The Magician

Chapter 6

‘I do not believe such things are possible; they are fanciful notions. It is my belief Friar Roger was a great scholar with a lively imagination.’

Louis Crotoy sat back in his chair, pushing away the manuscripts in front of him as if they were soiled. Corbett, sitting at the end of the table, wondered whether his old friend had decided to confront the danger; by rejecting Friar Roger, he was implicitly demanding this meeting be brought to an end. De Craon, however, at the other end of the table, appeared unruffled. He had taken his cloak off and unlaced the quilted jerkin beneath.

‘I agree.’ Jean Vervins leaned forward, staring down at de Craon. ‘In his De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae, Concerning the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature,’ Vervins translated the title as if the others had no knowledge of Latin, ‘Friar Roger claims,’ he picked up one of the manuscripts before him, ‘there are marvels created solely by the agency of art or nature. In these there is no magic whatsoever. Why?’ Vervins lifted his head and smiled thinly. ‘Because, so Friar Roger claims, it has been proved that all magical power is inferior to that of art and nature.’

‘What are you saying?’ de Craon asked.

‘Nothing, my Lord,’ Vervins retorted. He blinked his tired eyes and scratched the tip of his sharp nose. ‘But it follows logically that if marvels are the result of art and nature, then they can be seen by all and there is no secret knowledge.’

‘And yet he contradicts that,’ Crotoy put in. ‘Friar Roger talks of, and I quote, “marvellous devices constructed in antiquity and in his time, and he has met people who are acquainted with them explicitly”.’

‘He says that,’ Vervins’ voice rose, ‘in his work De Arte-’

‘Except for the instrument of flying,’ Corbett intervened.

‘Ah,’ Crotoy retorted, ‘but he claims to have met someone who has thought it through. Here is Friar Roger claiming that he has actually spoken to someone who at least, in theory, has constructed a device which can fly.’

‘He is referring,’ Pierre Sanson spoke up, fat face all flushed, thin hair damp; he too had loosened his cloak, throwing it on the back of his chair, ‘he is referring,’ his squeaky voice caused laughter amongst the henchmen sitting near the hearth, ‘to Peter Marincourt.’

‘Ah yes,’ Crotoy shook his head, ‘this mysterious philosopher who was supposed to have taught Friar Roger in Paris. Look,’ he leaned his elbows on the table, ‘I concede that Friar Roger made incredible claims. Listen.’ He picked up a manuscript. ‘He actually writes, “It is feasible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be constructed which could move under the guidance of one man, and go so much faster than a galley full of oarsmen”, and again, “It is feasible that a cart could be made to move with incredible speed and such motion will not depend on man or any other creature.” Later on,’ Crotoy dropped the manuscript, ‘he talks of a device which, if constructed, could take a man to the bottom of the sea, unscathed. Now,’ the Frenchman warmed to his theme, ‘what happens if I claimed to have built a set of wings to fly from the top of the keep of this castle? Is there anyone here who would like to try it?’

The question provoked a burst of laughter. Corbett, hiding the lower part of his face behind his hand, glanced at de Craon slouched in his chair, face all puckered up as if he was following every jot and syllable of this debate. He had concluded that, apart from the plump Pierre Sanson, the French scholars had very little respect for Friar Roger’s claims and were deeply suspicious of the Secretus Secretorum. They had also quickly come to terms with the death of their comrade; there was little sign of mourning, except for Crotoy, who had asked Father Andrew to celebrate a Requiem Mass later that day. De Craon had received Sir Edmund’s promise that the body would be cleaned and gutted, packed with ointments and spices and sent by cart to Dover for the journey back to France. Once they had all gathered here, Crotoy had led the attack, fielding the hypothesis that if Bacon’s claims in other manuscripts, which could be read, were ridiculous, why should they take notice of some secret manuscript indecipherable and totally resistant to translation? In other words, Corbett wryly reflected, the French scholars wanted to go home.

