Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (20 page)

When he had left, Corbett shared out the food and drink.

‘If Alusia is still missing,’ Bolingbroke spoke up, ‘it must be serious. No wench would go wandering in the darkness on a freezing winter night. Sir Edmund will have to wait until the morning before he can send out a search party.’

Corbett stared at Bolingbroke’s long, rather lugubrious face and mop of sandy hair. The pouches under his eyes gave him a sleepy look, belied by the laughing mouth. A good swordsman, Corbett reflected, Bolingbroke had been Ufford’s constant companion in the Halls of Oxford and entered the Secret Chancery as a clerk.

‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, William.’

‘What for?’

‘Ufford, you must mourn him.’

‘I’ve had Masses sung for him in the Chapels Royal at Westminster and Windsor.’ Bolingbroke looked away, leaning against one hand on the mantle, staring down at the floor. ‘Ten years in all.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I met Walter in a tavern near Carfax. Like Ranulf, he was cheating at dice. I had to rescue him.’

Chanson, mending the leather on the floor, stopped. He liked nothing better than to listen to the stories of the clerks. He always hoped Sir Hugh would send him to the school in the transept of the manor church at Leighton.

‘Did he leave any family?’ Corbett asked.

‘A young woman in London. I gave her the news myself that Walter would not be coming home.’

Corbett sipped at his tankard. Sometimes he deeply regretted what he was doing. Both Ufford and Bolingbroke had come to his attention because of their skill, their knowledge of tongues, particularly Norman French and the patois of the countryside. They had both served in the King’s wars in Scotland, and such a background made them ideal students for the Sorbonne.

‘Do you resent de Craon being so close?’

‘No,’ Bolingbroke sighed. ‘There are clerks in the Chancery offices whose fathers fought mine in Wales. It’s like a game of hazard, Sir Hugh; if you lose, what’s the point of cursing the victor? One day,’ he lifted his own tankard in toast, ‘I shall return to the table and pay Monsieur de Craon back in similar coin.’

‘Tell me once more,’ Corbett sat down on the great chest at the foot of the bed, ‘how this magister at the Sorbonne provided the information.’

‘I’ve told you, he left letters at our lodgings.’

‘Did you trust this King of Keys?’

Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘He was a thief from the alleyway; despite his pompous title, he was a housebreaker. He would not have become involved if he hadn’t been paid so well. In the end he died with Magister Thibault.’

‘And both you and Ufford knew about the coffer in the strongroom?’

Bolingbroke nodded.

‘And who hired the King of Keys?’

‘Walter and I did that.’

‘And the girl?’ Corbett asked. ‘The one with Magister Thibault?’

‘I’m not too sure,’ Bolingbroke scratched his neck, ‘but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say our traitor hired her. We waited in the gallery upstairs until Thibault was, well . . .’ he shrugged, ‘otherwise engaged with her, then we went down. We must have been there an hour before the old fool appeared.’ He chewed on some bread. ‘We were trapped,’ he declared slowly, ‘and I still am.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I often wondered why the trap wasn’t sprung at Magister Thibault’s home, but now Destaples has died, I realise we were meant to kill Thibault. The same is true of my escape.’ He glanced sharply at Corbett. ‘Don’t you see, I was meant to escape, allowed to return to England with that manuscript. If I hadn’t, there would have been no meeting at Corfe.’ Bolingbroke snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! As I approached the Madelene Quayside, I’m sure I was being followed. A beggarman told me the Hounds of the King were in that quarter. After a while, all signs of any pursuit disappeared. I got safely out of Paris, on to the road north, but I was meant to. I was simply a piece on de Craon’s chessboard,’ he added bitterly. ‘So God knows what that bastard is plotting. My only comfort is that we might do some good here. I mean,’ Bolingbroke nodded towards the door, ‘about these poor wenches.’

Corbett got up from the chest and walked around the side of the bed. ‘And what do you think about these killings, William? What does logic tell you?’

‘First,’ the clerk replied, ‘the victims trusted their killer, which is why he was allowed to approach so close. Secondly, therefore, it must be someone who lives in the castle or close by. Thirdly, the assassin must be someone skilled in the use of an arbalest and . . .’ He paused.

‘And what?’ Chanson asked.

