Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) (12 page)

‘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.