Satan's Fire

Chapter 9

Corbett and his companions arrived back at Framlingham to find the manor in complete uproar. As soon as they dismounted in the stable yard, Baddlesmere, whiskers bristling, hurried out to greet them.

‘Sir Hugh!’ He swallowed hard. ‘You’d best come to see the grand master!’

Despite the warm sun and blue skies, Corbett felt his feeling of oppression return. He glanced round the stables: Templar soldiers, now doing the tasks of the ostlers and grooms, stared blankly at him.

‘There’s been another death, hasn’t there?’ Corbett asked.

Baddlesmere nodded, indicating with his hand for Corbett to follow him.

The clerk told Maltote to take care of the horses and, with Ranulf striding beside him, walked into the manor. Baddlesmere took them across a small cloister-garth and into the grand master’s chamber: a stark, unfurnished cell, much bigger than Corbett’s but just as austere with its whitewashed walls, black crucifix, and its stone floor covered with rushes. De Molay sat behind a small table, a metal crucifix in the centre. The other Templar commanders were already assembled, their agitation apparent from their grave faces and red-rimmed eyes.

De Molay rose as Corbett came in, snapping at Baddlesmere to bring in extra chairs. Once they were seated, the grand master tapped the top of the table.

‘Sir Hugh, whilst you were gone yesterday, Brother Odo died. Or rather, he was killed. Late in the afternoon he went fishing, as he often did, in his small boat, The Ghost of the Tower. He stayed on the lake some time: this was not out of the ordinary. A Templar serjeant watched him and was about to go down to tell him it was time for Vespers and the evening meal, when he saw flames in the prow. He was too late: Brother Odo and the boat were consumed in a sheet of fire.’

Corbett put his face into his hands and said softly, ‘I spoke to him just before I left for York, I visited him in the library. He showed me his chronicle; I could see how proud he was of it.’ Corbett gazed at the others. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘How could it happen?’

‘We don’t know,’ Branquier retorted. ‘We don’t bloody know, Corbett: that’s why we’re waiting for you. You are the king’s clerk.’ He jabbed a finger at him. ‘You were sent here to find out. So, find out!’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’ Legrave leaned forward. ‘How can Sir Hugh deal with this? Brother Odo went fishing, everything was calm and serene. For the love of God, the boat was in the centre of the lake! Nobody swam out. Nobody else was with him. Yet both he and the craft were consumed by a fire which not even the water of the lake could extinguish.’

‘What remains have been found?’ Ranulf asked abruptly.

The Templars looked at him with disdain.

Corbett spoke up. ‘My friend’s question is an important one.’

‘Very little,’ De Molay replied. ‘Brother Odo’s corpse was charred beyond recognition. A few burnt planks of the boat but that’s all.’

‘Nothing else?’ Corbett asked.

‘Nothing,’ de Molay replied. ‘Just floating, charred remains. It was difficult to tell one thing from the other.’

‘And who pulled these out?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well,’ Branquier replied, ‘the Templar serjeant could do nothing. He raised the alarm and we all hurried down to the lakeside. Another boat, moored some distance away, was used: by then the flames were beginning to die down. Brother Odo’s remains have already been sheeted and coffined, he’ll be buried tonight. What we want to know, Sir Hugh, is why this happened? And how can it be stopped?’

Corbett gazed across the room: the tun of wine he’d brought as a gift from the king stood broached on a side-table, the red wax seal of the vintner now hanging down like a huge blob of blood. He sighed and pushed back his chair.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Though I tell you this: forget the tittle-tattle and gossip about fires from hell.’

Corbett then told them what he had found on the Botham Bar road. De Molay sat up, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘So you know the name of the victim and how he died?’

‘Yes. I also believe someone was in that wood, using a strange form of fire. Now, when I listened to Brother Odo’s account of the fall of Acre the evening before last, he talked of the Turks throwing fire into the city.’

‘But that was nothing,’ Branquier intervened. ‘Just bundles of wood faggots, soaked in tar, lit, then thrown as a fire ball by a catapult or mangonel.’

‘Are you saying the same thing is happening here?’ Symmes asked.

