The Magician

Chapter 5

Foxglove the outlaw was dying. Horehound, crouching beside him in the fire-lit cave, recognised the symptoms. Foxglove had been ill for days; now the old man’s unshaven face was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his forehead sweat-soaked, his eyeballs rolling back in his head. A strange rattling echoed in his throat. Angelica had done her best, feeding him juice of the moss, but the fever remained unabated and Foxglove was seeing visions. He was calling on brothers, comrades who had died at the great battle of Evesham almost forty years before, when the old King’s father had trapped Earl Simon de Montfort, killed him, hacked up his body and fed it to the dogs. Foxglove, as Milkwort reported, was now preparing for judgement, going back into the past, and yet he had one last wish.

‘I need to be shriven,’ the old man begged. ‘I must have a priest to listen to my sins.’ He gripped Horehound’s hand. ‘I’m going, but I want a priest to anoint me. I don’t want my soul to go stinking into death.’

The rest of the outlaw band had agreed with him. Foxglove might be old, but in his time he had been precious, a skilled hunter, a loyal companion. Horehound moved to the mouth of the cave and crouched by the second fire, staring across the snow-covered glade. The storm had passed but the skies threatened more. Horehound chewed the corner of his chapped lip as he considered Foxglove’s request. This had happened before, when old Parsley had died. Father Matthew had come, but that had been in the full flush of summer when the trackways were clear and firm and the priest welcomed a walk through the green dappled coolness of the forest. Now it was the heart of winter; even the outlaws had to be careful not to become lost, and they would have to stay off the beaten trackway. Horehound was fearful of that ancient oak and the corpse hanging there, the horror of the forest! Early in the evening there had been fierce debate about that very thing. Angelica and Milkwort, supported by Peasecod and Henbane, had argued that the corpse should be cut down and secretly buried. Horehound had been insistent in his refusal. He would go and fetch Father Matthew but bring him into the camp by more secret routes. The priest must not see that corpse; that was the kernel of Horehound’s argument. If they touched the corpse they would be held responsible, and wasn’t it ill luck to take such a body down? He smiled grimly. He had won the argument when he had posed the question, who would cut the rope? Nobody wanted to do that; indeed, no one had even approached it. They couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

Horehound stretched out his hands towards the fire. He was deeply worried: their larder of salted meat was depleted; game was becoming increasingly rare and difficult to hunt, the prospect of plunder even rarer. Horehound’s band was growing older, weaker; sometimes the temptation to leave them and go deeper into the forest was almost irresistible.

‘What shall we do?’

Milkwort and Angelica joined him at the fire.

‘We’ll fetch the priest.’

‘No, I don’t mean that!’

Horehound could feel his companion’s anger, whilst Angelica’s broad, smooth face was deeply troubled.

‘You know what I mean.’ Milkwort gathered up his hair, tying it more securely behind his head with a piece of string. ‘Here we are, in the heart of the forest, in the depths of winter, three of our companions ill, and we have very little food.’ He threw a stick on the fire. ‘We’ve even forgotten our names, hiding behind those of wild herbs. We are outlaws, wolfsheads!’ He hawked and spat. ‘But the law doesn’t afear me, the sheriff doesn’t give a damn about us; what frightens me is winter. It’s not yet Yuletide but we’re so short of food we’re going to starve. I don’t think,’ Milkwort added bitterly, ‘we should have threatened the King’s man.’

‘We didn’t threaten,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If we are going to hang, let’s hang for venison, for stealing some clothes from a merchant, but not the slaughter of young maids.’

‘There was another killed,’ Angelica intoned mournfully, shifting the hair from her face. She gazed back into the cave where Foxglove was gasping, fighting for his life. ‘I understand that.’ She jabbed her thumb back at the dying man. ‘But not the brutal slaying of young maids?’

‘You saw her?’ Horehound was eager to change the subject and distract Milkwort.

‘Yes, I told you, I was out near the pathway gathering nuts and whatever else I could find for the pot. I saw the girl in the cemetery. She was standing by the grave, she’d taken some holly, red with berries.’

‘Yes, but did you see the one who was killed?’

‘I saw no one else.’

‘Have you seen any strangers?’ Horehound asked.

‘I think I have, mere glimpses.’

‘There’s none of them about,’ Milkwort scoffed. ‘No peddlers or chapmen, only the foreigners at the tavern. Cas . . . tel . . .’

‘Castilians,’ Horehound corrected him, proud of remembering what Master Reginald had told him. ‘They are from Castile; it’s in Spain.’

‘Where is that?’

‘It’s part of France,’ Horehound blustered. ‘I think it’s part of France, somewhere near the Middle Sea. They’ve come here to buy wool. They travelled from Dover.’

‘Did you see them?’ Milkwort asked. ‘We could have stopped them.’

