The Magician

Chapter 4

The bell of the castle chapel was tolling mournfully as Corbett, accompanied by Ranulf and Chanson, clattered under the yawning gate, across the drawbridge, disappearing into the whirling storm of snow which was now beginning to cover the grassland and shrubs around the castle. Ranulf had kicked Chanson awake, screaming at him to put his boots on and get down to the stables as quickly as possible. Of course Chanson took an age to wake. Ranulf had to put the groom’s boots on for him, even if it meant the left on the right foot, then, dragging him by the scruff of the neck down the stairs, bundled him across the yard, ignoring Chanson’s wails of protest and the strange looks they drew from passers-by. Corbett had been waiting in the stables, cloak fastened, his head and face hidden by the deep cowl of his cloak.

‘I thought I’d better wait,’ he murmured.

Ranulf muttered something obscene under his breath and helped Chanson saddle the horses. Now they were out in the open countryside, Ranulf felt the panic seething within him. He pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘Sir Hugh, why are we out here?’

‘I told you.’ Corbett’s voice sounded hollow from the cowl. ‘We will soon be prisoners enough. I want to know where we are.’

Ranulf’s panic was replaced by a chill of unease.

‘What do you fear, Sir Hugh?’

‘I’m concerned.’ Corbett reined in his horse, clicking his tongue as it shook its head. ‘Why are Flemish pirates patrolling in the dead of winter? True, there are easy pickings, but . . .’

They rode on silently for a while, then Corbett turned his horse and stared back at the black mass of the castle. ‘We have,’ he stretched out his left hand, ‘about six miles to the north-east the fairly large town of Wareham. The French envoys probably lodged there last night. All around us, shaped like a crescent, spreads thick forest; to the south of Corfe, about another seven or eight miles, lies the sea. To the east there’s an estuary, and to the west an even smaller one, which makes this part of the shire almost an island. They call it Purbeck Island.’ Corbett wiped the snowflakes from his face. ‘For the rest, let’s see for ourselves.’

They entered the trees, turning right, following the trackway, and passed a village slumbering under the snow. The cottages looked deserted; only the lonely cry of a child or the bark of a dog and the curling black wood smoke showed any sign of life. They rode on. Corbett, glimpsing the tower of St Peter’s church, realised they must be following the same path Rebecca used that morning. They dismounted at the lych gate, tethered their horses and walked up the cemetery path to the Galilee porch built on to the side of the church. The door was open and they entered the cold mustiness of the nave, a gloomy place, its paved floor lit by the occasional shaft of light piercing the high narrow windows. Nevertheless, it was a hallowed spot, an ancient chapel with squat pillars, narrow transepts and whitewashed walls. Baskets of herbs stood at the base of each pillar and successive priests had hired itinerant painters to cover the walls with deep glowing paintings, not very skilful, but their reds, browns and greens displayed a robust vigour in their depictions of harvest scenes or images of Christ and His Mother.

The sanctuary was small, cordoned off by a simple Eucharist rail rather than a rood screen. Beyond that, to the left, was an ancient Lady Chapel with a carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mother holding her child, and on the right a Chantry Chapel to St Peter, a statue of whom stood on a plinth, in one hand the keys of the Kingdom, in the other a net. The sanctuary itself was simple, niches and small alcoves to the right and left for the Offertory cruets and other sacred vessels. The high altar was built against the end wall with steep steps before it. On the right of the altar hung the silver pyx in its Corpus pouch, and beneath that a candle glowed under its red glass cap. Corbett genuflected towards this and crossed himself. He was fascinated. Most churches smelt of incense and wax, but this one was different. A sharp, acrid tang which he couldn’t place.

Corbett went through into the small sacristy, a bare limewashed chamber with a large aumbry, coffers and chests, and, beneath a black crucifix, the vesting table where the robes for Mass were laid out. He turned the key in the side door, drew back the bolts and looked out. This part of the church land was reserved for the priest. At the far end stood a simple grey-brick two-storey house, steps leading up to the main door, the windows on either side boarded up. The house looked old, but the slated roof was gleaming black in the patches not yet covered by snow. From the trellis fences and raised mounds of earth, Corbett deduced that Father Matthew was a keen gardener. He glimpsed a statue of a saint and wondered if it was one of the many holy men or women the church claimed as patron saints of gardens and herb plots.

‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett walked back to the sacristy and stood before the small gate in the Eucharist rail.

‘I’m thinking of those young women who have been murdered. The one thing which binds them together, apart from their age and sex, is that they all meet here. I wonder if their deaths . . .’

Corbett let his words hang in the air. He returned to the Galilee porch, made sure the door was secure, and walked down towards the main entrance, stopping to admire the font and the image of St Christopher holding the Christ Child painted on a nearby pillar. He opened the door and walked out into a flurry of snow. There was a sound like the rush of bird-wings and a crossbow bolt smacked into the stonework above him. Corbett stepped back hastily, slamming the door behind him. Ranulf, alarmed, drew his sword, Chanson his dagger. The groom was now fully alert but blinking and muttering to himself.

‘They know we have no bows. Whoever it is, they don’t mean to attack us! That crossbow bolt was meant as a warning.’

‘King’s man.’ The voice carried through the closed door. ‘King’s man, we intend no harm.’

Corbett lifted the latch, only to be pushed aside by Ranulf, who opened the door and stepped through before Corbett could stop him. He and Chanson went out on to the top step. A figure moved from behind a battered gravestone. He was hooded, snow covered his cowled head and shoulders. Corbett glimpsed ragged hose, though the boots were good, whilst there was no mistaking the arbalest he held. Other men appeared, at least half a dozen in number.

‘King’s man.’ The hooded one walked closer, lowering his crossbow. Ranulf, sword drawn, clattered down the steps. ‘No further,’ the man shouted harshly. He lifted his head; a ragged mask covered his face. ‘King’s man, whatever you hear in the castle, we are not responsible for the deaths of those maids, nor for what you might see in the forest.’

‘What might I see?’ Corbett shouted, joining Ranulf at the bottom of the steps.

‘The horror hanging in the woods,’ answered the man. ‘But we are poor people, truly dust of the earth; we only kill to eat, remember that.’ The cowled figure lifted his hand, and the outlaws turned and ran, scaling the cemetery wall and disappearing into the trees beyond.

The three companions stared into the falling snow for an instant, before gathering their horses and turning back towards the castle. The sombre greyness of the day deepened as the light faded. The snowstorm was subsiding, but it had turned the countryside into a silent white wasteland, emphasising the blackness of the trees and bushes above which solitary birds soared, whilst the gorse and undergrowth crackled as the snow dripped and slipped to the ground. They reached the path stretching across the open downs up to the main gate of the castle, where pitch torches and braziers glowed fiercely along the battlements.

‘It looks like a donjon from Hell,’ Ranulf muttered, yet he was eager enough to reach the gateway and escape from the chilling stillness of the countryside.

They clattered across the drawbridge where Corbett reined in. Leaning over to Ranulf and Chanson, he gave strict instructions not to tell anybody about the confrontation in the cemetery. Chanson took their horses, while Ranulf went to the buttery claiming he was still famished and Corbett returned to his chamber. A servant was waiting outside. Corbett unlocked the door and the man busied himself lighting the capped candles. He used a pair of bellows to fire the brazier and quickly strengthened the weak fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs over a bank of charcoal strewn with herbs which gave the chamber the smell of summer.

‘My Lord.’ The man sweated as he used the bellows, urging the flames to spurt up and fire the wood. ‘You’ll be as comfortable soon as a pig in its sty.’

Corbett grinned at the analogy. He helped the servant until he was satisfied, then gave him a coin and, when he had gone, locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and was about to settle before the fire when he heard a faint singing. Going to the window, he opened the shutter and listened intently. He recognised plainsong drifting up from the chapel of St John’s Within the Gates and all exhaustion forgotten, quickly thrust his boots back on, left the chamber and ran down the stairs. He met Ranulf just outside the tower, and grabbing his henchman by the arm, they hurried into the icy gloom, slipping and slithering as they made their way to the castle chapel. Ranulf made to protest but knew it was futile. As he had remarked to Chanson, ‘The one thing Master Longface loves is the opportunity to sing.’

