Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (12 page)

‘I doubt if William was there,’ Corbett turned his head, ‘but if he was, and proof was offered, I would investigate more thoroughly.’

Crotoy laughed. ‘And perhaps you should ask him if Magister Thibault’s prize possession, his copy of the
Secret of Secrets
, came into his possession. Our royal master was furious.’

‘What at?’ Corbett asked. ‘Magister Thibault’s death or the theft of the manuscript?’

‘His Grace,’ Crotoy’s voice was barely above a whisper, ‘is angry at many things, Sir Hugh. He is angry at me and others of the university. He has surrounded himself with flatterers, men like Pierre Dubois, sycophants who recall the old adage of the Roman jurists, “How the will of the Prince has force of law”. As he grows older Philip does not take kindly to opposition.’

‘And his interest in Friar Roger’s theories?’

‘If your King is interested, so is mine. There is no doubt that our learned friar was a treasure house of secret knowledge, but whether it is worth a sou is for us to decide.’

‘Had Thibault broken the cipher?’ Corbett asked. ‘When we meet we have to share such knowledge.’

‘I think he had, or at least had begun to. Now I and my companions must earn the good grace of our master by finishing the task. I have spent many years on ciphers, Sir Hugh, the writings of Polybius and other ancients, but the device Bacon used to hide his knowledge is the most difficult I have ever encountered.’

‘And Magister Thibault,’ Corbett continued, ‘the night he died, why should he be found in the cellar?’

‘His strongroom was there,’ Crotoy replied. ‘I was in the hall of his house that evening. I had withdrawn from the revelry. People had drunk too much and the
filles de joie
were becoming more abandoned by the hour. I was near the door when Magister Thibault appeared. I asked him to join us, but he refused. The young woman he was with, an exquisite courtesan, remarkably beautiful, she too was objecting.’

‘Objecting!’ Corbett exclaimed.

Crotoy made a gesture with his hand for Corbett to keep his voice down. ‘Yes, objecting. She said it was cold and she didn’t want to go down to a freezing cellar. “You asked me to,” Magister Thibault replied. They left, and a short while later servants reported smoke and flames pouring up from the basement.’ Crotoy shrugged. ‘Now, Ranulf . . .’

Crotoy hastily turned away from Corbett, leaving the Keeper of the Secret Seal alone with his thoughts. Sir Edmund was now deep in conversation with de Craon, describing the fortifications of Corfe Castle and the building work which was to begin once spring arrived. Corbett sat staring into his wine cup. He had advised his own royal master that this meeting at Corfe was highly dangerous. Philip and de Craon were plotting something, but what? And although he had questioned Edward closely, the King would not reveal the reason for his own deep interest in the writings of Roger Bacon.

Corbett stared down the table at the various faces. According to Bolingbroke, who, flushed-faced, was still lecturing Destaples, there had been a spy at the University of the Sorbonne who had been prepared to sell Magister Thibault’s copy of the
Secret of Secrets
. Ostensibly he had done it for gold and silver. Had that same person simply been a catspaw, the means to trap Bolingbroke and Ufford? But there again, de Craon could have brought his men to that cellar and apprehended them there and then. And why had Magister Thibault gone down to the cellar? According to Crotoy, it seemed as if Thibault had meant to meet someone there. Had Thibault been the spy? And why had de Craon allowed the copy of the
Secret of Secrets
to be stolen in the first place? Did that manuscript hold something very dangerous? Was that the reason for the meeting at Corfe?

Corbett raised his goblet to his lips but thought again. He needed to keep his mind clear. Sitting back, cradling the goblet, he smiled to himself. Logic could only be based on what happened, not what might happen, as Crotoy had taught him, so he would have to wait . . .

Alusia, daughter of Gilbert, was recalling the shock of discovering Rebecca’s corpse. She had knelt beside it on that cold cobbled trackway, aware of someone screaming, and it was only when she heard Father Matthew approaching that she realised that she herself was making that terrible noise. The priest had raised her to her feet, his strong arms about her, one hand stroking her hair as he tried to comfort her. He had told her to stay beside the corpse whilst he hurried over to the church and brought back the hand cart. She’d helped place poor Rebecca’s corpse on it, covering it with the stained canvas cloth the priest had brought with him. Once they had returned to the castle, Alusia had been comforted by her parents. They’d brought her a cup of warm posset from the kitchen and her father had hurried to Mistress Feyner for a few grains of valerian to help her sleep.

