Satan's Fire

Chapter 12

Immediate consternation broke out: the commanders leaping up, daggers drawn, chairs falling back. More soldiers rushed into the hall, swords out, arbalests loaded. The captain of the royal guard rapped out orders, his men gathered in a small circle facing outwards round their prisoners, weapons ready. Corbett recovered from his surprise and shouted for silence. Whilst he did so, he gazed quickly at the Templar commanders; all of them, de Molay included, looked as if they had seen a ghost.

‘There will be silence!’ Corbett roared. He drew from his pouch the Secret Seal he always carried. ‘Every man here will put away his weapons. I am the king’s commissioner.’ He continued at the top of his voice. ‘I carry the Royal Writ. It is treason to oppose me.’

His threats eased the tension: swords were sheathed, de Molay rapped out orders. The Templar serjeants withdrew, the royal guard also relaxed. Corbett approached their captain, who now took off his heavy conical helmet. He cradled it in his arms, wiping the sweat and water from his face. His prisoner stood swaying, oblivious to what was going on around him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain stretched forth his hand. ‘Ebulo Montibus, Knight Banneret. I bring greetings from the king.’

Corbett clasped his hand.

‘I never thought,’ the captain continued, ‘that I would receive such a welcome. After all, the man has done no wrong.’

‘It’s a long story, Captain.’

Symmes came forward: he caught Baddlesmere just before he fell and helped him to a chair.

‘If he’s done no wrong, why is he chained?’ Branquier snapped. He filled a goblet of wine and passed it down to the prisoner.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Montibus snorted. ‘The king’s proclamation was very clear: no Templar was to leave Framlingham Manor.’

‘And where did you find him?’ Corbett asked.

‘Trying to smuggle his way through Micklegate Bar. He wore no Templar livery but the saddlebags he carried contained enough evidence about who he was. The city bailiffs arrested him. He was detained in the castle and the king ordered him to be brought back here.’ The captain smacked his lips and looked at the table. ‘It’s a witch’s night,’ he continued. ‘My men are cold, hungry.’

‘Then be our guest.’ De Molay intervened smoothly. ‘Legrave, take our guests into the kitchen. The chains can be removed, can’t they?’

Montibus agreed. Baddlesmere’s leg irons and wrist gyves were unlocked, falling to a heap on the floor. Baddlesmere, however, sat like a man poleaxed. Now and again he would blink or drink greedily from the goblet. His escort disappeared into the kitchen; only Montibus stayed. Corbett took his seat. Maltote stood staring, open-mouthed, like a cow over a hedge.

Ranulf, delighted by the surprising diversion, grinned from ear to ear. He came down and whispered an Corbett’s ear, ‘Nothing is what it appears to be, eh, Master?’

‘Did he commit a crime?’ de Molay asked.

‘Not that we know of,’ Montibus replied. ‘Except that he broke the royal prohibition.’

‘It’s the first time ever,’ Ranulf remarked with a laugh, retaking his seat, ‘that I have sat at table with a man who is supposed to be dead, buried and his Requiem sung.’

‘Shut up!’ Branquier snarled, his face white with fury.

Ranulf just smiled back. Baddlesmere slammed the goblet down on the table. He gave a deep sigh then slouched forward, shoulders hunched, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Montibus was ignoring all this, piling the trancher in front of him with scraps of chicken and pork. He began to eat hungrily then, struck at last by Ranulf’s words, and by the tense silence, looked up. ‘What is this?’ His face grew serious as he stared round at the company. ‘What did you mean, a man who’s supposed to be dead and buried?’

‘Captain,’ Corbett intervened. ‘Eat your food and drink your wine. You and your men can stay the night. I am sure the grand master’s hospitality will extend to that. Sir Bartholomew, there are questions I must ask, though this is not the place.’

‘No, it is not,’ de Molay remarked, rising to his feet. ‘Branquier, Sir Hugh, bring Baddlesmere to my chamber.’

Corbett whispered to Ranulf to look after the royal guard, then followed a shuffling Baddlesmere, held by Branquier, out of the hall and along the corridors into the grand master’s chamber. For a while Baddlesmere just sat muttering to himself, rubbing his mouth and staring vacuously around.

‘He’s lost his wits,’ Branquier commented.

‘Sir Bartholomew,’ de Molay thundered. ‘You must tell us what happened! Your chamber was burnt. The corpses of two men were found on the bed, blackened and burnt beyond recognition. We thought one of them was you.’

Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘I am a worm and no man,’ he intoned. ‘My sins, my sins are always before me!’

‘What sins?’ Corbett asked quietly, moving the stool so he sat directly opposite the Templar. ‘What sins, Bartholomew?’

Baddlesmere lifted his head. ‘The sin of sodomy,’ he rasped. ‘Which cries out to God for vengeance.’

‘And yet,’ Corbett replied, quoting from the Bible, “‘though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” You loved Scoudas, didn’t you?’

Baddlesmere plucked at a loose thread in his rain-sodden hose.

‘I became a Templar,’ he began slowly, ‘as a young man. I wanted to be a knight in shining armour, dying for the Cross. No, even before that, as a child: I used to sleep in my mother’s room. She would bring men home. I’d hear her groaning and scrabbling in the bed. I was only a stripling. By the time I was fourteen, I knew I could never take a woman. I wanted to be pure, cold as ice and white as snow: clean and God-fearing before the Lord.’ Baddlesmere pulled a face. ‘And so I was. I became a Templar, a warrior, a monk, a priest. I had temptations of the flesh but I could control them, until I met Scoudas. At first I loved him like the son I never had but always wanted. His skin was smooth, white as satin. .’

‘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.’

Corbett rose and groaned, shielding his eyes against the sunlight pouring in through the open shutters.

‘Maltote and I have been up hours. We broke our fast in the refectory, gobbling away whilst the community just glared at us. Montibus has gone.’

Corbett groaned. ‘Oh, no!’ He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face, pushing the books away. ‘I wanted him to stay. He might have afforded us some protection.’

Ranulf’s face became serious. ‘The Templars wouldn’t attack us surely, not royal envoys?’

‘Oh, not attack, but you or I, my dear Ranulf, could suffer some dreadful accident.’

‘Tell him what we found,’ Maltote urged from where he sat perched on a stool busily sewing a stirrup leather.

‘Oh yes.’ Ranulf handed Corbett a rag tied in a knot at the neck.

‘Undo it carefully, Master.’

Corbett did so and stared at the burnt leather fragments.

‘What’s this?’ He touched one piece and it crumbled into flakes. One small part, however, still remained firm and smooth.

‘It’s leather,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Scraps of leather. We found them in the woods where those scorch-marks were: little pieces blown about by the breeze.’

Corbett placed the rag carefully on the bed. He took each scrap, scrutinising it closely before putting it back. He then got to his feet, stretched, and took off his jerkin and shirt. He went across to wash his face and hands, telling Maltote to get seme hot water from the scullery as he also wished to shave.

‘Well?’ Ranulf asked anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

‘They are burnt scraps of leather,’ Corbett replied, rubbing his hands with the small bar of soap he’d bought from a merchant in Beverley. ‘They may be fragments of a sack used to carry what the Ancients called “Devil’s fire”.’

Ranulf immediately began to question him, but Corbett just shook his head and, when Maltote returned, concentrated on his shaving, asking Ranulf to hold the mirror steady in his hands.

‘Once I am finished,’ Corbett smiled at Ranulf, ‘get me some food from the kitchen — but make sure you see who handles it. Whilst I eat, I’ll tell you a story.’

As Corbett dried himself off, Ranulf hurried out and returned with a linen cloth bearing loaves and a stoup of ale.

‘So,’ Corbett rubbed his chin and sat down at the table. ‘Now I have finished my ablutions, let me tell you what those books contained. First, the fire is not from hell, it’s man-made.’

Corbett bit into one of the loaves, Ranulf shuffled his feet impatiently.

‘At first,’ Corbett continued, ‘I thought the fire could have been started by some form of oil but that’s not safe. Sometimes oil is difficult to burn, especially when it congeals. Now Brother Odo, God rest his soul, also realised this. He must have examined his chronicle and recalled the fire missiles the Turks threw into Acre. Now these were nothing extraordinary: a mixture of tar and pitch, poured over some rags, torched as they lay in a catapult, then cast in amongst the defenders. I’ve seen the same happen at sieges: straw or rags coated with sulphur and then lit.

‘But this fire is different. Odo realised that. A student of warfare, he recalled two books. The first is an ancient tract called the “Liber Ignium” or “Book of Fires”. The second is much more interesting: Friar Bacon’s letter, “De Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae”. Now both these works describe a very dangerous substance, a mixture of elements which, if exposed to the naked flame, creates fire difficult to put out even with water.’