Horehound wagged a finger. ‘Don’t be stupid. There are five of them, all armed. Above all, they are foreigners. You know what happens if foreigners are robbed? They complain to the sheriff, or to their own prince, and as fast as Jack jumps on Jill, the sheriff’s men will be in the forest, hunting us like deer. You heard what happened to Pigskin and his group? Moved further east they did, attacked some foreigners coming out of Dover.’

The group fell silent. They all knew what had happened to Pigskin and his companions: hanged at the crossroads as a warning to others.

‘If we don’t get the priest soon,’ Milkwort broke the silence, ‘old Foxglove will be joining Pigskin.’

‘Nah,’ Horehound disagreed. ‘Pigskin’s in Hell, a killer he was, not like Foxglove; the worst thing he did was knock a man on the back of the head. But you’re right,’ he sighed, ‘let’s go.’

They left the camp, stumbling through the snow, cursing and muttering as they were cut by gorse whilst the snow resting on branches above sprinkled down to soak their clothes. Horehound drew his cowl closer about his head. They went in single file, Angelica bringing up the rear so that she could follow in their footsteps.

Horehound was truly frightened. The forest was silent, a bad sign at night, as if the freezing cold and snow had smothered all life and sound. Everything had changed: no longer the familiar trees and bushes; no longer the telltale stones placed where the trackway turned; no different colours; nothing but blackness broken only by the blind brightness of the snow. Horehound felt as if he was in a dream. He paused to see where he was. Concerned at becoming lost, he ignored Milkwort’s protest and led them out of the forest on to the trackway which snaked through the trees. Eventually they left this, going back into the protection of the trees, following a secure route which would lead them to the Tavern in the Forest.

Horehound, summoning up his courage, knew they would have to cross that glade. When they reached it they all paused; even in the poor light they could see that macabre shape hanging from an outstretched branch, moving slightly as if it had a life of its own. Horehound crossed himself and moved on. He felt hungry, slightly weak, and even as he approached the pathway leading to the tavern, his sharp sense of smell caught the drifting odours of cooked meats and freshly baked bread. His mouth watered and his belly grumbled, and he decided that he could not let such an opportunity slip. He gestured to his companions to keep silent, and they slipped behind the trees at the rear of the tavern. Summoning up their strength they scaled the curtain wall, dropping quietly into the yard below and scrambling down the manure heap piled high between the two stretches of stables. The dogs on their leashes across the cobbled yard were immediately roused and, despite the cold, strained on their ropes, lips curled, barking raucously. This was as far as Horehound would go. He watched the rear door of the tavern open, the welcome sliver of light, smelled the odours of cooking, nigh irresistible, drifting across.

‘Who’s there?’ Master Reginald, a crossbow in one hand, stood in the light. Behind him two tap boys grasped stout cudgels.

‘Only Horehound, Master Reginald,’ the outlaw called across. ‘Foxglove is dying, we need food and drink.’

‘And what do you have to trade?’ Master Reginald came forward, shouting at the dogs to stay silent.

Horehound gripped the club he carried. ‘We’ve nothing,’ he grated. ‘Even our salted meat is putrid. Master Reginald,’ he whined, ‘we need meat and bread. I can pay you back in the spring.’ He edged forward, so hungry he was becoming angry. Master Reginald’s buttery and kitchen were full of good meats, golden-crusted pies, soft pork, goose, chicken and other delicacies. His hunger made him bold. He walked across the cobbled yard swinging his cudgel; the taverner lifted his crossbow. ‘Give us some food,’ the outlaw repeated, ‘and we will leave you in peace.’

From the tavern came a shout, a foreign voice. ‘You have visitors?’ Horehound asked. The taverner understood the threat in his voice. ‘They will have to travel, so we will agree to give them safe passage.’

Master Reginald didn’t realise how weak and impoverished the outlaw band had become. Again the voice shouted, and this time he reluctantly beckoned them forward into the sweet warmth and light of his kitchen. Horehound groaned in pleasure. Milkwort and Angelica just stood gaping at the meats spread out on the fleshing tables, the basket of rye bread and the small white loaves freshly taken from the ovens either side of the great hearth. Horehound stared around. Lamplight glinted in the polished bowls and skillets, and it was then that Horehound made his decision. He was tired of the forest; this was his last winter skulking amongst the trees. Emboldened by the prospects of a change, he walked across and stared through the half-open door of the tap room. The five foreigners were seated round a table. Master Reginald, his bitter face even more angry, ushered him away. A leather bag was brought, quickly filled with scraps of meat and hard rye bread and pushed into Horehound’s hand. The taverner allowed them to take one of the fresh loaves and a morsel of cheese before opening the rear door and gesturing at them to leave. As Horehound passed, the taverner gripped the outlaw’s shoulder.

