Corbett told them.
‘In the library!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Why there, Master?’
‘First, because the assassin knew I was there. Secondly, he wanted to stop me from finding anything.’ Corbett withdrew the scrap of parchment from his wallet. ‘Forget the scorch-marks. Maltote, I want you to go back into York.’ Corbett crossed to the table and, seizing a quill, wrote a short note listing the phrases he had found in Odo’s carrel. ‘Go to the king, he’s staying in the archbishop’s palace at York Minster!’ He handed over the message. ‘Give this to him. If he interrogates you about what has happened here, tell him-’ Corbett pulled a face ‘-well, tell him the truth. But I need an answer to that as soon as possible.’
‘Can I go with him?’ Ranulf asked expectantly.
‘No, you can’t. A few more days away from the fleshpots of York will do your soul, not to mention your body, the world of good.’
Maltote hurriedly went to fill the saddlebag. He came back to make his farewells and almost ran down the passageway.
‘Well, there goes a happy man,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘But what do we do?’
‘Let’s go for a walk, Ranulf. The sunshine and fresh air will do us good.’
They sauntered out into the grounds. Corbett did his best to relax. They first went back to the library. The door was now open but when Corbett returned to the carrel, he found the crossbow bolts had been pulled from the woodwork. Apart from a few scratches on the carrel and postern door, there was little sign of any disturbance. They walked back to the stables. After making a few inquiries, Corbett found the serjeant who had seen Odo and his boat burst into flames.
‘Come,’ Corbett said, ‘let’s walk to the edge of the lake. Tell us what you saw.’
The serjeant shrugged, threw down the belt he had been mending and walked with them, describing what he’d seen.
‘How long had Brother Odo been fishing?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘Oh, it must have been some time, two or three hours.’
‘And you were on guard?’
‘Yes, I was patrolling the meadow, bored out of my mind. Every so often I would look down at the lake. I was hot, I grew tired.’ He paused as they entered the cool shade of the trees which fringed the edge of the lake. ‘When I looked up, I saw the flame; it was as if the fire had sprung from the lake itself.’
Corbett pointed to the wooden causeway which stretched out into the lake.
‘Odo’s boat, The Ghost of the Tower, was moored here?’
‘Oh yes. Odo would climb in, row himself out, then sit for hours with his rod and line.’
Corbett walked on to the causeway. It felt strange to have the lake moving and shimmering on either side. At the end of the platform, he peered down at fire-blackened fragments being washed to and fro.
‘And you came down here?’
‘Well, by the time I reached where you stand there was nothing left, just fire.’
Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the fire burnt out the bottom of the boat but the lake seemed to make little difference to it.’ The Templar looked worried. ‘That’s what made me think it was Devil’s fire.’
‘And when the flames did die?’ Corbett asked.
‘It took some time. Afterwards all that remained was wood, a few scraps of cloth and Brother Odo’s mangled remains.’
‘Is the lake well stocked with fish?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Of course,’ the serjeant replied. ‘Especially with trout. The kitchen often serve it, nice and fresh, covered in a cream sauce.’
‘But you saw no fish?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, if Brother Odo had been fishing for hours and the lake’s well stocked, he must have made a considerable catch.’
‘I didn’t see any fish but they may have burnt.’
Corbett thanked him and the serjeant walked back into the line of trees.
‘You think Odo was already dead when the fire broke out, don’t you?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Ranulf walked carefully backwards along the wooden causeway. ‘Have you noticed, Master, how the trees on either side of the lake grow out and conceal this platform from view? Odo wouldn’t be seen until he was in the centre of the lake. I think he was killed before he ever got into that boat. His body was lashed upright. He wore his cloak and cowl so nobody from the shore would notice. And why should an old Templar wear a cloak and cowl on a warm spring day? Moreover, if he was fishing, where is his catch, burnt or not?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Ranulf, but the question still remains: how did the fire start?’
‘Well, that’s why I think he was dead,’ Ranulf continued. ‘Remember, Master, the serjeant said he saw flames licking the boat but Odo never moved to douse them, nor did he spring up in alarm or attempt to escape.’ He blew his breath out. ‘But that’s all I can say. How the fire was started is a mystery.’
They walked back up the meadow. Half-way up, Corbett sat down, stretching his legs in the long grass. He leaned back on his hands, stared up at the blue sky, then closed his eyes. He savoured the warmth, the sweet smell of crushed grass and wild flowers, the chattering of birds in the trees and the melodious bee hum.
‘If I keep my eyes closed,’ he murmured, ‘I’d say this was paradise.’
Ranulf moaned. ‘If I was in a tavern in Cheapside with a blackjack of ale in my right hand and the other on the knee of a pretty doxy, I’d agree, Master.’ He tore at the grass. ‘Master, these warnings from the sect of Assassins. Why has the killer chosen them?’
Corbett opened his eyes. ‘The Assassins are an Islamic sect,’ he replied. ‘Garbed in white, with blood-red girdles and slippers. They live under the command of their leader, the Old Man of the Mountain, in their castle, the Eagle’s Nest near the Dead Sea. I have heard the king speak of them. Their fortress stands on the summit of an unclimbable mountain. Inside it are walled gardens filled with exotic trees, marble fountains, beautiful flowerbeds and silk-carpeted pavilions. The members of this sect, the ‘Devoted Ones’, are fed saffron cakes and wine drugged with opiates. They dream of Paradise: every so often the Old Man sends them out to kill those he has marked down for death.
‘Now the Assassins did terrible work amongst the Crusaders.’ Corbett sat up and stared down at the lake. ‘They are a nightmare, phantoms from hell, who stir up black terrors, particularly in our king’s soul. Edward still dreams about the attack on him some thirty years ago.’
‘Could there be Assassins in the Templar Order?’ Ranulf asked, ‘apostates who have renounced their vows? Or better still,’ he hurried on, ‘what if the Assassins are using this Templar coven to weaken the Western Kingdoms?’
Corbett got to his feet, brushing the grass from his hose.
‘I can’t answer, Ranulf, but I do think it’s time we spoke to the grand master.’
They returned to the manor house and, after a while, secured an audience with de Molay. The grand master sat at his desk littered with manuscripts. He gestured for them to sit.
‘Sir Hugh.’ De Molay rubbed his face. ‘This cannot go on for ever. I have to travel back to France. The king’s ban must be lifted.’
‘Why?’ Corbett asked, recalling the messenger he had seen pounding along the Botham Bar road. ‘Is there a fresh crisis in Paris?’
De Molay sifted amongst the documents. ‘Yes, of course there is. The attack on Philip of France was carried out by a Templar. The serjeant in question was one of those hotheads. He was handed over to the Inquisition and, yes, he did confess.’
‘But I told you that.’
‘What you don’t know,’ de Molay replied, ‘is that a few days ago Philip of France was crossing the Grand Ponte, returning to the Louvre Palace after visiting the tombs at St Denis. Apparently,’ de Molay threw the piece of parchment back on the desk, ‘another attempt was made on his life. Paris is swept by rumours and scandals, the Chapter demands my return.’