‘Someone,’ Bolingbroke pretended to glower at Chanson, ‘who is not afraid. He is prepared to kill for no other reason than the killing itself. Have you seen a fox raid a hen run, Chanson? There may be sixty, and he will take only one, yet he will kill until no bird is left alive.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett concluded, ‘the assassin is killing not for profit or sexual pleasure but out of sheer hatred or revenge.’

Corbett reflected on the number of men he had hanged for the assault and rape of women. They had all been different, criminals who had taken secret pleasure from their sin, but the killer at Corfe . . .?

‘Chanson?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Of your kindness, go down into the castle yard. If you see Ranulf, remind him why I sent him, but search out a young red-haired woman called Marissa, and tell her that the King’s man who asked about her cloak would like to meet her. Once you’ve done this, ask Marissa about a man-at-arms friendly with Alusia and any of the other girls who have been killed. Tell her she will be rewarded for her pains. If she names someone, bring that person to me. Oh, and you know where the laundry-women have their vats?’ Chanson nodded. ‘Seek out Mistress Feyner, say I want fresh words with her.’

Chanson put on his boots and left. Corbett went and sat opposite Bolingbroke, who had picked up one of the manuscripts.

‘What do you think, William? Are we chasing will-o-the-wisps here? The
Secretus Secretorum
– is it a puzzle which can be solved?’

‘I went through the script with Sanson, Sir Hugh. It’s written in Latin but I hardly recognised a word. Now, Magister Thibault,’ Bolingbroke grew enthusiastic, ‘what he did was very clever. He formed the hypothesis that if Friar Roger wrote a secret cipher, like all people who use such devices he would have become tired at the end and made a mistake. That phrase “I shall give you many doors” is a fine example of it. Now, as you know, Sir Hugh, once you have one line of a cipher, it becomes easy to tease out the rest. But this is where our problem begins; in this case it does not.’

Corbett closed his eyes and groaned. ‘I advised the King of that,’ he whispered. ‘Friar Roger may talk about his marvels, and the
Secret of Secrets
may hold the truth, yet I’ve read the friar’s works.’ He opened his eyes. ‘He truly was an arrogant man with a contempt for other scholars. What if he wrote that book in a cipher used once only and understood solely by himself? If that is the case, the key will never be found and the cipher will remain unbroken.’

Corbett opened the
Opus Tertium
he had been reading, but found he couldn’t concentrate. He took the psalter Lady Maeve had given him and leafed through the pages. The illuminations always fascinated him; the use of colours and vivid schemes, Christ stretched like a piece of vellum on the Cross. He read the prayer on the adjoining page, and allowed his mind to drift. The Lady Maeve had given him the psalter on his birthday, the previous August. He glanced up. Bolingbroke was asleep in the chair. Corbett stretched out on the bed. He couldn’t forget that girl’s corpse, sprawled on the hand barrow, and the priest, Father Matthew, was a strange one. Why had he made those mistakes in church? Corbett’s eyes opened wide with a sudden realisation. When he brought the corpse in, he thought, it was Father Andrew, the old priest, who insisted the last rites must be given.

He heard footsteps outside and rose as Chanson led the red-haired Marissa, followed by a young, pockfaced man-at-arms, into the room. Marissa looked freezing in her thin gown; the man was dressed in a sweat-stained leather jerkin over a linen shirt, padded hose and battered boots which looked a size too big for him. Chanson introduced the stranger.

‘This is Martin.’

Corbett clasped the man’s hand and ushered them both to stools in front of the fire. Marissa was friendly, happy at the chance to be warm. Martin, a local man from his accent, was quiet of eye and not overawed by Corbett. He asked bluntly why he had been summoned.

‘I have been searching for Alusia,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I’m on sentry duty at dawn, the first watch of tomorrow.’

‘I won’t keep you long.’

Corbett served them steaming cups of posset wrapped in rags and sat between them. Bolingbroke had gone across to splash water on his face from the lavarium.

‘Your name is Martin,’ Corbett began, ‘a friend of Alusia, the girl who is missing. Do you know where or why she may have fled?’

‘Fled?’ Martin’s lip jutted out aggressively. ‘Alusia has not fled. She was terrified at what she saw yesterday; she would not go out of the castle again until this killer is found and despatched to Hell.’

‘So where is she?’ Bolingbroke came over, wiping his face and hands.

‘I don’t know. She left her parents last night, sometime between Vespers and Compline, and never returned.’

