Satan's Fire

Chapter 8

Claverley led Corbett and his companions from the Pavement up towards the Minster, and into a more refined, serene quarter of the city. The streets were broad and clean, the houses on either side had their plaster painted pink and white, the upright beams a polished or a dark mahogany, sometimes gilt-edged around windows and doors. Each stood, four or five storeys high, in its own little garden. The windows on the bottom floors were filled with glass and on the top storey with horn or oiled linen. Claverley stopped in front of one which stood on a corner of an alleyway, across from the Jackanapes tavern. He brought up the iron clanger carved in the shape of a monk’s face, and rapped loudly. At first there was no sound, though Corbett could see the glow of candlelight through the windows.

‘Don’t worry.’ Claverley grinned over his shoulder. ‘She’ll be at home.’

At last the door swung open. A maid poked her head out. Claverley whispered to her and the door closed. Corbett heard chains being removed, then it swung open and a small, grey-haired lady, dressed in a white, gold-edged veil and a gown of dark burgundy, came out. She smiled and kissed Claverley on his cheek; bright button eyes in a swarthy face studied Corbett and his companions.

‘Well, you’d best come in,’ she said huskily. ‘You can leave your horses in the stable at the Jackanapes.’

Whilst Maltote led their mounts off, the woman took them into what she called ‘her downstairs parlour’, a long, comfortable chamber which must have stretched the length of the house. Through the open window at the far end, Corbett glimpsed flowerbeds and a small orchard of apple trees. The room was luxurious. There had been rushes in the passageway outside, but in here carpets lay on the floor and broad strips of bright cloth hung against the wall. A tapestry was fixed above the hearth, and on a long beam which spanned the ceiling stood row upon row of flickering candles.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett,’ Claverley made the introductions. ‘May I introduce Jocasta Kitcher, gentlewoman, merchant, the maker of fine cloth, owner of the Jackanapes tavern and, in her time, a much travelled lady.’

‘Once a flatterer always a flatterer,’ Jocasta retorted.

She ushered her visitors towards the hearth as a maid, hurrying from the kitchens, pulled up chairs around the weak fire. At first there was confusion: Ranulf knocked a stool over and then Dame Jocasta insisted that they ‘partake of her hospitality’, telling the maid to bring goblets of wine and a tray of marzipan biscuits.

Corbett’s stomach was still unsettled after the executions, but the effusive bonhomie of this little lady and the air of mystery around her soon distracted him. He sat on his chair and sipped the wine, surprised at its sweet coolness.

Dame Jocasta leaned forward. ‘My cellars are always flooded,’ she declared. ‘Oh, not with sewer muck. York has underground rivers and the water is icy cold, it keeps the white wine chilled.’

‘Are there many such rivers?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, Lord above.’ Jocasta twirled her cup, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, between her hands. ‘York is two cities, Sir Hugh. There’s what you see in the streets, but-’ her voice dropped to a deep whisper ‘-underneath the lanes there’s another city built by the Romans: it has sewers and paths, long forgotten.’ She grinned. ‘I know, my husband and I used those sewers a great deal. Oh, don’t look so puzzled,’ she rattled on. ‘Hasn’t Claverley told you?’

‘That’s the reason I brought him here!’ Claverley declared. ‘I haven’t yet told him our secrets, Dame Jocasta, but I thought you could help. There’s a counterfeiter in York,’ he continued hurriedly.

‘Then trap and hang him!’

‘This is different,’ Corbett replied. He took a gold coin and handed it over.

Jocasta’s hand was warm and soft, her fingers covered with expensive rings. She grasped the coin and examined it with a sigh of admiration, letting it drop from hand to hand, weighing it carefully, studying the rim and the cross carved on either side.

‘This is pure gold.’

‘Whatever they are,’ Corbett intervened, ‘they are not from the king’s Mint and are issued without royal licence. Now, I agree, Dame Jocasta, counterfeiters usually take one good coin and make two bad, adulterating the silver with base alloys and metals. However, I’ve never heard of anyone using the finest gold to counterfeit coins.’

