Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (22 page)

‘Send a messenger for Father Andrew,’ Corbett whispered to the constable.

Corbett plucked out the torch which he had placed in a sconce holder and, holding this out carefully, examined the steps leading up to Crotoy’s chamber. They were steep and narrow, with sharp edges, and to the left of the chamber was a stairwell filled with fallen masonry. He looked back at the corpse. Crotoy had his cloak wrapped around his arm, its hem trailing down. Corbett sighed, went up the steps and using the second key opened the door. The chamber inside was cold and dark. Sir Edmund came up, and Corbett stepped gingerly into the room, allowing the Constable to light the candles and large lanternhorn which stood on the round walnut table in the centre. A neat, tidy room. Corbett felt a pang of sadness at the sweet smell of herbs.

‘He always liked that,’ he whispered.

‘Liked what?’ Sir Edmund asked.

‘He loved the smell of herbs and spices.’ Corbett went over and placed the torch in a holder on the wall. ‘Very precise, was Louis. He loved the smell of spring and summer; his clothes, his chamber, his books, his manuscripts always had that faint smell of flowers and herbs.’

Corbett noticed the manuscripts piled high on the window, the candle pricket, the wax formed thick around the base, the clothes hanging from the peg. The curtains on the small poster bed were drawn and, on the far side, stood the lavarium, with napkins neatly folded next to a precious bar of sweet-smelling soap in a little copper dish.

Corbett heard voices from below. Father Andrew had arrived, busily intoning the prayers for the dead as he anointed the corpse. Ranulf came up the steps.

‘What happened, do you think?’ Sir Edmund sat down on the chair next to the bed. He glanced quickly at Corbett.

‘Another accident?’

‘That is for me to decide.’ De Craon spoke up, standing in the shadows. ‘I’m cut to the heart that my colleague is dead.’

‘No, sir,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Louis may have been a member of your retinue but he was my friend and this castle is under the direct governance of the King of England. Sir Edmund,’ Corbett called over his shoulder whilst holding de Craon’s gaze, ‘I would like to examine both the chamber and Monsieur Crotoy’s corpse. Is his death an accident, misadventure, or is there some other cause?’

‘I’ll delay the meal,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Monsieur de Craon, Sir Hugh is right. This is the King’s castle, he has the right to act as coroner.’

‘Then I will stay and help him.’

Corbett didn’t object, and the Constable’s men cleared the stairwell below, bringing back the broken door so as to block some of the cold night air. Corbett had every candle and torch lit and scrupulously began his search. He and Ranulf carefully examined the chamber, de Craon keeping close to the table, watching them sift through various manuscripts, loudly objecting when Ranulf picked up a piece of parchment to study it more closely. Yet they could find nothing significant. Crotoy’s corpse, now laid out under a sheet at the foot of the steps, bore no mark other than the wound to the head, which was definitely the result of hitting the hard ground at the foot of the steps. Corbett fought back the memories of walking arm in arm with that clever scholar through Christchurch Meadows, or the orchards down by the Iffley Stream, or sitting in a tavern on the corner of Turl Street.

‘Master,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘look at his boot.’

Corbett did so; the heel on the right boot was loose.

‘He tripped,’ Ranulf explained. ‘The heel of the boot was loose, or his foot may have become caught in his cloak. He fell, bruising his head against the ground.’

‘But would that kill him?’ Corbett wondered. He returned to scrutinising the corpse, and lifting it up by the shoulders noticed how the head hung slightly to one side.

‘I’ve seen the same before,’ Ranulf muttered, ‘when a man has broken his neck.’

They stood aside as the castle leech arrived. He also inspected the wound to the head and, pulling up Crotoy’s thick woollen cotehardie, pointed to the light bruising to the right of the dead man’s chest and similar marks on his right arm and shoulder. He then examined the neck, moving the head slightly between his hands.

‘An unfortunate accident,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. He pointed to the door at the top of the steps. ‘Monsieur Crotoy locked the door behind him, his cloak over his shoulder. He became confused, his boot may have slipped, his other foot caught in the cloak. Those steps are steep and sharp, and they bruised his body as he fell, but he died of a broken neck.’

Corbett glanced up. De Craon stood in the doorway above, staring impassively down at him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder. Bolingbroke was calling from outside. ‘Sir Hugh, can I help?’

‘Tell him to wait for me in my chamber,’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf. He climbed the steps. The Frenchman didn’t stand aside. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘Your colleague died of an unfortunate accident.’