The chapel of St John was a long, whitewashed barn-like structure, though the walls had been covered by paintings and the raised floor of the sanctuary was tiled with beautiful stone. The altar, of Purbeck marble, seemed to glow from the light of the candles placed either side. Father Matthew, assisted by Father Andrew, was busy organising members of the garrison into a choir to rehearse the hymns of Advent.

‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward. ‘You heard the chanting?’

‘Angels’ teeth,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Of course he did.’

Corbett immediately became involved in the singing, and for a while stood and listened as the choir, under Father Matthew’s direction, sang the ‘Puer Natus Nobis’, ‘A Child is Born For Us’. The choir was composed of young boys and old men, but the real chanting was provided by the Welsh archers, whose voices Corbett particularly admired. He stood tapping his foot, gently moving his fingers as if he could catch the very essence of the hymn. Ranulf quietly conceded that the choir, the archers in particular, had beautiful carrying voices. In his manor at Leighton Sir Hugh had organised his own choir, composed of servants and manor tenants, and once the hymn was over Corbett was drawn into a passionate argument with the two priests over what they termed the ‘arrangement of voices’. Sir Edmund and his officers drifted in and stood fascinated as the sombre Keeper of the Secret Seal argued vehemently about who should stand where, and whether the choirs should alternate or sing together. Ranulf’s heart skipped a beat as the Lady Constance, with her damsels-in-waiting, also entered the little chapel now thronged with people and ablaze with light as Father Matthew lit more candles and tapers.

At last the priests were persuaded and the choir regathered, under Corbett’s direction, to sing the Introit, the entry antiphon to the dawn Mass for Christmas Day: ‘Dominus dixit ad me, hodie genu tei’ – ‘The Lord said to me this day I have begotten you’. First the choir had to be taught to memorise the words. Corbett translated the Latin – a lengthy exercise, but, as at Leighton Manor, the rhythmic chant of the music helped them remember it. After a great deal of shuffling, they stood in three rows to reflect the varying tones, with Ranulf in the middle line feeling rather embarrassed as the Lady Constance watched him intently. Once finished, everyone judged it a great success and they turned to something more popular, one of the great ‘O’ antiphons of Advent. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Ranulf glimpsed Corbett, eyes closed, passionately singing the words. At the end Sir Edmund, and the congregation which had gathered, applauded loudly. Corbett became involved in yet another heated discussion whilst Ranulf edged towards the Lady Constance. She, however, as if sensing precisely his intentions, strode directly towards him, standing in front of him like the Lady Maeve would, head slightly forward, face stern, her beautiful eyes bright with mocking laughter.

‘Master Ranulf,’ she whispered, ‘what are you trying to do? Do you want to play cat’s cradle with me? If you want to talk, then talk! Or do you wish something else? To take me aside and whisper the sweet words of a troubadour?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Or will you appear beneath my window tonight with rebec and flute and chant how my skin glows like soft satin and my eyes, well . . .’ She waved her hand. Ranulf blushed and quietly thanked God that Chanson wasn’t nearby.

‘My Lady,’ he stammered, glimpsing Corbett moving towards the door. ‘My Lady, certain tasks await me.’ Face burning, he hastened after his master.

‘Ranulf!’ He turned.

‘I wish you had,’ Lady Constance whispered. ‘I wish you would.’

Ranulf could take no more, but fled into the icy night, quietly whispering the Deo gratias.

Corbett was still full of the singing. ‘You see, Ranulf, when you have more in the middle group, where the voice is not so deep as the line behind or the row in front . . .’ He continued his lecture as they crossed the snow-filled bailey, torches spluttering against the falling snow sent sparks flying like miniature beams of light to sizzle on the icy cobbles. The bailey was full of noise as carts and barrows were pushed away, horses stabled and the castle folk sheltered and hastened their preparations against the encroaching icy darkness. Ranulf made his hasty farewells and Corbett, still full of the choir music, returned to his own chamber, where he closed the door, refilled his wine goblet and stretched out before the fire. De Craon, he realised, would soon be here. He thought of the choir at Leighton; perhaps it should be divided in two and arranged in stalls? His mind drifted to that snow-bound church, those hooded, masked figures in the cemetery. What did their leader mean by the horror hanging in the woods . . .