Dame Jocasta lifted her head. ‘Sir Hugh, you need not tell me about counterfeiting. Forty years ago — aye I look younger than I am,’ she added merrily, her small eyes bright with laughter. ‘. . Forty years ago I ran wild in this city. My parents could not control me. On a hot midsummer’s day I went to a fair outside Micklegate Bar. I met the merriest rogue on God’s own earth, my husband, Robard. Now he was a clerk, fallen on hard times. He couldn’t abide the stuffy Chanceries and the long, miserable-faced clerks.’

She paused as Ranulf choked on the biscuit he was eating. Corbett’s glare soon made him clear his throat. Ranulf hid his face, staring into the wine cup as if something very precious lay there.

‘Robard was a knave born and bred,’ Jocasta continued. ‘He could sing like a robin and dance the maypole into the ground. He was attracted to mischief like a cat to cream. I loved him immediately. I still do, even though he’s ten years dead.’

Claverley stretched over and touched her hand. ‘Finish your story,’ he murmured.

‘Well, well, well.’ Jocasta held up the gold piece, she turned it so it caught the candlelight. ‘Robard would have loved this. He wanted to be rich, amass silver and go to foreign parts to be a great merchant or warrior. I became part of his knavery. I’d steal out of my house at night and join him in the moonlight. We’d lie on the tombstones of St Peter’s Church and he would tell me tales of what we could do. We became handfast, betrothed, then Robard’s desire to become rich led him into counterfeiting. He became known amongst the cunning and upright men of the city, the cranks, the palliards, the foists, pickpockets, all the scum of the earth.’ She shrugged. ‘We hired a small forge just off Coney Street and began to counterfeit coins. This was in the old king’s time, when the governance of the city was not what it should be. . Then we were caught. At the assizes Robard was given two choices: either hang from the gallows on the Pavement or join Prince Edward’s Crusade. Of course, he chose the latter. The levies massed outside in the meadows in Bishop’s Fields just across the river. Robard, however, was a pressed man: he was kept in chains until he boarded the king’s ships. I went with him.’

‘You went to Outremer!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Oh, yes. Three years in all. But we came back rich. We bought the tavern across the alleyway: Robard became a landlord, an ale-master and a taverner. My parents were dead. I became his wife, but old habits die hard, Sir Hugh. Once the rogues of the city knew he was home, we were never left alone. Robard would receive visitors at the dead of night but he always kept within the law.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘Or nearly so. Once again we were drawn into counterfeiting but, this time, I swear to God, I was not party to it. Now pride always goes before a fall. The king’s justices returned to York, a grand jury was convened, and allegations were laid against my husband.’

Claverley interrupted. ‘Twice convicted, Robard would have hanged. Moreover, his first crimes were still remembered. Dame Jocasta came before the sheriffs and a secret pact was made. Robard would receive a pardon but Jocasta swore a great oath that in future she would let the sheriffs and thief-takers know of crimes and felonies being planned in the city.’

‘I turned king’s evidence,’ Dame Jocasta quietly added. ‘And my husband never knew. Oh, I was selective. I still am. The little foists, the petty criminals, I ignore, but not those who kill and maim, the rapists and violators of churches. As any tavern-keeper does, I hear the whispers and I pass them on. .’

‘But your husband never knew?’

‘Never,’ Jocasta declared. ‘And nor does anyone else except Claverley.’ Her face became hard. ‘I don’t dress in widow’s weeds.’ She tapped her chest. ‘Robard’s still here. I close my eyes and I can hear him singing. At night, if I turn on the bolster, I see his face smiling at me. He wasn’t a bad man, Sir Hugh, but oh, Lord save us, he loved mischief.’

‘And yet you tell us now?’ Corbett asked.

‘Before I left York to meet you, Sir Hugh,’ Claverley interrupted, ‘I came here. If Limner refused to help you, Dame Jocasta promised she would.’ He shrugged and turned to the woman. ‘But Limner’s hanged,’ he announced flatly.

‘God grant him safe passage.’

‘Dame Jocasta and I have known each other for years,’ Claverley explained. ‘True,’ he wagged a finger, ‘the art of counterfeiting may well be a subtle one but, in this city, Dame Jocasta knows everything about it.’

Corbett stared through the window at the far end of the room and watched the sunshine die. A wild thought occurred to him: what if Jocasta was the master counterfeiter?

‘I couldn’t do it,’ she declared, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I don’t have a forge or the precious metal. More importantly, I know all the secret whispers. Yet, I’ve heard nothing.’ She held the coin up. ‘And, believe me, tongues would certainly clack about this.’