Alusia had slept long and deep, and only as she woke became truly aware of the horrors she had witnessed that day. Both Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had come down to question her but Alusia was confused, still suffering from the effects of the powdered wine. She explained how she and Rebecca, close friends, had decided to slip away from the castle and meet under the lych gate so that they could lay greenery on Marion’s grave. After all, it had been her name day, and they wished to do something to mark their friend’s passing. Alusia described the church and the snow-covered forest, how quiet it had been; she even recalled the cawing of the rooks and crows.

‘But did you see anything?’ Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had been kindly but persistent. Alusia had shook her head and babbled about the silence and the snow, about poor Rebecca lying like a bundle of cloth on the trackway.

‘Did you see anything strange?’

Again Alusia had shaken her head. She couldn’t recall anything, and yet now she was more awake and fresh, certain memories did come back. It was like waking up after last Midsummer’s Day, when she had drunk deep of the cider and danced with the rest on the castle green. At first she couldn’t recall anything, but then the memories had returned, how she had kissed that boy or this; more importantly, how Martin, that handsome man-at-arms, had caught her eye, studying her from afar. He had held her tight whilst the dancers whirled and the air was piped full with the wild music of the tambour, rebec and flute. Now it was the same. Her parents had told her what had happened to Rebecca’s remains, lying cold and stiffening in the death house next to the castle church. How Father Matthew had brought Rebecca’s corpse and herself back to Corfe. How he had anointed the body . . .

Alusia, sitting up in her parents’ bed in the loft of their small house built against the castle wall, tried hard to remember. Sir Edmund had said that sharp-eyed King’s man might come to question her. So what could she say to him? Yet the memories were there. She was sure she had glimpsed someone, just for a moment, near the lych gate, and what was Father Matthew doing on the trackway? Alusia recalled how Father Andrew, about this time last year, had been called to give the last rites to a sentry who’d slipped from the castle parapet walk and fallen to his death. He had knelt down and whispered the words of absolution into the dead man’s ear. Why hadn’t Father Matthew done that to Rebecca? Hadn’t that same Father Matthew taught them that the soul never left the body immediately, so absolution could still be given and the skin marked with the holy oils hours after death?

Alusia stayed in bed, warm and secure, until called down for the evening meal. Later she went out to join the other girls as they grouped round a large bonfire lit in the castle yard. A time to share the warmth and chatter and sip from a jug of ale made hot and spicy with burnt embers and powdered nutmeg. Martin had been watching her and she had stared boldly back. The fright she’d experienced the previous morning had made her braver, as if aware of how fleeting life had become. She had agreed to meet him at the usual place, in the far distant corner of the inner castle bailey, and Alusia always kept her promise.

She’d brought a tinder from her father’s pouch and, though it was bitterly cold, stood now in the empty crumbling passageway leading down to the old store-rooms, disused because of fallen masonry. Since the weather had turned cold, Martin and she would often meet here. It was dark, safe and quiet, and her parents would think she was with the other girls. She only hoped Martin would bring that bronze chafing dish, a gift from his elder brother, who had won it at a game of hazard from a passing tinker. The dish was capped and had a handle, and once full of charcoal or burning embers was so good to keep the fingers warm on a dark, cold night such as this.

Alusia heard a sound and, blowing out the candle, went deeper into the cellar. Someone was coming down the steps, a soft footfall, ‘Alusia, Alusia!’ The voice was soft. The young woman, eager to meet her lover, was already stepping out of the shadows before she realised her mistake. It was too late. She was aware of a dark shape blocking out the light. She heard a ‘crick’ and a ‘click’, and the crossbow bolt hit her high in the chest, sending her crashing back deep into the shadows.