Ranulf shook his master awake. ‘The French have arrived, we must prepare.’

Corbett struggled up. Ranulf had already changed into a cotehardie of Lincoln green edged with silver, over a white linen shirt and dark brown leggings; his face was shaven, his hair oiled, his fingers beringed, and round his waist was a narrow leather belt with a sheath for a stabbing dirk.

‘The Lady Constance will think you are quite parfait,’ Corbett teased, but Ranulf was already striding to the door; he did not wish to discuss that matter any further!

Servants came into the room struggling with buckets of boiling water for the lavarium bowls. Once they had gone, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved, donning a clean linen vest, drawers and cambric shirt. Humming the Offertory canticle from the second Sunday of Advent, he took from his travelling chest a cotehardie displaying the red, blue and gold of the royal household. He donned black hose, pushing his feet into soft leather boots and placing the silver filigree chain of office around his neck and the signet ring of the Secret Chancery on the middle finger of his left hand. As he was brushing his hair, Ranulf and Chanson came into the room.

‘I’ve done the best I can.’ Ranulf pointed at Chanson, resplendent in a new woollen jerkin, his hair looking even more spiked than ever. The teasing continued as Bolingbroke entered and described de Craon’s arrival.

‘I’ve been round this castle.’ Bolingbroke sat down on the coffer at the end of the bed. ‘It’s a veritable rabbit warren, with more gaps and alleyways than any ward in London.’ He looked at Corbett. ‘There’s talk about the promise you made . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded. ‘It’s a promise I shouldn’t have made.’ He paused as the castle bell chimed, the signal that the feasting would soon begin.

Corbett led his retinue down through the bitter cold and across to the Hall of Angels. The long chamber now blazed with light and colour. Fresh greenery had been arranged, logs piled high in the hearth and the flames roared up into the stack. Braziers glowed and incense-holders from the church gave off their own spiced fragrance. Musicians in the gallery practised the flute and plucked the strings of a harp. The great table on the dais was covered in white damask and bright with gleaming jugs, goblets and flagons.

De Craon and his entourage were standing in front of the hearth, sipping cups of spiced wine. Corbett, a false smile on his face, but eager to observe etiquette and protocol, strode across. He embraced the russet-haired, dark-faced Frenchman who, he knew, wanted to kill him, and exchanged the oscuum pacis, the kiss of peace, with lips which had cursed him and clasped hands, eager to be stained with his blood. De Craon, too, observed the niceties. He stepped back, hands spread out, greeting Corbett in Norman French, conveying to him the good wishes of his most gracious master. Corbett’s rival was also dressed in the livery of another royal household, a cotehardie of blue and white, emblazoned with silver fleur-de-lis. They stood exchanging pleasantries, toasting their respective masters, de Craon obviously smirking, making no attempt to hide the rancour in his eyes. Further introductions were made. Ranulf gave the sketchiest of nods to de Craon’s black-haired henchman, Bogo de Baiocis. Corbett icily introduced Bolingbroke; de Craon clasped the clerk’s hand, gripping it tight.

‘You studied in Paris sir?’

‘Why, yes, my Lord.’ Bolingbroke deliberately answered in English. ‘But I had to discontinue my studies because of certain matters.’

‘If you ever come again,’ de Craon’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand, ‘I must entertain you. There’s a very fine cookshop near the Quai de Madelene.’ Swift as a snake in the grass, he turned immediately back to Corbett. ‘Sir Edmund has been telling me about your singing. I, too, have sung in the Chapel Royal at St Denis.’ De Craon’s hand went to his chest and he bowed. ‘My master has congratulated me on my fine voice, and there is nothing better my daughter Jehanne likes than to join me in that beautiful song ‘Companhon, farai un vers desconvenent’. You know it, Sir Hugh? It was composed by William, Duke of Aquitaine, when Gascony was part of the domain of France.’

Corbett couldn’t help laughing at the sheer insolence of de Craon’s remark. De Craon decided to act surprised.

‘You mock me, sir?’ Corbett teased.

