Satan's Fire

Chapter 5

Corbett and his companions returned to the guesthouse and changed for supper.

‘Make no mention about the attack on me,’ Corbett warned them as they returned along the passageway to the refectory.

The Templars were already assembled, seated round a table down the centre of the hall, which was a small, comfortable room, brightly caparisoned by banners hanging from the hammer-beam rafters. De Molay quickly said grace, blessing the food on the table, but then, before they sat down, a servant came in bearing a tray with goblets and an equal number of dishes containing bread sprinkled with salt. Each Templar and their three guests were given a cup and a piece of the salted bread.

‘Let us remember,’ de Molay intoned, ‘those of our brothers who have gone before us. Those of our comrades who have gone down into the dust.’

‘Amen!’ the Templars chorused.

Corbett glanced round the shadow-filled hall and suppressed a shiver, as if the ghosts of those on whom de Molay had called were now thronging all around them. He sipped from his cup and bit into the salted bread. Ranulf began to cough, but Corbett nudged him and Ranulf hurriedly ate the salted morsels.

‘Let us remember,’ de Molay continued, ‘those fair cities and fortresses which have fallen to our foes.’

Again the wine and bread were tasted.

‘Let us remember,’ de Molay spoke for a third time, ‘the Holy Places where the Lord Jesus ate, drank, suffered, died and rose again.’

After this the cups and plates were cleared. De Molay gestured at them to sit and the supper began. Despite such a sombre toast, the meal proved to be delicious: spiced pheasant, jugged hare, dishes of fresh vegetables, cups of claret, and whilst the sweetmeats were served, iced wine from Alsace. Corbett sipped the wine and remembered the king’s gift to de Molay as he listened to the conversation around him. Most of the talk was about matters abroad, as if the Templars wished to forget the recent occurrences. They talked of ships, corsairs in the Middle Sea, the recent Chapter in Paris and the great question of whether they should unite with the Hospitaller Order. Corbett and his two companions were not ignored, but never once were they drawn into the conversation. Only when Odo the librarian, a thin, bald-pated man with a flowing white beard joined them, did the conversation lighten. Odo was a carefree soul with a smiling mouth and laughter-filled eyes. Corbett immediately warmed to him.

‘You are boring our guests,’ Odo declared from the foot of the table. ‘You are not knights and gentlemen but grizzled old soldiers who don’t know any better.’ He bowed to de Molay. ‘Grand Master, I apologise for being late.’

‘Nonsense.’ De Molay smiled back. ‘We know you and your books. Brother Odo, and what you say is right. We should improve our manners.’

A scullion came from the kitchen and laid a fresh trancher in front of the librarian. Odo rested his elbows on the table and Corbett gaped: Odo had no left hand, nothing but a polished, wooden stump. Legrave, sitting opposite, leaned across.

‘We put up with Brother Odo,’ he whispered loudly, smiling down at the librarian who stared back in mock anger. ‘He will not like us telling you this, but Odo is a hero, a veritable paladin.’

‘It’s true!’ Branquier trumpeted. ‘Why do you think we put up with his speeches and bad manners?’

Corbett felt the deep admiration, even love for the old Templar.

‘In his time,’ Symmes declared, ‘Brother Odo was a knight of whom even Arthur or Roland and Oliver would have been proud.’

‘Oh, stop it!’ The librarian gestured with his good hand, though he openly revelled in this warm-hearted badinage.

‘He was at Acre,’ Legrave continued, ‘as we all were, but he defended the breach when the walls were broken. He was the last to leave. Tell us, Brother, tell our guests what happened.’

Corbett realised this was a ritual time-honoured, only this time with a difference. These men were desperate to show Corbett that, despite the rumours and whispered allegations, once, in a different age, they had been defenders of Christendom: heroes, saints in armour. The other Templars joined in, so Odo took a deep swig of wine and raised the polished stump.

‘I lost my hand in Acre,’ he began. ‘Yes, I was there when the city fell in March 1291.’ He stared round at the four Templar commanders. ‘You were there too.’

‘We broke and ran.’ Legrave did not lift his eyes. ‘We fled the city, our shields on our backs, our faces towards the sea.’