Corbett saw movement beneath the knight’s gown and realised the Templar still had his pet weasel with him.

‘But that’s impossible,’ Baddlesmere scoffed before Corbett could reply. ‘Such fires are clumsy. Nothing more than heaps of burning material. How can that explain the death of Reverchien at the centre of a maze? Nobody else was there. Or Peterkin in the kitchen? And, as for Brother Odo. .’

‘What about a fire arrow?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Covered in tar and pitch.’ He shrugged. ‘I know, before you answer, if a fire arrow had been loosed into Brother Odo’s craft, he would have tried to put it out and, if that failed, just jumped into the water and swam for shore.’ He paused. ‘Grand Master, may I ask one favour?’

De Molay spread his hands.

‘Permission,’ Corbett continued, ‘to go round this manor, to question whom I like, to poke my long nose — as others put it — into your affairs.’

‘Granted,’ de Molay replied. ‘On one condition, Sir Hugh. The chambers I showed you yesterday? You must stay well away from those. As for the rest, we are in your hands.’

Corbett thanked him and left.

‘Did you really believe that?’ Ranulf hissed as they walked back to the guesthouse.

‘Corbett stopped. ‘Believe what, Ranulf?’

‘Fire arrows!’

‘What else could I say? Here we have a man fishing in the centre of a lake. Within minutes, nay, seconds even, both he and the boat are consumed by fire. What else could have caused it?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It’s a wild guess but the best I can do.’ He plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and drew him into a window embrasure. ‘Whatever we discover,’ he whispered, ‘we keep silent about it. I believe the assassin was in that room.’

‘What about the masked rider in the woods?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know, but he wasn’t in that kitchen when Peterkin died. Now the assassin, this Sagittarius, could be de Molay, or one of the other four, or any combination of them working together. I don’t know why the assassin strikes and 1 don’t know how but, whoever it is, he now realises, thanks to our discovery on the Botham Bar road, that we have glimpsed some of the truth.’

‘In which case he may try to shut our mouths.’

‘He’s tried that already,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but yes, he may try it again. In doing so, though, he might make a mistake.’

Corbett poked his head out and looked down the empty passageway. ‘I said that we would stay together, but now we’ll have to work separately. You and Maltote are to scour this manor. Examine the smithy, go out into the fields and copses. Look for any trace of fire or scorch-marks and, if possible, some secret forge.’

‘And you, Master?’

‘I am going to the library. Brother Odo may have died not because he lived in this manor but also because he discovered something. The assassin must have seen me visit him. I believe the truth, or some of it, lies amongst Brother Odo’s papers.’

Ranulf went back to the guesthouse to collect Maltote whilst Corbett, taking directions from one of the guards, traced his steps back to the library. The door was open. He went inside and stared round the long, shadow-filled room.

‘God rest you, Brother Odo,’ he whispered. ‘And God forgive me if I was responsible for your death.’

He walked down the library to Brother Odo’s carrel; the table was littered with scraps of paper and the great roll of vellum containing Odo’s chronicle. Corbett laid this out flat: he turned over the squares of vellum, following the dramatic history of the fall of Acre. Corbett searched this carefully, wondering if the manuscript contained some reference to the secret fire. However, although Odo’s drawings contained mangonels throwing flaming bundles of tar, there was nothing significant. Corbett closed it with a sigh and picked up the scraps of parchment. Some were old scribblings but one caught Corbett’s eye. Apparently done on the day he died, Odo had drawn the picture of a long-nosed clerk and beside it a rough drawing of a crow. Corbett smiled at the pun on his own name, ‘le Corbeil’, the French word for ‘crow’. The rest of the jottings, however, were in some form of shorthand. Corbett remembered Brother Odo’s description of Anglo-Saxon runes. There were the same markings, done time and time again, all with question marks beside them. A few he could decipher, though he found it impossible to make sense of them all. He went back along the library, searching amongst the shelves until he found what he was looking for: a thick, yellow-leaved ‘Codex Grammaticus’, bound in calf-skin and kept together by a huge clasp. Corbett pulled this from the shelf and took it back to the carrel. He opened it and began to leaf through: the codex contained references to Greek and Hebrew and, in a well-thumbed appendix at the end, all the letters of the alphabet with the Anglo-Saxon runes beside them. Corbett seized a quill, took Odo’s scrap of paper and tried to decipher the dead librarian’s scrawls. At first he could make no sense, the runes formed words which did not exist, then Corbett remembered that Odo had used Latin in his chronicle. He tried again and the words were deciphered: ‘Ignis Diaboli’, ‘Devil Fire’; ‘Liber Ignium’, ‘The Book of Fires’, and, finally a phrase repeated time and again, ‘Bacon’s Mystery’.

