‘So you have no idea who the assassin could be?’ Corbett insisted.
‘No more than you do, Sir Hugh!’ De Molay pushed the parchment aside and picked up a letter. ‘I am sending a messenger to the king.’
Corbett nodded.
‘I am going to beg him,’ de Molay continued, ‘for licence to return to France.’ He leaned on the table and glared across at Corbett. ‘Now there’s a thought, Sir Hugh: here am I, Grand Master of Christendom’s premier fighting Order, yet I have to beg to travel home, offer money as a surety for my good conduct.’ De Molay’s face became suffused with rage. ‘Now, God forgive me Sir Hugh for saying so, but such humiliation would make a saint plot revenge!’
A few hours later, in the woods overlooking the lake, Sagittarius sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. He picked at the lichen and moss and stared at the cross-hilt of his sword buried in the ground before him. He looked at the cross engraved on the hilt and his face became hard. He rocked himself backwards and forwards. His master, or at least his new one, was right, the Order was finished. And what good would it do then? He stared out across the lake and thought of Brother Odo.
‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.
Yes, he was truly sorry the old one had to die but, with his long memory and meddling ways, the librarian could have proved a danger. Sagittarius licked his lips as he remembered the wine tun Corbett had brought. He had seen it broached, noticing the red seal with the vintner’s mark stamped on it, round as a coin, boldly displaying the year 1292. The wine had tasted rich and mellow on his tongue. Perhaps one day he would have such riches and be able to call up what he wanted. And who could oppose him? The Templars? Stupid, brawny men, frightened by their own secrets and mysterious rituals, scampering about like chickens without their heads. He grasped the hilt of his sword, pulled it out of the soil and lay it over his lap, cleaning the dirt from its point. Corbett was his only danger. The first time the clerk should have been frightened but, in the library, if it hadn’t been for that bloody door, he’d have caught and killed him. What a storm that would have provoked! He dared not creep out of the manor and try to enter York, that would be dangerous. So what next? He recalled the gossip and rumours he had heard, the hints and the sniggers. The assassin sat down on the log and coolly planned other murders.
Chapter 10
The tolling of the bell woke Corbett. Ranulf was already up, searching for his swordbelt. Outside the corridors echoed with the running of feet and shouted orders. Other bells in the Templar manor began to toll. Corbett dressed hurriedly. He wrapped his swordbelt around him and peered through the window: the darkened sky was brightening under the first light of dawn.
‘Are we under attack?’ Ranulf exclaimed, hopping around, putting his boots on.
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett gasped.
There was a hammering at the door. Ranulf drew back the bolts. A Templar serjeant, his face blackened, hair awry, his surcoat and hose scorched and filthy, almost fell into the room.
‘Sir Hugh!’ he gasped. ‘The grand master’s compliments but you are to come. There’s a fire in the main building!’
Once outside the guesthouse, Corbett saw the smoke billowing out of the far wing of the manor. The courtyard was now filling with Templars: half-dressed, coughing and spluttering, they were forming a chain so buckets could be passed along. Corbett pushed his way through the door. Inside the passage was full of smoke and, as it parted in a breeze, Corbett saw the orange glow of fire at the far end. Now and again a Templar would dash in, a slopping pail of water in his hand. Branquier, followed by de Molay, came out of the smoke coughing and spluttering. They pushed by Corbett, staggering into the morning air.
‘It’s Baddlesmere’s cell!’ de Molay gasped. ‘It’s a lighted torch from one end to another.’ He squatted on the cobbles and greedily drank from the water stoup a servant brought, then threw the rest over his face. ‘The water’s having no effect,’ he muttered.
Corbett crouched beside him. Branquier stumbled off into the darkness, unable to speak, his eyes streaming because of the acrid smoke. Other Templars were now staggering out of the building, shouting that they could do nothing.
‘The cell’s burning!’ de Molay exclaimed. ‘If the flames are not brought under control, it will engulf the entire manor house.’
His frustration soon spread to the rest: the chain of buckets faltered. Legrave, a wet cloak covering his nose and mouth, dashed into the passageway. A few minutes later he re-emerged, the top part of his face a mask of ash. Corbett recalled Murston’s smouldering corpse.
