Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) (11 page)

‘Master?’

‘Here!’ Corbett shouted and, doffing his cloak, waved it high above his head.

‘I saw that!’ Ranulf shouted back.

‘Keep shouting!’ Corbett ordered.

Ranulf happily obliged, bawling out encouragement as Corbett made his way, following the sound of Ranulf’s voice. The hedgerows thinned and he was out on the path where Ranulf and Maltote stood, grinning from ear to ear.

‘You should be more careful,’ his manservant exclaimed.

‘I was bloody careful,’ Corbett grunted. ‘Some bastard removed the rope and tried to kill me.’

Ranulf looked round. ‘Then where is he? He must be still in the maze.’

‘No, he’s gone. Ranulf, did you see anyone?’

‘Only a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He wore a cowl and cloak, Master. But the manor is full of servants.’

Corbett closed his eyes. He remembered seeing a wheelbarrow near the maze, covered by a dirty sheet.

‘Why should they kill me?’ he rasped. ‘If this secret coven of Templars wants the destruction of the king, how can murdering me bring that about?’

‘They don’t want you to investigate.’

‘But the king will send someone else. Why create more suspicion?’ Corbett glanced up at the darkened sky. ‘Well, they failed for the second time today. That’s the last time I’m wandering round this benighted manor by myself. Well, what did you find?’

A bell began to toll, the sign for evening supper. They walked back to the main entrance, Ranulf explaining how they had wandered the galleries and passageways. He paused, clutching his master’s arm.

‘Framlingham is a mysterious place. There are chambers, stairways, cellars, even a dungeon. The place is well guarded: armed men everywhere. Never once did they try to stop us, except when we tried to climb to the garret at the top of the manor. The stairway is guarded by soldiers. They were polite and shook their heads. When I asked them why not, they just smiled and told me to mind my own business.’

‘Oh, and tell him the other thing,’ Maltote interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, Master.’ Ranulf leaned closer. ‘On the second floor of the main building there are eight windows.’

‘So?’ Corbett asked.

‘But, Master, on the gallery inside there are only seven chambers.’

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.’