Roger Bacon,
Opus Minus

Foxglove the outlaw was dying. Horehound, crouching beside him in the fire-lit cave, recognised the symptoms. Foxglove had been ill for days; now the old man’s unshaven face was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his forehead sweat-soaked, his eyeballs rolling back in his head. A strange rattling echoed in his throat. Angelica had done her best, feeding him juice of the moss, but the fever remained unabated and Foxglove was seeing visions. He was calling on brothers, comrades who had died at the great battle of Evesham almost forty years before, when the old King’s father had trapped Earl Simon de Montfort, killed him, hacked up his body and fed it to the dogs. Foxglove, as Milkwort reported, was now preparing for judgement, going back into the past, and yet he had one last wish.

‘I need to be shriven,’ the old man begged. ‘I must have a priest to listen to my sins.’ He gripped Horehound’s hand. ‘I’m going, but I want a priest to anoint me. I don’t want my soul to go stinking into death.’

The rest of the outlaw band had agreed with him. Foxglove might be old, but in his time he had been precious, a skilled hunter, a loyal companion. Horehound moved to the mouth of the cave and crouched by the second fire, staring across the snow-covered glade. The storm had passed but the skies threatened more. Horehound chewed the corner of his chapped lip as he considered Foxglove’s request. This had happened before, when old Parsley had died. Father Matthew had come, but that had been in the full flush of summer when the trackways were clear and firm and the priest welcomed a walk through the green dappled coolness of the forest. Now it was the heart of winter; even the outlaws had to be careful not to become lost, and they would have to stay off the beaten trackway. Horehound was fearful of that ancient oak and the corpse hanging there, the horror of the forest! Early in the evening there had been fierce debate about that very thing. Angelica and Milkwort, supported by Peasecod and Henbane, had argued that the corpse should be cut down and secretly buried. Horehound had been insistent in his refusal. He would go and fetch Father Matthew but bring him into the camp by more secret routes. The priest must not see that corpse; that was the kernel of Horehound’s argument. If they touched the corpse they would be held responsible, and wasn’t it ill luck to take such a body down? He smiled grimly. He had won the argument when he had posed the question, who would cut the rope? Nobody wanted to do that; indeed, no one had even approached it. They couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

Horehound stretched out his hands towards the fire. He was deeply worried: their larder of salted meat was depleted; game was becoming increasingly rare and difficult to hunt, the prospect of plunder even rarer. Horehound’s band was growing older, weaker; sometimes the temptation to leave them and go deeper into the forest was almost irresistible.

‘What shall we do?’

Milkwort and Angelica joined him at the fire.

‘We’ll fetch the priest.’

‘No, I don’t mean that!’

Horehound could feel his companion’s anger, whilst Angelica’s broad, smooth face was deeply troubled.

‘You know what I mean.’ Milkwort gathered up his hair, tying it more securely behind his head with a piece of string. ‘Here we are, in the heart of the forest, in the depths of winter, three of our companions ill, and we have very little food.’ He threw a stick on the fire. ‘We’ve even forgotten our names, hiding behind those of wild herbs. We are outlaws, wolfsheads!’ He hawked and spat. ‘But the law doesn’t afear me, the sheriff doesn’t give a damn about us; what frightens me is winter. It’s not yet Yuletide but we’re so short of food we’re going to starve. I don’t think,’ Milkwort added bitterly, ‘we should have threatened the King’s man.’

‘We didn’t threaten,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If we are going to hang, let’s hang for venison, for stealing some clothes from a merchant, but not the slaughter of young maids.’

‘There was another killed,’ Angelica intoned mournfully, shifting the hair from her face. She gazed back into the cave where Foxglove was gasping, fighting for his life. ‘I understand that.’ She jabbed her thumb back at the dying man. ‘But not the brutal slaying of young maids?’

‘You saw her?’ Horehound was eager to change the subject and distract Milkwort.

‘Yes, I told you, I was out near the pathway gathering nuts and whatever else I could find for the pot. I saw the girl in the cemetery. She was standing by the grave, she’d taken some holly, red with berries.’

‘Yes, but did you see the one who was killed?’

‘I saw no one else.’

‘Have you seen any strangers?’ Horehound asked.

‘I think I have, mere glimpses.’

‘There’s none of them about,’ Milkwort scoffed. ‘No peddlers or chapmen, only the foreigners at the tavern. Cas . . . tel . . .’