‘You remember this,’ he warned. ‘I want no trouble for my guests on the forest paths, and when spring comes I want to be repaid.’

Horehound and his two companions were only too delighted to agree. They crossed the yard, scaled the wall and crouched for a while in the icy darkness, congratulating themselves on their good fortune.

‘I wonder why?’ Milkwort’s face, red and chapped, was twisted in disbelief. He crouched so close to Horehound the outlaw leader could smell his foul breath, the rancid sweat from his dirty rags.

‘Master Reginald wanted us out,’ Angelica whispered. ‘He didn’t want us there! He didn’t want us troubling those merchants who must be paying him well.’

Now that he was out in the freezing night Horehound was even more suspicious. The taverner was not noted for his kindness; the tap boys had told them about how he liked to beat the slatterns. The foreigners must be paying well and Master Reginald didn’t want any trouble. Horehound stared up at the black sky, and even as he did, fresh flakes wetted his face.

‘What hour must it be?’

‘Not long before midnight,’ Milkwort guessed. ‘We should hurry. They say a dying man always goes before dawn.’

They continued their journey through the trees, Horehound clutching his precious bag. Now and then they lost their way, cursing and grumbling as they were pricked by icy brambles. Horehound hissed at them to be careful. Near the church lay hidden marshes and he didn’t want to become trapped. At last they reached the cemetery wall, and climbed this wearily, moving quickly around the tombstones and crosses towards the priest’s house. Horehound now felt more comfortable. The priest kept no dogs and, being a kindly man, might have some food to spare. The outlaw carefully circled the grey-brick building, leaping up to catch a glimpse of light from the shutters, but the house lay in silence. The priest had his chamber at the back, on the second floor, yet the shutters here were closed too and betrayed no gleam of light.

Horehound searched amongst the snow and, gripping some dirt, flung it up, but no reply. He sent up a second hail of dirt and pebbles, shouting hoarsely, ‘Father Matthew? Master Priest?’ He started as an owl hooted in the far trees of the cemetery.

‘Perhaps he is not here,’ Milkwort suggested. ‘Perhaps he stayed at the castle.’

Horehound was about to turn away when he glimpsed a gleam of light coming from a window in the church, a small oriel overlooking the entrance to the nave. ‘He’s in the church,’ he whispered. He hurried across, thrust his cudgel at Milkwort and climbed the crumbling wall. The hard stone dug into his chapped, sore flesh but Horehound persisted.

The small oriel was full of thick stained glass, the gift of some wealthy parishioner. The image of a saint, hands extended, blocked any clear view, but the thickened strip of glass beneath allowed Horehound to peer through. He gasped and blinked. The porch of the church was bright with light from a ring of candles. Father Matthew, wrapped in a thick, heavy cloak, was squatting in the centre. On his left was a pot of fire, the flames leaping up from the charcoal, and before him a large deep bowl of gleaming brass. Horehound couldn’t understand what was happening. Now and again the priest would stare down at a small book, the size of a psalter, kept open by weights on each corner. Horehound couldn’t decide if he was chanting or talking to himself; his lips were moving, as if reciting some incantation. Just near the book was a small open coffer, the sort a leech would use to contain his powders. Father Matthew was taking grains of powder from this and sprinkling them into the bowl, cleaning his hands very carefully above it.

Horehound, fascinated, forgot the reason why he was there. He watched the priest sprinkle more powder before lighting a taper from the fire pot and throwing it into the bowl. Horehound stifled a scream at the flash of fire which leapt up, so surprised he lost his grip and almost fell on to his waiting companions below.

‘What is it?’ Milkwort gasped.

Horehound, terrified, didn’t even bother to reply but, grasping his cudgel, raced across to the cemetery wall, flinging himself up it and dropping down on the other side. Ignoring the shouts of his companions, he ran until he had reached the shelter of the trees. Milkwort and Angelica came panting up, the woman holding the precious sack of food.

‘What did you see?’ Milkwort asked.

‘The devil,’ Horehound hissed back, ‘appearing in a tongue of flame!’

‘Nonsense!’ Milkwort protested.

‘I know what I saw,’ Horehound rasped, ‘and when we go back to the cave, keep your mouths shut. Old Foxglove will be all a-tremble. I’ll pretend to be the priest.’ He gestured back towards the church. ‘I’ll do him more good than that one.’

Sir Hugh rose early the next morning. He loosened the shutter and gasped at the blast of freezing air. It was snowing again, though not as heavily as the day before. He placed the shutter back, went across to the lavarium, cracked the ice and splashed water over his face. Dressing quickly, he built up the fire, blowing at the embers and using the powerful bellows on the weak flames in the braziers. For a while he crouched, basking in the warmth. The chamber was bitterly cold and he hitched his cloak tighter against the icy draughts seeping under the door and through the shutters. He was glad he was clear-headed, pleased he had not drunk or eaten too much the night before, and he smiled as he remembered how he and Ranulf had helped Chanson to bed. The groom had sat with the other henchmen below the dais and drunk everything placed before him.