‘No you didn’t,’ Odo replied gently. ‘You had to retreat. I have told you hundreds of times: there’s no glory in dying. There’s no honour in a bloody corpse. There’s no pride in captivity.’

‘You didn’t flee,’ Branquier remarked.

‘Brother,’ de Molay tapped the hilt of his knife on the tablecloth. ‘In truth, you all have the advantage of me, I wasn’t even there. I have never known the scorching heat of the deserts of Outremer. I have never heard the blood-curdling cry of the Mamelukes nor felt the savage fury of battle. Acre did not fall because of us. But, because. .’ He caught Corbett’s gaze and his voice trailed off. Then the grand master looked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Tell us once again, Odo,’ he whispered. ‘Tell us how the city fell.’

‘The siege began in March.’ Odo’s voice was deep and mellow. He leaned back, closing his eyes, painting pictures with his words. ‘As you all know, Acre was a doomed city, yet the streets were full of life and the taverns thronged, feasting far into the night. Syrian and Greek girls filled the upper rooms of wine shops. A feverish excitement seized Acre as the Turks began to ring the city.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Why is it?’ he asked, ‘that when people are about to die, they dance even faster? Sir Hugh, have you ever been in battle?’

‘Ambuscades in Wales and in the wet heather on the Scottish march, but nothing like you, Brother Odo.’ Corbett glanced round at the Templars. ‘I cannot condemn any man for what he did in battle. I am not too sure how I would behave.’

Odo toasted him silently before continuing. ‘The final attack came in May. The thudding of the siege engines, the cracking of boulders against the crumbling walls of the city, the crash and roar of exploding fire — and those drums. Do you remember them, Brothers, the Mameluke drums constantly rattling?’

‘Even now,’ Branquier declared. ‘Sometimes at night, when I lie down to sleep in my cell, I can still hear that drumming.’ He stared round sheepishly. ‘I get up and stare through the window into the shadows amongst the trees. I wonder if Satan and all his army have come to taunt me.’

Odo nodded. ‘I was on the western wall,’ he continued. ‘A breach was caused and oil poured in, blackening the ground, creating a curtain of smoke. The Mamelukes filled in the ditches by stampeding columns of beasts of burden. These fell into the moat, were slaughtered, and so formed a bridge over which they could pour across. There were not many of us left. I was weary, blinded by smoke, my arms heavy.’ He paused. ‘Behind the smoke we could hear the songs of the dervishes, the rattle of their drums drawing closer. In the half-light, just before dawn, the first attack came: dark masses, as if hell was spitting out legions of demons. We fought them off but then armoured regiments of Mamelukes followed and the walls were taken. We fell back. We passed a group of monks, Dominicans. They had gathered together to sing the “Salve Regina”. We could do nothing to save them. All around us men were dying, burning in their towers, in the entrances to houses, or on the barricades across the alleyways.’

‘But you stopped them,’ Branquier intervened. ‘For a while, Brother Odo, you stopped them.’

‘Aye. There was a street leading down to the docks; everyone was fleeing there. All command had collapsed and the ships were filling up as fast as they could. I and about two dozen other Templars — chosen men — manned the last barricade.’ Odo straightened up. His face became youthful, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘We fought all afternoon,’ he declared. ‘And, as we did, we sang the “Paschale Laudes”, the Easter hymn, until even the Infidels pulled back and promised us our lives. We laughed at them. They closed again. Balls of fire rained down on the barricades; then there was blackness.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘When I woke up I was in one of the transports fleeing out to the open sea. My left hand was gone; Acre had fallen. I later learnt one man had survived; he’d dragged me down to the quayside steps. He found a boat.’ Odo’s voice trembled. ‘Sometimes, I wish to God I had died there with my brothers.’

‘Nonsense.’ William Symmes, his scarred face now softer, rose and went to kneel beside the old librarian. ‘If you had died,’ he said softly, ‘we would never have heard the story and Framlingham would not have its favourite librarian.’

‘So,’ Corbett asked, ‘apart from the grand master, you were all in Acre?’

