Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘I’ve never seen oil burn so quickly or so fiercely,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘I’ve seen something like it,’ Corbett declared. ‘When farmers burn the dry stubble in autumn: sometimes the fire runs faster than a man.’ He stamped on the flame, wary lest it raise the alarm.

They left the maze and walked into the ring of trees where Corbett picked up a dry stick. Once again he mixed the substance: he smeared the wood, leaving one end free which he lit with Ranulf’s tinder. This time the effect was even greater. The flame, as soon as it reached the substance, burnt so fast and greedily that Corbett had to stamp it out with his boot.

‘You should have used gloves,’ Ranulf remarked, watching his master clean his hands on his jerkin. ‘A thick, leather pair of gauntlets.’

Corbett looked down at his hands then back up at Ranulf.

‘Gloves?’ he whispered. ‘Do you remember the leather fragments you found? Gauntlets!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the only trace the assassin left.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The fragments of leather,’ Maltote volunteered, ‘that we found near the scorch-marks: the assassin must have burnt the gauntlets he used.’

Corbett walked deeper into the trees. He now knew who the assassin was, but how could he prove it? What evidence could he offer? He told Ranulf to conceal the bags of powder and they returned to the guesthouse. Corbett asked his companions to find something to eat whilst he returned to studying Baddlesmere’s map.

‘It’s not of the entire city,’ Corbett murmured, ‘but only the area around Trinity.’

He then studied the inscription Baddlesmere had written on the wall. Last night Corbett had thought the words formed an anagram, a complicated puzzle or riddle. He translated them back into English, rearranging the letters, but all his conclusions were nonsense. Finally he translated them into French and clapped his hands in surprise: Baddlesmere, too, knew the identity of the assassin. However, in those last moments before death, he could not bring himself to name his brother Templar, so he had purged his conscience by leaving this mysterious phrase.

Ranulf and Maltote returned, bringing food from the kitchen. By Corbett’s face, Ranulf realised that ‘Old Master Long Face’ was closing his trap. ‘Drawing up a bill of indictment,’ he whispered to Maltote. ‘Like any hanging judge.’

‘You do know, don’t you?’ he called out.

Corbett put his pen down and turned. ‘Yes, I know the assassin and I think I can prove it.’

‘Logic,’ Ranulf exclaimed, ‘as always.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, Ranulf, not logic. I applied that and made a dreadful mistake. You work on a premise and then believe that everything will fit into place.’ He rose and stretched. ‘Because of my arrogance and because of my logic, I made a terrible error. Poor Baddlesmere was closer to the truth than I.’

‘What’s a premise?’ Maltote asked, his mouth full of bread and cheese.

‘You start with a statement,’ Corbett replied. ‘Such as “All Men drink ale; Maltote is a man; therefore he drinks ale.” But the premise is wrong. All men don’t drink ale: it’s not an undisputed fact. Therefore, every statement you make based on that must be wrong.’ Corbett pulled his stool over to where his companions sat with their backs to the wall, sharing the bread and cheese piled on a pewter plate. ‘I believed there was a coven in the Templar Order intent on wreaking vengeance against the Crown both here and in France. I therefore concluded that the murders here at Framlingham and elsewhere were merely the work of that coven. I was wrong.’

‘So, what is the truth?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett shook his head. ‘Eat your bread and cheese.’ He paused as he heard a sound in the gallery outside. ‘We have to leave here as quickly as possible,’ he urged. ‘Ranulf, pack our bags; Maltote, go down to the stables, saddle the horses. I want to be gone within the hour.’

Maltote grabbed a chunk of cheese and hurried out. Ranulf took one look at Corbett’s drawn face and hurriedly packed their belongings. Corbett carefully put away his writing implements, checking the chamber, ensuring they had left nothing behind.

‘Hide the books Maltote brought,’ he hissed. ‘And the three bags of powder?’

‘They are kept separate,’ Ranulf assured him.

They left the guesthouse and went down to the stableyard. Maltote had already led their horses out: he was busily trying to harness the small but evil-tempered sumpter pony. Corbett helped, checking harness and saddle girths. He was surprised at the silence of the manor, then he heard the clink of metal behind him and Ranulf’s muttered curse. He swung round: the mouth of the stableyard was now cordoned off by Templar soldiers, helmeted and armed, each carrying an arbalest. On either flank stood their serjeants and officers.

‘Mount,’ Corbett ordered. ‘If necessary, ride through them!’

Corbett edged his own horse forward. An order rang out: one of the crossbowmen raised his crossbow and a bolt whirred through the air over Corbett’s head. Fighting to control his panic as well as his restless horse, Corbett rode on. Again the order was issued. This time the crossbow bolt whirred past his face; another smacked the cobbles in front of his horse, making it whinny and shy.

‘That’s as far as I’m going,’ Maltote muttered.

Corbett reined in his horse: de Molay came out of the buildings and walked through the line of men. The grand master was dressed in half-armour, as were the other commanders, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He came up and grasped the bridle of Corbett’s horse.

‘You are not leaving us, Sir Hugh, without so much as a fond farewell?’

‘You have no authority,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I intend to ride through and you must take the consequences!’

‘Please.’ De Molay’s red-rimmed eyes had a pleading look. ‘Corbett,’ he whispered. ‘You know the assassin, don’t you? Your face betrays you.’

‘These matters are for the king to decide upon,’ Corbett replied.

‘No, Sir Hugh, this is Templar land. I am the grand master. I must have some control, some say in what happens here. Templar justice is just as thorough and exacting as any king’s.’

Corbett relaxed in the saddle. ‘You know the murderer, don’t you, Grand Master?’

‘Yes, yes, I think I do: proving it is another matter.’

‘And if I stay,’ Corbett volunteered, ‘I have your word that justice will be done and I will be allowed to go on my way?’

De Molay raised his hand. ‘My oath on the Cross.’

Corbett dismounted. ‘Then send four of your men to York. Don’t worry, I will give them warrants and passes. They are to go to Monsieur Amaury de Craon, Philip IV’s envoy at the archbishop’s palace.’ Corbett made sure he kept his voice low. ‘Tell him what you like but invite him to come here as your guest. Say you wish to reveal secret matters affecting the Crown of France. Couch your letters in the friendliest terms.’ Corbett glanced up at the pale-blue sky. ‘It’s about noon now. He’s to be here by dusk.’

‘I, too, studied Bartholomew’s message scrawled on the wall,’ de Molay retorted. ‘It fits other pieces, fragments, mere morsels.’

‘You should have told me,’ Corbett replied.

‘By nightfall we will all know,’ de Molay whispered.

Corbett turned, telling Ranulf and Maltote to dismount: their horses were to go back to the stables, their baggage to the guesthouse. The Templars stood aside and Corbett returned to his own chamber. Guards soon followed, taking up position in the gallery.

‘We should have rode on,’ Ranulf declared, throwing the baggage to the floor, his face red with anger. ‘They wouldn’t have dared!’