Corbett had lain awake in bed before summoning up enough courage to face the cold. He’d heard the tolling of the chapel bell and decided to go to Mass before doing what he planned. He finished dressing, pushing his feet into fur-lined boots, wrapping his military cloak securely about him and putting on a pair of thick mittens which Lady Maeve had bought from a chapman who traded between Leighton and Colchester. Leaving his chamber unlocked he went down the steps, standing aside for servants bringing up buckets of scalding water as well as sacks of logs and charcoal for his chamber. He assured them they were not too late, saying he would return after he had attended Mass.

The small castle chapel seemed gloomier than the night before. Father Andrew was already vested in the purple and gold of Advent. Corbett knelt with the other early risers, mostly men-at-arms and servants, as they huddled together in the small sanctuary. Father Andrew intoned the Mass, all its readings and antiphons foretelling the birth of Christ and God’s great promise of salvation. Corbett took the Sacrament and, once Mass was finished, lit a taper before the Lady Altar and waited, stamping his feet, until the priest left the sacristy.

‘Father, I am sorry to trouble you, but the girl who was brought in yesterday . . .’

‘I am saying her requiem at noon today,’ Father Andrew answered.

‘Has the corpse been coffined?’

The old priest paused. Sniffing and coughing, he gazed watery-eyed at Corbett. ‘No, it’s still in the death house. The leech has prepared her.’

‘Can I see her, Father? I would like to scrutinise the corpse once more.’

The old priest shrugged, led him out of the church and around the side into a small barn-like building built against the castle wall. It housed two corpses. Father Andrew explained that one was a beggar man, found on the edge of the road, who had died suddenly the day before Corbett had arrived. The beggar was already shrouded in a thick canvas cloth, only the face-piece pulled away to reveal a thin, cadaverous face, sharp nose and hollow eyes. Next to him, also on trestles, was an arrow chest, so long and thin it looked as if Rebecca’s corpse had been squeezed in. Corbett pulled back the shroud. She was now dressed in a white shift, her black hair falling down either side of her face. With the priest muttering under his breath about the stench, Sir Hugh carefully scrutinised the corpse. He tried to hide the deep sadness at such a waste, as well as a grumbling anger at the soulless violence. The quarrel had been removed, the wound filled with spices and covered with a herbal poultice.

‘In life she must have been comely,’ he whispered, lifting the shift to examine the girl’s rounded thighs and flat stomach. As he pressed his hand down against the cold, hard flesh, he caught the faint smell of herbs.

‘Sir Hugh, what are you looking for? This is unseemly.’

‘Death is unseemly, murder is unseemly. I made a vow. I will see the person who killed this young woman hang.’

Corbett noticed the purple patches on the arm; they looked like bruises. He noticed also how the skin was scraped, and when he turned the corpse over, similar marks could be seen on the shoulders and the back of the neck. He heard voices outside, so he repositioned the corpse, pulling down the shift and covering it with the shroud cloth.

‘What I am searching for, Father, is a solution to this mystery. How a young woman comes to be found on a lonely trackway with a crossbow bolt in her chest.’ He tapped the makeshift coffin. ‘When the corpse was brought in yesterday, you were there. How was she garbed?’

‘A dark green gown, boots on her feet. I accompanied the leech back here. Beneath the gown she wore a kirtle, thin and patched; she was dressed like any other girl in the castle.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Corbett mused, walking to the door. He went out into the castle yard. Although it was still snowing, people were busy about their tasks. Small bonfires had been lit, water was being drawn from the well, stables opened, children and dogs chasing around. The blacksmith was firing his forge, shouting at his apprentices to bring more charcoal. A horse, more skittish than the rest, and glad to be free of its stables, whinnied, its hooves pawing the air. Bakehouses and ovens were lit, barrel-loads of food, slabs of salted meat and baskets of not-so-fresh bread being wheeled down to the tables, boards laid across trestles, where the garrison would muster to break its fast.

Corbett walked around, watching the people at their work, now and then returning a greeting. A young woman came tripping along the cobbles, a heavy basket in her hand. Corbett stopped her, took the basket from her and, looking down, realized they were greasy pots and pans from the kitchen being taken to be scrubbed in vats of boiling salted water. The girl was pretty, her thin white face shrouded by reddish hair.

‘Why, sir, thank you.’ Her accent was thick, rather musical, the words clipped, running breathlessly into each other.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Why, Master, Marissa.’