‘Forget the water!’ the clerk exclaimed. He pointed across the cobbles where a huge mound of sand, probably used in some building work, lay heaped against the wall. ‘Use that!’ he said. ‘Sand, dirt, soil. Smother the flames rather than drown them!’
At first everything was confusion but then Symmes arrived, his pet weasel popping his little head out of the top of his tunic. He forced the retainers into one long line. Soldiers were sent in, wet cloths over their nostrils and mouths: each carried buckets of sand whilst another was armed with a heavy blanket. An hour passed, eventually the flames died and the fire was brought under control.
‘Thank God!’ de Molay murmured. ‘Thank God, Sir Hugh, the walls are of stone, as is the floor: the whole manor could have been turned into a blazing pyre.’
‘It’s bad enough,’ Legrave remarked, coming up. ‘The cell on the other side is damaged, as are the two rooms above. The beams and floor joists are burnt away.’ He stared around. ‘Where’s Baddlesmere?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sure I saw . . .’ His voice faltered.
Branquier hastened away, calling Baddlesmere’s name. He came back, shaking his head.
‘That was Baddlesmere’s chamber?’ Corbett asked.
Symmes nodded.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
Symmes turned away and shouted out names. Two Templars hurried up, stripped to the waist, their bodies covered in soot. They looked like two demons from hell.
‘You raised the alarm?’ Branquier asked one of them.
‘Yes, Domine. I was on patrol. I turned the corridor and saw the smoke coming out beneath the door. I hurried down and banged with all my might.’ He extended his bloody, scorched fist. ‘The door was boiling hot so I called for help. Waldo and Gibner came. Gibner ran off to ring the bell and raise the alarm, whilst Waldo and I tried to force the door, which was locked and barred. We took a bench from the corridor and smashed it on the left so as to snap the hinges. We were successful,’ he gasped, ‘but the flames and the smoke seemed to leap out at us. Inside it was terrible, fire and smoke. It was like the heart of hell, an inferno.’
‘Did you see Sir Bartholomew?’ Legrave snapped. ‘Speak the truth!’
‘Yes, he was lying on the bed. The flames had already reached it. I only saw him for a few seconds.’ He stammered. ‘Him and. . .’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘There was another,’ the Templar mumbled. ‘They were sprawled on the bed: the flames were already taking hold of the tester and counterpane. I shouted once, then we ran. Honestly, Master, we could do nothing.’
‘Who was the other?’ Branquier cried. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man! We have lost two of our Order!’
‘One was Sir Bartholomew,’ the serjeant replied. ‘I think the other was Scoudas.’
De Molay cursed under his breath and walked away. Corbett stood aside, watching the dirty and blackened Templars wash themselves in buckets of water from the well. Above him the sun was rising fast and strong whilst, a short distance away, de Molay and his commanders waited for it to be safe before reentering the building. Eventually a serjeant reported the fire was extinguished. De Molay ordered his companions to stay where they were and, beckoning Corbett and Ranulf, entered the charred, stinking corridor. The walls and woodwork were all scorched; when they reached Baddlesmere’s chamber, Corbett was surprised at the intensity of the fire. It had reduced the chamber to nothing but a blackened charnel-house. The floor was ankle-deep in ash. The bedding, furniture and ornaments had been turned to cinder. Above them, the ceiling had been gutted; they stared into the upper chamber where the hungry flames had roared, consuming all in its path.
‘Are the beams safe?’ Corbett asked.
‘We always build well,’ de Molay replied. ‘Fire is our great enemy. Three, possibly four, chambers will have to be gutted and repaired.’
He walked across and stopped where the bed had been. Very little remained of the two dead Templars: charred skeletons lying next to each other made unrecognisable by the horror which had occurred. Despite the ash and dirt, de Molay, tears streaming down his face, knelt down and crossed himself.
‘
Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine,
’ he intoned. ‘Eternal rest give unto them oh Lord and let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He blessed the remains with his hand. ‘Turn not your face away from them,’ he prayed. ‘And, in your infinite mercy, forgive their offence.’
He rose to his feet, stumbled, and would have fallen if Corbett had not grasped his arm. De Molay lifted his face. Corbett was shocked: the grand master had aged, his face grey, mouth slack, eyes like a lost child.
