Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) (29 page)

Now, all should have been well. However, on that night, a relic-seller, Wulfstan of Beverley, probably half-drunk, had left York to sell his tawdry goods in the villages beyond. Wulfstan, curious, ever eager for new stories, saw the fires, so he pushed his nag off the path and into the trees. The killer cannot allow this. Wulfstan will remember both his face and horse. He draws his great two-handed sword and strikes with such a great and powerful blow that he severs poor Wulfstan in two.’

‘That death?’ Branquier barked.

‘Yes, that death,’ Corbett echoed. ‘As Wulfstan’s horse bolts into the darkness, the assassin realises he has human flesh to play with. The fire will also destroy the identity of the victim. The remains are set alight but the assassin hears the cries of two good sisters and their guide, so he goes deeper into the trees and waits until they pass. He then leaves, removes the arrows from the trees: the burnt patches, the scratches on the bark and Wulfstan’s mangled, burning remains are the only traces left.’

‘Who?’ de Craon shouted. ‘Who is this assassin?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett taunted back. ‘This assassin, Monsieur de Craon, is now ready to spread his web. Murston was a Templar serjeant, someone very much like the one who is lured into Paris. On the night before Edward of England enters York, Murston is told to go to a tavern near Trinity where the king will pass. He is ordered to hire a chamber and wait there.’

‘Murston was a killer,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘An assassin.’

‘He was no assassin,’ Corbett replied. ‘Just a stupid man, carrying out the orders of a superior officer. He stays the night like a good soldier would: the king enters York and so do you, Grand Master, with your commanders. However, one of them slips back along the streets to the tavern where Murston is waiting. He goes upstairs, slits Murston’s throat and takes the crossbow Murston brought into the city. When the king processes up Trinity, the assassin fires two bolts, narrowly missing His Grace.’

Corbett turned and pointed to a chair standing in the corner, gesturing at Maltote to bring it across. Corbett sat down, easing the cramp in the small of his back.

‘Murston was dead before those bolts were ever shot,’ he continued. ‘Greek fire has already been sprinkled over his corpse. Once the second bolt has been loosed, the assassin ignites the powder and flees down the stairs. He protects his face and body in a ragged cloak he’d bought from some beggar. I was the first to reach that garret but the assassin was already gone, leaving me to wonder how a man like Murston could shoot two crossbow bolts and then be half-consumed by those yellow-blue flames.’

‘Did the assassin intend to kill the king?’ de Molay asked.

‘No, that was just the start. What the assassin really wanted – what Philip of France wanted – was to create a great scandal in the Templar Order.’

‘Why?’ Branquier shouted.

‘So that the English crown would launch an attack upon the Order, seizing its properties, filling the exchequer with its treasure. And what Edward started in England, Philip of France would soon finish. And if the Holy Father complained?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Philip would simply point to Edward of England, saying he was only imitating what his brother king had already done. Philip would destroy the Order, seize its lands and treasure, fill his own coffers as well as remove a movement which constantly reminded him about how his saintly grandfather had gone on Crusade. However, the Pope would hold Edward as the main culprit. Now the assassin knew that I would be sent to investigate. Hence the warning, followed by the attempt to kill me near the Shambles.’

‘But we were all gone from York by then,’ de Molay intervened. ‘No Templar was in York when you were attacked.’ The grand master spread his hands. ‘True, one of us could have sent that warning to you but. . .’

‘You never sent the warning,’ Corbett declared. ‘Nor was the mysterious archer a Templar. Was he, Monsieur de Craon?’

The Frenchman’s eyes never flickered.

‘Only you,’ Corbett continued, jabbing his finger at de Craon, ‘knew when I left for the archbishop’s palace. You had me followed. You or one of your creatures also arranged that attack and, in doing so, deepened the mystery.’

‘And Reverchien?’ Legrave said hoarsely, not moving his head. ‘None of us was at the manor when Reverchien died.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘But you were there the day before he died: that was when the assassin entered the maze, carrying the Greek fire. He went to the centre. On the stone plinth, before the cross, are three candles on their metal stand. The assassin sprinkled the Greek fire over the candles, coating them, the stone plinth and the steps where Reverchien always knelt.’

‘Of course,’ Branquier breathed. ‘And the old Crusader lit those candles, saying his prayers, his mind on God.’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied.