Corbett cleared his throat and glanced away in embarrassment.

‘So, how is it done?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Who’s responsible?’

Jocasta put her cup down. ‘Sir Hugh, I have never seen a coin like this before. Most counterfeiters debase the king’s coin, yes?’

Corbett agreed.

‘So, why should someone produce gold coins except. .’ She paused.

‘Except what?’

‘Well, let us say, Sir Hugh, you found a pot of gold. No, not at the end of a rainbow, but a treasure trove: cups, mazers, ewers, crosses. What would you do?’

‘I’d take it to the sheriffs or the royal justices.’

Dame Jocasta laughed: Claverley and Ranulf joined in. The old woman shook her head.

‘I am not mocking you, Sir Hugh; you are an honest man.’ Her face became serious. ‘But what would happen then?’

Now Corbett smiled. ‘Well, the royal clerks would seize the gold. They’d examine it then come back and interrogate me.’

‘And how long would that last?’

‘A year, maybe even two: until I’d proved both my innocence and that the gold was truly treasure trove.’

‘So!’ Jocasta exclaimed. ‘You found some treasure. You are honest but the king’s clerks take it and all you get is a sea of troubles.’

‘Aye,’ Corbett added. ‘And at the end of it all, half of what I found, though, knowing the Exchequer officials as I do, I’d be lucky if I got a quarter.’

‘So,’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘Dame Jocasta, this gold.’ He paused. ‘By the way, Master, Maltote has not returned.’

‘Oh, he’s probably in the tavern,’ Corbett replied. ‘You know Maltote: he’ll be talking horses with the stable boy and grooms and downing tankards as if his life depended on it. What were you going to say?’

‘Someone in York,’ Ranulf continued, ‘has found a treasure trove, melted it down and made coins. He has then used those coins to buy comforts and luxuries for himself.’

‘Precisely,’ Dame Jocasta agreed. ‘It’s the only way. If you take gold and silver objects to a goldsmith, you immediately become suspect, either as a felon or someone who’s found treasure trove and is flouting the king’s rights in the matter. Now, such treasure is easy to trace. No goldsmith would be party to that.’ She played with the coin in her hand. ‘Whoever made this has a very good forge and the means to buy all the coining tools.’

‘But wouldn’t anyone become suspicious?’ Claverley asked. ‘If gold vessels can be traced back to their original owner, so can gold coins.’

‘Not if fifty or sixty appeared at the same time,’ Jocasta replied. ‘And that’s what Robard used to do with his counterfeit coins. The more you distribute, the safer you are. The man who counterfeited these coins did the same. He must have the means to move round York and bring these coins into circulation without raising suspicion.’ She rubbed the coin between her fingers. ‘And that’s the whole beauty of it. All a goldsmith and a banker will do is weigh coins on a scale. After all, its not their fault if these coins end up in their possession. They have become party to the crime but can act the innocent. They have sold foodstuffs or cloths, wines or whatever. They have a right to be paid: the coins are accepted and people become forgetful.’

Corbett leaned back in the chair. ‘Brilliant,’ he whispered. ‘You find gold. You melt it down into coins, you distribute them and, by doing so, bring everyone else into your game. At the same time you evade the law and become very, very rich.’ He looked at Dame Jocasta. ‘And you have no idea. .?’

‘Don’t stare at me like that, Clerk,’ she teased back. ‘This counterfeiter is no ruffian or miscreant clipping coins or melting them down over a charcoal fire. This cunning man is very wealthy: he has the means and the wherewithal.’

‘But couldn’t the coins be traced?’ Ranulf asked insistently. ‘Someone, somewhere, would remember?’

Dame Jocasta pointed to Corbett’s purse. ‘Master Clerk, you have good silver there? Can you remember exactly which coin was given to you by what person?’

‘But I’d remember a gold coin,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Would you?’ Jocasta retorted. ‘If you thought it might be seized and taken away from you? However,’ she handed the coin back to Corbett, ‘you have a point. This counterfeiter probably doesn’t use coins to buy anything from city merchants. After all, anyone paying gold here and there would eventually be recognised.’

‘So?’ Corbett asked.

Dame Jocasta looked into the flames of the fire. She watched the small, sweet-smelling pine logs crackle and snap on their charcoal bed.

