Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

The Templars stirred. Corbett fleetingly wondered how many of them had at least considered the path which the assassin had trod. Only de Molay remained impassive, hands before his mouth. He watched Corbett with the look of a hunting cat.

‘A new grand master to the Order is elected.’ Corbett leaned on the table. ‘He holds a Grand Chapter in Paris. He wishes the Order to be revitalised and loudly proclaims his intention to make a progress through all its provinces. England will be first. He leaves Paris, lands in Dover and travels to London but, before he leaves France, the scandal breaks. A Templar serjeant, stupid and witless, is captured on suspicion of trying to kill Philip of France. A degenerate, probably dabbling in the occult, this Templar is handed over to the Inquisition. I suppose,’ Corbett smiled thinly, ‘if I was hung in the dungeons of the Louvre and left to the subtle cruelty of the Inquisition, I would swear black was white and white was black. God forgive me, I might even deny my faith, my family, even as I cursed myself as a coward. For that serjeant it was easier: bitter and resentful, he readily answered the Inquisitor, damning himself and the Order he once served.’

Branquier pushed himself forward. ‘Are you saying that the serjeant was no assassin?’

‘He was no assassin,’ Corbett replied. ‘A mere dupe. Philip was not attacked in the Bois de Boulogne or crossing the Grand Ponte: that was only to make us believe a sinister plot existed. There is no “Sagittarius”,’ Corbett continued. ‘Or secret covens or cabals amongst the Templars: just a great deal of grumbling which a sinister Judas was willing to exploit.’ He glanced at de Craon, who snatched the quill from his scribe’s fingers.

‘In England,’ Corbett continued, ‘the real plot began. King Edward had once fought in Outremer. The Assassins had tried to kill him. Such memories die hard and, naturally, when the Assassins’ warning was pinned on the door of St Paul’s, Edward paid heed. Such news chilled his blood. He came to York to hold a great council. He met our noble envoy de Craon to discuss the marriage terms. Our king, too, is bankrupt, so he also sought a loan from the Templar Order.’

‘But the warning in London?’ Branquier shouted.

‘Oh, that was pinned to the door by one of you. A Judas who had become Philip of France’s secret agent.’

‘This is nonsense!’ De Craon snapped. ‘Stupid speculation. .’

‘Wait awhile,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, when the traitor was in London, he not only nailed that message to the door of St Paul’s, he also visited certain London merchants to purchase quantities of saltpetre, sulphur and other substances. This Templar had once served in Outremer where he had learnt of a mysterious fire which burns so fiercely that not even water can quench it: mingled with other substances and exposed to a naked flame, it seems the fires of Hell have erupted.’

‘I have heard of that.’ Symmes now put his pet weasel on the table: he stroked its ears and offered it a tidbit of dried meat. The Templar’s good eye gleamed. ‘We have all heard of it!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Byzantines used it to burn a great Muslim fleet.’

‘No secret really,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘Certain books discuss such a fire, and did not your Franciscan scholar, Bacon, analyse such mysteries?’

‘The assassin certainly did,’ Corbett answered. ‘And it would not be difficult. Both the libraries in Paris and London are visited by scholars from all corners of God’s earth. The fire itself is easy to make, once you know what to buy and how to use it.’ Corbett now kept his eyes firmly on de Molay. ‘Now this assassin,’ Corbett continued, ‘arrived in York. He mingles the substances and experiments with it here at Framlingham, in the woods, away from the inquisitive. Even so, the gossip begins. How the Devil’s fire is seen. So, one night, he leaves the manor and goes along the lonely road towards Botham Bar. He hobbles his horse and, once again, experiments with the strange fire, perfecting its use. At the same time, being a consummate archer, he practises with an arbalest, loosing fire arrows into a tree: even in the dark his aim is true.

Now, all should have been well. However, on that night, a relic-seller, Wulfstan of Beverley, probably half-drunk, had left York to sell his tawdry goods in the villages beyond. Wulfstan, curious, ever eager for new stories, saw the fires, so he pushed his nag off the path and into the trees. The killer cannot allow this. Wulfstan will remember both his face and horse. He draws his great two-handed sword and strikes with such a great and powerful blow that he severs poor Wulfstan in two.’

‘That death?’ Branquier barked.

‘Yes, that death,’ Corbett echoed. ‘As Wulfstan’s horse bolts into the darkness, the assassin realises he has human flesh to play with. The fire will also destroy the identity of the victim. The remains are set alight but the assassin hears the cries of two good sisters and their guide, so he goes deeper into the trees and waits until they pass. He then leaves, removes the arrows from the trees: the burnt patches, the scratches on the bark and Wulfstan’s mangled, burning remains are the only traces left.’

‘Who?’ de Craon shouted. ‘Who is this assassin?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett taunted back. ‘This assassin, Monsieur de Craon, is now ready to spread his web. Murston was a Templar serjeant, someone very much like the one who is lured into Paris. On the night before Edward of England enters York, Murston is told to go to a tavern near Trinity where the king will pass. He is ordered to hire a chamber and wait there.’

‘Murston was a killer,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘An assassin.’

‘He was no assassin,’ Corbett replied. ‘Just a stupid man, carrying out the orders of a superior officer. He stays the night like a good soldier would: the king enters York and so do you, Grand Master, with your commanders. However, one of them slips back along the streets to the tavern where Murston is waiting. He goes upstairs, slits Murston’s throat and takes the crossbow Murston brought into the city. When the king processes up Trinity, the assassin fires two bolts, narrowly missing His Grace.’

Corbett turned and pointed to a chair standing in the corner, gesturing at Maltote to bring it across. Corbett sat down, easing the cramp in the small of his back.

‘Murston was dead before those bolts were ever shot,’ he continued. ‘Greek fire has already been sprinkled over his corpse. Once the second bolt has been loosed, the assassin ignites the powder and flees down the stairs. He protects his face and body in a ragged cloak he’d bought from some beggar. I was the first to reach that garret but the assassin was already gone, leaving me to wonder how a man like Murston could shoot two crossbow bolts and then be half-consumed by those yellow-blue flames.’

‘Did the assassin intend to kill the king?’ de Molay asked.

‘No, that was just the start. What the assassin really wanted — what Philip of France wanted — was to create a great scandal in the Templar Order.’

‘Why?’ Branquier shouted.

‘So that the English crown would launch an attack upon the Order, seizing its properties, filling the exchequer with its treasure. And what Edward started in England, Philip of France would soon finish. And if the Holy Father complained?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Philip would simply point to Edward of England, saying he was only imitating what his brother king had already done. Philip would destroy the Order, seize its lands and treasure, fill his own coffers as well as remove a movement which constantly reminded him about how his saintly grandfather had gone on Crusade. However, the Pope would hold Edward as the main culprit. Now the assassin knew that I would be sent to investigate. Hence the warning, followed by the attempt to kill me near the Shambles.’