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

  ‘Why else?’ Mother Perpetua had concluded, ‘had the wagon been closely guarded by knights, foot-soldiers and crossbowmen all wearing the insignia of the Order?’

  Dames Cecilia and Marcia had spent their long journey speculating on the many rumours about the Templars. Now, as the owls began to hoot, they wondered if these same Templars had brought a curse upon the land.

  ‘We are definitely living in dreadful times,’ Dame Marcia declared. ‘Look you, Sister; where else have we had rain at seed times to smother the young crops and rot the wheat in the ear of corn?’

  ‘Aye,’ Dame Cecilia replied. ‘There’s talk of famine and hunger. How the poor are mixing chalk with their flour.’

  ‘And other stories.’ Dame Marcia chattered on. ‘Outside Hull, a vicar saw three witches come riding towards him, a yard and a half above the ground.’

  ‘And at Ripon,’ Dame Cecilia interrupted, eager to show her knowledge, ‘the noon-day devil was glimpsed under the outstretched branch of the yew tree, glaring, with horrid eyes, at the priory gates.’

  The two sisters heard a sound on the road ahead of them. Dame Cecilia gave a small scream and reined in. Thurston strode on, cursing under his breath at these chattering women. He stopped and peered down the road.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured in his broad Yorkshire burr, ‘though . . .’ He hid his grin and scratched his tousled beard.

  ‘What?’ Dame Cecilia snapped.

  ‘Well,’ Thurston replied slowly, thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘there have been rumours . . .’

  ‘Rumours about what?’

  ‘Well, ever since those Templars came back to York,’ Thurston continued, staring into the darkness, ‘there’ve been stories of devils, in the form of weasels, riding huge, amber-coloured cats along these roads.’

  The two good nuns drew in their breath sharply.

  ‘Or there again,’ Thurston continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘outside Walmer Bar, the Lord Satan himself has been glimpsed. He was clad in a purple gown with a black cap upon his head.’ He walked back and stared up at Dame Cecilia’s wrinkled face. ‘His face was terrible,’ Thurston continued hoarsely. ‘He had the nose of a great eagle, burning eyes, his hands and legs were hairy and he had feet like a griffin.’

  ‘Now that’s enough,’ Dame Marcia interrupted. ‘Thurston, you are frightening us. We should be in York.’

  Aye, Thurston thought, and we’d have been there an hour ago if it hadn’t been for your constant gabble and chatter about imps, Templars, demons and magic. He looked up at the starlit sky.

  ‘Don’t worry, good sisters,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Two more miles and we’ll be at Botham Bar; even sooner if you can make those palfreys trot a little faster.’

  The two nuns needed no further urging. They dug their heels in, shouting at Thurston not to walk too far in front of them. Their guide strode on, quite pleased at teasing these plump, well-fed gossips who, ever since they had left Beverley, had spent more time talking about Satan than their devotions. Thurston stopped abruptly. A country man, a born poacher, Thurston knew the forest and could distinguish between what sounds and smells spelt danger and what to ignore. Now something was wrong. He lifted his hand, even as his neck went cold and his heart began to beat faster. A strange smell in the night air of smoke, fire and something else, smouldering human flesh. Thurston recognised that smell. He’d never forgotten the time they’d burnt the old witch in the market place at Guiseborough. The village had stunk for days afterwards, as if the old crone had cursed the air at the very moment of dying.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dame Cecilia shrilled, fighting hard to control her usually meek palfrey which had now become restless, as it too caught the smell.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thurston replied. ‘Listen!’

  The two nuns obeyed. Then they heard it: the mad galloping of a horse coming along the trackway ahead. Thurston moved them quickly to the side of the road just as the horse appeared, pounding along, neck out, ears flat against its head. Thurston wildly wondered whether he could stop the charging animal. The horse saw them and, skittering on the trackway, turned sideways then up, back on its hind legs, before charging on. As it did, Thurston’s blood ran cold: the severed legs of the horse’s former rider were still clasped firmly in its stirrups.

  ‘What is it?’ Dame Cecilia whispered.