‘But you have proof of this,’ Bolingbroke broke in. ‘When I was in . . .’ he paused and stopped himself in time, ‘in the Halls of Oxford, a lecturer had to prove his case either by logic or experiment.’

‘Precisely!’ Crotoy seized on Bolingbroke’s words. ‘In his work the Opus Maius, Friar Roger claims that if you cut a hazel twig in two and separate the pieces, the two isolated parts will try to approach one another; you will feel the effort both ends are making.’ He leaned down and picked up a hazel twig, placed it on the table, took a knife, sliced it in two and held the pieces apart. Sir Edmund, seated in a high chair to Corbett’s right, rose to his feet, watching intently.

‘Do you see any movement?’ Crotoy declared. The Constable came round the table. Crotoy thrust the twigs into his hands. ‘Do you experience any sensation of these twigs, like lovers, yearning to meet?’

Sir Edmund held them for a while and shook his head.

‘In other words,’ Crotoy finished his declaration with the classic phrase of the schools, ‘that which is to be proved has not been proved. Therefore the hypothesis on which it depends cannot be valid.’

‘And yet,’ Bolingbroke declared, ‘in that same work you quoted, Friar Roger talks of “certain igneous mixtures, saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur which, when wrapped in parchment and lit, creates great noise and flame”.’

‘But is that proof?’ Vervins jibed. ‘If you throw a slab of meat into a hungry kennel you will hear great noise.’

‘Ah yes,’ Bolingbroke retorted, ‘but that is to be expected. What I am saying is that Friar Roger did prove that mixture would lead to that effect, as he does in Chapter Seven of the Opus Maius, where he demonstrates how a rainbow can be measured.’

‘What if,’ de Craon’s voice cut like a lash; the French envoy was clearly annoyed at the cynicism of his companions, ‘what if the solution to all these riddles lies in the Secretus Secretorum? Perhaps,’ he waved a hand, ‘the answer to how a cart can move of its own accord, or the split ends of a hazel twig attempt to meet each other, might be resolved there? Doesn’t Friar Roger claim,’ de Craon closed his eyes to remember the words, ‘“for the wise have always been divided from the multitude, and have hidden the secret truths of wisdom, not only from the vulgar, but even from common philosophers”?’

‘Arrogance,’ Crotoy jibed. ‘If Jesus could reveal divine truths then why can’t Friar Roger confess his secrets?’

‘Ah no,’ de Craon retorted. ‘Didn’t Jesus himself say that he spoke to the multitude in parables but bluntly and openly only to his own followers? Gentlemen, we are here not to debate Friar Roger’s claims but to break and translate the cipher of his secret manuscript; that is what our royal masters have demanded.’

De Craon glared down at Corbett, willing his support, but before he could reply, the door was flung open and a messenger came in and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear. The Constable nodded but gestured at Corbett to continue. The Keeper of the Secret Seal opened the leather bag at his feet and drew out his copy of Friar Roger’s Secretus Secretorum.

‘Monsieur de Craon is correct,’ he began. He patted the cover, noting with amusement how de Craon had produced his own copy of the same work. ‘Everything depends on this manuscript.’ He undid the clasp and turned the crackling parchment pages. ‘At first sight it looks easy, a Latin manuscript, here and there strange symbols, but the words make little sense. If translated they are like the babblings of a child.’

‘Which they are,’ Crotoy intervened.