‘Tell me, Marissa . . .’ Corbett carried the basket across the yard, and the other women stood back, gaping at this powerful King’s man helping one of their own. He placed it down on the cobblestones, as far away from the fire as possible so that it would not be scorched. ‘Tell me, Marissa,’ he took a coin out and, grasping the girl’s chapped hand, made her take it, ‘do you have a cloak?’

‘Oh no, Master.’ She must have glimpsed the disappointment in Corbett’s face. ‘But I can always borrow one.’

‘And if you were to leave the castle?’

‘Then I wouldn’t ask for one,’ she grinned, ‘otherwise people would know that I was leaving.’

Corbett turned away in disappointment, as he realised why Rebecca wasn’t wearing a cloak.

‘Sir Hugh.’

He looked round. Bolingbroke, nursing his sore head, came trudging through the snow.

‘I drank too much,’ he confessed. ‘I had to go straight to bed. Now the cold is sobering me up.’ He squinted at Corbett, who saw the cut marks on his cheek where the clerk had tried to shave himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m prying.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I should say trying to discover something about that murder yesterday morning.’ He gestured round at the inner ward, now busy as any marketplace. ‘There’s nothing, and de Craon has insisted on an early start.’

Corbett led Bolingbroke across to the hall to break their fast. Ranulf was already there, keen and sharp as a knife, trying to persuade Chanson, who looked much the worse for wear, to eat some bread and take a sip of watered ale. De Craon and his entourage entered, and pleasantries were exchanged before they adjourned to the solar, which was reached by going down the passageway which ran under the minstrels’ gallery. A warm, comfortable chamber, sure protection against the freezing cold, its walls were cloaked in heavy woollen drapes of dark muted colours. The polished wooden floor was covered by turkey carpets and the fire in the great hearth was already merry and full, its flames roaring up. A long walnut table dominated the centre of the chamber, a high-backed quilted chair at each end, with similar chairs arranged along both sides. On the table lay writing trays containing ink horns, sharpened quills, pumice stones and a small jar of fine sand. At either end stood a hardened leather drum, its cap thrown back to reveal cream-coloured rolls of vellum and parchment. The Catherine wheel of candles had been lowered from the black-beamed ceiling. Each container held a costly beeswax taper, so as to provide good light for those at the table, and three sets of brass candelabra had also been lit for good measure.

The seating arrangement was agreed upon: Corbett and de Craon at the ends, their clerks and advisers along either side. Father Andrew came to intone the Veni Creator Spiritus. Corbett pronounced himself satisfied and, leaving Chanson to sit with the other henchmen on either side of the mantled hearth, took Ranulf and Bolingbroke back to his own chamber. He felt in the toe of one of his riding boots, took out a ring of three keys and crossed to the iron-bound coffer at the foot of the bed.

‘This used to be the castle treasury,’ he explained, slipping two of the keys off the ring. ‘It’s the work of a craftsman, constructed specially in the Tower of London. You’ll not find its like anywhere. All three locks are distinctly separate; we shall each hold a key.’

He distributed the other two keys, the locks were turned, and Corbett pushed back the lid and, helped by Ranulf, lifted out the red quilted Chancery box. This, too, possessed two distinct locks, to which Ranulf always carried the other key. Corbett broke the red and green seals, and the locks were turned. Inside was a further lid which only Corbett could unlock in order to draw out the leather pouches containing the leather-bound copies of the Secretus Secretorum, and other manuscripts of Roger Bacon. Each pouch had been sealed by the King himself using his signet ring, pressing it into the blood-red wax.

‘The King was most insistent.’ Corbett smiled at his two companions. ‘He regarded these as he would any treasure in the Tower.’ He took out the Secretus Secretorum, with its dark red Spanish leather cover, its clasp containing a brilliant amethyst. ‘This is not,’ he winked at Bolingbroke, ‘the manuscript you stole from Paris, but the King’s very own.’

He put the pouches and what they contained on the floor.

‘I’ve also brought my own ciphers, as well as the various ones used in the Secret Chancery, not to mention those used by myself.’ He got to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees. ‘Not that they have done any good,’ he sighed. ‘Friar Roger’s cipher resists everything I know.’

Sir Hugh gave the manuscripts to Ranulf, telling him to put them back in their pouches and relock the coffers. They were about to leave when there was a pounding on the door, and one of Sir Edmund’s stewards burst into the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you best come, one of the Frenchmen,’ he fought for breath, ‘one of the Frenchmen has died from a seizure.’

Corbett shouted at Ranulf to guard the manuscripts with his life and, accompanied by Bolingbroke, hurried across the bailey to the Lantern Tower. The steward explained how three of the clerks were lodged there, with de Craon above the Hall of Angels, and Crotoy in the nearby Jerusalem Tower, so called because it once contained a small chapel. The door to the Lantern Tower thronged with men-at-arms. They stood aside as Corbett strode through, up the stone spiral staircase and into a stairwell which led into a chamber. The door, its leather hinges snapped, rested against the cracked lintel. The castle leech, with Father Andrew nearby, was bending over the corpse sprawled on the bed. De Craon and his three companions were standing near the ash-filled hearth, looking on anxiously.

