Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (3 page)

‘Monsieur, this is the work of craftsmen,’ he declared, walking over to Ufford.

‘
Domine miserere
!’ Ufford whispered. ‘They always come back for more.’ He glowered at the King of Keys, noticing how thin and spindly his legs were in their dark woollen hose, how his feet seemed to swim in those flat-heeled boots.

‘Two more gold pieces.’ The Master of the Locks held out his hands.

Ufford glanced at Bolingbroke, who opened his purse and handed the coins across. Ufford lifted up his arbalest, pulled back the cap to the quiver, took out one of the barbs and placed it in the polished slot. The King of Keys, however, just pocketed the gold, winked and returned to his task.

‘I hope you open it,’ Ufford called out. ‘Either you do and we leave with that manuscript, or . . .’

‘Don’t threaten me,’ the King of Keys hissed back, now busy with another lock.

Ufford fell silent. Cradling the arbalest, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He would be glad when this evening was over. It would be good to return to England and receive the praise and rewards of Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets! He smiled to himself. He liked Corbett, a man of few words, a good master with no illusions about the great Edward of England. He recalled the last time he and Bolingbroke had met Corbett. When was it? Eight weeks ago, around the Feast of Corpus Christi? Corbett had come to Paris on the pretext of some diplomatic incident and had met his two secret clerks, as he called them, at a small auberge beyond the city walls, on the road to Fontainebleau. He had not told them much; he didn’t need to, for both Ufford and Bolingbroke were scholars of the natural sciences as well as the Quadrivium and Trivium, the logic, metaphysics, philosophy and ethics of the Masters. They had been in Paris for three years now, collecting information on behalf of the English Crown. Now their task had changed . . .

Corbett had hired a chamber at the auberge, and had seated them close around a table whilst his henchman, Ranulf of Newgate, dressed in black leather, guarded the door. Ufford was constantly surprised at the contrast between Corbett and Ranulf. Sir Hugh was dark-faced with deep-set eyes, his clean-shaven face and regular features always composed. ‘A man of clean heart and clean hands,’ as Ufford secretly called him. Ranulf was different, red-haired, those slanted green eyes and pale face always watchful, a fighting man, expert with the sword, dagger and garrotte. Ufford had listened to the rumours, how Ranulf had once been a riffler, a roaring boy, from London’s stinking alleyways, rescued by Corbett from the gallows. Ranulf had educated himself, unlike Corbett, who had studied at the Halls of Oxford. A man of bounding ambition with the talent to match, Ranulf was now Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.

‘There, I have it!’ the King of Keys exclaimed.

Ufford broke from his reverie at the sound of a click. The King of Keys had opened the two side locks and was working busily on the three at the front.

‘Hurry up,’ urged Bolingbroke, leaning against the door.

Ufford stared at his companion. Bolingbroke was usually a serene man, composed and rather elegant in his ways, fastidious in his habits, but tonight he was clearly agitated. Ufford knew the reason. One of the
magistri
upstairs was a traitor. Neither Bolingbroke nor he knew which one, but after all their searches they’d been informed how the University of the Sorbonne did possess a copy of the
Secretus Secretorum
of Friar Roger Bacon, and how its scholars were busy studying its cipher. The mysterious traitor had offered to sell the
Secretus
to the English Crown. At first Bolingbroke and Ufford had been cautious; they were being watched, suspected of being Secret Clerks. But, there again, it was a question of much suspected and nothing proved. Now it had all changed. Somebody had learnt about their secret meeting with Corbett. How the Keeper of the King’s Seal had urged them to find that manuscript, or a copy, steal it and bring it immediately to England . . .

Ufford lifted his hand in the sign of peace, Bolingbroke smiled thinly back and stared down at the King of Keys busy on the coffer. Neither Bolingbroke nor Ufford knew the source of their information; letters were simply left at their lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, above the Martel de Fer tavern, describing how the
Secretus Secretorum
had been handed to Magister Thibault, who kept it in a coffer in the strong room in his house.

‘D’accord!’ Another click. The King of Keys turned and ceremoniously lifted the clasp.

‘For God’s sake,’ Ufford whispered hoarsely, and gestured at the other two locks. The hour was passing, the revellers upstairs might want some more wine and they must not be disturbed. If they were arrested . . . Ufford closed his eyes; he could not bear the thought.

