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

orchards. Those lands are mine. The cattle and sheep which graze there are mine. The sparrows which nest in the trees and the pigeons in your dovecotes are all mine. My father gave you that manor. I can take it back!’
    ‘All we have,’ de Molay answered quietly, ‘comes from God. They were given to us by noble princes like your father, so we can continue our fight against the Infidel and win back the Holy Places in Outremer.’
    Edward of England was tempted to reply that, so far, the Templars had made a poor job of it, but then he glanced across the room: the dark-haired clerk who sat in a window embrasure caught the king’s gaze and shook his head slowly. Edward breathed out noisily through his nose. He stared up at the polished hammer-beam roof.
    ‘I need money,’ Edward continued. ‘My war in Scotland is nearly finished. If I can only catch that bastard, that will-o’-the-wisp Wallace . . .!’
    ‘You have no war with France,’ de Molay interrupted. ‘You and His august Majesty, Philip IV, are about to sign a treaty of eternal peace.’
    Edward caught the sardonic note and hid his own smile.
    ‘Your son,’ de Molay continued, ‘your heir apparent, the Prince of Wales, is set to marry Philip IV’s daughter Princess Isabella. She will bring a grand dowry.’
    John de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, seated to the left of the king, belched noisily. His watery blue eyes never left de Molay’s face. Edward pressed his boot on de Warrenne’s toes.
    ‘The good earl,’ Edward intervened, ‘may not be elegant in his response but, Seigneur de Molay, you taunt us. Isabella is only nine years old. It will be three years before she can marry. I have to fill my coffers in the next few months. I need a new army in Scotland by mid-summer.’
    Edward looked despairingly at each of the four Templar commanders. Surely, he thought, they will help? They are English. They know the problems which beset me. Bartholomew Baddlesmere, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg, his grizzled, weather-beaten face showed no compassion. Next to him William Symmes, his face a patchwork of scars: one black patch covered his left eye, his blond hair hung in lank tendrils to frame a narrow, mean face. No hope there, Edward thought: both of them are Templars born and bred. All they care for is their bloody Order. Edward tried to catch the eye of Ralph Legrave who, twenty years ago, had been one of the king’s household knights. Now he wore the white surcoat of the Templars emblazoned with their red-pointed cross. Legrave’s open, boyish face, however, skin smooth as a maiden, showed no concern for his former lord. Across the table from Legrave sat Richard Branquier, tall and stooped, the Templar’s grand chamberlain in England. He just wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hands. His short-sighted gaze refused to meet the king’s; instead he glanced down at the accounts book before him, a doleful look on his face.
    Just like some bloody merchant, Edward thought, he regards me as a poor prospect. Edward stared down at his hands clenched in his lap. I’d like to break their heads, he thought. Beside him de Warrenne shuffled his feet, moving his head slowly from side to side. Edward caught the earl’s wrist and gripped it. De Warrenne was not the brightest of his earls and Edward recognised the signs: if this meeting went on too long and the Templars grew more obdurate, de Warrenne wouldn’t think twice about name-calling or even resorting to physical violence. Edward glared across at the man sitting in the windowseat, staring down at the courtyard below. Moody bastard! Edward thought. Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal, should be over here sitting at his right hand, instead of staring out of the window, mooning over his flaxen-haired wife. The silence in the priory refectory became oppressive. The Templars sat like carved statues.
    ‘Do you want me to beg?’ the king snapped.
    Edward scratched at a stain on his purple