‘We don’t know that. Now, Friar Roger actually lists seven ways of writing a cipher. First, behind characters and symbols; we all know that method. Secondly, in parables, stories which are known only to the writer and his chosen reader. There are other more technical ways, such as,’ Corbett ticked the next three off on his fingers, ‘the use of words where only consonants are deployed; or different alphabets. Friar Roger studied Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin, so he could have used any of these, or a language not known to anybody. The sixth method is the rejection of letters and the use of mathematical signs; and finally, much more subtly, the writer creates his own alphabet, his own language, consisting of different types of symbols and marks which are known only to him and those to whom he has revealed them. Now, as far as we know, the Secretus Secretorum was written by Bacon and a copy made. We are not too sure whether the English King owns the original or his Grace the King of France, but we are assured – are we not, Monsieur de Craon? – that these two manuscripts are identical in every way.’ De Craon nodded slowly. ‘So I propose,’ Corbett continued, ‘we compare the manuscripts one more time. We can spend the rest of the day doing this. I recommend therefore that Master Bolingbroke and Magister Sanson carry this task through.’

‘What if,’ Ranulf, who’d sat fascinated by the argument, tapped the table with his hand, ‘what if a key does exist?’

‘A great search has been made.’ Pierre Sanson shook his head. ‘There is not even a hint or a whisper that such a document exists. What we have to do here is understand the Latin words used as well as the different symbols and characters which separate them.’

‘As a gesture of goodwill,’ de Craon pulled himself up in his chair, ‘and by royal command from my master, I can reveal that Magister Thibault, before his unfortunate accident,’ de Craon glared at Bolingbroke, ‘actually found a key, and was hopeful that he could translate the entire manuscript!’

The French envoy revelled in the consternation his remark caused. Corbett glared in disbelief. Ranulf leaned over to whisper to him to keep calm.

‘Monsieur, you jest?’ Ranulf protested.

‘Monsieur does not jest. If you turn to the last page of the Secretus Secretorum,’ de Craon waited until Corbett had done so, ‘in the second line there is an apparently meaningless phrase “Dabo tibi portas multas”, “I shall give you many doors”.’

Corbett, staring intently at the last page of the manuscript, studied the particular line as the Frenchman explained how, if certain letters were removed and specified characters transposed, the words he had quoted emerged from the jumble on the page. Sir Hugh could clearly make out the word dabo.

‘I’m afraid,’ de Craon spoke again, ‘that that was all Magister Thibault was able to decipher.’

The manuscripts were passed round, all animosity forgotten, as the various scholars studied the letters and began to argue amongst themselves. Corbett sat back, puzzled. He had had the opportunity to look at the French copy, and even a glance at the first page, the colour of the ink, the shape of the letters and symbols, the texture of the manuscript, proved the two manuscripts were a fair copy of each other. At the same time de Craon had been most helpful; indeed, his remarks had surprised not only Corbett but also his own colleagues. Why, Corbett wondered, were the French being so co-operative?

The discussion continued for at least an hour, parchment and quill being used; de Craon, like a schoolmaster, moved round the table, explaining what Magister Thibault had done, though expressing ignorance at how he had reached such a conclusion.

The castle bell chimed for the midday Angelis and they paused from their discussions while Corbett led them in the famous prayer, ‘The Angel Lord declared unto Mary’. He noticed, with some amusement, that those clustered around the table fairly gabbled the words and returned immediately to the matter in hand.

Soon after, Sir Edmund announced that food would be served in the hall below, and Corbett brought the meeting to order. He and de Craon agreed that they would adjourn for the rest of the day whilst Bolingbroke and Sanson compared the manuscripts. Chattering volubly, de Craon led the rest of the group along the passageway into the hall. Corbett and Ranulf stayed to have a word with Sir Edmund. The Constable closed the door behind his guests and, plucking Corbett by the sleeve, took him over to the fireplace, gesturing at Ranulf to join them.

‘The snow’s ceased falling,’ he murmured. ‘A peddler has reached the castle; he came in from one of the coastal villages. He brought rumours of the Flemish pirates being seen much closer to the coast than normal.’

‘In this weather?’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The seas are swollen, there will be few vessels leaving port. So what are they waiting for?’

‘What are they looking for, more like?’ Ranulf retorted.