‘Sweet God in heaven!’ Corbett whispered. ‘What on earth can that refer to?’

The Devil’s fire, he thought: that’s how Odo described the flames which consumed poor Peterkin and his colleague Reverchien. The ‘Book of Fires’? Was that some sort of grimoire? A book of spells? And ‘Bacon’s Mystery’? What had that got to do with the terrible fires? Corbett, mystified, got to his feet: for a while he searched for an index to what the library contained but, when he found it, he could discover no reference to a ‘Book of Fires’, or anything which would clarify the phrase ‘Bacon’s Mystery’. He was just clearing the desk, rolling up the notes he had made, when he heard a sound at the back of the library, the creak of a door followed by the bolts being driven home. Corbett rose. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he stared down the library, but all he could see were the dustmotes dancing in the sunbeams above the highly polished floor.

‘Who’s there?’ he called. Corbett moved to one side. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated.

‘Knowest thou that we go forth and return.’ The voice was low and unrecognisable, though the words rang hollow round the library, like the sombre tolling of a death knell.

Corbett heard another sound, a metallic click. He threw himself sideways even as the crossbow bolt whipped by his head and smacked into the wall behind him.

‘Knowest thou,’ the voice grew louder, ‘that what thou possesses shall escape thee in the end and return to us.’

Again the click. Corbett, now hiding behind the shelves, heard the thud as another barbed quarrel sank into the woodwork above his head. Corbett fought hard to control his breathing. He stared wildly around: the windows were too small, no escape there.

‘Knowest thou,’ the voice again intoned, ‘that we hold you and will keep thee until the account be closed!’

Corbett, lying flat, peered round the shelves. His heart skipped a beat. At the far end of the library stood a figure, a tilting helm on his head, a jet black robe covering him from head to toe, an arbalest in his hand. Corbett watched the winch being pulled back, he heard the catch click and a third bolt speed to where his head had been. Another sound, a footfall, the assassin was slowly drawing closer. If Corbett rose and ran towards him, he’d never be fast enough: a crossbow bolt would take him before he reached his mysterious assailant. Corbett’s mouth went dry. He fought hard to curb his fear. For some strange reason he kept thinking of a royal messenger riding up the pathway to Leighton Manor, Maeve hurrying down to greet him. .

Corbett wiped the sweat from his face and gripped his Welsh dagger even more firmly. He looked across the library and glimpsed a small postern door behind one of the carrels. ‘Oh, Christ Jesus,’ he prayed, ‘let it be unlocked.’

He pushed his head out but drew back quickly as another crossbow bolt whirred like a hawk through the air. Then he was up before the mysterious archer could fit another bolt. Swearing and cursing, Corbett pulled the carrel aside and raised the latch, but the door wouldn’t move. Corbett blindly crashed against it even as the footfalls behind him drew closer. Then he glimpsed the bolts on the top. He drew these back, the door opened, creaking on its leather hinges. Corbett was through it, slamming it shut even as the crossbow bolt thudded into the other side. The door led into a passageway and Corbett ran blindly round a corner, so quickly he knocked a Templar serjeant flying. Ignoring his shouts, Corbett continued running until he was through an open door which led into a small disused garden behind the tilt-yard.

For a while Corbett crouched to catch his breath then, resheathing his dagger, he made his way back to the guesthouse. He slammed and locked the door behind him, checked the chamber carefully and sprawled on the bed. Eventually relief gave way to anger, a terrible fury at how he had been so nearly trapped. It was tempting to sweep through the manor demanding to see de Molay and seek an investigation, but what would that prove? Nothing except his own fear. The assassin would have slipped out of the library and be impossible to trace. Corbett got up and splashed water over his face. He dried himself slowly, recalling the cloaked figure, the arbalest and the bolts whistling through the air all around him.