During the last few days, whilst they had planned the robbery, both he and Bolingbroke had been aware of dark figures standing at the mouths of alleyways watching their lodgings. Corbett had warned them to be careful of Seigneur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the Secrets of his Most Royal Highness Philip IV of France. He was Corbett’s mortal enemy, dedicated to frustrating the designs of the English Crown, and he had a legion of spies and informers at his disposal, nicknamed the ‘Hounds of the King’. Ufford and Bolingbroke had discussed the danger but they had no choice. Yet if they were caught? Ufford grasped the arbalest tighter. They would be taken to the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber beneath the Louvre of Paris, questioned by the Inquisitor, strapped to the wheel of Montfaucon and spun while the hangman smashed their limbs with mallets, before they choked on one of the soaring gibbets near the gates of St Denis. Ufford closed his eyes and prayed. He had visited Notre Dame this morning, lit three tapers in the Lady’s Chapel and knelt on the hard stone floor, reciting one Ave Maria after another.

To break the tension, Ufford got to his feet and walked across to his companion.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why is the manuscript so valuable?’

Bolingbroke shifted his gaze and put a finger to his lips.

‘Bacon was a magician,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘He discovered secrets, the hidden knowledge of the Ancients. He said . . .’ He paused as the King of Keys freed another lock and moved to the last one. ‘You know the rivalry between Philip of France and Edward of England; either will do anything to frustrate the other.’

‘But Roger Bacon was a friar,’ Ufford pointed out. ‘They are always hinting at secrets.’

‘Did you know—’ Bolingbroke broke off, moving away from the door. Ufford had heard it too, the sound of footsteps. At the far end of the strongroom the King of Keys also recognised the danger. Ufford winched back the cord of his arbalest. Bolingbroke, grasping the torch, quickly went round the chamber dousing the candles, hissing at his companions to join him in the corner. Ufford, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat, stood beside his companions, the pool of light from the torch dancing around them. He prayed it was only a reveller coming down for more wine or ale. Then the footsteps drew nearer, a woman laughed, and to Ufford’s horror the door at the far end opened in a pool of light and a man and woman entered the chamber. Both had drunk deeply. Ufford heard a strident voice, speaking quickly in French, wondering why the strongroom door was open. Heart thumping, Ufford realised what had happened. Magister Thibault, together with the fair Lucienne, had come down to inspect the treasure room. The old goat was showing off, eager to impress this beautiful courtesan, but he was too drunk to fully realise what had happened, and instead of retreating, he closed the door behind him and staggered across the room, lifting the tallow candle he carried.

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ What is this? He swayed in the pool of light, cursing sharply as a piece of hot wax dropped on to his hand.

‘Kill him,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘Kill him now!’

Magister Thibault walked towards them.

‘Who’s there?’ he screeched.

Ufford stepped into the pool of light, the arbalest still hidden beneath his cloak.

‘Magister Thibault, good evening. My friends and I became lost and found ourselves down here.’

Thibault, full of wine and hot from the pleasures of the bed, blinked his watery eyes.

‘Why, it’s Ufford the Englishman, who is always asking me questions about Albert the Great.’

Ufford took a step closer. The Magister studied him quickly from head to toe. Thibault’s mood was changing.

‘What are you doing here?’ Thibault stepped back in alarm. The woman, leaning against the wall, was falling asleep. She seemed unaware of any danger, thumb in her mouth, laughing softly as if savouring a secret joke.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Thibault stepped back further. Ufford brought up the arbalest and released the bolt, which thudded deep into Thibault’s chest, sending him staggering back. The candle dropped from his hands as he went to clutch the feathered barb embedded deep in his chest. At first, unaware of the pain or the blood pumping out, he opened his mouth to scream, but Ufford leapt forward and struck him on the side of the head with the arbalest. The Magister slumped to his knees, groaning in pain, coughing on the blood frothing between his lips. Ufford simply pushed him to one side and raced towards Lucienne, who stood, hands still to her mouth, staring as if it were all a dream. Ufford felt a pang of pity at that beautiful face, the lovely lips, the pale ivory skin. He clutched the young woman by the neck and drove his dagger deep beneath the heart, drawing her closer on to the blade, watching the life-light die in those exquisite eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ufford whispered.

‘I . . .’ Lucienne’s eyes rolled in her head, she gave a cough and a sigh. Ufford lowered her corpse to the floor.

‘We’ll hang!’ The King of Keys gazed in horror at the two corpses. Blood was snaking out, pools forming and running down the lines between the paving stones.