He turned and gestured at Ranulf in the corner. The manservant came over, carrying a small bowl. Corbett placed it on the table. He smiled apologetically at de Molay.

‘I borrowed it from the scullery.’

He rose and brought back one of the many candles which burnt in their holders along the windowsill.

‘In the bowl,’ Corbett explained, ‘is a very small portion of the powder which causes Greek fire.’ He glanced up as the Templars pushed back their chairs. ‘No, there’s no danger.’ Corbett took a long piece of dried vellum from his pouch, placed it in the bowl and lit one end. The flame licked it greedily, running down into the bowl. Even Ranulf jumped in alarm at the small, angry flame which shot up into the air. ‘Reverchien did that,’ Corbett said, pulling the bowl towards him and peering warily at the black scorch-mark inside.

‘Reverchien lit those three candles, saying his prayers, unaware in the poor light before dawn of the death-bearing powder around him. The candles are lit. The substance is caught. The flames run down the candle stem, catching the powder on the step. It turned Reverchien into a living blaze. How subtle a way to kill your victim when you are far from the place of his death. And the flame burns fiercely,’ Corbett explained, pushing the metal bowl along the table. ‘Not only is it difficult to douse with water but the fire roars, leaving no trace of what caused it or how it began.’

Corbett retook his seat. ‘The other deaths were similar. Peterkin the kitchen boy puts on an apron and oven cloths, not knowing they have been coated with that same powder. As he rakes the burning ash, Peterkin has a faint suspicion of what was happening before he died. Remember, his companions in the kitchen were discussing Reverchien’s death and the other strange happenings. Peterkin made a joke about the air being tinged with sulphur. It was, on the very cloths he was wearing. The rest you know,’ Corbett continued, staring at the murderer. ‘A piece of hot ash or burning charcoal caught the cloths around his hand. The man tried to beat them out against his apron. Of course, the fire spread and Peterkin dies.’

‘But why?’ Symmes asked. ‘Why a poor cook?’

‘Because the assassin wanted to create terror. Spread the rumour, deepen the darkness, how the Templars were cursed, not only harbouring a possible regicide and killing each other, but allowing the flames of hell to burn freely and fiercely even amongst the innocents in their midst.’ Corbett played with the Chancery ring on his finger. ‘On a more practical level, Peterkin’s death led to the flight of all the servants from Framlingham. Servants are curious, they look for the unexpected. Peterkin’s death ended that and so protected the assassin.’

‘And who, sir, is that?’ Legrave snarled.

‘Why sir, you sir,’ Corbett remarked quietly.

Chapter 14

De Molay took some time to calm the subsequent uproar. Legrave rose and lunged at Corbett but Symmes, sitting between them, pushed back his chair. De Craon sprang to his feet, snapping his fingers at his black-garbed clerk as if they were on the point of departure. Corbett knew his old enemy and recognised the mummery for what it was: de Craon would only leave when it was to his advantage. Corbett was pleased the other Templars did not spring to Legrave’s defence. There were shouts of disapproval, looks of concern, but the grand master’s stem face and Branquier’s troubled gaze reassured Corbett.

They know something, he thought; what I have said has touched secrets they harbour.

At last Legrave, red with fury, was forced back in his chair.

‘You have no proof!’ he spluttered.

‘I will come to that in due course,’ Corbett replied, ‘when I have described the other deaths. Poor Brother Odo. You caught him as he went out to fish, didn’t you? Waiting for him amongst the trees near the entrance to the jetty. I saw no blood there so you must have struck him a blow on the head, probably cracking his skull. Then you lowered him into the boat, fastening him upright in the seat, whilst in the stem and prow you sprinkled the Greek fire. The oars were tied to the old man’s hands and fastened to their ratchet rings; the fishing line was slipped between the dead man’s fingers and
The Ghost of the Tower
pushed out into the centre of the lake. A common sight here at Framlingham: old Odo dressed in his usual cloak and cowl, bending over a fishing rod, his boat bobbing on the lake. You hid amongst the trees, shot a fire arrow into the boat, and so the terror spreads. If a man like Odo, a hero of his Order, is devoured by the flames of hell, who can be safe? What is wrong at Framlingham? What is wrong with the Templars? And so the pool of poison spreads.’

