Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (16 page)

‘Do you see any movement?’ Crotoy declared. The Constable came round the table. Crotoy thrust the twigs into his hands. ‘Do you experience any sensation of these twigs, like lovers, yearning to meet?’

Sir Edmund held them for a while and shook his head.

‘In other words,’ Crotoy finished his declaration with the classic phrase of the schools, ‘that which is to be proved has not been proved. Therefore the hypothesis on which it depends cannot be valid.’

‘And yet,’ Bolingbroke declared, ‘in that same work you quoted, Friar Roger talks of “certain igneous mixtures, saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur which, when wrapped in parchment and lit, creates great noise and flame”.’

‘But is that proof?’ Vervins jibed. ‘If you throw a slab of meat into a hungry kennel you will hear great noise.’

‘Ah yes,’ Bolingbroke retorted, ‘but that is to be expected. What I am saying is that Friar Roger did prove that mixture would lead to that effect, as he does in Chapter Seven of the
Opus Maius
, where he demonstrates how a rainbow can be measured.’

‘What if,’ de Craon’s voice cut like a lash; the French envoy was clearly annoyed at the cynicism of his companions, ‘what if the solution to all these riddles lies in the
Secretus Secretorum
? Perhaps,’ he waved a hand, ‘the answer to how a cart can move of its own accord, or the split ends of a hazel twig attempt to meet each other, might be resolved there? Doesn’t Friar Roger claim,’ de Craon closed his eyes to remember the words, ‘“for the wise have always been divided from the multitude, and have hidden the secret truths of wisdom, not only from the vulgar, but even from common philosophers”?’

‘Arrogance,’ Crotoy jibed. ‘If Jesus could reveal divine truths then why can’t Friar Roger confess his secrets?’

‘Ah no,’ de Craon retorted. ‘Didn’t Jesus himself say that he spoke to the multitude in parables but bluntly and openly only to his own followers? Gentlemen, we are here not to debate Friar Roger’s claims but to break and translate the cipher of his secret manuscript; that is what our royal masters have demanded.’

De Craon glared down at Corbett, willing his support, but before he could reply, the door was flung open and a messenger came in and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear. The Constable nodded but gestured at Corbett to continue. The Keeper of the Secret Seal opened the leather bag at his feet and drew out his copy of Friar Roger’s
Secretus Secretorum
.

‘Monsieur de Craon is correct,’ he began. He patted the cover, noting with amusement how de Craon had produced his own copy of the same work. ‘Everything depends on this manuscript.’ He undid the clasp and turned the crackling parchment pages. ‘At first sight it looks easy, a Latin manuscript, here and there strange symbols, but the words make little sense. If translated they are like the babblings of a child.’

‘Which they are,’ Crotoy intervened.

‘We don’t know that. Now, Friar Roger actually lists seven ways of writing a cipher. First, behind characters and symbols; we all know that method. Secondly, in parables, stories which are known only to the writer and his chosen reader. There are other more technical ways, such as,’ Corbett ticked the next three off on his fingers, ‘the use of words where only consonants are deployed; or different alphabets. Friar Roger studied Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin, so he could have used any of these, or a language not known to anybody. The sixth method is the rejection of letters and the use of mathematical signs; and finally, much more subtly, the writer creates his own alphabet, his own language, consisting of different types of symbols and marks which are known only to him and those to whom he has revealed them. Now, as far as we know, the
Secretus Secretorum
was written by Bacon and a copy made. We are not too sure whether the English King owns the original or his Grace the King of France, but we are assured – are we not, Monsieur de Craon? – that these two manuscripts are identical in every way.’ De Craon nodded slowly. ‘So I propose,’ Corbett continued, ‘we compare the manuscripts one more time. We can spend the rest of the day doing this. I recommend therefore that Master Bolingbroke and Magister Sanson carry this task through.’

‘What if,’ Ranulf, who’d sat fascinated by the argument, tapped the table with his hand, ‘what if a key does exist?’

‘A great search has been made.’ Pierre Sanson shook his head. ‘There is not even a hint or a whisper that such a document exists. What we have to do here is understand the Latin words used as well as the different symbols and characters which separate them.’

‘As a gesture of goodwill,’ de Craon pulled himself up in his chair, ‘and by royal command from my master, I can reveal that Magister Thibault, before his unfortunate accident,’ de Craon glared at Bolingbroke, ‘actually found a key, and was hopeful that he could translate the entire manuscript!’

The French envoy revelled in the consternation his remark caused. Corbett glared in disbelief. Ranulf leaned over to whisper to him to keep calm.

‘Monsieur, you jest?’ Ranulf protested.

