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

 
SATAN’S FIRE

 

 
PAUL DOHERTY

 
 
headline

Copyright © 1995 P. C. Doherty

The right of P. C. Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

eISBN: 978 0 7553 5036 0

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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Table of Contents

 

 

 

History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!

The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts - I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here:
www.headline.co.uk
and find out more. You may also visit my website:
www.paulcdoherty.com
or email me on:
[email protected]
.

About the Author

Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.

Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied history at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

Praise for Paul Doherty

‘
Teems with colour, energy and spills’
Time Out

‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history . . . evocative and lyrical descriptions’
New Statesman

‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’
Herald Sun
, Melbourne

‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’
Northern Echo

‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’
South Wales Argus

To my baby son, Little Paul [Mr. T. T.]

Prologue

On the shores of the Dead Sea, where the djinns and devils rested from their constant war against man, stood the rocky, yellow-stoned eyrie of Am Massafia; the stronghold lair of the Sheikh Al-Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain. The trackways to the Old Man’s lair were narrow, winding and secret, the shadow of vultures’ wings a constant presence. The final path, a perilous journey along a roped bridge above a yawning gorge, was guarded by Sudanese swordsmen with broad, razor-edged scimitars clasped to their waists. Once across this bridge of hell, however, and through the iron-studded gates, a visitor would enter a palace with mosaic floors. Cool courtyards, with fountains spouting ice-cold water, offered shade against the setting sun. Peacocks strutted and gaily coloured parrots shrieked amongst the rose gardens or rustled the leaves of the dark mulberry trees. Around the courtyard, wooden lattices, built against the wall, were covered with rare and exotic flowers which turned the dry air heavy with perfume, whilst thuribles, in corners or on shelves, poured amber smoke to the ever-blue sky.

Beneath the fortress, however, lay a different place: dark, hot passageways; galleries without light or air; only the occasional torch flickering against the blood-red rock. The dungeons of the Old Man of the Mountain housed many prisoners. Some had long died, the flesh falling off their bones which now turned yellow in the heat. Others had gone insane and crouched like animals in their narrow chained dungeons, crawling around like dogs, their eyes mad, their tongues constantly baying against the darkness. But, in one cell, the Unknown, the infidel knight with corn-coloured hair and light-blue eyes, squirmed on rotting straw and dreamed of vengeance. For only this, burning brightly within him, held back the Stygian blackness and the demons ever ready to carry away his soul. Hatred, anger and a burning desire for vengeance kept his wits together and body and soul as one. He refused to dwell on the silent horrors around him but lived constantly in the past, on that dreadful night when the great city of Acre had fallen to the Turks. Again and again he would recall the constant beat of the kettledrums as the Muslim hordes poured through the breach in the wall of the city. The armoured regiments of Mamelukes streaming across the ruined moat, over the bodies and broken engines, pressing back the wounded knights, forcing their way into the streets. The prisoner blinked and, lifting his arm, stared closely at the white scabs forming on his arms and legs. He closed his eyes and called on God for life: not a cure for his leprosy but length of days and the opportunity to wreak his revenge.

In the opulent, breeze-filled chambers far above the dungeon, the Sheikh Al-Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain, sat overlooking a walled garden with marble fountains which tossed sparkling wine into the perfumed air. The Old Man, his eyes heavy with opium, stared down at the silk-carpeted pavilions and beautifully tiled porticoes, where his young men lay sprawled with their Circassian girls and dreamed hashish-filled fantasies of Paradise. So it was, every day, a time of Paradise until the Old Man issued his orders. Once the die had been cast, these young men, dressed in their white robes, red girdles about their waists, scarlet, gold-tipped slippers on their feet, would leave the fortress and go down into the valleys to wreak their master’s will. No one could ever oppose him. No one ever escaped his death sentence. Two daggers pressed into the pillows of their intended victim’s bed and, on the table beside it, a flat seedcake, a warning from the Old Man of the Mountain that his Assassins were about to do his will.