‘I wish Robard was here,’ she whispered. ‘He’d know.’ She glanced up quickly. ‘You are staying at Framlingham, the Templar manor?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Why not start there?’ Jocasta murmured. ‘The Templars have the means: woods and copses to hide a secret forge. They import foodstuffs and goods from abroad. They have connections with bankers and goldsmiths. And, unless I am mistaken, this gold appeared at the time the Templars arrived in York.’

‘Yes, it did,’ Corbett replied. ‘The king and Court moved down from the Scottish march and stayed outside York. Shortly after the Templar commanders arrived, these coins began to appear.’

‘But where would they get the gold from?’ Claverley asked.

Corbett toyed with his Chancery ring which bore the insignia of the Secret Seal.

‘They did grant the king a huge gift,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘And they have treasures not known to anyone.’

Corbett recalled the secret room at Framlingham. Was there a connection between this gold and the murders?

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett shook himself from his reverie. ‘I am sorry, Dame Jocasta.’ He rose to his feet, took her hand and pressed it with his lips. ‘I thank you for your help.’

‘You are not just hunting a counterfeiter, are you?’ she asked shrewdly. ‘Not the king’s principal clerk!’

Corbett stroked her cheek gently with his finger. ‘No, Domina, I am not. As usual,’ he added bitterly, ‘I am hunting demons: men who kill for the-devil-knows-what reason.’

‘Then you should be careful, Clerk,’ she replied softly. ‘For those who hunt demons either become hunted, or demons themselves.’

Ranulf, standing in the shadows of the doorway, saw his master start, as if Jocasta’s words had struck home, but then the old lady smiled and the tension eased. Corbett and Claverley made their farewells and followed Ranulf out and across into the yard of the Jackanapes tavern: here, a guilty-faced Maltote, brimming tankard to his lips, was declaiming to the round-eyed ostlers and slatterns what an important man he was. Ranulf, ever with an eye for mischief, joined the group and began to tease Maltote, whilst Corbett and Claverley went into the taproom. They took a table overlooking the small garden. For a while Corbett stared out, watching the sun set in a glorious explosion of colours. Claverley ordered some ale. Corbett sipped his, thinking of Dame Jocasta’s warning as he fought the waves of homesickness. The flowers and the garden reminded him of home and, in his heart, Corbett knew that he would not stay here much longer. He wanted Maeve and Eleanor. He’d even sit for hours and listen to Uncle Morgan’s fabulous boasting about the great Welsh heroes. He wanted to sleep in a bed with no dagger by his side and walk without a warbelt strapped round his waist.

‘Was that helpful?’ Claverley interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, it was.’ Corbett smiled an apology. ‘We at least know the counterfeiter is powerful, wealthy, has access to gold and knows how to distribute these coins.’

‘Could it be the Templars?’ Claverley asked. ‘At the Guildhall we’ve heard rumours. .’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. He leaned across the table and clapped the man on his shoulder. ‘I am not the best of companions: Roger, are you a family man?’

‘Twice married,’ the under-sheriff replied with a grin. ‘My first wife died but my second has given me lovely children.’

‘Do you ever tire of hunting demons?’ Corbett asked.

Claverley shook his head. ‘I heard what Dame Jocasta said, Sir Hugh.’ He sipped from his tankard and continued. ‘We all bear the mark of Cain. Like you, Sir Hugh, I’ve seen the breakdown of law and order, when the demons come out of the shadows. So no, I don’t ever tire of fighting them. If we don’t hunt them, as God is my witness, they’ll eventually come hunting us.’

Across the rim of his tankard, Corbett stared at Claverley. A good man, Corbett thought, just and upright. He promised himself to mention Claverley’s name to the king. Ranulf and Maltote joined him: they would have continued their banter but one look at Corbett’s face made Ranulf change his mind.

‘Where now, Master?’

Corbett leaned back against the wall. ‘We are not going back to Framlingham,’ he declared. ‘Not tonight. The Botham Bar road is dark and dangerous. Master Claverley, one favour, or rather four.’

‘My orders are to give you every assistance.’

‘First, I’d like rooms here.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘Secondly,’ Corbett said, ‘our counterfeiter must have a forge. Now the city has tax rolls, forges are always part of an assessment.’

‘Unless it’s a secret one,’ Claverley added.