Corbett stared at the corpse. Destaples had definitely died of a seizure. His narrow face was all mottled, eyes popping and staring, mouth open as if ready to scream. He felt the Frenchman’s hand; the flesh was cold, hard and stiff.

‘He’s been dead hours,’ the leech declared mournfully, wiping his hands on a napkin. ‘The fire’s gone out, the chamber is freezing; he must have died shortly after going to sleep.’

Corbett glanced quickly at the bedside table and the little coffer, lid open, full of miniature green leather pouches. He picked one of these up, undid the cord and sniffed, but detected nothing but crushed mint, and the same from the empty goblet nearby. He sprinkled the water dregs on his hand, then closed his eyes and thought of other chambers where men and women had died violent deaths, suicides who locked and bolted the door, victims who thought they were safe, not knowing that they were being as zealously hunted as any beast in the forest. How many corpses had he stood over? How many times had the questions been put?

‘Are you certain it was a seizure?’ Corbett asked.

‘If you are looking for poison,’ the leech replied, ‘this is not the case. A true seizure, Sir Hugh, a stopping of the heart, a closing of the throat, swift convulsions. Death would have been instantaneous.’ He gestured with his head towards the group of Frenchmen. ‘They say he had a weak heart.’

‘Oh, Sir Hugh.’ De Craon came forward. ‘I must admit my suspicions were roused.’ He beat his chest like a mock penitent. ‘I confess my evil thoughts, but Destaples was old, his heart was weak, the sea voyage wasn’t pleasant.’ De Craon gestured at the side table. ‘This excellent physician has already examined all these pouches and the goblet. They contain nothing but mint. Etienne enjoyed an infusion mixed with water just before he went to sleep.’

Corbett didn’t glance at Bolingbroke, even though he recalled the clerk’s earlier warnings about why the Frenchmen had been brought to England. He gazed down at the corpse. ‘Sir Edmund?’

The Constable, who had been standing near the window, arms crossed, deep in thought, walked out of the shadows.

‘Did anyone approach the bedside table?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, when the door was forced?’

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s voice was like a purr, ‘I know your mind.’

‘Do you?’ Corbett snapped.

‘You suspect foul deeds, but I assure you-’

‘Monseigneur is correct,’ Sir Edmund intervened. ‘We were gathered in the solar. I noticed,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘Monsieur Destaples was absent. I sent a steward to investigate. He reported back that he could not rouse him. I did not alarm anyone but came across myself. I eventually had the door forced and found what you see. I left a guard near the bed with strict instructions whilst I checked both the wine and water jugs. Sir Hugh,’ the Constable shrugged, ‘this man died of a seizure.’

Corbett gazed round the chamber, which was very similar to his own. Now the shock had passed, he noticed how cold it was, and yet everything was in its place, neat and tidy, more like a soldier’s room than a professor’s. He glimpsed the robes hanging from the wall. Destaples had changed into a linen nightshirt and must have been in bed when he had the seizure. A mass of white wax coated the candle pricket.

‘He didn’t even have time to douse the candle,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ De Craon, clapping his hands for warmth rather than attention, walked over to the bed. ‘Sir Edmund, I suggest we have a small respite and perhaps begin our meeting, shall we say,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘at ten o’clock.’

The Constable agreed. Corbett left the tower, sending Bolingbroke back to keep Ranulf company.

‘Do you think, Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke came back across the yard, fully distracted by his own thoughts, ‘do you think Destaples’ death was natural?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett rasped, watching his own breath hang heavy on the icy air. He was aware of the scenes in the bailey around him, how the noise of the people, the creaking of the carts, the neighing of the horses, seemed muffled on this sombre morning. According to all the evidence, Destaples had died in his sleep and there was nothing to be done. De Craon acted blunt and honest with not even a hint of accusation. And yet? He slapped Bolingbroke on the shoulder. ‘Tell Ranulf to stay in my chamber.’

Corbett walked across to the stables and stopped halfway at the well, using the cover of the people milling there to watch the entrance of the Lantern Tower. De Craon and the others came out, each going their separate ways. Corbett went striding back.

‘Louis, Louis, can I have words with you?’

Crotoy, muffled in his black coat, turned and smiled. ‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand.

‘That’s right, Louis.’ Corbett kept his smile fixed. ‘Just exchange pleasantries,’ he whispered. ‘Now, about these manuscripts?’ He raised his voice and chatted about ciphers and vellum until de Craon and the rest were out of earshot. ‘Well, Louis.’ He took the Frenchman by the elbow, gently steering him across the bailey towards the Hall of Angels. ‘One of your comrades is dead.’

‘He wasn’t a comrade,’ Crotoy declared. ‘I disliked Destaples intensely; he was of narrow mind and sour soul. He once wrote a commentary on the first chapter of John’s Gospel. By the time I had finished reading it I couldn’t decide if Destaples thought of himself as St John come again, or even Christ. He seemed to have a natural knowledge about the divine, much deeper than us common mortals.’

Corbett laughed out loud. He had forgotten the intense rivalries which set these professors at each other’s throats.

‘I’ll tell you two other things,’ Crotoy continued. ‘De Craon and his royal master disliked Destaples. He knew enough scripture to challenge Philip’s authority. Do you remember the line, “Do not be like the pagans whose rulers like to make their authority felt”? Destaples constantly reminded Philip of it.’

‘And the second thing?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, Sir Hugh, weak heart or not, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure. Somehow or other he was murdered.’

‘What?’ Corbett stepped back. ‘You, a friend of de Craon?’

‘I’m no friend,’ Crotoy intervened, ‘neither to him or his royal master.’

They paused as a cart trundled by, standing back so they weren’t splashed by the icy mud.

‘Let’s go into the Hall of Angels,’ Crotoy continued. ‘Let’s talk as if we are still exchanging pleasantries. How many years have I known you, Hugh, twenty, twenty-two?’ He nudged Corbett. ‘Do you think, because I’m French, I’m not your friend? Do you think because we are from different kingdoms we are not of one mind, of one soul?’

They entered the Hall of Angels, where servants were clearing away all the signs of revelry from the previous evening. They walked over to the fireplace, taking two stools, and sat basking in the warmth. Crotoy positioned himself so that he could watch the main door, whilst he quietly instructed Corbett to guard the entrance leading from the solar.

‘If anyone comes,’ he murmured, stretching out his hands, ‘we are discussing the relative merits of Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. Now, to your real question. Hugh, I don’t know why I’m here. Yes, I’m an expert on ciphers. I have studied the writings of Roger Bacon but I judge him to be a boaster and meddler. Oh, a true scholar, but one full of mischief. His writings abound with his own pride and pre-eminence. I understand the attraction of finding the true worth of the Secretus Secretorum, but now I’m confused.’ He leaned forward, using his fingers to emphasise the points he was about to make. ‘Why are we here, Hugh? The real reason. To share knowledge?’ He shook his head. ‘Our royal masters despise each other. Secondly, why here at Corfe?’

‘Because Philip asked for a castle near the coast and agreed you should come to us as a gesture of friendship.’

Crotoy made a rude sound with his lips. ‘Thirdly,’ he continued, ‘why were I and the others selected?’

‘Because of your scholarship?’

Crotoy shook his head. ‘We have one thing in common, Sir Hugh. We are members of the Sorbonne, well known for our opposition to the more strident demands and claims of Philip of France.’

‘And fourthly?’ Corbett asked.

‘Etienne Destaples.’ Crotoy sighed deeply. ‘Did you notice last night, Sir Hugh, how Destaples ate very little at the banquet?’

‘He didn’t trust his host?’

‘No, Hugh, he doesn’t trust his own kind. Destaples was very suspicious, as I am, about why he was brought here. You do realise, Hugh, none of us are friends of de Craon, and we do not enjoy the friendship of Philip of France. The same applied to Magister Thibault.’

Corbett stared into the flames. He recalled the banquet last night. In fact Destaples had had more to say to Bolingbroke than anyone else, whilst afterwards he had approached Ranulf to introduce himself.

‘So why did you come here in the depth of winter?’

‘We had no choice,’ Crotoy murmured. ‘We are servants of the King. If we displease him it is remarkable how swiftly, like Lucifer falling from Heaven, we can be dismissed from our posts. Look,’ Crotoy edged closer, staring around the Hall of Angels to make sure they were not being watched, ‘why are you here, Sir Hugh Corbett? Wouldn’t you like to be closeted with the Lady Maeve, or playing with your children? You serve your King loyally, but do you trust him? Do you approve of everything he does?’

Corbett recalled Edward at the most recent council meeting, his iron-grey hair swept back, face flushed with anger, spittle-edged lips curled in a snarl; or meeting Scottish envoys in a church, garbed in black armour, seated on his great war horse Bayard, drawing his sword and shouting that its blade was the only justice the Scots would receive from him.

‘There’s a difference,’ he mused. ‘My Lord the King is a difficult man but he likes me, he trusts me; sometimes I can temper his rages.’