‘We came back with the rest,’ Legrave replied. ‘Each of us is now a principal commander. I at Beverley, Baddlesmere in London, Symmes at Templecombe in Dorset, Branquier in Chester.’

‘And at your Grand Chapter,’ Corbett insisted, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, ‘were fresh plans laid? Will the Order attempt to regain what it has lost?’

‘In time,’ de Molay replied. ‘But where are your questions leading, Sir Hugh?’ He flicked his fingers and a servant came out of the shadows to fill their wine goblets.

‘Perhaps this is not the time nor occasion.’ Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf and Maltote who, having filled their stomachs, were now staring, round-eyed, at these strange men who had witnessed scenes they could never imagine.

‘Nonsense,’ de Molay replied. ‘What is it you want to know, Corbett?’

‘You all went to France for the Grand Chapter? Grand Master, why did you come back to England? And why did you all stay together instead of returning to your different posts?’

‘It is my duty to visit every province,’ de Molay replied. ‘And when I do, I am to be attended by the senior commanders.’

‘When did you return?’

‘Seven days before the warning was pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral,’ de Molay replied sardonically, ‘and a few days after the attack on Philip of France in the Bois de Boulogne.’

‘Do continue.’ Legrave put his elbows on the table, licking his fingers.

‘And you came to Framlingham?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes,’ Legrave replied, taunting him. ‘We were here at Framlingham when that terrible murder occurred outside Botham Bar.’

‘And we were in York,’ Branquier spoke up. ‘When your king was attacked and you were so nearly assassinated.’

‘But all this,’ Baddlesmere declared, ‘is coincidence, not proof of any treason.’

‘And remember,’ Brother Odo intervened, ‘none of my comrades was here when Sir Guido died at the centre of that maze. They had all left Framlingham the previous evening for their meeting with the king at St Leonard’s Priory.’

‘Sir Guido was your friend?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes and, before you ask, the reason why I am not grieving is that I am glad Sir Guido is dead. He was a man who constantly tortured himself. Now he’s at peace in the arms of Christ. No more pain, no more doubt.’ The old librarian’s eyes blinked quickly. ‘Tomorrow we bury him and he’ll be at rest.’

‘You were there,’ Corbett said. ‘You went to the mouth of the maze with him?’

‘Yes, I did, just before dawn. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was turning a deep blue. Sir Guido said it reminded him of Outremer. He knelt down, his rosary in his hand, and began his pilgrimage. I just sat there, as I always did, revelling in the sweet smells of the morning breeze and wishing Sir Guido would not torture himself. I was dozing when I heard his terrible screams. I stood up and saw a black pall of smoke rising above the maze. The rest you know.’

‘And you are sure no one else was there?’ Corbett asked.

‘God be my witness, Sir Hugh, there was no one.’

Corbett now looked at the Templars. ‘And then you all came back, late in the afternoon?’

‘As we have said,’ de Molay replied. ‘We were in the city. We had business to do. Brother Odo could see no point in sending a message to us. Sir Guido was dead, no hustle or bustle would bring him back.’

‘Except Branquier,’ Odo declared. ‘He came back early. He had asked to meet me at one o’clock.’ He smiled and picked at his food. ‘I was asleep, Branquier had to wake me.’ He grinned. ‘Sometimes I feel my age,’ he added. ‘But what hour was it?’

‘The hour candle had scarcely reached the thirteenth ring,’ Branquier replied. ‘You saw that yourself.’ He glanced across at Corbett. ‘I wanted Brother Odo to find me a book. However, when I arrived at Framlingham, a servant told me about Sir Guido, so I went to my cell, left my belongings, then visited Brother Odo.’

‘And this is the information I need,’ Corbett declared. ‘Grand Master, I apologise, but I must interrogate all of you about your precise movements.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of peace. ‘I am sure these questions will clarify matters. Neither I, nor His Grace the King intend insult. Indeed, Grand Master, I have brought a tun of wine from the Greenmantle tavern, the best wine Gascony has ever produced, as a gift from His Grace.’

‘Ah.’ De Molay smiled his thanks. ‘From the king’s own vintner, Hubert Seagrave. He has applied to purchase certain lands from us. A waste area. .’

