett’s eyes would grow heavy. He dozed for a while and then shook himself awake, going across to splash water on his face or replenish the candles when they burnt too low. At last he could do no more. The last chapters of Bacon’s work were a mystery but Corbett felt elated. He knew the source of that mysterious fire and, just before dawn, drifted into nightmares lit by the roaring flames of the Devil’s fire.

Ranulf shook him awake. ‘Master, it’s ten o’clock.’