Ufford couldn’t stop trembling.

‘I had no choice,’ he gasped. ‘If I didn’t we would have hanged. Finish what you’re doing,’ he snarled at the King of Keys, and running over, he pulled across the bolts securing the door.

The lock-breaker returned to his task. Ufford paced up and down, while Bolingbroke simply slumped by the wall, staring at the stiffening corpses. Ufford started as Thibault’s corpse twitched and a gasp of air escaped from his stomach. The King of Keys, sweat-soaked, concentrated on the last lock. He gave a cry of triumph at the click, threw back the lid and plunged his hand inside, only to give the most hideous scream. Ufford spun round. Bolingbroke moaned quietly, like a man caught in the toils. The King of Keys turned, and Ufford stared in horror. Little caltrops, balls, their spikes as sharp as razors and as long as daggers, had pierced the hand and wrist of the King of Keys. He staggered towards Ufford, arm out, staring beseechingly, blood pumping from his wrist like water from a drain.

‘My hand,’ the King of Keys moaned, ‘my hand. I shall never . . .’ His face was a liverish white at the shock of what had happened. ‘God damn you!’ he whispered.

The sudden horror of this hidden device had made him unaware of the seriousness of his wound, but Ufford knew enough about medicine to realise that a large vein had been cut.

‘Help me!’ the injured man pleaded. ‘For God’s sake!’

He slumped to his knees and tugged at the spike in his wrist, but the pain sent him writhing to the floor. Ufford ran across and, helped by Bolingbroke, tried to extract the caltrop, but it was embedded too deep. The King of Keys was shaking, the blood gushing from the wound so fast Ufford knew he couldn’t staunch it.

‘Help me, please!’ the King of Keys repeated.

‘Of course, of course. We need to cut some cloth.’

Ufford drew his dagger, one hand going to cover the King of Keys’ eyes, the other slicing the blade deeply across the man’s throat.

‘We can do no more.’ He stared at Bolingbroke grasping the King of Keys’ sack, who now asserted himself as if waking from a dream.

‘True, he was dead already.’

They went across to the casket and, grabbing it by the lid, tipped the contents on to the floor. They fell with a crash, more of those deadly caltrops bouncing across the paving like some dangerous vermin escaping from a hole. Bolingbroke, however, sighed in relief at the leather bag tied at the neck which also fell out. He picked this up, undid the knot and slid out a bound book. He took it beneath the sconce torch, undid the leather clasp and quickly leafed through the pages.

‘Do we have it?’ Ufford demanded.

‘We have it!’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘The
Secretus Secretorum
of Friar Roger Bacon!’

They fled the strongroom taking their weapons and the leather sack with them. Ufford stopped at the wine cellar, fingers to his lips, staring at the small casks and vats above the wine barrels. Climbing up, he took one down, prised the bung hole loose with his dagger and shook the oil on to the floor as he and Bolingbroke made their way back to the steps. When it was emptied, he threw it down and raced up the cellar steps. At the top, grasping the torch, he stared down at the glistening oil, then tossed the torch in and slammed the door shut.

They raced through the kitchen, past sleepy-eyed scullions. In the yard two revellers were being sick over the horse trough. Bolingbroke and Ufford pushed them aside and hastened to the gate and out into the shadowy side streets of Paris. As they reached the end of the alleyway, the faint sounds of clamour rose behind them. Looking back, Ufford saw a glow against the sky. The fire he had started was now raging.

‘Why?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Why not?’ Ufford gasped for breath. ‘It will create what the French would call a
divertissement
. Come, let’s go.’

They walked quickly, but did not hurry. The watch were out, groups of halberdiers dressed in the city livery, but the clerks carried passes and were allowed to go unmolested. They avoided the main thoroughfares where the chains had been drawn across, or the open squares lit by torches and candles placed around the statues of the local patron saints. In the shadows stood crossbowmen, city bailiffs, ready to apprehend any law-breaker. Ufford took a deep breath. He regretted the deaths, but what could he do? The King of Keys would have died anyway. And as for Magister Thibault? Ufford’s lip curled. The Magister was a stupid old man who should have fallen to his prayers. It was Lucienne’s face he could not forget: those lovely eyes, her pretty mouth gaping, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her soft warm body. In a way she had reminded him of Edelina Magorian, the merchant’s daughter in London who sent him such sweet letters and was so eager for his return.