‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘I don’t know if Baddlesmere is telling the truth, has lost his wits, or whether he is actually the assassin. Maltote, where are those books?’
The messenger pulled them out from beneath the bed.
‘We’ll all sleep in this chamber,’ Corbett declared. ‘But for tonight-’ he eased himself on the bed and opened one of the books ‘-I’ll see what secrets these hold.’
Corbett spent the night reading and rereading different pages whilst his companions snored, sleeping as peacefully as babes. Sometimes Corbett’s eyes would grow heavy. He dozed for a while and then shook himself awake, going across to splash water on his face or replenish the candles when they burnt too low. At last he could do no more. The last chapters of Bacon’s work were a mystery but Corbett felt elated. He knew the source of that mysterious fire and, just before dawn, drifted into nightmares lit by the roaring flames of the Devil’s fire.
Ranulf shook him awake. ‘Master, it’s ten o’clock.’
Corbett rose and groaned, shielding his eyes against the sunlight pouring in through the open shutters.
‘Maltote and I have been up hours. We broke our fast in the refectory, gobbling away whilst the community just glared at us. Montibus has gone.’
Corbett groaned. ‘Oh, no!’ He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face, pushing the books away. ‘I wanted him to stay. He might have afforded us some protection.’
Ranulf’s face became serious. ‘The Templars wouldn’t attack us surely, not royal envoys?’
‘Oh, not attack, but you or I, my dear Ranulf, could suffer some dreadful accident.’
‘Tell him what we found,’ Maltote urged from where he sat perched on a stool busily sewing a stirrup leather.
‘Oh yes.’ Ranulf handed Corbett a rag tied in a knot at the neck.
‘Undo it carefully, Master.’
Corbett did so and stared at the burnt leather fragments.
‘What’s this?’ He touched one piece and it crumbled into flakes. One small part, however, still remained firm and smooth.
‘It’s leather,’ Ranulf explained. ‘Scraps of leather. We found them in the woods where those scorch-marks were: little pieces blown about by the breeze.’
Corbett placed the rag carefully on the bed. He took each scrap, scrutinising it closely before putting it back. He then got to his feet, stretched, and took off his jerkin and shirt. He went across to wash his face and hands, telling Maltote to get seme hot water from the scullery as he also wished to shave.
‘Well?’ Ranulf asked anxiously. ‘What do you think?’
‘They are burnt scraps of leather,’ Corbett replied, rubbing his hands with the small bar of soap he’d bought from a merchant in Beverley. ‘They may be fragments of a sack used to carry what the Ancients called “Devil’s fire”.’
Ranulf immediately began to question him, but Corbett just shook his head and, when Maltote returned, concentrated on his shaving, asking Ranulf to hold the mirror steady in his hands.
‘Once I am finished,’ Corbett smiled at Ranulf, ‘get me some food from the kitchen — but make sure you see who handles it. Whilst I eat, I’ll tell you a story.’
As Corbett dried himself off, Ranulf hurried out and returned with a linen cloth bearing loaves and a stoup of ale.
‘So,’ Corbett rubbed his chin and sat down at the table. ‘Now I have finished my ablutions, let me tell you what those books contained. First, the fire is not from hell, it’s man-made.’
Corbett bit into one of the loaves, Ranulf shuffled his feet impatiently.
‘At first,’ Corbett continued, ‘I thought the fire could have been started by some form of oil but that’s not safe. Sometimes oil is difficult to burn, especially when it congeals. Now Brother Odo, God rest his soul, also realised this. He must have examined his chronicle and recalled the fire missiles the Turks threw into Acre. Now these were nothing extraordinary: a mixture of tar and pitch, poured over some rags, torched as they lay in a catapult, then cast in amongst the defenders. I’ve seen the same happen at sieges: straw or rags coated with sulphur and then lit.
‘But this fire is different. Odo realised that. A student of warfare, he recalled two books. The first is an ancient tract called the “Liber Ignium” or “Book of Fires”. The second is much more interesting: Friar Bacon’s letter, “De Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae”. Now both these works describe a very dangerous substance, a mixture of elements which, if exposed to the naked flame, creates fire difficult to put out even with water.’
‘And you think this caused these murders?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps. The “Liber” describes the mixture as sulphur, tartar and a substance called “Sal Coctum” or cooked salt. Bacon is more specific: he mentions a substance called saltpetre. Now Friar Bacon conceals his discovery behind riddles and anagrams but, if he is to be believed, this saltpetre mixed with sulphur and tartar will ignite immediately.’
‘But you said,’ Ranulf declared, ‘that Bacon was regarded by many as witless.’
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Friar Bacon acquired his learning from the Arabs. According to them, this substance was known to the ancient Greeks as well as the armies of Byzantium which used it to destroy a Muslim fleet; hence its name: “Greek” or “Sea fire”.’
‘And, of course,’ Ranulf added, ‘all the Templar commanders have served in Outremer. They might know of this secret.’
Corbett popped a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘More importantly, the Templars have some of the finest libraries in the world, especially in London and in Paris,’ he said. ‘However, though de Molay and his companions might know the secret, they are too engrossed in what is happening to their Order: all they can see are these dreadful deaths and the consequent scandals.’ Corbett sipped at the ale. ‘Brother Odo was different: more detached, more serene, he was a born scholar. The assassination of Reverchien must have stirred memories. He was searching for what I’ve found.’
‘But can you prove all this?’ Ranulf asked.
‘If necessary but — ’
The door was abruptly thrown open and de Molay burst into the room. ‘Sir Hugh, you must come immediately! It’s Baddlesmere. .’
The grand master strode out, leaving Corbett no choice but to follow, Ranulf and Maltote hurrying behind. De Molay strode ahead, not even bothering to look back. He went round the back of the manor into the servants’ quarters, up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway. The guards outside the chamber opened the door, de Molay went in and Corbett followed.
‘Oh, my God!’
The clerk immediately turned away. Baddlesmere, dressed in shirt and hose, swung from the end of a sheet which had been tied round one of the rafters. He looked grisly yet pathetic: his face had turned a dark purple, eyes popping, tongue clenched between half-opened lips. His corpse twirled like some grotesque doll in the breeze coming through the arrow-slit window. Corbett drew his dagger and, helped by Ranulf, got the corpse down and laid him on the trestle bed. De Molay stood just inside the door, his face marble-white, dark circles round his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but instead just shook his head.
‘Grand Master, what did you say?’
De Molay’s lips moved but no sound came out. Instead he clutched his stomach, pushed Corbett aside and rushed out towards one of the latrines built into an alcove in the corridor. They heard him being violently sick.
‘Is it suicide?’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett studied the corpse, examining the nails carefully, the position of the knot behind the left ear. He lifted the shirt, examined the man’s torso, then sawed through the knot with his dagger. He tried to arrange the corpse in as dignified a pose as possible and covered it with Baddlesmere’s cloak.
‘He committed suicide,’ Corbett muttered. He pointed up at the rafters then at the bed. ‘So simple, to walk from life into death. Baddlesmere stood on the bed, fashioned that noose, put it round his neck and kicked the bed away.’