‘So it seems.’ De Craon’s eyes held Corbett’s. ‘I lay no blame on Sir Edmund or you. Crotoy should have been more careful, shouldn’t he? I say the same to Vervins, who likes to stand on the parapet walk and stare out across your bleak countryside.’ De Craon lifted a hand. ‘What more can you do, Sir Hugh? Louis’ death will be mourned by his daughter, his colleagues, and by my Grace, his master.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps it was my mistake,’ he continued silkily. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen these old men and brought them to this cold castle. Well now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, there are things I and my retainers must do.’

‘Crotoy had a copy of Friar Roger’s work, the
Opus Tertium
?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘I would like to see it.’

De Craon went back into the chamber and came back with a leather-bound book. He thrust this into Corbett’s hand, ‘Better still, borrow it for a while. You can return it tomorrow when we meet.’

Corbett thanked him and went carefully down the steps where Ranulf was waiting.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett stopped and turned. De Craon was halfway down the steps. The English clerk did not like his look, the smirking eyes. ‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s words came like a hiss, ‘don’t grieve yourself. Accidents happen, we should all take great care.’

‘Was it an accident?’ Ranulf asked as soon as they were back in the chamber.

Corbett, slouched in a chair, kicked his boots off, vowing he must control his temper. He’d already had words with Ranulf; now he felt like grasping his sword, running back to the tower and confronting de Craon.

‘Oh, he is a clever viper,’ he snapped. He closed his eyes. ‘A clever viper,’ he repeated. ‘Ranulf, bear with me. The steps to the old tower lead up to a heavy wooden door, which was locked. There’s a small passageway beyond, no windows or gaps either side; the second set of steps are sharp-edged and steep. They lead up to Louis’ chamber and another heavy oaken door. Louis had locked that just before he fell. To the left of that inner door there is a passageway, a small stairwell, now filled with fallen masonry, I must examine that again. Inside the chamber everything is in order. So,’ he straightened up, ‘according to all the evidence, Louis doused the candles, made sure everything was safe, picked up his keys and cloak, went out of his chamber, locked the door and fell to his death.’

‘It must have been so,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I asked Sir Edmund, there’s no other key to any door. Louis himself asked the same of the Constable and received assurances that that was the case.’

‘Is that so?’ Corbett murmured. ‘Then it shows Louis was anxious, fearful.’

‘What other explanation is there?’ Bolingbroke picked up a stool and sat next to Corbett, spreading his hands to describe the passageway between the two doors. ‘Louis must have been by himself. He had both keys in a pouch on his belt, Sir Hugh, it’s a matter of logic; there’s no other key to that chamber or to the outside door. He must have locked the door behind him, and was going down to open the other one when he slipped and fell, smashing his head and breaking his neck.’

‘I would agree,’ Ranulf added. ‘Crotoy, by his own admission, was wary. He wouldn’t allow anyone into his chamber unless he felt safe.’

Corbett remained silent. According to every item of evidence, Louis Crotoy had slipped, an unfortunate accident. Reason told him that, but his heart said different. He couldn’t accept that those two French masters had come to Corfe and died by misadventure. Of course it looked suspicious, yet even if foul play was hinted at, it would surely be laid at the door of the perfidious English, rather than the wily schemes of the French court.

‘We must eat,’ Chanson grumbled. ‘My belly thinks my throat is cut.’

‘There speaks the last of the philosophers,’ Bolingbroke mocked. ‘We must go down.’

The evening meal, despite Sir Edmund’s best efforts, was a sombre event. The castle kitchens served a banquet of Brie tart, fried artichokes, sorrel soup with figs and dates, followed by farmstead chickens stuffed with lentils, cherries and cheese, fried loach with almonds and a pear tart. The musicians in the gallery played sweet hymns and popular minstrel songs, the high table was covered with a white samite cloth and the trancher and knives were of silver, with precious goblets for wine. Sir Edmund’s jester, a black-haired mannikin, could tumble, but the atmosphere remained dull. Corbett found it difficult even to look at de Craon. Ranulf sat embarrassed, this time rather wary of the Lady Constance, who gave up on her teasing and turned away to talk to Bolingbroke. Corbett, sitting on Sir Edmund’s left, apologised to the Constable’s wife for his apparent sullenness, claiming tiredness as well as a genuine sorrow for Crotoy’s unfortunate death. Sir Edmund left him alone and Corbett, listening to the minstrel music, let his mind drift. One of the tunes he recognised.

‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed.

‘What is it, Sir Hugh?’ the Constable asked.

‘This outlaw band,’ Corbett declared. ‘Their members take the names of herbs and wildflowers, but young Phillipa, the first to disappear, said she had a lover amongst the group called Goliard. That’s Provençal for a wandering minstrel, not the name of a herb or flower.’

He went back to his reflections, so immersed in his own thoughts he was almost unaware that the meal was ending and Father Andrew was making a hasty prayer of thanksgiving. Corbett excused himself and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, made his way back to the Jerusalem Tower. The door still hung askew and the guard inside told him that both the corpse and the dead man’s possessions had been moved.

‘His body is in the church, sir. The other Frenchman, the one who looks like a fox, had everything packed away.’

Corbett stared at the ground still stained with Crotoy’s blood, then climbed the steep steps. The upstairs door was open; he pushed this aside and glanced in, then turned to the ruined stairwell. The fallen masonry was as firm and strong as any wall, and nothing was left except a narrow shadow-filled alcove.

‘Can I help you, Sir Hugh?’

De Craon stood in the doorway to the tower.

‘No, no, de Craon, you can’t help me.’ Corbett went down the steps. ‘Did you visit Crotoy today?’

‘Yes, I did. I came by myself earlier. Louis was alive and well when I left him. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go up there myself.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve drunk rather deeply yet I must make sure everything has been taken.’ He brushed by Corbett and went up the steps.

‘I want to pay my last respects to Louis,’ Corbett declared, leaving the tower. He wished his companions goodnight and walked across the frozen castle yard. It had stopped snowing and, glancing up, he was pleased to see the clouds had broken and stars winked against the darkness. He spent some time in the narrow church, where three coffins now lay on trestles in front of the High Altar. He ignored the squeaking of mice, the cold which hung thick and heavy like a mist seeping through the very stones. He knelt, reciting the psalms of the dead, and started as he felt a brush on his shoulder. Father Andrew peered kindly down at him.

‘I thought I would find you down here, Sir Hugh. I’ve seen Sir Edmund and the Frenchman. We’ve agreed the Requiem Mass will be sung tomorrow. Rebecca will be buried in the churchyard. The corpses of the two Frenchmen are to be taken to Dover, embalmed and put aboard a French cog. Both I and Master Simon, the castle leech,’ he explained, ‘have done our best. At Dover there are more skilled practitioners. Anyway, Sir Edmund has said there’ll be no meeting tomorrow. The day will be given over to mourning.’

Corbett thanked him and left the church. He heard a sound deep in the shadows.

‘I thought you’d gone to bed, Ranulf. I can smell the soap you’ve washed yourself with. The Lady Constance must be pleased!’

‘I’ll retire when you do.’ Ranulf stepped into the pool of light thrown by the torches either side of the church door. ‘I thought it best to make sure you were safe.’

‘There’ll be no meeting tomorrow,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I must attend the Requiem Mass.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Master, about what happened earlier.’ Ranulf swayed slightly on his feet. He had drunk deep-bowled goblets of wine too fast during the evening meal.

‘Never mind.’ Corbett slapped him on his shoulder. ‘I’ve forgotten. Sleep well, Ranulf.’

Corbett returned to his own chamber. He knew Ranulf would follow him, at least to the entrance. He locked and bolted his door and made sure that the shutters were held firm against the window. Then he built up the fire and, taking his writing tray, sat for a while trying to make sense of the various problems which distracted him. He recalled the attack earlier in the evening, the crossbow bolts hurtling against the hard stone. How many people had seen him going there, how many people knew? But then he recalled striding across the castle yard. It would have been so easy for his attacker to see him, seize an arbalest and follow him through the darkness. Was that murderous bowman also responsible for the deaths of those young maids, or was the attack planned and plotted by de Craon? Was de Craon following orders, or was it simply that the Frenchman’s malice had got the better of him, unable to resist an opportunity to strike at his sworn foe? And the murders of these maids . . . had he learnt anything new? Nothing really, except the flirtation between the girls and that young man-at-arms, but that could be found in villages and castles up and down the kingdom. He wrote down the name ‘Phillipa’. She was different, a lonely and intelligent girl who spun fabulous tales about herself, about a landless knight, a fictitious outlaw called Goliard.