‘I also want a list,’ Corbett persisted, ‘of all those who have a licence to import goods into the city. Finally, if this gold is treasure trove, it must have been found during some building work. No burgess can do that without a licence from the aldermen.’

‘Agreed,’ Claverley said. ‘So, you want a list of blacksmiths or anyone owning a forge: those with a licence to import and any citizen who has received a writ permitting him to build?’

‘Yes, as soon as possible!’

‘The Templars,’ Claverley continued, ‘will be on all three lists.’

‘That’s an extra favour,’ Corbett replied. ‘On the morning of the attack on the king, the grand master, Jacques de Molay, and four of his principal commanders, Legrave, Branquier, Baddlesmere and Symmes, came into the city. Now Branquier left early, or so he said. Baddlesmere and Symmes were by themselves for a long period of time whilst Legrave accompanied the grand master to a goldsmith’s in Stonegate. Now York is a great city, but people know each other. The Templars would stand out. I want you to find just exactly what they did that morning.’

Claverley whistled under his breath. ‘And where do I start?’

Corbett grinned and gestured around him. ‘Ask the tavern-masters and landlords. Whatever you find, I’ll be grateful.’

Claverley finished his drink and made his farewells. He promised that, if he discovered any information, he would personally travel out to Framlingham. Then he went across to talk to the landlord, standing behind a counter made out of wine barrels. Corbett saw the fellow nod. Claverley lifted his hand, shouted that all would be well and went out into the street.

‘I am tired,’ Corbett declared. ‘Ranulf, Maltote, you can do what you want, provided you are back in our chamber within the hour.’

And, leaving his companions to grumble about ‘Master Long Face’, Corbett followed the landlord up to the second floor to what was grandly described as the tavern’s principal guest-chamber. The room had only two beds but the landlord promised to provide a third. Whilst servants brought up straw-filled mattresses, new bolsters, fresh jugs of water and a tray containing bread and wine, Corbett went and lay down on a bed. This time he did not think of Leighton Manor and Maeve but tried to marshal his thoughts. He heard a noise in the passage outside, then Ranulf and Maltote burst into the room.

‘For the love of God!’ Corbett groaned, swinging his legs off the bed.

Ranulf, his face a picture of innocence, pulled across a stool and sat opposite Corbett.

‘That old woman frightened you, didn’t she?’ he demanded.

‘No, she did not frighten me, Ranulf,’ Corbett replied. ‘I am already frightened.’ He pointed to his writing implements laid out on the table. ‘Think of the murderers we have hunted, Ranulf. There’s always been a motive: greed, lechery, treason. There’s always a pattern to the killings, as the assassin removes those who block his way or may have guessed his identity. Yet this is different: here we have a man killing without purpose.’

‘But you said the Templars were divided? They want revenge on the king.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett retorted, ‘why kill Reverchien? Why attack me? And what threat in God’s name did poor Peterkin pose? Moreover, there’s no connection between the three.’ Corbett continued. ‘Oh, yes, if the king was injured or killed: if his principal clerk suffered some dreadful mishap, I suppose there’s a logic to that. But why Reverchien and Peterkin?’

‘Perhaps they knew something,’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Perhaps,’ Corbett replied. ‘But then we come to the second problem. How? Murston may have shot an arrow at the king but how did he die so quickly? How was that fire caused? Reverchien died in the centre of a maze early on a spring morning, Peterkin burst into flames in the middle of a busy kitchen.’

Corbett paused, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘And what progress have we made? We know the Templar Order is demoralised, possibly splitting into factions: I’m sure that is why de Molay has come to England. These factions may be manifesting themselves through the attacks against Philip of France as well as our own king. We also have these warnings, sent by that strange sect “the Assassins”. We know there’s some mystery in the Order, hence those secret rooms at Framlingham. We’ve learnt Murston was eaten up with revenge and bitterness, yet he must have been managed by someone else.’

Corbett paused. ‘The killer,’ he continued after a while, ‘is using some form of secret fire. He was practising with it amongst the trees along the Botham Bar road: that poor pedlar paid for his curiosity with his life. We think it’s a Templar commander but, if all the Templars are confined to Framlingham and the city gates are so closely guarded, who attached that notice to Murston’s gibbeted corpse? And who could have sent a similar warning to me? Whatever the Templars did in York, we have established that by the time these arrows were fired at me, they were on the road back to Framlingham Manor.’