He broke off at the terrible screaming from the kitchen. Ranulf was the first to react: throwing back his chair, he hastened into the kitchen. Corbett and the rest followed into a large, cavernous room, its walls lined with hooks from which skillets, pots and pans hung. Now it was transformed into a scene from hell: near the oven one of the cooks stood screaming, watched by his horror-struck companions, as flames roared about him. The fire had run along the man’s apron, which was fully alight, whilst tongues of flame caught his hose and the cloth around his neck. He staggered forward then crumpled to his knees. Ranulf poured a large bucket of water over him and, helped by Maltote, seized a piece of heavy sacking lying near a bread basket and threw it over the tortured man to damp down the flames. Corbett quickly glanced at the Templars. De Molay had turned away, his face to the wall. Brother Odo and the four commanders just stared, a look of horror on their faces as the cook’s screams faded to a whimper then died completely. At last, the writhing figure lay still. Ranulf, his hands and face black with smoke, pulled back the sacking. The cook lay dead, his entire body terribly burnt. A horrid sight. Maltote retched and headed straight for the door leading to the yard.

The other servants, spit boys, scullions and cooks, edged away from the Templars. One knocked a pewter pot, which fell with a resounding crash.

‘He was laughing,’ one of the cooks whispered. ‘He was just laughing, then he was on fire. You saw it? Flames all over him.’ The man’s eyes rolled in panic. ‘We were just having a joke. He was laughing.’ The fellow’s hand flew to his nose as he became aware of the terrible stench.

‘Who was he?’ Corbett asked quietly.

‘Peterkin. He lived with his mother in Coppergate. Had grand ambitions, he did, to open his own cookshop.’

‘Take him away.’ De Molay turned to the Templar serjeants now thronging in at the door of the refectory. ‘Cover him with a sheet and take him to the Infirmary.’

The servants continued to edge to the door. The principal cook, with massive shoulders and balding head, stepped forward. He took off his leather apron and threw it on the floor.

‘That’s it!’ he snorted. ‘We are leaving. Try and stop us, but in the morning we’ll be gone.’ He pushed his hand towards the Templars. ‘We want payment and then we’ll be gone.’

Corbett saw the red, angry abscess on the palm of the man’s hand, and his stomach churned a little at what he had eaten. The cook’s demands were echoed by the rest. The mood in the kitchen perceptibly changed. One of the scullions picked up a fleshing knife, another a cleaver still red with the blood of the meat it had cut. Behind him Corbett heard the Templar serjeants drawing their swords.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘I am the king’s commissioner here. Grand Master, pay these men, and, once they’ve answered certain questions, let them go. But not here. God save the poor wretch but the place stinks with his burning.’

De Molay turned to his commanders. ‘Make sure the manor’s secure.’ He declared, ‘Our supper is ended. Sir Hugh and I will question these good people,’ adding diplomatically, ‘and don’t worry.’ De Molay smiled faintly. ‘I am sure Master Ranulf here will protect us all.’

At first all four commanders seemed about to refuse. Hands on dagger hilts, they glared at the cooks and then at Corbett.

‘Go on,’ de Molay urged quietly.

The group broke up. Corbett led the cooks back into the refectory towards the dais. He stood on this, the cooks thronging together. Out of their kitchen they became more anxious, frightened, shifting their feet, eager to be away.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘It’s as they say,’ the principal cook spoke up. ‘The meal was finished. We were clearing up the kitchen. Peterkin was pastry cook. He was raking the coals out of the oven, laughing and talking. The next minute I heard him scream. I turned round and there was fire all along his front.’

He turned and snapped his fingers. One of the scullions took off a thin, leather apron and handed it to Corbett.

‘He was wearing one of these.’

Corbett examined it curiously. The leather was very thin, a loop at the neck so it could go over the head and a cord to fasten it around the middle. It would protect a man against stains and the occasional spark but not the angry fire Corbett had seen.

‘What was he wearing on his hands?’

‘Thick woollen mittens,’ the cook replied. ‘They covered his arms up to the elbow.’

‘Show me what he was doing,’ Corbett urged. ‘Come, just you and me.’

The cook was about to protest, but Corbett stepped off the dais and held a silver coin in front of the cook’s face.