‘And you think this caused these murders?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Perhaps. The “Liber” describes the mixture as sulphur, tartar and a substance called “Sal Coctum” or cooked salt. Bacon is more specific: he mentions a substance called saltpetre. Now Friar Bacon conceals his discovery behind riddles and anagrams but, if he is to be believed, this saltpetre mixed with sulphur and tartar will ignite immediately.’

‘But you said,’ Ranulf declared, ‘that Bacon was regarded by many as witless.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Friar Bacon acquired his learning from the Arabs. According to them, this substance was known to the ancient Greeks as well as the armies of Byzantium which used it to destroy a Muslim fleet; hence its name: “Greek” or “Sea fire”.’

‘And, of course,’ Ranulf added, ‘all the Templar commanders have served in Outremer. They might know of this secret.’

Corbett popped a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘More importantly, the Templars have some of the finest libraries in the world, especially in London and in Paris,’ he said. ‘However, though de Molay and his companions might know the secret, they are too engrossed in what is happening to their Order: all they can see are these dreadful deaths and the consequent scandals.’ Corbett sipped at the ale. ‘Brother Odo was different: more detached, more serene, he was a born scholar. The assassination of Reverchien must have stirred memories. He was searching for what I’ve found.’

‘But can you prove all this?’ Ranulf asked.

‘If necessary but — ’

The door was abruptly thrown open and de Molay burst into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, you must come immediately! It’s Baddlesmere. .’

The grand master strode out, leaving Corbett no choice but to follow, Ranulf and Maltote hurrying behind. De Molay strode ahead, not even bothering to look back. He went round the back of the manor into the servants’ quarters, up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway. The guards outside the chamber opened the door, de Molay went in and Corbett followed.

‘Oh, my God!’

The clerk immediately turned away. Baddlesmere, dressed in shirt and hose, swung from the end of a sheet which had been tied round one of the rafters. He looked grisly yet pathetic: his face had turned a dark purple, eyes popping, tongue clenched between half-opened lips. His corpse twirled like some grotesque doll in the breeze coming through the arrow-slit window. Corbett drew his dagger and, helped by Ranulf, got the corpse down and laid him on the trestle bed. De Molay stood just inside the door, his face marble-white, dark circles round his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but instead just shook his head.

‘Grand Master, what did you say?’

De Molay’s lips moved but no sound came out. Instead he clutched his stomach, pushed Corbett aside and rushed out towards one of the latrines built into an alcove in the corridor. They heard him being violently sick.

‘Is it suicide?’ Ranulf whispered.

Corbett studied the corpse, examining the nails carefully, the position of the knot behind the left ear. He lifted the shirt, examined the man’s torso, then sawed through the knot with his dagger. He tried to arrange the corpse in as dignified a pose as possible and covered it with Baddlesmere’s cloak.

‘He committed suicide,’ Corbett muttered. He pointed up at the rafters then at the bed. ‘So simple, to walk from life into death. Baddlesmere stood on the bed, fashioned that noose, put it round his neck and kicked the bed away.’

‘What’s this?’ Ranulf leaned across the bed and pointed to a carved scrawl on the wall.

Corbett studied this carefully and, looking amongst Baddlesmere’s possessions, realised the dead man had carved this, using the buckle of his belt, now worn down on one corner.

‘What does it say?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett studied the words. ‘“Veritas,”’ he read, “‘Stat in ripa.” Truth stands on the bank,’ he muttered. ‘What on earth did Baddlesmere mean by that? The tag usually reads, “Veritas stat in media via”; “Truth stands in the Middle way”.’

‘I found him hanging!’

Corbett whirled round: de Molay stood in the doorway.

‘He was here last night, with a jug of water and bread. Two guards stood outside.’

‘And they heard nothing?’

De Molay shook his head. ‘They heard him moving around early in the morning: he was singing the “Dies Irae”. You know the sequence from the Mass of the Dead. How does it go, Corbett? “O Day of Wrath! O Day of Mourning! Heaven and Earth in Ashes Burning”.’

“‘See What Fear Man’s Bosom Renders,”’ Corbett continued, “‘When from Heaven the Judge Descendeth on Whose Sentence All Dependeth!”’

De Molay knelt by the bed, crossing himself. When the others came, Branquier. Legrave and Symmes, Corbett walked back down the stairs and out into the fresh air. De Molay joined him there, Legrave beside him.

‘Before you ask, Grand Master, Sir Bartholomew committed suicide.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Overcome by remorse, fearful of what he had been implicated in, unable to accept the disgrace.’

‘I came up,’ de Molay remarked, ‘just to greet him as a brother.’ He glanced at Legrave. ‘He can’t be buried in hallowed ground.’