‘What is happening, Corbett?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘For the love of God, what is happening? The fire is terrible enough but Bartholomew? A good soldier, to die in his bed with another man beside him. How will that be seen by the Judge of us all? What terrible damage to the name of our Order!’
He pulled his hand away and stumbled towards the door. Corbett indicated Ranulf to help him. The grand master hobbled like an old man into the passageway. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
‘I have heard the rumours,’ he whispered. ‘Friendships are formed. Sometimes we, who can have no sons, look for someone we would have liked to have had as one. Perhaps that was the case with Bartholomew. Now God’s judgement has caught up with him and the power of the Evil One has made itself felt.’
Corbett wiped the soot and ash away from his face. ‘Nonsense!’ he snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and his companion were murdered. Their deaths were planned.’
‘But rumours will go out amongst the wicked.’ De Molay looked glassy-eyed at him. ‘He cast his lot.’
‘Shut up!’ Corbett shouted.
The grand master bowed his head. For a while he stood sobbing quietly, then, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he grasped Corbett’s arm like a man who had lost his sight. He stumbled down the passageway towards the door. Outside he ignored his companions but, accompanied by Corbett and Ranulf, walked slowly back to his own chamber. Once there, the grand master relaxed a little, bathing his face in a bowl of water, washing the grime and sweat from his face and hands. He then poured three goblets of wine, serving Ranulf and Corbett. He apologised deeply for the early hour, but quoted St Paul that they should take a little wine for their stomach’s sake. Then he sat for a while, staring out of the window, mouth open, now and again sipping from the wine goblet. Ranulf looked at Corbett but he shook his head, bringing his finger to his lips. The door opened. Branquier, Symmes and Legrave crept into the room and sat down. At last de Molay sighed and, turning, looked squarely at Corbett.
‘It was no accident, was it?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘It was murder.’
‘But how?’ Symmes exclaimed. ‘Grand Master, I have just studied what remains of the lock and bolts. The key was welded into the lock on the inside. The bolts at top and bottom were secure.’
‘What about the window?’ Ranulf asked. ‘If that was open, a firebrand could have been tossed through.’
‘I have checked that,’ Symmes retorted. ‘The serjeants on duty outside say that the shutters of Bartholomew’s window were firmly closed.’
Everyone concentrated on the fire: no one dared to mention the circumstances in which Baddlesmere had died.
‘The flames were so intense,’ de Molay exclaimed, ‘burning savagely. What on God’s earth would cause such a fire?’ He waved his hand. ‘Oh, accidents happen. Candles fall on to the rushes or an oil-lamp is tipped over, but the speed of that fire!’ He shook his head. ‘It can’t have been anything like that.’
‘And if such an accident had occurred?’ Corbett remarked. ‘Why didn’t Baddlesmere and his companion raise the alarm, douse the flames themselves?’
‘According to the serjeant,’ Legrave said. ‘Baddlesmere and Scoudas were either unconscious or dead.’
‘They were sodomites.’ Symmes’s face twisted in revulsion. ‘They died in their sin.’ His voice had risen.
‘That’s for God to decide,’ Corbett retorted. ‘What concerns me is how they died. The windows and doors were barred, so how could someone get into a room and start such an inferno?’ He stared round. ‘Did anything untoward happen yesterday evening?’
His question was answered by headshakes and murmurs of dissent.
‘Was Baddlesmere . . .’ Corbett paused to marshal his words more carefully. ‘Was his liaison with Scoudas well known?’
‘There were rumours,’ Symmes replied. ‘You know, the sort of gossip which runs like a river through any enclosed community. . .’
He paused at a knock on the door. A serjeant hurried in. He whispered in Branquier’s ear, laid a pair of saddlebags at his feet and left. Branquier undid the straps carefully. He shook the contents into his lap whilst the rest watched curiously.
‘The bag belongs to Scoudas,’ Branquier explained. ‘I told the serjeant to collect anything he might find in his quarters.’
He held up a small steel ring by its stem. Corbett recognised a sighting which skilled arbalesters used on their crossbows. The rest were a few paltry objects: a knife, a sheath and small squares of parchment. Branquier undid these, cursed and handed them over to Corbett.
The first was a diagram: Corbett recognised it as a street plan of York: Trinity, the road the king had ridden up, its line of houses, the place where Murston had lurked, was marked with a cross.