‘I’ll be with you all the time,’ Corbett assured him.

The silver coin disappeared and the two went into the kitchen. The cook led Corbett to the great fire-grate: on either side of this was a large oven built into the wall.

‘He was here,’ the cook explained, pulling open the iron door.

Corbett gingerly peered in, only to flinch at the blast of heat from the burning charcoal piled high beneath a steel wire netting. The cook picked up a pole with a wooden board at the end. He pointed into the oven.

‘You see, Master, Peterkin would put the pies on to the netting, shut the door and allow them to bake. He knew exactly how long to leave them.’ The man’s greasy face broke into a sad smile. ‘He was a good cook. The crusts of his pies were always golden and light, the meat fresh and savoury. He leaves a mother,’ he continued. ‘And she is a widow.’

Corbett put a silver piece into the man’s blackened hand. ‘Then give her that,’ he said. ‘Now the king is in York,’ he added, ‘tell her to petition him for mercy.’

‘Much good that will do,’ the fellow grunted.

‘No, it won’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘The petition will come to me. Now, what was Peterkin doing?’

The cook pointed to an iron tray full of dust which lay on the floor.

‘Once the baking’s done, the ovens have to be doused. Peterkin always insisted on doing it himself in preparation for the next day. He knew exactly how clean the oven must be, how to spread the charcoal. Well, he was raking it all out into the tray when I heard him scream.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Corbett asked, walking away from the oven.

The cook followed. ‘I don’t know, sir. Oh, I have seen men burnt in kitchens, especially when they mix oil with fire — bad burns to hands and faces. Now and again we scald our legs or feet.’ The man took a rag from beneath his leather apron and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘But, Master,’ he edged so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour. ‘But, Master,’ he repeated, ‘I have seen nothing like that. A good man turned into a sheet of flame within seconds.’

Corbett walked to the back door of the kitchen which had been flung open. The acrid smell of burning flesh still hung heavily in the air. From the hall he could hear the faint murmur of voices, as well as the clink of mailed men outside in the darkness. He stood, just within the kitchen, watching the moonlight reflected in the puddles in the cobbled yard.

‘What did you see?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, the first time you saw Peterkin burn?’

‘The flames.’ The man brushed his apron. ‘Along his front, chest, stomach and his hands. Yes, even the woollen mittens were ablaze.’

‘And did you notice anything untoward during the evening?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Nothing?’ Corbett asked.

‘We were busy, sir.’

‘And no one came in? Either before the meal or during the day?’

‘Not that I saw, sir!’

‘Then what have you seen?’

The cook pulled a face. ‘There’s the horseman. .’

‘What horseman?’

‘Masked and cowled, a great two-handed sword hanging from his saddlebag.’ The man shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’ve only seen him once. I was, er, hunting for rabbits in the woods nearby. He was sitting like the shadow of death amongst the trees, staring at the manor. He never moved — I just fled.’

Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Was there, he wondered, a secret assassin lurking in the woods between Framlingham and York?

‘Do you think this masked horseman was from Framlingham?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, but this place is accursed,’ the cook continued in a rush. ‘Some of us live here. Others, like Peterkin, live in the city. We heard about the strange murder outside Botham Bar. This was a quiet manor, sir, before those commanders arrived with their soldiers. Now they are singing strange hymns at night, up all hours. You can’t go here and you can’t go there! Then there’s the death of Sir Guido. He was a good man. A little forbidding, but kind — that’s what Peterkin was laughing about.’

Corbett turned abruptly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He said the fire which killed Guido came from hell: Satan’s fire.’

‘Why should it?’ Corbett asked.

The man glanced back at the door to the refectory, then at another silver coin held between Corbett’s fingers.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are rumours.’

‘Rumours about what?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Come on, man, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Well, a scullion saw one of the Templars.’ The cook paused.

‘You mean one of the commanders?’

‘Yes. I don’t know which one but, well, he saw him kissing a man. You know, sir, like you would a woman. And before you ask, he couldn’t make out who it was.’

‘You are sure?’ Corbett asked.

