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‘Brother Odo! Brother Odo!’ He shouted, but still that black cowled figure sat as if impervious to the leaping flames. The serjeant undid his swordbelt, running until his lungs were fit to burst. He watched as the boat and Brother Odo suddenly erupted into a sheet of fire. The Templar fell to his knees, shaking with fright. He watched the fire consuming the boat and its occupant from prow to stem; even the water of the lake seemed to provide no protection.

‘Oh, Lord save us,’ he gasped, ‘from Satan’s fire!’

Chapter 9

Corbett and his companions arrived back at Framlingham to find the manor in complete uproar. As soon as they dismounted in the stable yard, Baddlesmere, whiskers bristling, hurried out to greet them.

‘Sir Hugh!’ He swallowed hard. ‘You’d best come to see the grand master!’

Despite the warm sun and blue skies, Corbett felt his feeling of oppression return. He glanced round the stables: Templar soldiers, now doing the tasks of the ostlers and grooms, stared blankly at him.

‘There’s been another death, hasn’t there?’ Corbett asked.

Baddlesmere nodded, indicating with his hand for Corbett to follow him.

The clerk told Maltote to take care of the horses and, with Ranulf striding beside him, walked into the manor. Baddlesmere took them across a small cloister-garth and into the grand master’s chamber: a stark, unfurnished cell, much bigger than Corbett’s but just as austere with its whitewashed walls, black crucifix, and its stone floor covered with rushes. De Molay sat behind a small table, a metal crucifix in the centre. The other Templar commanders were already assembled, their agitation apparent from their grave faces and red-rimmed eyes.

De Molay rose as Corbett came in, snapping at Baddlesmere to bring in extra chairs. Once they were seated, the grand master tapped the top of the table.

‘Sir Hugh, whilst you were gone yesterday, Brother Odo died. Or rather, he was killed. Late in the afternoon he went fishing, as he often did, in his small boat, The Ghost of the Tower. He stayed on the lake some time: this was not out of the ordinary. A Templar serjeant watched him and was about to go down to tell him it was time for Vespers and the evening meal, when he saw flames in the prow. He was too late: Brother Odo and the boat were consumed in a sheet of fire.’

Corbett put his face into his hands and said softly, ‘I spoke to him just before I left for York, I visited him in the library. He showed me his chronicle; I could see how proud he was of it.’ Corbett gazed at the others. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘How could it happen?’

‘We don’t know,’ Branquier retorted. ‘We don’t bloody know, Corbett: that’s why we’re waiting for you. You are the king’s clerk.’ He jabbed a finger at him. ‘You were sent here to find out. So, find out!’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’ Legrave leaned forward. ‘How can Sir Hugh deal with this? Brother Odo went fishing, everything was calm and serene. For the love of God, the boat was in the centre of the lake! Nobody swam out. Nobody else was with him. Yet both he and the craft were consumed by a fire which not even the water of the lake could extinguish.’

‘What remains have been found?’ Ranulf asked abruptly.

The Templars looked at him with disdain.

Corbett spoke up. ‘My friend’s question is an important one.’

‘Very little,’ De Molay replied. ‘Brother Odo’s corpse was charred beyond recognition. A few burnt planks of the boat but that’s all.’

‘Nothing else?’ Corbett asked.

‘Nothing,’ de Molay replied. ‘Just floating, charred remains. It was difficult to tell one thing from the other.’

‘And who pulled these out?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well,’ Branquier replied, ‘the Templar serjeant could do nothing. He raised the alarm and we all hurried down to the lakeside. Another boat, moored some distance away, was used: by then the flames were beginning to die down. Brother Odo’s remains have already been sheeted and coffined, he’ll be buried tonight. What we want to know, Sir Hugh, is why this happened? And how can it be stopped?’

Corbett gazed across the room: the tun of wine he’d brought as a gift from the king stood broached on a side-table, the red wax seal of the vintner now hanging down like a huge blob of blood. He sighed and pushed back his chair.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Though I tell you this: forget the tittle-tattle and gossip about fires from hell.’

Corbett then told them what he had found on the Botham Bar road. De Molay sat up, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘So you know the name of the victim and how he died?’

‘Yes. I also believe someone was in that wood, using a strange form of fire. Now, when I listened to Brother Odo’s account of the fall of Acre the evening before last, he talked of the Turks throwing fire into the city.’

‘But that was nothing,’ Branquier intervened. ‘Just bundles of wood faggots, soaked in tar, lit, then thrown as a fire ball by a catapult or mangonel.’

‘Are you saying the same thing is happening here?’ Symmes asked.

Corbett saw movement beneath the knight’s gown and realised the Templar still had his pet weasel with him.

‘But that’s impossible,’ Baddlesmere scoffed before Corbett could reply. ‘Such fires are clumsy. Nothing more than heaps of burning material. How can that explain the death of Reverchien at the centre of a maze? Nobody else was there. Or Peterkin in the kitchen? And, as for Brother Odo. .’

‘What about a fire arrow?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Covered in tar and pitch.’ He shrugged. ‘I know, before you answer, if a fire arrow had been loosed into Brother Odo’s craft, he would have tried to put it out and, if that failed, just jumped into the water and swam for shore.’ He paused. ‘Grand Master, may I ask one favour?’

De Molay spread his hands.

‘Permission,’ Corbett continued, ‘to go round this manor, to question whom I like, to poke my long nose — as others put it — into your affairs.’

‘Granted,’ de Molay replied. ‘On one condition, Sir Hugh. The chambers I showed you yesterday? You must stay well away from those. As for the rest, we are in your hands.’

Corbett thanked him and left.

‘Did you really believe that?’ Ranulf hissed as they walked back to the guesthouse.

‘Corbett stopped. ‘Believe what, Ranulf?’

‘Fire arrows!’

‘What else could I say? Here we have a man fishing in the centre of a lake. Within minutes, nay, seconds even, both he and the boat are consumed by fire. What else could have caused it?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It’s a wild guess but the best I can do.’ He plucked Ranulf by the sleeve and drew him into a window embrasure. ‘Whatever we discover,’ he whispered, ‘we keep silent about it. I believe the assassin was in that room.’

‘What about the masked rider in the woods?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know, but he wasn’t in that kitchen when Peterkin died. Now the assassin, this Sagittarius, could be de Molay, or one of the other four, or any combination of them working together. I don’t know why the assassin strikes and 1 don’t know how but, whoever it is, he now realises, thanks to our discovery on the Botham Bar road, that we have glimpsed some of the truth.’

‘In which case he may try to shut our mouths.’

‘He’s tried that already,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but yes, he may try it again. In doing so, though, he might make a mistake.’