‘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.