Free Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) by Paul Doherty Page A

going to or from York?’ Ranulf asked.
    Corbett shook his head. ‘According to what I have seen, not one petition has come in asking about the whereabouts of any citizen, nor has anyone been reported missing.’
    ‘What makes you think,’ Maltote asked, ‘that the assailant was a Templar knight?’
    Corbett patted his horse’s neck. ‘That’s what I like, Maltote. Good, searching questions. I think it was a knight,’ he continued. ‘As I’ve said, for a man to cut through another man’s body requires terrible force as well as skill. You must think, Maltote, of this murderer running towards his victim, sword in hand, then he brings it back, like a farmer’s scythe, and cuts straight through the middle just above the crotch. Now only a trained knight, an experienced warrior, could swing a sword with such position and force. I have seen it done in Scotland and Wales. Such skill only comes after years of experience in war.’
    ‘But why a Templar?’ Maltote insisted.
    ‘Because of their skill and their proximity to Framlingham. Also, as far as I know, the only other knights capable of such a blow were with the king.’
    ‘So, the murder on this lonely trackway, and the death of the assassin in the city are linked?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘Yes, both men were killed and their bodies burnt. But why, and by whom, is a mystery.’
    ‘What happens if the victim was a Templar?’ Maltote asked, now preening himself at Corbett’s praise.
    ‘Possible,’ Corbett replied. ‘And that could explain why no one has come forward to claim the remains, as well as why the whereabouts of the horse and the rest of the poor victim’s body remain a mystery. But,’ he added slowly, ‘somehow I think he wasn’t a Templar.’ He shrugged. ‘But there again I have no proof.’ Corbett stared down at the scorch-mark then into the green darkness of the trees. ‘We will see,’ he murmured and, mounting his horse, they continued on their journey.
    For a while they jogged along in silence, Corbett assessing in his mind the sea of troubles mounting against him. Who was the victim on the lonely trackway? Why was he killed, then his body set alight? Why didn’t anyone recognise the corpse? Why had that Templar serjeant tried to kill the king and, in turn, been consumed by a mysterious fire? Was the Templar Order so rotten with intrigue and greed? Was there some dark coven plotting the destruction of princes through murder and black magic? Who was Sagittarius? Corbett closed his eyes, letting his horse find its head. Then there was this business of the coins: who had the means to issue good gold coins? Where had the precious metal come from? How was it distributed? Was that, too, linked to the Templars? Had they discovered the secret of alchemy, of transmuting base metals into gold? Corbett opened his eyes. And what could he do at Framlingham? He carried the king’s ring in his pouch and the royal authority in his wallet, but how would the Templars react? They could scarcely reject him but, there again, there was no guarantee that they would cooperate. Corbett found his mind whirling round and round like a little dog turning a kitchen spit. So engrossed was he in the problem, he was startled to find himself on the trackway leading down to the gates of Framlingham Manor. As soon as he and his companions approached the heavy, iron-studded gates, Corbett knew there was something wrong. The small watch-tower above the gates were manned and a troop of crossbowmen stood on guard, resplendent in their white livery and great red crosses.
    ‘Stay where you are!’ a voice rang out.
    Corbett reined in, lifting his hand in a gesture of peace. A Templar soldier walked forward, his face almost hidden by the chainmail coif and heavy helmet with broad noseguard. Questions were asked. Only when Corbett produced the king’s ring and warrants were the gates opened and he was allowed on his way. Two of the soldiers went before him, up the shady path which