‘Were you to meet her last night?’

‘No, I was not.’

Corbett studied the open, weatherbeaten face; he’d already glimpsed the leather wrist guard and the calluses on the man’s fingers.

‘You use a crossbow?’

‘Yes, and I’m very skilled,’ came the hot reply. ‘I can hit my mark from ten yards, I do not need to get too close.’

‘Peace, peace,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Did Alusia tell you anything about what happened yesterday?’

‘No, I hardly saw her. She was resting, all disturbed. I did have a few words with her, nothing more.’

‘And you knew the other girls, the ones who’ve been murdered?’ Bolingbroke asked from his chair. The man-at-arms glanced sideways at Marissa, sitting beside Corbett as still as a statue.

‘I knew some of them,’ he mumbled.

‘Especially Phillipa.’ Marissa forgot her shyness and glared at the man-at-arms. ‘You said Phillipa was sweet on you, or were you just boasting?’

‘Just boasting,’ Martin replied, flushed-faced. ‘She was a strange one.’

‘Phillipa?’ Corbett asked. ‘Mistress Feyner’s daughter?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Chanson, where is Mistress Feyner?’

‘She said she would come when she was ready,’ Chanson replied.

‘Oh, good.’ Corbett turned back. Marissa was still shivering, and he put his cup down and went across to the cloaks hanging on a peg. He took one down and draped it over Marissa’s shoulders.

‘You’re most kind.’ She preened herself.

‘It is yours,’ Corbett replied. He took two coins from his purse and handed one to each of them. Martin accepted reluctantly. Marissa snatched hers, then drew the cloak close to her, treasuring the coin; she was flattered by the attention of this King’s man who allowed her to sit so close to a fire and drink posset from a pewter goblet. Corbett, glancing down, saw a penny whistle lying on the floor, one Chanson used. He picked it up and absentmindedly put it in his wallet.

‘You said Phillipa was a strange one?’

‘Oh yes,’ Marissa replied, ‘full of herself. She claimed one of the outlaws, a mysterious man she called the Goliard, loved her, and said how they would meet under the forest greenery. She claimed he was a landless knight living in his own castle in the forest.’ Marissa put a hand to her face and giggled. ‘We said she was living in her dreams.’

‘Were you close to her?’

‘No. Some of the others may have been.’

‘And when did she go missing?’

Marissa closed her eyes. ‘On that Sunday when we gave thanks for the harvest. The weather was lovely. I remember seeing her in the cemetery after Mass, then she disappeared. We thought she had gone into the forest to meet her Goliard.’

‘Did you take part in the search?’ Corbett asked the man-at-arms.

‘Yes, I did. From the forest down to the sea. We found nothing. And now, sir,’ Martin scraped back the stool, ‘I truly must go.’

‘Before you do,’ Corbett lifted a hand, ‘did you have a trysting place?’

‘A what?’

‘A secret place,’ Bolingbroke explained, ‘where a man might meet the lady of his heart.’

‘There’s some ruins,’ the man-at-arms replied, ‘at the far wall beyond the keep. A passageway leading down to the dungeons and cellars; it was our place.’ He ignored Marissa’s giggle. ‘I’ve been down there, it’s deserted.’

He was about to leave when there was a knock at the door and Mistress Feyner came bustling in, the sleeves of her gown pulled back to her elbows, her hands and wrists red raw. She totally ignored Marissa and Martin and, without being asked, flounced down on a stool in front of the fire. When Bolingbroke served her some posset from a goblet kept in the inglenook, she snatched it from his hands.

‘I can’t be here long. Are you asking these two about my daughter?’ She drank greedily from the cup. ‘If you have questions about Phillipa then ask me.’

‘She was last seen on the Sunday in the cemetery after Mass.’

‘Yes, she was. She told me she was going to collect flowers.’

‘Not to meet the man known as Goliard?’

Mistress Feyner threw a venomous glance at Marissa, and yet the way she moved her lips and blinked, Corbett could see she was on the verge of tears. She handed him her cup and got to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about Goliard,’ she whispered. ‘My poor Phillipa was lonely.’

‘But she claimed to meet him.’

‘Yes, yes, she did.’ Mistress Feyner rubbed her hands down her gown. ‘I can’t tell you sir, I truly can’t. My Phillipa has gone and so have the rest; now they are searching for poor Alusia.’