‘Certain. He was coming down a passageway. He glimpsed the commander who had his back to him. He knew it was one of the visitors from the cloak he wore. I think the other was one of the Templar serjeants, a youngish man. You’ve seen how dark this place is, sir. They were in the shadows. The scullion was frightened so he turned and fled. Anyway, Peterkin was laughing about that. He made a joke of everything. He said the place smelt of Satan’s sulphur and then it happened.’ The man plucked the coin from Corbett’s fingers. ‘And now I am going, sir.’

He strode out of the kitchen in the hall. Corbett heard raised voices and, by the time he returned, the cook was marching the rest down towards the door.

‘I couldn’t stop them,’ de Molay murmured. ‘They can visit the almoner, collect their wages and go. What do you think, Sir Hugh?’ The grand master stepped into the pool of light from the candles on the table and wearily sat down, face in hands. Ranulf and Maltote also took their seats. Both had drunk deeply and were now feeling its effect.

‘I have seen similar accidents,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Men getting burnt, in cookshops in London.’

‘Not like that,’ Corbett replied, sitting down opposite de Molay.

The grand master looked up. He seemed to have aged years; his iron-grey hair was tousled, dark shadows ringed his eyes. His face had lost that serene, rather imperious look. ‘Satan attacks us on every side,’ he murmured.

‘Why do you say that?’ Corbett asked. ‘What happened in the kitchen could have been an accident.’

De Molay leaned back in his chair. ‘That was no accident, Corbett. The murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king, the death of Sir Guido. Now this!’

‘So why should Satan attack you?’

‘I don’t know,’ the grand master snarled, rising to his feet, ‘but when you meet him, Corbett, ask him the same question!’ De Molay strode out of the refectory, slamming the door behind him.

Corbett, too, rose, beckoning Ranulf and Maltote to follow.

‘Listen! From now on, we sleep in the same chamber. Each does a watch. Be careful what you eat and drink. No one travels round the manor by themselves.’ Corbett sighed. ‘As far as I am concerned, we’re back on the Scottish march. The only difference being that there we knew our enemy, here we don’t!’

They walked back towards the guesthouse: Corbett stopped, heart in his throat, as a figure came rushing out of the darkness but it was only a servant, belongings packed into a fardel, scurrying towards the gates.

‘By morning they’ll all be gone,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘If I had my way, Master, we’d follow!’

‘Where to?’ Corbett asked. ‘Edward in York or Leighton Manor?’

Ranulf refused to answer. Once they were back in the guesthouse, a sleepy-eyed Maltote stood guard outside whilst Corbett told Ranulf to join him. The servant sat down on a stool. Corbett studied him curiously: Ranulf’s usual cheeky face was now pallid, his attitude no longer devil-may-care.

‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Ranulf kicked at the rushes. ‘I am so happy I am thinking of becoming a Templar.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I hate this bloody place. I don’t like the Templars. I can’t make them out, monks or soldiers. The librarian may be a grand old man but the rest make my skin crawl.’

‘You are frightened, aren’t you?’ Corbett sat down on the edge of the bed.

Ranulf scratched his head. ‘No, Master, I’m not frightened. I am terrified. All Maltote thinks about is horses, that’s all he talks about. What’s happening here hasn’t yet sunk into his thick skull.’ Ranulf plucked at the dagger in his belt. ‘I can deal with enemies, Master: the footpad in the alleyway, the assassin in the darkened chamber. But this? Men mysteriously bursting into flames, Reverchien at the centre of a maze, that poor bastard in the kitchen. .’

‘For every natural phenomenon,’ Corbett replied, ‘Aristotle said there must be a natural cause.’

‘Bugger that!’ Ranulf snarled. ‘Bloody Aristotle’s not here. If he was, the silly bastard would soon change his mind!’

Corbett began to laugh.

‘Oh, you’re amused, Master,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘We have only been here a few hours and we’ve been threatened, shot at and hunted in a maze.’

Corbett grasped Ranulf’s hand. ‘Yes, I am frightened, Ranulf.’