‘At least,’ Corbett whispered, ‘I know you are not from Hell.’

He paused: the attack in the library had been a desperate move. Was that why Odo had been killed? To prevent him discovering the cause of that dreadful fire? The assassin would have checked the carrel but, unaware of the runes, he would have overlooked the piece of parchment Corbett now kept in his wallet. There was a knock on the door.

‘Master!’

Corbett went and unlocked it. Ranulf and Maltote swept excitedly into the room.

‘They are here!’ Maltote exclaimed.

‘Shut up!’ Ranulf shouted. ‘I found them, Master, scorch-marks, the same as we found on the Botham Bar road. You remember the trees which ring the curtain wall around the manor? Well, Maltote and I discovered them there.’ He peered at his master’s face. ‘Don’t you want to come? Master, what has happened?’

Corbett told them.

‘In the library!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Why there, Master?’

‘First, because the assassin knew I was there. Secondly, he wanted to stop me from finding anything.’ Corbett withdrew the scrap of parchment from his wallet. ‘Forget the scorch-marks. Maltote, I want you to go back into York.’ Corbett crossed to the table and, seizing a quill, wrote a short note listing the phrases he had found in Odo’s carrel. ‘Go to the king, he’s staying in the archbishop’s palace at York Minster!’ He handed over the message. ‘Give this to him. If he interrogates you about what has happened here, tell him-’ Corbett pulled a face ‘-well, tell him the truth. But I need an answer to that as soon as possible.’

‘Can I go with him?’ Ranulf asked expectantly.

‘No, you can’t. A few more days away from the fleshpots of York will do your soul, not to mention your body, the world of good.’

Maltote hurriedly went to fill the saddlebag. He came back to make his farewells and almost ran down the passageway.

‘Well, there goes a happy man,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘But what do we do?’

‘Let’s go for a walk, Ranulf. The sunshine and fresh air will do us good.’

They sauntered out into the grounds. Corbett did his best to relax. They first went back to the library. The door was now open but when Corbett returned to the carrel, he found the crossbow bolts had been pulled from the woodwork. Apart from a few scratches on the carrel and postern door, there was little sign of any disturbance. They walked back to the stables. After making a few inquiries, Corbett found the serjeant who had seen Odo and his boat burst into flames.

‘Come,’ Corbett said, ‘let’s walk to the edge of the lake. Tell us what you saw.’

The serjeant shrugged, threw down the belt he had been mending and walked with them, describing what he’d seen.

‘How long had Brother Odo been fishing?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘Oh, it must have been some time, two or three hours.’

‘And you were on guard?’

‘Yes, I was patrolling the meadow, bored out of my mind. Every so often I would look down at the lake. I was hot, I grew tired.’ He paused as they entered the cool shade of the trees which fringed the edge of the lake. ‘When I looked up, I saw the flame; it was as if the fire had sprung from the lake itself.’

Corbett pointed to the wooden causeway which stretched out into the lake.

‘Odo’s boat, The Ghost of the Tower, was moored here?’

‘Oh yes. Odo would climb in, row himself out, then sit for hours with his rod and line.’

Corbett walked on to the causeway. It felt strange to have the lake moving and shimmering on either side. At the end of the platform, he peered down at fire-blackened fragments being washed to and fro.

‘And you came down here?’

‘Well, by the time I reached where you stand there was nothing left, just fire.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the fire burnt out the bottom of the boat but the lake seemed to make little difference to it.’ The Templar looked worried. ‘That’s what made me think it was Devil’s fire.’

‘And when the flames did die?’ Corbett asked.

‘It took some time. Afterwards all that remained was wood, a few scraps of cloth and Brother Odo’s mangled remains.’

‘Is the lake well stocked with fish?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Of course,’ the serjeant replied. ‘Especially with trout. The kitchen often serve it, nice and fresh, covered in a cream sauce.’

