Satan's Fire (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Read Free

sky.
    ‘Don’t worry, good sisters,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Two more miles and we’ll be at Botham Bar; even sooner if you can make those palfreys trot a little faster.’
    The two nuns needed no further urging. They dug their heels in, shouting at Thurston not to walk too far in front of them. Their guide strode on, quite pleased at teasing these plump, well-fed gossips who, ever since they had left Beverley, had spent more time talking about Satan than their devotions. Thurston stopped abruptly. A country man, a born poacher, Thurston knew the forest and could distinguish between what sounds and smells spelt danger and what to ignore. Now something was wrong. He lifted his hand, even as his neck went cold and his heart began to beat faster. A strange smell in the night air of smoke, fire and something else, smouldering human flesh. Thurston recognised that smell. He’d never forgotten the time they’d burnt the old witch in the market place at Guiseborough. The village had stunk for days afterwards, as if the old crone had cursed the air at the very moment of dying.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ Dame Cecilia shrilled, fighting hard to control her usually meek palfrey which had now become restless, as it too caught the smell.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Thurston replied. ‘Listen!’
    The two nuns obeyed. Then they heard it: the mad galloping of a horse coming along the trackway ahead. Thurston moved them quickly to the side of the road just as the horse appeared, pounding along, neck out, ears flat against its head. Thurston wildly wondered whether he could stop the charging animal. The horse saw them and, skittering on the trackway, turned sideways then up, back on its hind legs, before charging on. As it did, Thurston’s blood ran cold: the severed legs of the horse’s former rider were still clasped firmly in its stirrups.
    ‘What is it?’ Dame Cecilia whispered.
    Thurston crouched on the edge of the road, his hands across his stomach.
    ‘Thurston!’ Dame Marcia yelled. ‘What is wrong?’
    The guide turned and vomited on the grass. He then grabbed the wine skin slung over the horn of Dame Cecilia’s saddle. He ignored their protests, undid the clasps, almost throwing the wine into his mouth.
    ‘We’d best move on.’ He put the stopper back, thrust it at Dame Cecilia and, without a backward glance, continued along the trackway. They rounded the bend and fearfully approached the fire burning so fiercely on the edge of the forest. Dame Marcia gagged at the terrible stench, her palfrey, unwillingly, drew close to the flames. Dame Marcia took one look at the fire greedily consuming the upper, severed part of a man’s corpse; she screamed and fell like a sack from her saddle, swooning in terror at the hideous sight.

Chapter 1
    York. Lady’s Day, 1303
    ‘The Lord knows I need it!’ Edward of England ran a hand through his iron-grey hair then brought his fists down on the refectory table in the priory of St Leonard outside York. The crash echoed round the long whitewashed room. ‘I need money!’ the king yelled.
    The commanders of the Temple, the principal officers of Christendom’s monastic fighting order, however, were not frightened by the English king’s play-acting. Indeed, all four looked to the other end of the table where Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of their Order, recently arrived from France, sat in his high-backed chair, hands linked together as if in prayer.
    ‘Well?’ Edward barked.
    De Molay spread his hands; his sunburnt face was impassive, his clear grey eyes betrayed no fear at the English king’s terrible rage.
    ‘Well?’ Edward snapped. ‘Are you going to answer or bless me?’
    ‘My lord King, we are not your subjects!’
    ‘By God’s teeth, some of you are!’ Edward roared back. He straightened in his chair, jabbing his fingers down on the table. ‘On my way here, I passed your manor of Framlingham with its elegant gatehouse, fields, pastures, stewponds and