He got to his feet, stretched and stared at the black carved crucifix on the wall. ‘In all my years of pursuing murderers I have never seen the like. Yes, I was hunted in the maze.’ He turned, his face set hard. ‘I don’t like being hunted, Ranulf. I don’t like being threatened. I don’t like nightmares about a royal messenger telling Maeve and Baby Eleanor that I am gone but my corpse will soon arrive for burial.’ He sat down. ‘I am a clerk. I deal with wax and parchment. I resolve problems. I protect the king and hunt down his enemies. Sometimes I am frightened; so terrified that I wake up sweating from head to toe.’ Corbett paused. ‘This morning I was frightened. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have fled. But that’s what the assassin wants, everything to be in chaos. But we will impose order and, once we do, we wait!’

‘If we live long enough.’

‘We’ll live. I’ll make my mistakes, but in the end I’m going to see the cruel bastard behind all this arrested and pay the price. So, let’s impose order. We have the Templars. They have houses in England and throughout Western Europe. They have been driven from the Holy Land. They have lost their purpose and have provoked the hostility and, because of their wealth, the envy of men. They, too, are frightened: that’s why they have offered our king the princely sum of fifty thousand pounds. That cunning old fox knew he could get it. So come on Ranulf, Clerk of the Green Wax, what has happened so far?’

‘It began with the Grand Chapter in Paris.’

‘De Molay presided over that meeting,’ Corbett continued. ‘The four English Commanders were present. They left for England just after the attack on Philip IV was launched. Whilst they are in London, the Assassins’ warning is pinned to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral. They come to York; there is unease about their stay here at Framlingham. The manor house is heavily defended, certain places carefully guarded. Then we have the deaths: the strange murder outside Botham Bar, the attack on the king and on me. The slaying of Reverchien and now the death of Peterkin the pastry cook. Well, Ranulf, what logic is there to all this?’

Ranulf scratched his head. ‘Only one: where de Molay and his four commanders are, trouble occurs. There is neither rhyme nor reason for what happens. Most assassins have a motive. True, there could be divisions in the Templar Order, a secret coven dabbling in black magic. One or all of the Commanders, even de Molay, could be intent on wrecking vengeance against the kings of France and England.’

‘But that does not explain,’ Corbett added, ‘the strange deaths outside Botham Bar and the slaying of Peterkin. Why should a poor pastry cook be consumed by fire? And, more importantly, how do these strange fires occur?’

Ranulf got up and paced restlessly up and down the chamber. ‘Master, you said that for every natural phenomenon there’s a natural cause. But what happens if this is not natural? People don’t just break into flames?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. Yet, I suspect, that’s what we are supposed to think.’

‘But how can it happen?’ Ranulf persisted. ‘True, the Templars were in the city when the attack was launched on the king. But they weren’t here when Reverchien was killed. We know that for a fact.’

‘Brother Odo was,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was here. He may be old but, by his own confession, he is a fighting man. He could have killed Sir Guido, left the manor, joined Murston, then prowled the streets of York waiting for us. After that he could have hastened back to Framlingham before the others arrived. Legrave did say he found him asleep.’

‘He’s missing one hand.’

‘So? I have heard of men with greater handicaps committing murder. How do we know he didn’t follow Reverchien into the maze and kill him? Or somehow arrange for Peterkin’s death?’

‘And outside Botham Bar?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Swinging a two-handed sword?’

Corbett spread his hands. ‘Concedo, that would be difficult — but not impossible. There again, the cook told me of a masked horseman lurking in the woods near the manor.’

‘An assassin?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Possibly, though the cook could be lying. Finally one other matter remains. The counterfeit coins. Or perhaps they are not counterfeit. .’ Corbett continued, ‘Anyway, these appeared in York just after the Templars arrived.’

‘Then we are back to alchemy or magic,’ Ranulf snapped. ‘Master, when I ran wild in the streets of London, I knew some counterfeiters. What they do is take a good coin and make two bad ones out of it. I have never heard of anyone producing solid gold coins.’

Corbett sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “‘If you analyse everything,”’ he quoted, “‘And you can only reach one conclusion, then that conclusion must be the truth.”’ he glanced over at Ranulf. ‘Perhaps it is magic.’ He added slowly, ‘Perhaps Satan’s fire is burning amongst us.’