  Thurston crouched on the edge of the road, his hands across his stomach.

  ‘Thurston!’ Dame Marcia yelled. ‘What is wrong?’

  The guide turned and vomited on the grass. He then grabbed the wine skin slung over the horn of Dame Cecilia’s saddle. He ignored their protests, undid the clasps, almost throwing the wine into his mouth.

  ‘We’d best move on.’ He put the stopper back, thrust it at Dame Cecilia and, without a backward glance, continued along the trackway. They rounded the bend and fearfully approached the fire burning so fiercely on the edge of the forest. Dame Marcia gagged at the terrible stench, her palfrey, unwillingly, drew close to the flames. Dame Marcia took one look at the fire greedily consuming the upper, severed part of a man’s corpse; she screamed and fell like a sack from her saddle, swooning in terror at the hideous sight.

  Chapter 1

  York. Lady’s Day, 1303

  ‘The Lord knows I need it!’ Edward of England ran a hand through his iron-grey hair then brought his fists down on the refectory table in the priory of St Leonard outside York. The crash echoed round the long whitewashed room. ‘I need money!’ the king yelled.

  The commanders of the Temple, the principal officers of Christendom’s monastic fighting order, however, were not frightened by the English king’s play-acting. Indeed, all four looked to the other end of the table where Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of their Order, recently arrived from France, sat in his high-backed chair, hands linked together as if in prayer.

  ‘Well?’ Edward barked.

  De Molay spread his hands; his sunburnt face was impassive, his clear grey eyes betrayed no fear at the English king’s terrible rage.

  ‘Well?’ Edward snapped. ‘Are you going to answer or bless me?’

  ‘My lord King, we are not your subjects!’

  ‘By God’s teeth, some of you are!’ Edward roared back. He straightened in his chair, jabbing his fingers down on the table. ‘On my way here, I passed your manor of Framlingham with its elegant gatehouse, fields, pastures, stewponds and orchards. Those lands are mine. The cattle and sheep which graze there are mine. The sparrows which nest in the trees and the pigeons in your dovecotes are all mine. My father gave you that manor. I can take it back!’

  ‘All we have,’ de Molay answered quietly, ‘comes from God. They were given to us by noble princes like your father, so we can continue our fight against the Infidel and win back the Holy Places in Outremer.’

  Edward of England was tempted to reply that, so far, the Templars had made a poor job of it, but then he glanced across the room: the dark-haired clerk who sat in a window embrasure caught the king’s gaze and shook his head slowly. Edward breathed out noisily through his nose. He stared up at the polished hammer-beam roof.

  ‘I need money,’ Edward continued. ‘My war in Scotland is nearly finished. If I can only catch that bastard, that will-o’-the-wisp Wallace . . .!’

  ‘You have no war with France,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘You and His august Majesty, Philip IV, are about to sign a treaty of eternal peace.’

  Edward caught the sardonic note and hid his own smile.

  ‘Your son,’ de Molay continued, ‘your heir apparent, the Prince of Wales, is set to marry Philip IV’s daughter Princess Isabella. She will bring a grand dowry.’

  John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, seated to the left of the king, belched noisily. His watery blue eyes never left de Molay’s face. Edward pressed his boot on de Warrenne’s toes.

  ‘The good earl,’ Edward intervened, ‘may not be elegant in his response but, Seigneur de Molay, you taunt us. Isabella is only nine year
s old. It will be three years before she can marry. I have to fill my coffers in the next few months. I need a new army in Scotland by mid-summer.’

  Edward looked despairingly at each of the four Templar commanders. Surely, he thought, they will help? They are English. They know the problems which beset me. Bartholomew Baddlesmere, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg, his grizzled, weather-beaten face showed no compassion. Next to him William Symmes, his face a patchwork of scars: one black patch covered his left eye, his blond hair hung in lank tendrils to frame a narrow, mean face. No hope there, Edward thought: both of them are Templars born and bred. All they care for is their bloody Order. Edward tried to catch the eye of Ralph Legrave who, twenty years ago, had been one of the king’s household knights. Now he wore the white surcoat of the Templars emblazoned with their red-pointed cross. Legrave’s open, boyish face, however, skin smooth as a maiden, showed no concern for his former lord. Across the table from Legrave sat Richard Branquier, tall and stooped, the Templar’s grand chamberlain in England. He just wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hands. His short-sighted gaze refused to meet the king’s; instead he glanced down at the accounts book before him, a doleful look on his face.

