Paul Doherty - Satan's Fire

‘I, too, am finished.’ De Craon sprang to his feet, his chair crashing back to the floor. ‘Grand Master, I refuse to stay here and listen to this nonsense: these insults offered to myself and my master. A formal protest will be lodged both with Edward of England and the Temple in Paris.’

‘You can go when you want,’ de Molay uttered drily. ‘As you say, you are an accredited envoy. I have no power over you.’

De Craon opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it and, with his black-garbed clerk following, strode out of the room. Only when he passed Corbett did his eyes shift; the clerk flinched at the malevolent hatred in the man’s eyes. Corbett waited until the door slammed behind him and listened to de Craon’s fading shouts for his horses and the rest of his servants to join him.

‘He will return to York,’ Corbett declared, ‘then protest most effusively to His Grace and, by this time tomorrow, he will be travelling to the nearest port for a ship back to France. Now I, too, must go.’

He glanced at Legrave who sat, hands clasped together, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Corbett still hoped to spare this man the ultimate degradation.

‘You cannot go,’ de Molay declared.

‘But you gave your word.’

‘When these matters are finished!’ de Molay snapped. ‘And they are not finished yet!’ He turned. ‘Sir Ralph Legrave, Commander of this Order, what answer do you make to these accusations?’

Symmes, sitting next to the accused, grasped him by the arm and shook him. Legrave pulled his arm away as if he could see something in the shadows on the other side of the hall.

‘What answer do you make?’ de Molay demanded harshly.

‘I am a Templar,’ Legrave replied.

‘You are accused of terrible crimes,’ Branquier retorted. ‘Your chamber and possessions will be searched!’

Legrave shook himself from his reverie. ‘There’s no need for that.’ He ran a finger round his lips. ‘Search my room and you’ll find the evidence.’ He chewed the corner of his lip and glanced fleetingly at Corbett. ‘They might not find it but you will. De Craon warned me about you. I should have killed you immediately. We all deserved to die.’ His voice rose. ‘We are the Templars, men devoted to war against the Infidel. Now look at us: bankers, merchants, farmers. Men like Brother Odo living on past glories. Reverchien and his stupid pilgrimage every morning; Baddlesmere with his boys; Symmes and his drinking; Branquier and his accounts. What hope is there for any of us? I came into this Order because of a vision just as noble, just as holy as the search for any Grail.’ He jabbed a finger towards de Molay. ‘Philip of France is right. Our Order is finished. Why should we hug our riches to us? The Order should be dissolved, united with others, given a fresh purpose.’

‘And you?’ Corbett asked, curious at what Philip had offered this Judas.

‘To be a knight banneret at the French court,’ Legrave answered. ‘Yes, to have manors and estates, a release from my vows. The opportunity to make up the time lost; to marry, to beget an heir. At least there’s purpose in that. Sooner or later the storm will come, and the house of the Templars, built upon sand, will shatter and fall; and great will that fall be.’

Corbett went and stood over him. ‘You’re a liar,’ he accused. ‘You were a coward: you betrayed your Order years ago at Acre.’

Legrave’s head snapped back at the hiss of anger from his companions.

‘What, what are you saying?’ he stuttered.

‘I met a knight, a Templar in the Lazar hospital in York. A man kept prisoner for years by the Assassins: he did not give me his name. He called himself the “Unknown” but he talked of an English Templar who ran from his post in Acre and doomed his companions.’

‘I have heard of such rumours,’ Branquier interrupted.

‘You ran, didn’t you?’ Corbett asked. ‘And the French found out. They not only offered you wealth but threatened to reveal your cowardice.’

Legrave just nodded and, putting his face in his hands, sobbed quietly.

‘You admit the charges?’ Branquier whispered.

‘He must stand trial,’ Symmes barked.

‘He has stood trial,’ de Molay replied, rising to his feet. ‘And has been found guilty.’

The grand master drew his great sword from its scabbard hanging on the corner of his chair. He walked down the other side of the table then stopped, glaring down at Legrave. He held the sword up just beneath the hilt like a priest holds a cross.

‘I, Jacques de Molay, Grand Master in the Order of the Templars, do find you, Sir Ralph Legrave, knight of that same order, guilty by your hand of the terrible crimes of murder and treason. What have you to say?’

Legrave raised his head.

‘Sentence is passed,’ de Molay intoned. ‘Execution will be carried out at first light tomorrow.’

‘You cannot do that!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Go back to your Chancery!’ de Molay retorted. ‘Look amongst the deeds and muniments, your royal charters and licences. I have the power of the axe, the scaffold and the tumbrel, Brother.’ De Molay looked back at Legrave. ‘I ask you for the final time: do you have anything to say?’

‘Nothing,’ Legrave replied. ‘Except, Grand Master. .’ He stared round the hall, seeing it for the last time. ‘All this will pass,’ Legrave whispered, ‘for our cause is finished. Our days are numbered. Our house will surely fall.’

De Molay went towards the door and came back, leading a group of serjeants. Symmes pulled Legrave to his feet. De Molay removed Legrave’s swordbelt, the sign of a knight.

‘Give him a priest,’ de Molay rasped. ‘Let his sins be shriven.’

The prisoner turned and, without a backward glance, was led out of the hall.

Corbett went towards the grand master, hands extended. ‘Sir, I bid you adieu.’

De Molay grasped his wrist; Corbett grew alarmed as the Templar seized it, holding it with all his strength. Ranulf cursed and stepped forward.

‘You are our guest,’ de Molay declared. ‘It is too late for you to return. You are the king’s commissioners. You must be his witnesses to our justice.’

Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. De Molay was right. Legrave’s execution would have to be witnessed. The king would demand that.

‘You object?’ de Molay asked curiously, still gripping Corbett’s hand.

‘I do not like to see any man die,’ Corbett replied. ‘Least of all at the block.’

De Molay released his hand. ‘It will be swift,’ he murmured. ‘So, sir, tell your servant to withdraw. Branquier and I have something to tell you.’

‘Master,’ Ranulf protested. ‘It is not — ’

‘Sir Hugh is safe,’ de Molay reiterated. ‘No harm will come to him. You have my oath.’

Corbett nodded; Ranulf and Maltote reluctantly went to the door.

‘Wait for him in the guesthouse,’ the grand master called out. ‘He may be some time. You have nothing to fear.’

Once the door closed behind them, de Molay gestured Corbett to sit, he and Branquier on either side of him.

‘You suspected,’ Corbett began.

‘I understood Baddlesmere’s riddle,’ de Molay replied. ‘Though I could not see how it could be true.’

‘And Philip of France’s meddling?’

‘The thought crossed my mind,’ de Molay replied. ‘At the Chapter in Paris, Legrave was often missing. I wondered if he was meeting some of Philip’s coven. The French king has always found us an irritation. We constantly remind him about how his sainted grandfather went to the aid of the Holy Places in Outremer. But something else; about eighteen months ago Philip, now a widower, actually applied to be admitted into our Order.’