‘Why Odo?’ de Molay asked. ‘Why a gentle old man?’

‘Because he was a scholar,’ Corbett replied.

‘And Baddlesmere?’

‘Because he was a source of scandal,’ Corbett continued. ‘Legrave knew about Baddlesmere’s little secrets, his passion for young men and the chilled white wine standing in his chamber. A sleeping potion was sprinkled into the jug; the fire powder spread on the floor beneath the rushes as well as along the leather sheet which hung against the door to keep out the draughts. Only Baddlesmere is not present: there’s been a lovers’ quarrel. Scoudas and Joscelyn drink the wine. Night falls whilst Baddlesmere sulks amongst the trees.’ Corbett looked at Legrave’s ashen face. ‘And back you go, possibly carrying a small bowl containing a piece of burning charcoal. You slip that under the door. The rushes are dry, the powder is caught, the fire rages whilst those two drugged young men slip into death.’

‘Grand Master.’ Legrave pushed himself away from the table but, as he did so, Symmes placed his pet weasel on the floor; the creature scampered off into the darkness as its master caught Legrave’s arm.

‘I think you’d best stay, Brother,’ Symmes remarked quietly. ‘What Corbett says makes sense.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett continued. ‘There was a connection between Baddlesmere and Brother Odo’s death. The librarian was becoming curious. He was beginning to remember stories about the mysterious fire from the east. Legrave, however, was watching him. Perhaps Odo talked to him, told him what he was doing: that’s why you came back into the library when I was there. If that door had not opened,’ Corbett snapped, ‘you’d have killed me as well!’

Legrave stared back, glassy-eyed, jaw tense. He kept gulping and glanced quickly at de Craon who refused to meet his gaze.

Corbett sighed: that glance alone confirmed his suspicions.

‘For all his faults,’ he continued, ‘Baddlesmere was also edging towards the truth: he wondered who could have been behind Murston’s death. On the morning the king was attacked, Baddlesmere knew where he was and where the grand master had gone. He also reached the conclusion, as I did, that two of his companions, Symmes and Branquier, had been at the other end of York near Botham Bar well away from Trinity when the attack was carried out.’

‘That’s true,’ Branquier interrupted. ‘Baddlesmere kept questioning all of us: where we had gone, which streets we’d walked down.’

‘Even which taverns we’d drunk in,’ Symmes added drily.

‘But I was with the grand master,’ Legrave shouted. He glanced down the table but de Molay just stared at him.

‘The grand master was with the goldsmiths for at least two hours,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were supposed to stay outside.’

‘And I did.’

‘But if you look at Baddlesmere’s map of York, you can travel from Stonegate to the tavern in Trinity where Murston was in a matter of minutes.’

De Molay took his hands away from his mouth. ‘Sir Hugh speaks the truth,’ he declared. ‘We visited two goldsmiths on that street. On one occasion I came out and did not find you there.’

‘I was amongst the stalls,’ Legrave cried.

‘Oh, yes, so you were,’ Corbett declared. ‘Buying what?’

Legrave licked his lips.

‘Gloves,’ Branquier replied, ‘or gauntlets: that’s what you told us.’

‘Where are these?’ Corbett asked. ‘You bought more than one pair. Different stall-owners will attest to that. Why should any man want more than one or two pairs of gauntlets? You are a soldier-monk, Legrave, not some foppish courtier.’

‘Where are the gauntlets?’ de Molay demanded.

‘Oh, you’ll find them gone,’ Corbett interjected. ‘You see the powder Legrave used can be very dangerous. It leaves a stain: the grains become embedded in the cloth. Once used, they must be destroyed. Legrave did this. He burnt them in isolated spots in the manor. My companions found the remains.’

‘You are lying! You are lying!’ Legrave beat the table with his fists.

‘We can search your chamber,’ Corbett offered. ‘We could ask you to produce these gauntlets. Who knows what we might find there. Some traces of the substances you used? It would leave its mark on boots and clothes. Perhaps traces of blood on a knife or sword?’

‘Ralph.’ Branquier leaned forward, looking down the table. ‘You have the opportunity to answer these charges.’

Legrave refused to look up.

‘Baddlesmere, too, studied the Assassins’ warning,’ Corbett continued. ‘You see, the warning nailed to the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral read as follows: