‘Look, Sir Hugh,’ de Molay whispered. ‘Look and adore.’
Corbett stared. As he did so, he lost all awareness of his two companions or the chamber. His eyes adjusted to the contrast of light and dark, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt the sweat break out on his body: the image, as if painted in a rusty coloured substance, depicted a head crowned with thorns. The eyes were closed, the hair matted and bloody on either side of a long face, the nose sharply etched in death; the lips full, slightly parted, high cheekbones still bearing marks, cuts and bruises. De Molay and Branquier leaned forward, faces to the ground, chanting the prayer: ‘We adore you O Christ and we praise Thee; because, by your holy Cross, you have redeemed the whole world.’
Corbett could only gaze. The image was so life-like; if he could stretch out and touch it, the head would surely move, the face would live, the eyes would open.
‘Is it . . . ?’ he whispered, and then recalled the stories and legends about a sacred cloth which once covered the face of the crucified Jesus. Some said it was at Lucca in Italy. Others in Rome, Cologne or Jerusalem. De Molay straightened up. He let Corbett stare for a while before going forward; he extinguished the candles and covered that haunting face behind the tapestry. He then sat down on the dais opposite Corbett.
‘It is what you think,’ he murmured. ‘The sacred Mandylion. The cloth which Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus used to cover Christ’s face in the tomb. Somehow the cloth took on the imprint of his face. For centuries it was hidden but when invading armies sacked Constantinople in 1204, it came into our Order.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘This is what we venerate in the dead of night. This is the source of the garbled stories about Templars worshipping severed heads or indulging in secret rituals. This is our Great Mystery, and it is this which Philip of France would like to seize.’
Corbett leaned back on his heels and nodded. Any king would give a fortune for what he’d seen. If Philip owned it, he would use the cloth to underline the sacredness of his rule and, if circumstances demanded, sell it on the open market for a fabulous sum. All of Christendom would bid to own it.
De Molay came over and helped Corbett to his feet.
‘Only the chosen few in the Order are ever allowed to see what you have seen,’ he explained. ‘Now go, Sir Hugh, but never utter a word about what you have witnessed.’
Corbett rose and left the small, mysterious chapel. He returned to his own chamber in the guesthouse. Maltote was already asleep, but Ranulf was eager to congratulate his master and ply him with questions about what had happened. Corbett just shook his head. He took off his boots and climbed on to the bed, wrapping his cloak around him.
‘Surely, Master,’ Ranulf wailed, ‘you can tell me.’
Corbett half rose, resting on one elbow. ‘I’ll say one thing, Ranulf, and you must not question me again. I am a singular man: in one night I have looked into the heart of evil and the source of light. I have glimpsed both heaven and hell!’
And, with Ranulf’s muttered curses ringing in his ears, Corbett lay back down on the bed, praying daylight would soon come and this business would be finished.
The next morning Corbett, with Ranulf and Maltote in attendance, stood outside the front door of the manor house. The sun had not yet broken through the cloying mist which hung heavy amongst the trees, shifting under a sharp cold breeze which gave the manor gardens a ghostly appearance. De Molay had insisted that every Templar be present, formed in a square around a crude wooden platform on which a block had been set with a large, two-headed axe lying on one side. On the other stood a small basket filled with straw and coated with sawdust. The grand master stood on the platform intoning the ‘
De Profundis
’, the psalm for the dead. He moved aside as a Templar soldier, dressed in black from head to toe, a red mask covering his face, stepped on to the makeshift scaffold. A single drum began to beat as Legrave, dressed in boots, hose and a white linen shirt, was led out through the main door of the manor. He looked pale but, apart from that, showed no sign of fear. He went on up on to the scaffold and knelt before the block. De Molay approached and whispered into his ear. Legrave smiled slightly but shook his head, refusing to listen. De Molay stepped back. The executioner lashed Legrave’s hands behind his back and thrust his head forward over the block. For a few seconds the prisoner remained motionless, neck extended, eyes closed. He then abruptly lifted his head. The executioner was about to thrust him down again but de Molay shook his head. Legrave looked up at the sky and then round at the host of witnesses to his death.
‘It will be a fine day,’ he declared in a clear voice. ‘The sun will rise, the mist will burn off. Brothers . . .’ His voice shook a little. ‘Brothers, remember me.’ He laid his head on the block, the executioner pulled back his shirt a little then moved back. The drum beat began. The great axe went up. There was a shimmer of light as it swooped, cutting the air, piercing Legrave’s neck, veins and sinews. Corbett closed his eyes, murmured a prayer and moved away, back through the crowd.
In the solar of the Archbishop of York’s palace, Edward, King of England and John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, sat in the cushioned windowseat staring down at the scene in the courtyard below. Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote were preparing horses and two sumpter ponies, loaned from the royal stables, for their journey south. Corbett was on his horse, staring out through the yard gate, lost in thought, as if calculating how long it would take to travel from York to his manor at Leighton. The king stifled his annoyance and, opening his hand, stared down at the Secret Seal.
‘Your Grace, I am going,’ Corbett had declared. ‘I wish to be on the road by midday. I kept my word and now you must keep yours.’
The king had fumed, sulked, shouted and pleaded, but Corbett was obdurate.
‘Your king needs you!’ Edward yelled in exasperation.
‘So does my wife and family,’ Corbett retorted and, taking the ring from his finger and the Seal from his purse, he’d walked over and thrust them into the king’s hands.
‘My Lord King,’ the clerk had whispered, ‘even a good dog gets his bone as a reward.’
‘But why now?’ Edward grasped Corbett by the front of his tunic.
‘I. . .’ Corbett had glanced away. ‘I am tired,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am tired of the blood, the violence. I resign my office. I wish to sit in my manor and count my sheep. Go to bed with my wife and stop sleeping with a dagger beneath my pillow whilst Ranulf and Maltote guard the door.’
Corbett had closed the king’s fingers around the Seal and ring, then strode out of the royal chamber, shouting at Ranulf and Maltote that they were leaving. De Warrenne followed Edward’s stare.
‘I could stop him,’ the earl offered. ‘Give me ten good archers. I’ll seize him at the city gates and bring him back.’
‘Oh, for the love of God, don’t be stupid!’ Edward groaned. He leaned over and tweaked his earl marshal’s cheek. ‘You are a good man, John. If I told you to mount a destrier and charge the moon you probably would.’ Edward tossed Corbett’s ring and Seal into the rushes, though he made careful note where they fell. ‘I made Corbett what he is,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘What I fashioned once, I can fashion again.’
Even as the words were out of his mouth, Edward knew he was lying. He would miss Corbett: dark, secretive, with his wry sense of humour, his love of law. Corbett, his shadow-master or ‘guardian angel’, as the king had once referred to him.
‘He did well,’ de Warrenne grudgingly conceded. ‘Do you believe Master Hubert Seagrave?’
Edward grinned. ‘No, I don’t. Truth comes in many guises, but a rich vintner coming to confess his sins, his chests full of ancient gold, craving the royal pardon for a momentary lapse. . .’ Edward shrugged: he jabbed a finger at the courtyard below. ‘Corbett’s brain may be of steel, but he has a heart of wax. I suspect he had a hand in it. However, my coffers are full, my Exchequer clerks are dancing with delight at the profits, not to mention the low price Seagrave will charge for every tun of wine delivered to the royal household.’
‘And de Craon?’ the earl asked.
‘Huffing and puffing,’ Edward replied. ‘Shocked, outraged. The lying bastard protests too much. He’ll go back to my sweet brother of France and I’ll have letters! Oh, by the moon’s tits, I’ll have letters! Angry protestations, fierce denunciations, then Philip will scuttle back to his spiderweb and plot again. He’s set his heart on the Templars and the Templars he will have; but not while I sit on the throne at Westminster . . .’
Edward rose and went across to the table. ‘Legrave is dead,’ he continued. ‘De Molay will return to France to accept Philip’s protestations of innocence. He will even offer the French king a loan.’ Edward sat down and began to leaf through the books Corbett had borrowed from the Archbishop’s library. ‘But this fire . . .’
‘You had heard about it before, your Grace?’
‘Oh yes,’ Edward lied, snapping his fingers at de Warrenne to join him. The king leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands. ‘In the summer,’ he mused, ‘I intend to cross the Scottish march. I will teach Wallace and his rebels a lesson they’ll never forget.’ He tapped the pages of the book. ‘I want my Clerks of Stores to read this. What Corbett discovered, so can they. That rogue Claverley, whom I’m going to reward, can help. Let us, my good Earl, take this fire north. I’ll set the very heather ablaze!’
Edward heard a sound from the courtyard below. He pushed back his stool and went to look out of the window. His heart skipped a beat: Corbett was gone.
Author’s Note
The events of this novel are based on historical fact. The city of York is as I described it, though sometimes I have used other spellings of well-known landmarks, e.g. Botham Bar for Bootham Bar.
The introduction of gunpowder into English warfare is well described by Henry W. Hine in his book
Gunpowder and Ammunition, Their Origin and Progress
, published by Longmans (1904). He gives a scholarly analysis of gunpowder, talks of the ‘
Liber Ignium
’ as well as the secrets of Friar Bacon’s work mentioned in the text. Even today scholars are puzzled by the complex anagrams and cryptic language in which Bacon conceals his formula. Perhaps the good friar realised the latent dangers of his discovery! Greek fire was used by the Byzantines and, for a while, was their jealously guarded secret. Edward I’s remarks at the end of the novel are probably based on fact: the events of
Satan’s Fire
are set in 1303: according to Hine’s book (page 50), Edward did sweep north in 1304 and used this fire, for the first time, in the siege of Stirling Castle. By 1319 the Scots had learnt their lesson and also had the secret from a Flemish engineer.
The fall of Acre and the consequent effect on the Templar Order is also well documented. Philip of France did attempt to join the Order and was repulsed. There is evidence that he tried to stir up Edward’s agitation against the Templars, but was prevented from carrying his designs through. In 1307, however, after Edward I had died, Philip launched his notorious attack on the Templars, accusing them of witchcraft, sodomy and of worshipping a severed head. The English Crown was one of the few institutions to raise a voice in defence of the Order and, for a while, Edward II tried to resist his father-in-law’s demand for the destruction of the Templar Order in England. Philip, however, had his way: the Templars were destroyed and, in 1313, Jacques de Molay was burnt alive before Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. Before he died, the Templar grand master protested his innocence. He summoned Philip of France to meet him ‘before the tribunal of God within a year’. He also cursed the French monarchy ‘until its thirteenth generation’. De Molay’s curse was prophetic: Philip IV was dead within the year. His three sons died childless; his grandson Edward III of England claimed the throne of France and plunged Western Europe into the Hundred Years War. Louis XVI, ‘the thirteenth generation’, died on the guillotine, his family’s last prison being the Temple in Paris.
The Templars undoubtedly held the Mandylion, the cloth which covered Christ’s face. This not only gave source to the legends about worshipping a severed head but figures prominently in Templar art, as recent excavations at Templecombe in Dorset prove.
© Paul C. Doherty 14 September 1994