‘But you saw no fish?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, if Brother Odo had been fishing for hours and the lake’s well stocked, he must have made a considerable catch.’

‘I didn’t see any fish but they may have burnt.’

Corbett thanked him and the serjeant walked back into the line of trees.

‘You think Odo was already dead when the fire broke out, don’t you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Ranulf walked carefully backwards along the wooden causeway. ‘Have you noticed, Master, how the trees on either side of the lake grow out and conceal this platform from view? Odo wouldn’t be seen until he was in the centre of the lake. I think he was killed before he ever got into that boat. His body was lashed upright. He wore his cloak and cowl so nobody from the shore would notice. And why should an old Templar wear a cloak and cowl on a warm spring day? Moreover, if he was fishing, where is his catch, burnt or not?’

Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Ranulf, but the question still remains: how did the fire start?’

‘Well, that’s why I think he was dead,’ Ranulf continued. ‘Remember, Master, the serjeant said he saw flames licking the boat but Odo never moved to douse them, nor did he spring up in alarm or attempt to escape.’ He blew his breath out. ‘But that’s all I can say. How the fire was started is a mystery.’

They walked back up the meadow. Half-way up, Corbett sat down, stretching his legs in the long grass. He leaned back on his hands, stared up at the blue sky, then closed his eyes. He savoured the warmth, the sweet smell of crushed grass and wild flowers, the chattering of birds in the trees and the melodious bee hum.

‘If I keep my eyes closed,’ he murmured, ‘I’d say this was paradise.’

Ranulf moaned. ‘If I was in a tavern in Cheapside with a blackjack of ale in my right hand and the other on the knee of a pretty doxy, I’d agree, Master.’ He tore at the grass. ‘Master, these warnings from the sect of Assassins. Why has the killer chosen them?’

Corbett opened his eyes. ‘The Assassins are an Islamic sect,’ he replied. ‘Garbed in white, with blood-red girdles and slippers. They live under the command of their leader, the Old Man of the Mountain, in their castle, the Eagle’s Nest near the Dead Sea. I have heard the king speak of them. Their fortress stands on the summit of an unclimbable mountain. Inside it are walled gardens filled with exotic trees, marble fountains, beautiful flowerbeds and silk-carpeted pavilions. The members of this sect, the ‘Devoted Ones’, are fed saffron cakes and wine drugged with opiates. They dream of Paradise: every so often the Old Man sends them out to kill those he has marked down for death.

‘Now the Assassins did terrible work amongst the Crusaders.’ Corbett sat up and stared down at the lake. ‘They are a nightmare, phantoms from hell, who stir up black terrors, particularly in our king’s soul. Edward still dreams about the attack on him some thirty years ago.’

‘Could there be Assassins in the Templar Order?’ Ranulf asked, ‘apostates who have renounced their vows? Or better still,’ he hurried on, ‘what if the Assassins are using this Templar coven to weaken the Western Kingdoms?’

Corbett got to his feet, brushing the grass from his hose.

‘I can’t answer, Ranulf, but I do think it’s time we spoke to the grand master.’

They returned to the manor house and, after a while, secured an audience with de Molay. The grand master sat at his desk littered with manuscripts. He gestured for them to sit.

‘Sir Hugh.’ De Molay rubbed his face. ‘This cannot go on for ever. I have to travel back to France. The king’s ban must be lifted.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked, recalling the messenger he had seen pounding along the Botham Bar road. ‘Is there a fresh crisis in Paris?’

De Molay sifted amongst the documents. ‘Yes, of course there is. The attack on Philip of France was carried out by a Templar. The serjeant in question was one of those hotheads. He was handed over to the Inquisition and, yes, he did confess.’

‘But I told you that.’

‘What you don’t know,’ de Molay replied, ‘is that a few days ago Philip of France was crossing the Grand Ponte, returning to the Louvre Palace after visiting the tombs at St Denis. Apparently,’ de Molay threw the piece of parchment back on the desk, ‘another attempt was made on his life. Paris is swept by rumours and scandals, the Chapter demands my return.’

‘And is there any truth in the rumours?’

