Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (8 page)

Alusia lifted her head, staring back towards the lych gate. For a moment she thought she had seen someone. The church bell began to toll, the sign for midday prayer; not that many people listened. Alusia made the sign of the cross again and got to her feet. The other girls were buried nearby. Why had they died? The gossip said they hadn’t been ravished, so what was the purpose? Poor girls with nothing in their wallets, not even a cheap ring on their finger.

Alusia walked slowly to the lych gate and on to the narrow trackway leading up to the castle. The trees thronged in on either side, and the mist had grown thicker. Alusia walked briskly, then paused at a noise behind her. She turned swiftly, but there was no one. She walked on until she noticed a flash of colour on the verge beside the track. Intrigued, she hurried over. It was a bundle of cloth, dark greens and browns, and a glimpse of reddish hair. Alusia stood, gripped by a numbing fear. Wasn’t that Rebecca’s hair? Weren’t those her colours? Breath caught in her throat, she stooped and pulled at the bundle. The corpse rolled back: sightless eyes, a blood-caked mouth, and just beneath the chin, that awful bloody wound with the crossbow quarrel peeping out. It was Rebecca, and she was dead yet alive, for Alusia could hear a terrible screaming.

The discussion in the council chamber had grown more heated, Bolingbroke striding up and down, obviously angry that he and Ufford had risked their lives, with Ufford paying the ultimate price, merely to steal a copy.

‘It was necessary,’ Corbett shouted. ‘His Grace the King has taken a deep interest in Friar Roger’s writings. We had to make sure that the book we held, our copy of the
Secretus Secretorum
, was accurate. I have compared the two, and as far as I can see, with all their strange symbols and ciphers, they are in accordance.’

Sir Edmund sat watching this confrontation; Ranulf was quietly enjoying himself. He liked nothing better than watching old Master Longface in debate. Moreover, he knew Bolingbroke of old as a passionate man, and Ranulf, who had done his share of fleeing from those who wished to kill him, sympathised with his anger.

‘What we must look at, William,’ Corbett kept his voice calm, ‘is the logic of the situation.’

‘Logic?’ Bolingbroke retook his seat. ‘Sir Hugh, I know as much about logic as you do, we are not in the schools now.’

‘Yes we are.’

Corbett smiled, then paused as the servant whom Sir Edmund had summoned brought in a fresh jug of ale and soft bread from the castle ovens. He was glad of the respite as the drink was poured and the bread shared out.

‘We must apply logic.’ He spoke quickly as Bolingbroke filled his mouth with bread and cheese. ‘What concerns me is not the copy, or what happened when you stole it, but why Magister Thibault came down to that cellar on that night of revelry. Why did he bring that young woman with him?’

‘Ufford had no choice but to kill them!’

‘I’m not saying he did. Walter was a dagger man through and through. What I suspect is treachery. Let me describe my hypothesis. Here we have two clerks of the English Secret Chancery, scholars from the Halls of Oxford, pretending to be scholars at the Sorbonne. The order goes out, our noble King wants the French copy of Friar Bacon’s
Secret of Secrets
. You and Ufford cast about, searching for it. A traitor emerges from amongst the French, this mysterious stranger who offers you the manuscript.’

‘He didn’t offer,’ Bolingbroke answered, his mouth full of cheese. ‘He simply told us where it was and promised that we would receive an invitation to Magister Thibault’s revelry.’

‘Do you know who this person was?’ Ranulf asked.

Bolingbroke shook his head.

‘No, we never met him; he communicated through memoranda left at our lodgings. I have shown you those I kept; the others I destroyed.’

Corbett nodded. He had scrutinised the scrawled memoranda. The Norman French was written in a hand he didn’t recognise, providing information for his two secret clerks.