‘Would I mock you, Sir Hugh? Don’t you believe that I have a fine voice, or an equally fine daughter? When you are next in Paris, I must entertain you at my house.’ De Craon’s smile widened. ‘It is far, far away from the Quai de Madelene, I assure you.’

Corbett hid his own surprise. He had always considered de Craon a villain steeped in subtlety and cunning, without family or interests. He could tell from Ranulf’s grin that perhaps he and his French opponent had more in common than he might concede.

‘And your companions?’ Corbett asked.

De Craon hastened to introduce the four professors: Etienne Destaples, a tall, gaunt professor of divinity; Jean Vervins, lanky and thin, with the lugubrious face of a man who reflected a great deal but spoke very little. He was, like Destaples, dry of skin and dry of tone, a man with tired eyes who kept fidgeting, whispering to Destaples and glancing around in disdain. Pierre Sanson, professor of metaphysics, was more convivial, his small, plump face wreathed in a perpetual smile. He, like the rest, was dressed in dark garb with a thick fur-rimmed robe around his shoulders. Louis Crotoy was introduced last, a small, aristocratic-looking man with rather elongated sharp blue eyes, his hair pure white. Unlike the others, he grasped Corbett’s hand and drew him close, exchanging the kiss of peace. Corbett smelt that perfume with which Crotoy always anointed himself, a fragrance which took him back down the years to those sombre, dusty school rooms in the Halls of Oxford.

‘It’s good to see you, Sir Hugh, a little older but only just a little.’

He stepped away as de Craon came between the two. ‘I understand you know each other of old?’

‘A great honour on my part,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Louis is once heard never forgotten. He lectured on logic in the schools of Oxford.’

‘Sir Hugh was my favourite pupil,’ Crotoy answered. ‘Not because of his logic; I have just never met a man who takes things so seriously.’ His remark provoked laughter. ‘And now,’ Crotoy continued, ‘such seriousness is needed.’ He spoke quickly in Norman French, and by the look in his eyes, Corbett realised that this old friend, this master of the sharp thought and the shrewd word, wished to talk with him in secret.

Sir Edmund clapped his hands, summoning the servants to replenish cups and serve soft, spiced slices of bread. The conversation turned to the weather, the horrors of the sea voyage and the history of the castle itself. Corbett tried to draw Crotoy into conversation, but whenever the Frenchman drew closer, de Craon or one of the others appeared at their side. Corbett plucked at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered about the seating arrangement; the Constable nodded, promising he would do what he could.

When a trumpet sounded from the minstrels’ gallery announcing that the first course was to be served, Corbett found himself on Sir Edmund’s left, with de Craon on the Constable’s right, but more importantly, Louis Crotoy was seated between himself and Ranulf. The wine goblets were filled, toasts made and the first course was served: roasted salmon in an onion wine sauce, followed by spiced capon and chicken mixed with cumin and cream. The wine circulated, faces becoming flushed, voices raised. De Craon’s retinue relaxed as the leader of the French envoys quietly conceded that he could do little to interfere between Sir Hugh and his old teacher.

‘Do they trust you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course,’ Louis replied. ‘They are just curious.’ He patted Corbett gently on the hand. ‘De Craon attended the Halls of Cambridge, Destaples has lectured in this kingdom as well as at universities in Lombardy. Knowledge has no frontiers, Sir Hugh. You are well?’

For a while the conversation turned to personal matters; eventually Corbett pushed away his silver platter.

‘Friar Roger Bacon?’

‘I’m not too sure, Sir Hugh, whether he was a buffoon or a genius.’

‘Have you translated the Secret of Secrets?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course not,’ Crotoy whispered, ‘but there are rumours that Magister Thibault had begun to.’ He kept his face impassive. ‘You heard the news, Sir Hugh? Magister Thibault organised a great feast, an evening of revelry, but a dreadful accident occurred. They claim housebreakers tried to rob his cellar and, either by accident or design, began a fire which swept through the house. All the guests escaped safely, including myself, but the King’s men who were sent down to investigate maintained that in the cellar they found three corpses, or what was left of them: the mortal remains of Magister Thibault, a young woman he was dallying with, and someone else, a stranger. A tumultuous evening! They say one of the housebreakers was English, a clerk called Walter Ufford. I saw him at the revelry that night, along with a man who looked very much like your companion Bolingbroke.’

