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

you and your books. Brother Odo, and what you say is right. We should improve our manners.’
    A scullion came from the kitchen and laid a fresh trancher in front of the librarian. Odo rested his elbows on the table and Corbett gaped: Odo had no left hand, nothing but a polished, wooden stump. Legrave, sitting opposite, leaned across.
    ‘We put up with Brother Odo,’ he whispered loudly, smiling down at the librarian who stared back in mock anger. ‘He will not like us telling you this, but Odo is a hero, a veritable paladin.’
    ‘It’s true!’ Branquier trumpeted. ‘Why do you think we put up with his speeches and bad manners?’
    Corbett felt the deep admiration, even love for the old Templar.
    ‘In his time,’ Symmes declared, ‘Brother Odo was a knight of whom even Arthur or Roland and Oliver would have been proud.’
    ‘Oh, stop it!’ The librarian gestured with his good hand, though he openly revelled in this warm-hearted badinage.
    ‘He was at Acre,’ Legrave continued, ‘as we all were, but he defended the breach when the walls were broken. He was the last to leave. Tell us, Brother, tell our guests what happened.’
    Corbett realised this was a ritual time-honoured, only this time with a difference. These men were desperate to show Corbett that, despite the rumours and whispered allegations, once, in a different age, they had been defenders of Christendom: heroes, saints in armour. The other Templars joined in, so Odo took a deep swig of wine and raised the polished stump.
    ‘I lost my hand in Acre,’ he began. ‘Yes, I was there when the city fell in March 1291.’ He stared round at the four Templar commanders. ‘You were there too.’
    ‘We broke and ran.’ Legrave did not lift his eyes. ‘We fled the city, our shields on our backs, our faces towards the sea.’
    ‘No you didn’t,’ Odo replied gently. ‘You had to retreat. I have told you hundreds of times: there’s no glory in dying. There’s no honour in a bloody corpse. There’s no pride in captivity.’
    ‘You didn’t flee,’ Branquier remarked.
    ‘Brother,’ de Molay tapped the hilt of his knife on the tablecloth. ‘In truth, you all have the advantage of me, I wasn’t even there. I have never known the scorching heat of the deserts of Outremer. I have never heard the blood-curdling cry of the Mamelukes nor felt the savage fury of battle. Acre did not fall because of us. But, because . . .’ He caught Corbett’s gaze and his voice trailed off. Then the grand master looked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Tell us once again, Odo,’ he whispered. ‘Tell us how the city fell.’
    ‘The siege began in March.’ Odo’s voice was deep and mellow. He leaned back, closing his eyes, painting pictures with his words. ‘As you all know, Acre was a doomed city, yet the streets were full of life and the taverns thronged, feasting far into the night. Syrian and Greek girls filled the upper rooms of wine shops. A feverish excitement seized Acre as the Turks began to ring the city.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Why is it?’ he asked, ‘that when people are about to die, they dance even faster? Sir Hugh, have you ever been in battle?’
    ‘Ambuscades in Wales and in the wet heather on the Scottish march, but nothing like you, Brother Odo.’ Corbett glanced round at the Templars. ‘I cannot condemn any man for what he did in battle. I am not too sure how I would behave.’
    Odo toasted him silently before continuing. ‘The final attack came in May. The thudding of the siege engines, the cracking of boulders against the crumbling walls of the city, the crash and roar of exploding fire – and those drums. Do you remember them, Brothers, the Mameluke drums constantly rattling?’
    ‘Even now,’ Branquier declared. ‘Sometimes at night, when I lie down to sleep in my cell, I can still hear that drumming.’ He stared round sheepishly. ‘I get up and stare through the window into the shadows amongst the trees. I wonder if Satan and