‘What I do know,’ Bolingbroke continued, sipping his ale, ‘is that a month before Magister Thibault’s revelry, this Frenchman discovered what we were looking for and, in return for gold, told us where it was and how we could take it. I think that somehow or other he alerted Magister Thibault and brought him down to that cellar. We were to be trapped there but Magister Thibault was an old sot, full of wine and lust, and perhaps he refused to believe what he was told or didn’t realize the significance. More importantly, this traitor also told Seigneur Amaury de Craon and the Hounds of the King what was happening. We were fortunate. We were supposed to be trapped either at Magister Thibault’s or at our lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, but we escaped. We separated; they probably thought Ufford was more important and pursued him—’

‘Did you see him die?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘I was near the Madelene Quayside when I heard the clamour. A beggar told me how royal troops had been in that quarter since the early hours. I decided to leave Paris by another route. I joined a group of pilgrims journeying to Notre Dame in Boulogne.’ Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘It was easy enough. I pretended to be a French clerk. It was simply a matter of reaching the port and securing passage on an English cog.’

‘Who do you think this traitor was?’ Corbett asked.

‘It could have been de Craon himself, or one of the men he is bringing with him.’

‘And why do you think he is bringing them to England?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Two reasons,’ Bolingbroke replied, ‘and I have thought deeply about this. First, I am sure Philip of France would love to discover the secrets of Roger Bacon. He is genuinely interested and wants to see what progress, if any, we English have made.’

‘And secondly?’

‘Secondly, Sir Hugh, what if . . .’ Bolingbroke paused, running his finger round the rim of his tankard. ‘What if we turn the game on its head? What if Philip of France has broken Friar Roger’s secret cipher and has discovered the hidden knowledge? How to make a glass which can see something miles away, or turn base metal into gold.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘What if de Craon is bringing the
periti
, the savants of Paris, to discover if we have done the same? And if we haven’t, to confuse us further, hinder and block our progress?’

‘There’s another reason, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh. Philip of France does not like the University of the Sorbonne. Oh, if it agrees with what he says he is all charm and welcoming, but if it doesn’t, Philip’s rage blazes out like a fire. I wonder if he has already broken the secret cipher, and is sending these men to England so that they can be killed, murdered, and the blame laid at our door.’

‘Nonsense!’ Launge shook his empty tankard as if it was a sword.

‘No, no.’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘I follow your logic, William.’ He smiled. ‘What if Philip has broken the secret cipher, and what if he wants to rid himself of the
periti
, men who have also discovered that knowledge? The last thing Philip would want is one of these professors claiming the knowledge for himself and writing his own book, eager for fame amongst the universities and schools of Europe. We all know our doctors of divinity and theology, how they love fame as much as gold; indeed, the two often go together.’ He paused. ‘More seriously, Philip is looking for a crisis. He has bound our King by treaty, he wishes to depict Edward of England as the oath-breaker, the wily serpent. He knows that Edward’s motto is “Keep Troth”, yet he realises Edward would storm the gates of Hell if it meant escaping from the Treaty of Paris. Let’s say, for sake of argument, something happens during this French embassy to England. Philip will turn and scream for the protection of the Pope, who will bind our King even closer with heavier penalties and dire warnings.’

‘But you must have considered this before you accepted the French embassy?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Of course I did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have shared similar thoughts with the King, though not as detailed and sharp. As God is my witness, both Philip and Edward richly deserve each other, two cunning swords-men circling each other in the dark, each looking for the advantage.’ He laughed drily. ‘Do you know, gentlemen, isn’t it ridiculous – or as they would say in the schools of Oxford,
mirabile dictu
, marvellous to say – that the one thing which unites Edward of England, Philip of France, Amaury de Craon and myself is the belief that something will happen during de Craon’s stay here at Corfe. Only the good Lord knows what.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Sir Edmund asked.

‘The French are to be given good secure chambers.’

‘They won’t want guards, they never do,’ the Constable retorted. ‘They will only accuse us of eavesdropping or treating them like prisoners.’

‘Make sure they are given the keys to their chambers,’ Corbett tapped the table top, ‘and that they eat together in the hall. As for the castle, let them go wherever they wish.’ He pushed back his chair, a sign the meeting was over. ‘But if they leave the castle they must have an escort.’

Sir Edmund rose to his feet, bowed and left. Bolingbroke asked if there was anything further. Corbett shook his head. The clerk departed saying he needed to change, wash and sleep.

‘What now?’ Ranulf asked.

He lounged in his chair, playing with the dagger sheath on his war belt. He placed this on the table before him and peered up at Corbett.

‘You really do expect mischief, don’t you?’

Corbett walked to the door which Bolingbroke had left half open. The gust of cold air was welcoming, but as he pulled the door shut, he noticed the first snowflakes fall.