  Just like some bloody merchant, Edward thought, he regards me as a poor prospect. Edward stared down at his hands clenched in his lap. I’d like to break their heads, he thought. Beside him de Warrenne shuffled his feet, moving his head slowly from side to side. Edward caught the earl’s wrist and gripped it. De Warrenne was not the brightest of his earls and Edward recognised the signs: if this meeting went on too long and the Templars grew more obdurate, de Warrenne wouldn’t think twice about name-calling or even resorting to physical violence. Edward glared across at the man sitting in the windowseat, staring down at the courtyard below. Moody bastard! Edward thought. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, should be over here sitting at his right hand, instead of staring out of the window, mooning over his flaxen-haired wife. The silence in the priory refectory became oppressive. The Templars sat like carved statues.

  ‘Do you want me to beg?’ the king snapped.

  Edward scratched at a stain on his purple surcoat. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Branquier lean over and whisper in de Molay’s ear. The grand master nodded slowly.

  ‘The King’s Exchequer is in York?’ de Molay asked.

  ‘Yes, my Treasury’s here but there’s sweet bugger-all in it!’ Edward retorted.

  Branquier brought his hand from beneath the ledger book and sent a gold coin ringing down the table. Edward deftly caught it. He stared down at the coin, his heart skipping a beat. He grimaced at de Warrenne.

  ‘Another one!’ he whispered, passing it to his companion.

  The earl looked at it curiously. As large as a shilling, the gold coin seemed freshly minted, with a crude cross stamped on either side. He weighed it carefully in his hand.

  ‘Well?’ Edward taunted. ‘Is this all you are going to give me?’

  ‘You say you have no treasure.’ Branquier leaned on the table. He pointed one bony finger at the coin de Warrenne was now tossing from one hand to the other. ‘Yet, Your Grace, those coins are appearing all over York. Freshly cut and neatly minted. Are they not issued by your own Treasury?’

  ‘No, they are not,’ Edward replied. ‘Since my arrival outside York, scores of such coins have appeared, but they are not from our Mints.’

  ‘But who would have such bullion?’ Branquier asked. ‘And how can they circulate such precious coinage?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edward retorted. ‘But, if I did, I’d seize the gold and hang the bastard who made it!’ He took a wafer-thin shilling out of his own purse and tossed it down the table. ‘That’s what my own Mints are producing, Sir Richard: so-called silver coins. They have as much silver in them as I have in my . . . er . . . hand!’ the king added quickly.

  ‘But who would counterfeit such coins?’ de Molay insisted. ‘Who has the bullion as well as the means to fashion such precious metal?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edward shouted. ‘And, with all due respect, Seigneur, that is my business. The counterfeiting of coins in this realm is treason. I can’t see what this has got to do with the business in hand.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘A loan of fifty thousand pounds sterling,’ Edward retorted.

  The Templars stirred, shaking their heads.

  ‘Could you not,’ Baddlesmere declared, staring across at Branquier, ‘ask Philip of France for a loan? To be put against the dowry settlement on his daughter? After all, Philip’s envoy Sir Amaury de Craon is now feeding his face in the priory buttery.’

  Edward glanced across at Corbett. The clerk, at the mention of his inveterate enemy and political opponent, was now listening intently to what was being said.

  ‘What do you think of that, Sir Hugh?’ Edward called out. ‘Shall I send you to France and ask my brother in Christ to empty his Treasury?’

  ‘You might as well send me to the moon, Sire: Philip is even more bankrupt than yourself.’

  ‘What is it you really want?’ de Molay intervened. ‘A loan or a gift?’

  Edward beamed from ear to ear. He winked at Corbett: the Templars were about to negotiate.