Corbett glanced down the table at William Bolingbroke, deep in conversation with Destaples. He could hear the loud debate over the logic of the famous theologian Abelard, who had used his book Sic et Non to poke fun at other theologians and their misuse of scripture.

‘I doubt if William was there,’ Corbett turned his head, ‘but if he was, and proof was offered, I would investigate more thoroughly.’

Crotoy laughed. ‘And perhaps you should ask him if Magister Thibault’s prize possession, his copy of the Secret of Secrets, came into his possession. Our royal master was furious.’

‘What at?’ Corbett asked. ‘Magister Thibault’s death or the theft of the manuscript?’

‘His Grace,’ Crotoy’s voice was barely above a whisper, ‘is angry at many things, Sir Hugh. He is angry at me and others of the university. He has surrounded himself with flatterers, men like Pierre Dubois, sycophants who recall the old adage of the Roman jurists, “How the will of the Prince has force of law”. As he grows older Philip does not take kindly to opposition.’

‘And his interest in Friar Roger’s theories?’

‘If your King is interested, so is mine. There is no doubt that our learned friar was a treasure house of secret knowledge, but whether it is worth a sou is for us to decide.’

‘Had Thibault broken the cipher?’ Corbett asked. ‘When we meet we have to share such knowledge.’

‘I think he had, or at least had begun to. Now I and my companions must earn the good grace of our master by finishing the task. I have spent many years on ciphers, Sir Hugh, the writings of Polybius and other ancients, but the device Bacon used to hide his knowledge is the most difficult I have ever encountered.’

‘And Magister Thibault,’ Corbett continued, ‘the night he died, why should he be found in the cellar?’

‘His strongroom was there,’ Crotoy replied. ‘I was in the hall of his house that evening. I had withdrawn from the revelry. People had drunk too much and the filles de joie were becoming more abandoned by the hour. I was near the door when Magister Thibault appeared. I asked him to join us, but he refused. The young woman he was with, an exquisite courtesan, remarkably beautiful, she too was objecting.’

‘Objecting!’ Corbett exclaimed.

Crotoy made a gesture with his hand for Corbett to keep his voice down. ‘Yes, objecting. She said it was cold and she didn’t want to go down to a freezing cellar. “You asked me to,” Magister Thibault replied. They left, and a short while later servants reported smoke and flames pouring up from the basement.’ Crotoy shrugged. ‘Now, Ranulf . . .’

Crotoy hastily turned away from Corbett, leaving the Keeper of the Secret Seal alone with his thoughts. Sir Edmund was now deep in conversation with de Craon, describing the fortifications of Corfe Castle and the building work which was to begin once spring arrived. Corbett sat staring into his wine cup. He had advised his own royal master that this meeting at Corfe was highly dangerous. Philip and de Craon were plotting something, but what? And although he had questioned Edward closely, the King would not reveal the reason for his own deep interest in the writings of Roger Bacon.

Corbett stared down the table at the various faces. According to Bolingbroke, who, flushed-faced, was still lecturing Destaples, there had been a spy at the University of the Sorbonne who had been prepared to sell Magister Thibault’s copy of the Secret of Secrets. Ostensibly he had done it for gold and silver. Had that same person simply been a catspaw, the means to trap Bolingbroke and Ufford? But there again, de Craon could have brought his men to that cellar and apprehended them there and then. And why had Magister Thibault gone down to the cellar? According to Crotoy, it seemed as if Thibault had meant to meet someone there. Had Thibault been the spy? And why had de Craon allowed the copy of the Secret of Secrets to be stolen in the first place? Did that manuscript hold something very dangerous? Was that the reason for the meeting at Corfe?

Corbett raised his goblet to his lips but thought again. He needed to keep his mind clear. Sitting back, cradling the goblet, he smiled to himself. Logic could only be based on what happened, not what might happen, as Crotoy had taught him, so he would have to wait . . .