‘That masked rider, maybe he’s the assassin?’ Maltote asked hopefully. ‘Or one of the commanders in disguise?’

‘The counterfeit coins,’ Ranulf interjected, ‘may also be Templar villainy.’

‘Possibly,’ Corbett said. ‘But whatever, Ranulf. .’ He lay back on his bed. ‘If there’s no method in this madness, if the assassin is killing for the sake of it, then he’ll strike again and again.’

‘And what will we do?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In the end,’ Corbett replied, ‘we will go back to the king and report what we have found: a divided, demoralised Order, bereft of its original purpose.’ He half sat up, leaning on one arm. ‘And if I report that,’ he concluded, ‘it will only be a matter of time before the Exchequer officials begin to ask why such a wealthy Order should exist when it lacks purpose and, moreover, is riddled with treason, sorcery, murder and other scandals?’

The serjeant patrolling the great meadow at Framlingham Manor stared down at the boat bobbing on the lake. ‘It’s time the old man came in,’ he grumbled.

Hitching his swordbelt higher, he began the long walk down to the lakeside. Nevertheless, the sunset was glorious, and a cool evening breeze soothed the serjeant’s sweat-soaked brow.

‘Oh, let the old one fish,’ he muttered to himself.

He sat down on the grass, took off his helmet and pulled back the mail coif beneath. He studied Odo: the old librarian had taken his boat The Ghost of the Tower, and had been fishing for some time.

‘More bloody use than what I’ve been doing,’ the serjeant grumbled as he grabbed a clump of grass to cool his sweaty cheeks.

The garrison at Framlingham had relaxed after that snooping royal clerk and his companions had left: that is, until the messenger had arrived and de Molay and the other great ones had gathered in the hall for a secret council. Orders had gone out, reinforcing the grand master’s edict that no one was to leave Framlingham, whilst any stranger found wandering on the estate was to be arrested immediately. The Templar serjeant chewed on a piece of grass, narrowing his eyes against the setting sun as he watched Brother Odo’s black cloak flap and curl in the evening breeze. The old librarian was apparently fighting to hold the long rod and line he was wielding. The Templar serjeant envied the serenity of the scene after the turbulence of the last few days. The news of the attack upon the king, the killing of Reverchien and Peterkin the cook were known to all. Very few mentioned Murston’s death, though many felt guilty at what he had done. Nevertheless, Murston had always been a hothead: just because he had served in Outremer, he’d set himself up as an authority on what was right and what was wrong.

The Templar lay back in the grass and stared up at the fleecy clouds.

‘I wish I was away from here,’ he whispered. ‘But where?’ The fall of Acre had put a stop to service abroad. No more dark-skinned girls, no more wandering around the bazaars. There was now little excitement about battle or talk of guarding the holy sepulchre. The best one could expect was lonely garrison duty in a God-forsaken manor house or, if you were lucky, some expedition into the Middle Sea to fight the corsairs. The serjeant rubbed his eyes; it wasn’t his duty to wonder or to speculate. Murston’s fate had put an end to all that. And who was he to question the masters of his Order? They knew best. They had the secret knowledge which they discussed behind closed doors. The serjeant remembered that lonely garret at the top of Frarnlingham Manor. What did go on there, he wondered? Why were only de Molay and Branquier allowed to go in? Why the purple wax candles and the chanting? He’d once been on guard outside, when his superiors had come out, he’d noticed how both were covered in dust from head to toe. What was so special in that room, the serjeant wondered, that such important men should lie face down in the dust? He heard a sound and struggled to his feet. Odo was moving as if straining at the rod, but then the Templar serjeant glimpsed the fire burning in the prow of the boat. He dropped his helmet and began to run.

‘Brother Odo! Brother Odo!’ He shouted, but still that black cowled figure sat as if impervious to the leaping flames. The serjeant undid his swordbelt, running until his lungs were fit to burst. He watched as the boat and Brother Odo suddenly erupted into a sheet of fire. The Templar fell to his knees, shaking with fright. He watched the fire consuming the boat and its occupant from prow to stem; even the water of the lake seemed to provide no protection.

‘Oh, Lord save us,’ he gasped, ‘from Satan’s fire!’