‘I don’t know what to expect, Ranulf. You know Edward of England; he rejoices in the title of the Great English Justinian, he has a passion for knowledge. Once he becomes absorbed in something he becomes obsessed. He has been through Bacon’s writings time and time again, like some theologian poring over the scriptures. He has insisted that I do the same. I have his copies of Friar Roger’s works in that coffer.’

‘Was the friar a magician?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett drew the trancher of bread towards him, cut a piece, dabbed it in the butter jar and put it in his mouth. ‘Ranulf. Again it’s logic. Have you ever lain in the grass,’ he grinned, ‘by yourself, stared up at the sky and watched a bird hover? Have you ever wondered what it must be like to fly, to be a bird? Or leaned over the side of a ship and wondered what really happens beneath the waves?’

‘Of course,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Your mind wanders.’

‘People like Roger Bacon go one step further. Is it possible? Can it be done? They speculate,’ Corbett continued, ‘they become intrigued, and so the experiments begin.’

‘Do you believe in this secret knowledge?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Corbett swirled the ale round his jug. ‘I believe in logic and deduction. If something is possible, does it become probable? What is the relationship between an idea and a fact? If we build a machine such as a catapult, to hurl rocks at a castle wall, is it possible to construct another machine to throw them even further and harder? Go down to the castle yard, Ranulf, study those Welsh bowmen. They don’t use an arbalest but a bow made of yew which can loose a yard-long shaft. In Wales I watched a master bowman fire six such arrows in the space of a few heartbeats whilst a crossbowman was still winching back the cord of his own weapon.’

‘When the French come . . .’ Ranulf decided to change the subject. He knew from past experience how Corbett’s military service in Wales always brought about a change in mood. Sir Hugh still suffered night-mares about those narrow twisting valleys and the cruelties both sides perpetrated on each other. ‘When the French come,’ he repeated, ‘will de Craon accuse Bolingbroke of theft and murder?’

‘Great suspicion but little proof.’ Corbett laughed drily. ‘Oh, he’ll know and he’ll know that I know, which will make us both very knowledgeable, but de Craon is too cunning to accuse anybody. He may make references to it, but no outright allegation. He might talk about a housebreaker called Ufford, a scholar and an Englishman, being killed, but that is as far as he will go. The dead do not concern de Craon. Like a fox which has killed a pullet, it has only whetted its appetite for—’

Corbett started at the shouting from outside.

‘Woe unto you who has done this! Limb of Satan, fiend of Hell, innocent blood cries for vengeance and justice! Cursed be ye in your thinking and in your drinking . . .’

The rest of the proclamation was drowned by a soul-chilling scream, followed by shouts and yells. Corbett and Ranulf hurried to the door. The snow was swirling under a biting wind, but the flurry of winter was ignored as members of the castle, men, women and children, ran towards a tall balding man, his lower face covered by a luxuriant beard and moustache, who stood, dressed all in black, beside a small hand barrow. Corbett ran down the steps, forcing his way through the throng. On the hand barrow sprawled the corpse of a young woman, the sheet which had covered her pulled back to reveal a bloodless face, staring eyes and a quarrel high in the chest which had rent flesh and bone. A line of blood coursed down from the girl’s gaping mouth. A woman knelt beside the hand barrow, fingers combing her grey hair as she threw her head back and shrieked at the low grey sky. A man beside her, dressed in a leather jerkin, tried to comfort her. Others were gathering around, shouting words of comfort and condolence. Another young woman, hysterical with grief and fear, crouched holding on to the barrow until others prised her fingers loose and led her away. The crowd was turning ugly with shouts and curses, and Corbett became aware that the main accusations were levelled against an outlaw band and its leader, Horehound.

Sir Edmund, along with his wife and daughter, had arrived. Constance, her beautiful face shrouded by the hood of her cloak, took the distraught mother, lifting her up and pressing her body next to hers as she led her away. Lady Catherine hastened to help. Sir Edmund ordered his men-at-arms to keep the crowd away, shouting at them to go back to their business. After a while order was imposed. The grieving parents were taken into the long hall. The young woman’s corpse was inspected by the dry-faced castle leech, who introduced himself simply as Master Simon. He carefully examined the body and shook his head.