Alusia, daughter of Gilbert, was recalling the shock of discovering Rebecca’s corpse. She had knelt beside it on that cold cobbled trackway, aware of someone screaming, and it was only when she heard Father Matthew approaching that she realised that she herself was making that terrible noise. The priest had raised her to her feet, his strong arms about her, one hand stroking her hair as he tried to comfort her. He had told her to stay beside the corpse whilst he hurried over to the church and brought back the hand cart. She’d helped place poor Rebecca’s corpse on it, covering it with the stained canvas cloth the priest had brought with him. Once they had returned to the castle, Alusia had been comforted by her parents. They’d brought her a cup of warm posset from the kitchen and her father had hurried to Mistress Feyner for a few grains of valerian to help her sleep.

Alusia had slept long and deep, and only as she woke became truly aware of the horrors she had witnessed that day. Both Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had come down to question her but Alusia was confused, still suffering from the effects of the powdered wine. She explained how she and Rebecca, close friends, had decided to slip away from the castle and meet under the lych gate so that they could lay greenery on Marion’s grave. After all, it had been her name day, and they wished to do something to mark their friend’s passing. Alusia described the church and the snow-covered forest, how quiet it had been; she even recalled the cawing of the rooks and crows.

‘But did you see anything?’ Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had been kindly but persistent. Alusia had shook her head and babbled about the silence and the snow, about poor Rebecca lying like a bundle of cloth on the trackway.

‘Did you see anything strange?’

Again Alusia had shaken her head. She couldn’t recall anything, and yet now she was more awake and fresh, certain memories did come back. It was like waking up after last Midsummer’s Day, when she had drunk deep of the cider and danced with the rest on the castle green. At first she couldn’t recall anything, but then the memories had returned, how she had kissed that boy or this; more importantly, how Martin, that handsome man-at-arms, had caught her eye, studying her from afar. He had held her tight whilst the dancers whirled and the air was piped full with the wild music of the tambour, rebec and flute. Now it was the same. Her parents had told her what had happened to Rebecca’s remains, lying cold and stiffening in the death house next to the castle church. How Father Matthew had brought Rebecca’s corpse and herself back to Corfe. How he had anointed the body . . .

Alusia, sitting up in her parents’ bed in the loft of their small house built against the castle wall, tried hard to remember. Sir Edmund had said that sharp-eyed King’s man might come to question her. So what could she say to him? Yet the memories were there. She was sure she had glimpsed someone, just for a moment, near the lych gate, and what was Father Matthew doing on the trackway? Alusia recalled how Father Andrew, about this time last year, had been called to give the last rites to a sentry who’d slipped from the castle parapet walk and fallen to his death. He had knelt down and whispered the words of absolution into the dead man’s ear. Why hadn’t Father Matthew done that to Rebecca? Hadn’t that same Father Matthew taught them that the soul never left the body immediately, so absolution could still be given and the skin marked with the holy oils hours after death?

Alusia stayed in bed, warm and secure, until called down for the evening meal. Later she went out to join the other girls as they grouped round a large bonfire lit in the castle yard. A time to share the warmth and chatter and sip from a jug of ale made hot and spicy with burnt embers and powdered nutmeg. Martin had been watching her and she had stared boldly back. The fright she’d experienced the previous morning had made her braver, as if aware of how fleeting life had become. She had agreed to meet him at the usual place, in the far distant corner of the inner castle bailey, and Alusia always kept her promise.

She’d brought a tinder from her father’s pouch and, though it was bitterly cold, stood now in the empty crumbling passageway leading down to the old store-rooms, disused because of fallen masonry. Since the weather had turned cold, Martin and she would often meet here. It was dark, safe and quiet, and her parents would think she was with the other girls. She only hoped Martin would bring that bronze chafing dish, a gift from his elder brother, who had won it at a game of hazard from a passing tinker. The dish was capped and had a handle, and once full of charcoal or burning embers was so good to keep the fingers warm on a dark, cold night such as this.

Alusia heard a sound and, blowing out the candle, went deeper into the cellar. Someone was coming down the steps, a soft footfall, ‘Alusia, Alusia!’ The voice was soft. The young woman, eager to meet her lover, was already stepping out of the shadows before she realised her mistake. It was too late. She was aware of a dark shape blocking out the light. She heard a ‘crick’ and a ‘click’, and the crossbow bolt hit her high in the chest, sending her crashing back deep into the shadows.