  ‘If you offer me a gift, de Molay,’ Edward teased back, ‘then I’ll take it.’

  ‘Let me explain,’ the grand master continued. ‘If you confirm all Templar possessions in England and Gascony . . .’

  Edward was already nodding vigorously.

  ‘. . . Free passage for our merchants; confirmation of our Templar church in London. Confirmation,’ de Molay continued, ‘of all our possessions, both movable and immovable.’

  The king was now beside himself with pleasure. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured.

  ‘And a quarter of this gold,’ de Molay concluded.

  Edward sat up in his chair. ‘What gold?’

  ‘You mentioned a counterfeiter,’ de Molay continued. ‘Whoever it is must have a mass of gold. We want a quarter of it.’

  ‘Agreed!’ Edward snapped.

  ‘And finally,’ de Molay leaned forward, clasping his hands together; ‘twelve years ago, Acre, the last fortress in Outremer; our door to the Holy Places, fell into Infidel hands.’

  ‘God knows,’ Edward murmured piously. ‘But the city of Acre still weighs heavily on my soul.’ He pressed the toe of his boot on de Warrenne’s foot, just in case the Earl began to snigger.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am sure it does,’ de Molay observed sarcastically.

  ‘I fought in the Holy Land,’ Edward retorted. ‘Thirty-three years ago I went there with my beloved wife, Eleanor. You may recall how the Old Man of the Mountain sent an assassin to kill me.’

  ‘And you were cured by a Templar physician,’ de Molay interrupted.

  ‘My lord King, you were cured for a purpose. We want you to take the cross.’ He watched the smile fade from Edward’s face. ‘We want you to swear an oath that you will go on Crusade and join the Temple in liberating Acre with one great, holy war against the forces of Islam. Do that and our Treasury in London, through its Italian bankers, will deliver to your Exchequer, by the feast of St Peter and St Paul, fifty thousand pounds sterling.’

  ‘Agreed!’ The king shouted.

  ‘We want your oath now.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Edward replied. ‘I am still fighting the Scots!’

  ‘When that war is over, will you take the oath?’ William Symmes called, touching the patch over his eye. ‘The war in Scotland will soon be over. We have agreed to your gift. You must agree to our request.’

  The Templar’s one eye gleamed fanatically. Edward regretted his impetuosity. You are all in this together, he thought. You had this planned before we ever met. He glanced across at Corbett and saw the I-told-you-so look in his clerk’s eyes.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ de Molay continued. ‘You will enter York to hear Mass at the abbey church of St Mary’s. We would like you to take your oath after receiving the Euc
harist. Swear, your hand on the sacrament, that when the war in Scotland is finished, you will support our Crusade.’

  ‘And I get the money?’

  ‘Will you swear?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I intend to enter York tomorrow by Micklegate and go through Trinity to Mass in the abbey. I’ll take the oath but will the money be paid?’

  ‘As I have promised,’ de Molay replied. He leaned back in his chair. ‘When this meeting was arranged, my lord King, you said there were other matters.’

  Sir Hugh Corbett continued to watch the juggler amusing the royal troops in the courtyard below. The man was throwing skittles in the air and deftly catching them, whilst a scraggy-haired bear, with a monkey on its shoulder, danced a shuffling gait to the reedy tune of a piper. He heard de Molay’s remark about ‘other matters’ and sighed. He got to his feet and walked back to sit on the chair to the right of his royal master.

  ‘For God’s sake, stop dreaming!’ the king hissed. ‘You could have been of more help!’

  The Templar commanders, pretending to chatter amongst themselves, glanced slyly up the table.

  ‘More like a monk,’ Branquier whispered, staring at Corbett’s cropped, black hair with flecks of grey at the temples, the smooth, olive-skinned face and deep set eyes. The king’s dramatic whisper had been heard and the Templars now waited to see what this most enigmatic of clerks would reply. Corbett leaned his elbows on the table; pushing his face only a few inches away from Edward’s.

  ‘My lord,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t need my help. As usual, you have a skill even the devil would admire, though for what . . .?’