‘Philip is different. His power grows from year to year. He does not listen to our “Parlements” but to his brothers, Louis and Charles, and a small coterie of lawyers. The only opposition to our King are the universities, their philosophers and the lawyers, and nowhere more so than in Paris. To cut to the chase, Hugh,’ the Frenchman’s face was now pale, and sweat beaded his temples, ‘I truly think we have all been brought here to be murdered, well away from our homes. We are an inconvenience, to be shed like the skin of some fruit, as well as a warning to others back in Paris.’ Crotoy paused as a servant came up to serve them ale laced with nutmeg. ‘No wonder Philip agreed for us to journey to England. Take poor Etienne; by the time his corpse is prepared, packed with spices and ointments, it will be too late for any physician to make a rigorous scrutiny of his body.’

‘But the Secretus Secretorum?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t your master want it translated, the cipher broken?’

Crotoy sipped from his ale. ‘What are we really looking at, Hugh? True learning, or a farrago of nonsense, a fardel, a basket of stupidity fixed on our backs, a cunning device, a subtle ploy, arranged for very many different reasons? Oh,’ he waved his hand, ‘Philip likes his secrets, be they those of Friar Roger or the Templars. He knows about the black powder that can turn into fire. True, Friar Roger can describe wonderful things, but so can a child.’

Corbett grasped his tankard and sniffed at its warm tang, which brought back memories of a flower-filled garden with its heavy spices and fragrant aroma. If Philip was plotting mischief, he wondered – and that was more than a possibility – why was Edward of England involved? What was behind all this?

‘Last night,’ he said abruptly, ‘after the banquet, Destaples and his comrades returned to their chambers. According to the evidence, Destaples changed for bed, drank his mint water and suffered a seizure. He did have a malady of the heart. What other explanation can there be?’ He smiled at Crotoy. ‘Your thoughts are too dark, Louis. If Destaples was suspicious he wouldn’t let de Craon into his chamber, and he would rigorously check anything he was offered to eat or drink.’ Corbett paused. ‘I must ask you this, would Destaples let you into his chamber?’

‘No.’ The answer was emphatic. ‘Oh Blessed Virgin guard us,’ Crotoy breathed. ‘We don’t trust de Craon and we certainly don’t like each other. According to the rest, none of us visited Destaples after he retired. I certainly didn’t, whilst the other two were deep in their cups. I would take it as a certainty that Destaples would never have permitted de Craon to be alone with him, in France, never mind here. It was the same on board ship and our journey from Dover. You see, Hugh, for all we know, one of us, including myself, learned professors of the Sorbonne, could be in de Craon’s pay.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Corbett asked.

‘I was trained in logic, Hugh, to create a hypothesis based on evidence and develop that logically, but as the years have passed,’ Crotoy rose to his feet, ‘I’m aware of other feelings and thoughts.’ He patted Corbett on the shoulder and leaned down. ‘God forgive me, Hugh, but I think I have been brought here to die, and if that happens, whatever you think of me, I want justice. Oh, I’ll be careful, but there again,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘so was Destaples.’ Crotoy strode away.

Corbett finished his ale and thought of that locked chamber, of Destaples writhing on his bed. Surely Crotoy was wrong? Nobody had done any violence. If the dead Frenchman distrusted his own, he certainly wouldn’t trust an English clerk. He placed his tankard on a nearby table and stared around the hall. Gazing up at the dais where they had feasted so well the night before, he tried to recall what he had seen and wondered if Louis Crotoy was right. As they all had eaten and drunk, had murder been planned?

When Corbett left the hall, the snow was falling so heavily the castle folk had retreated to the stables, outhouses or their own cottages built against the wall. He entered the Lantern Tower and quickly climbed the staircase. Destaples’ chamber was now empty, except for a guardsman dozing on a stool just inside the doorway. Corbett told him not to mind as he quickly walked around the dead man’s room. Destaples’ robes still hung on a peg, but as he expected, the coffers and chests had been packed and removed, probably by de Craon, for safe keeping.

‘I was here, you know.’ The man-at-arms sitting on the stool, cradling his helmet, gestured at the bed, his dirty, podgy fingers jabbing the air.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett answered.

‘I was here when they broke down the door, that’s why Sir Edmund left me here.’

‘Did you see anything suspicious?’ Corbett asked.

‘Nothing but that old man sprawled on the bed.’ The guard pointed at the small four-poster, its curtains tied tightly back.

‘And was it like this?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir Edmund was most careful. The body was twisted,’ the man-at-arms said, ‘as if the old man had tried to rise. The bed curtains were pulled back, there was a goblet on the table, and that small coffer, but nothing else.’

‘And the door was certainly locked?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes,’ the man replied. ‘Some of the castle folk,’ he continued, ‘whisper that this is a cursed place.’

Corbett threw the man a coin and, as he went back down the stairs, idly wondered if the guard had spoken the truth.