De Molay refused to meet his gaze.

‘Grand Master,’ Corbett insisted, ‘I am not your enemy. I admire your Order. Men like Brother Odo and Sir Guido were true knights of the Cross but, for God’s sake, open your eyes, there’s something rotten here. Did you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘about the rumours and allegations of sodomy amongst your company?’

De Molay glanced up angrily. ‘Don’t preach to me, Corbett! I can list bishops and their mistresses, priests who visit whores, noble lords with a penchant for page-boys. Of course there are brethren here who are subject to the frailties of the flesh, as you or I!’ he snapped.

‘And these murders?’ Corbett asked. ‘Grand Master, can you explain them? Or why a Templar should send the same warnings as those of the Old Man of the Mountain? Could one of your Order, or more, be apostates, Assassins? What is your relationship with that sect?’

De Molay leaned back in his chair, playing with a thin-bladed parchment knife. ‘For centuries,’ he replied, ‘the Templar Order guarded the Holy Places. We built our castles. We put down roots. We made peace with those around us. Just because a man worships Allah and meets you in battle does not mean that in peace you can’t sit down at the same table to exchange ideas, gifts and presents.’

‘But the Assassins?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, even with the Assassins. They control some trade routes: certain territories are under their jurisdiction. They are as amenable to bribes as any other.’

‘So, your Order did business with them?’

‘Yes and, before you ask, Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere and William Symmes once served an embassy to the Eagle’s Nest. They were entertained by the Old Man of the Mountain.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and Symmes have seen the beautiful gardens, drunk the iced sherbert, listened to the Old Man’s speeches. Yes, they’ve been his guests, but that does not make them apostates. The Assassins are not our enemies.’

‘Then who are?’ Corbett asked.

‘The Western princes,’ de Molay replied. ‘They see our manors, our granges, our barns, our well-stocked herds and fertile fields. The treasures of the Temple in Paris, London, Cologne, Rome and Avignon make their fingers itch. What do the Templars do, they ask? Why do they need such power and wealth? Should it not be better used for other purposes?’

‘So you have no idea who the assassin could be?’ Corbett insisted.

‘No more than you do, Sir Hugh!’ De Molay pushed the parchment aside and picked up a letter. ‘I am sending a messenger to the king.’

Corbett nodded.

‘I am going to beg him,’ de Molay continued, ‘for licence to return to France.’ He leaned on the table and glared across at Corbett. ‘Now there’s a thought, Sir Hugh: here am I, Grand Master of Christendom’s premier fighting Order, yet I have to beg to travel home, offer money as a surety for my good conduct.’ De Molay’s face became suffused with rage. ‘Now, God forgive me Sir Hugh for saying so, but such humiliation would make a saint plot revenge!’

A few hours later, in the woods overlooking the lake, Sagittarius sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. He picked at the lichen and moss and stared at the cross-hilt of his sword buried in the ground before him. He looked at the cross engraved on the hilt and his face became hard. He rocked himself backwards and forwards. His master, or at least his new one, was right, the Order was finished. And what good would it do then? He stared out across the lake and thought of Brother Odo.

‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.

Yes, he was truly sorry the old one had to die but, with his long memory and meddling ways, the librarian could have proved a danger. Sagittarius licked his lips as he remembered the wine tun Corbett had brought. He had seen it broached, noticing the red seal with the vintner’s mark stamped on it, round as a coin, boldly displaying the year 1292. The wine had tasted rich and mellow on his tongue. Perhaps one day he would have such riches and be able to call up what he wanted. And who could oppose him? The Templars? Stupid, brawny men, frightened by their own secrets and mysterious rituals, scampering about like chickens without their heads. He grasped the hilt of his sword, pulled it out of the soil and lay it over his lap, cleaning the dirt from its point. Corbett was his only danger. The first time the clerk should have been frightened but, in the library, if it hadn’t been for that bloody door, he’d have caught and killed him. What a storm that would have provoked! He dared not creep out of the manor and try to enter York, that would be dangerous. So what next? He recalled the gossip and rumours he had heard, the hints and the sniggers. The assassin sat down on the log and coolly planned other murders.