‘And is there any truth in the rumours?’
De Molay refused to meet his gaze.
‘Grand Master,’ Corbett insisted, ‘I am not your enemy. I admire your Order. Men like Brother Odo and Sir Guido were true knights of the Cross but, for God’s sake, open your eyes, there’s something rotten here. Did you know,’ Corbett continued, ‘about the rumours and allegations of sodomy amongst your company?’
De Molay glanced up angrily. ‘Don’t preach to me, Corbett! I can list bishops and their mistresses, priests who visit whores, noble lords with a penchant for page-boys. Of course there are brethren here who are subject to the frailties of the flesh, as you or I!’ he snapped.
‘And these murders?’ Corbett asked. ‘Grand Master, can you explain them? Or why a Templar should send the same warnings as those of the Old Man of the Mountain? Could one of your Order, or more, be apostates, Assassins? What is your relationship with that sect?’
De Molay leaned back in his chair, playing with a thin-bladed parchment knife. ‘For centuries,’ he replied, ‘the Templar Order guarded the Holy Places. We built our castles. We put down roots. We made peace with those around us. Just because a man worships Allah and meets you in battle does not mean that in peace you can’t sit down at the same table to exchange ideas, gifts and presents.’
‘But the Assassins?’ Corbett asked.
‘Aye, even with the Assassins. They control some trade routes: certain territories are under their jurisdiction. They are as amenable to bribes as any other.’
‘So, your Order did business with them?’
‘Yes and, before you ask, Sir Bartholomew Baddlesmere and William Symmes once served an embassy to the Eagle’s Nest. They were entertained by the Old Man of the Mountain.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ de Molay snapped. ‘Baddlesmere and Symmes have seen the beautiful gardens, drunk the iced sherbert, listened to the Old Man’s speeches. Yes, they’ve been his guests, but that does not make them apostates. The Assassins are not our enemies.’
‘Then who are?’ Corbett asked.
‘The Western princes,’ de Molay replied. ‘They see our manors, our granges, our barns, our well-stocked herds and fertile fields. The treasures of the Temple in Paris, London, Cologne, Rome and Avignon make their fingers itch. What do the Templars do, they ask? Why do they need such power and wealth? Should it not be better used for other purposes?’
‘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.’