‘But, Grand Master,’ Legrave exclaimed, ‘he was my brother as well! I knew Sir Bartholomew. We fought at Acre together.’

De Molay glanced expectantly at Corbett.

‘Charity lies at the root of all laws,’ Corbett declared. ‘I do not think Christ will judge him as harshly as you do.’

‘Strange,’ de Molay murmured. ‘All these deaths by fire. When I was a child, Corbett, playing in the fields outside Carcassone, I taunted a witch, an old woman, who lived in a shabby hut built against the wall overlooking the ditch. With all the foolishness and ignorance of youth, I shouted that she should burn. She approached me, eyes gleaming. “No, de Molay,” she screeched back. “You will die in fire and smoke!”’ De Molay rubbed his eyes. ‘I always wondered what she meant. Now I know: there are different forms of fire and there are different kinds of death.’

And, not waiting for an answer, the grand master spun on his heel and walked away. Legrave followed him. Corbett watched them go then beckoned Ranulf and Maltote over.

‘Get your horses ready,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to go to York. Seek out Claverley.’ He dug into his pouch and handed them a small scrap of parchment. ‘Scour the city, buy these mixtures, but keep each separate. Claverley will assist you.’

‘Where shall we look?’

‘Among the charcoal-burners of the city. It may take some time, but remember what I said: keep each substance separate and bring them back as soon as you can.’

Within the hour, Ranulf and Maltote had left the manor. Corbett decided to stay in his own chamber. He examined this carefully, locking the shutters on the window before going out to find a long ash pole to lie across the bottom of the door. As he did this, Corbett noticed the gap between the door and floor. For a while, he stood and stared at the long piece of leather hung on the back of the door to exclude draughts. Corbett smiled. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured.

He had a vague idea how each of the victims had died, but not of the motive or the identity of the assassin. He laid out his writing implements on the table and, for a while, studied what he had written, trying to recall conversations, incidents, gestures and expressions. His mind kept going back to Baddlesmere’s death scene: the corpse swaying slightly and that enigmatic inscription carved on the wall.

‘Truth doesn’t stand on the bank,’ Corbett murmured. ‘It stands in the middle way. What did Baddlesmere mean by that nonsense?’

He slept for a while, then got up and went down to the kitchen to beg for some food; a surly, hard-eyed retainer almost flung it at him. Later in the afternoon there was a knock on the door, de Molay asking if all was well? Corbett shouted that it was and returned to his studies. He decided to concentrate on the first item of evidence: the assassins’ warning. Once again Corbett noticed how there were two versions.

‘Why, why, why?’ Corbett muttered to himself. ‘Why are they different?’

There was the message left in St Paul’s with which the Baddlesmere version agreed, as did the words spoken in the library: these three differed slightly from Claverley’s and the one pushed into his hand on Ouse bridge. Every story, Corbett thought, has a common source, be it a love poem or some message. It only changes when it’s passed on. Baddlesmere learnt about the warning when the king met de Molay and the other Templar commanders at the Priory. But why was the warning delivered to him on Ouse bridge the same as that given by Claverley? Corbett’s hand went to his face.

‘Oh, sweet God!’ he murmured. ‘So much for your fine logic, Corbett!’

He returned to his scribblings, following a new direction, concentrating on when the warnings were given as well as the recent attack on him in York.

Corbett looked up. ‘The Templars may have been in York when the warning was passed,’ he whispered, ‘but they were definitely gone when I was attacked.’

He snatched his pen up. Ergo, he wrote, the attack was planned by someone else. Corbett nibbled the tip of the quill. Once he had suspected Baddlesmere and Scoudas; in reality both men were innocent, more absorbed in their own sin than anything else. Corbett drew two circles on the parchment, then drew a line joining them. He got up, opened the shutter and stared out at the dusk. Some of the riddle was resolved, the how and the why, but who? Whom did Baddlesmere suspect? And what did that inscription mean? Was it a pointer to the truth? A warning to the assassin, or both? ‘Veritas stat’ Corbett translated as ‘Truth stands’, but ‘in ripa’? He went back and began to play with the words, changing them round, but this proved nothing. He picked up the warning the little boy had given him on Ouse Bridge, then he looked down at his jottings: did I, Corbett wondered, tell anyone about that? And, if not, who amongst the Templars mentioned it? He racked his brains but his eyes were growing heavy. He made sure the door was secure, wrapped his cloak around him and lay down on the bed.