‘Monsieur does not jest. If you turn to the last page of the
Secretus Secretorum
,’ de Craon waited until Corbett had done so, ‘in the second line there is an apparently meaningless phrase “
Dabo tibi portas multas
”, “I shall give you many doors”.’

Corbett, staring intently at the last page of the manuscript, studied the particular line as the Frenchman explained how, if certain letters were removed and specified characters transposed, the words he had quoted emerged from the jumble on the page. Sir Hugh could clearly make out the word
dabo
.

‘I’m afraid,’ de Craon spoke again, ‘that that was all Magister Thibault was able to decipher.’

The manuscripts were passed round, all animosity forgotten, as the various scholars studied the letters and began to argue amongst themselves. Corbett sat back, puzzled. He had had the opportunity to look at the French copy, and even a glance at the first page, the colour of the ink, the shape of the letters and symbols, the texture of the manuscript, proved the two manuscripts were a fair copy of each other. At the same time de Craon had been most helpful; indeed, his remarks had surprised not only Corbett but also his own colleagues. Why, Corbett wondered, were the French being so co-operative?

The discussion continued for at least an hour, parchment and quill being used; de Craon, like a schoolmaster, moved round the table, explaining what Magister Thibault had done, though expressing ignorance at how he had reached such a conclusion.

The castle bell chimed for the midday Angelis and they paused from their discussions while Corbett led them in the famous prayer, ‘The Angel Lord declared unto Mary’. He noticed, with some amusement, that those clustered around the table fairly gabbled the words and returned immediately to the matter in hand.

Soon after, Sir Edmund announced that food would be served in the hall below, and Corbett brought the meeting to order. He and de Craon agreed that they would adjourn for the rest of the day whilst Bolingbroke and Sanson compared the manuscripts. Chattering volubly, de Craon led the rest of the group along the passageway into the hall. Corbett and Ranulf stayed to have a word with Sir Edmund. The Constable closed the door behind his guests and, plucking Corbett by the sleeve, took him over to the fireplace, gesturing at Ranulf to join them.

‘The snow’s ceased falling,’ he murmured. ‘A peddler has reached the castle; he came in from one of the coastal villages. He brought rumours of the Flemish pirates being seen much closer to the coast than normal.’

‘In this weather?’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The seas are swollen, there will be few vessels leaving port. So what are they waiting for?’

‘What are they looking for, more like?’ Ranulf retorted.

‘I feel nervous,’ the Constable confessed. ‘This castle is well fortified and manned, but sooner or later you and the French envoys must leave. Think, Sir Hugh, of the disgrace if you or Monsieur de Craon, either on land or sea, were ambushed or captured by Flemish pirates. I would hear Edward’s roars from Westminster here, whilst Philip of France’s anger, well . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But there is no real danger, surely?’ Corbett replied. ‘The pirates are at sea; they are looking for plunder, a careless merchantman, or some unprotected village where they can slaughter fresh meat and retreat to their ships.’

‘I know, I know.’ The Constable shook his head. ‘You are a clerk, Sir Hugh, skilled in the matters of the Chancery. I am a soldier. It is rare for pirates to come in so close at such a time, with the weather so bad. Yet they could use it to their own advantage. They could beach their ships, teeming with men, desperate veterans. If they made a landing, it might take days, or even weeks, for a message to get through the snow to London or one of the Cinque Ports. I thought I should tell you.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Will you join us in the hall?’

Corbett didn’t feel like eating; he made polite excuses and went out, slipping and slithering on the icy cobbles, to his own chamber in the Salt Tower. He waited before the fire until Ranulf and Chanson returned and, whilst the groom guarded the door, he tried to settle the chaos seething in his mind.

‘I understand none of it, Ranulf.’ The red-haired clerk sat at the small desk, and dipped his quill into the ink warmed by the fire. ‘It’s like being in the countryside when the mist comes down. Do we go forward or wait until it’s cleared? Anyway, let’s list the obstacles.’

Corbett walked up and down whilst Ranulf’s pen scratched the parchment, writing in a cipher only he and Corbett understood.

‘Because they knew,’ Ranulf lifted his head, ‘that Edward would agree to that. He does not like you in France. If Philip insists that the two courts co-operate, it’s the least Edward can expect.’

‘True, true,’ Corbett murmured. He paused before the fire and stared at the faces cut into the wooden shelf. The sculptor had tried to imitate the faces of gargoyles seen in churches but in the end had satisfied himself with simple roundels, the eyes, nose and mouth cut roughly into them. Corbett continued his pacing.

Corbett shook his head. ‘I can make no sense of that.’ He sipped at a beaker of wine.

‘We could ride in there.’ Chanson, crouching by the door, grinned eagerly at Ranulf. ‘We could go deep into the forest and follow the ancient trackways.’