‘I feel nervous,’ the Constable confessed. ‘This castle is well fortified and manned, but sooner or later you and the French envoys must leave. Think, Sir Hugh, of the disgrace if you or Monsieur de Craon, either on land or sea, were ambushed or captured by Flemish pirates. I would hear Edward’s roars from Westminster here, whilst Philip of France’s anger, well . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But there is no real danger, surely?’ Corbett replied. ‘The pirates are at sea; they are looking for plunder, a careless merchantman, or some unprotected village where they can slaughter fresh meat and retreat to their ships.’

‘I know, I know.’ The Constable shook his head. ‘You are a clerk, Sir Hugh, skilled in the matters of the Chancery. I am a soldier. It is rare for pirates to come in so close at such a time, with the weather so bad. Yet they could use it to their own advantage. They could beach their ships, teeming with men, desperate veterans. If they made a landing, it might take days, or even weeks, for a message to get through the snow to London or one of the Cinque Ports. I thought I should tell you.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Will you join us in the hall?’

Corbett didn’t feel like eating; he made polite excuses and went out, slipping and slithering on the icy cobbles, to his own chamber in the Salt Tower. He waited before the fire until Ranulf and Chanson returned and, whilst the groom guarded the door, he tried to settle the chaos seething in his mind.

‘I understand none of it, Ranulf.’ The red-haired clerk sat at the small desk, and dipped his quill into the ink warmed by the fire. ‘It’s like being in the countryside when the mist comes down. Do we go forward or wait until it’s cleared? Anyway, let’s list the obstacles.’

Corbett walked up and down whilst Ranulf’s pen scratched the parchment, writing in a cipher only he and Corbett understood.

Primo – Why is our King so interested in Friar Roger’s secret manuscript? What has he discovered which so intrigues him yet he won’t even tell me? He has gone through all of Friar Roger’s writings and brought the Secretus Secretorum from his Treasury of Books at Westminster. Is it because he has heard that Philip of France is equally interested, or is the opposite true? Is Philip simply, like I am, deeply curious at Edward’s close interest in the writings of a long-dead Franciscan?

Secundo – Is the Secretus Secretorum a genuine manuscript? Does it contain a treasure house of secrets or is it mere babble? Is there a key to the cipher? A genuine key. Edward of England hasn’t translated it, but has Philip of France? According to de Craon, and he showed some proof this morning, one of the lines can be translated. But is that a mere accident?

Tertio – Why did the French agree so readily to Edward of England’s request? Indeed, insist that such co-operation was in accordance with the Treaty of Paris? Why did they concede to come to England and ask that the meeting take place in a lonely castle near the coast?

‘Because they knew,’ Ranulf lifted his head, ‘that Edward would agree to that. He does not like you in France. If Philip insists that the two courts co-operate, it’s the least Edward can expect.’

‘True, true,’ Corbett murmured. He paused before the fire and stared at the faces cut into the wooden shelf. The sculptor had tried to imitate the faces of gargoyles seen in churches but in the end had satisfied himself with simple roundels, the eyes, nose and mouth cut roughly into them. Corbett continued his pacing.

Quarto – De Craon brings experts on Friar Roger’s writings from the Sorbonne. These men are also experts on ciphers and secret letters. One of these has already died in unfortunate circumstances. My old friend Crotoy confesses that none of these periti, or experts, are friends of the French King. They oppose his ideas of kingship. Crotoy is convinced that Destaples was murdered but there is not a shred of evidence to prove that. He is also of the mind that he himself, and the others, are marked down for death, that they have been brought to England to be killed, that they will all die in unfortunate incidents. Louis Crotoy believes such ‘accidents’ will be dismissed, and if there is any suspicion, it will be laid firmly at the door of the perfidious English.

Quinto – The business in Paris. Ufford and Bolingbroke maintain that one of the masters of the University, in return for gold, informed them where Magister Thibault’s copy of the Secretus Secretorum was kept. Ufford and Bolingbroke stole this, but for some unknown reason, Magister Thibault and the young whore he was entertaining went down to the strongroom at the very moment of the robbery. From what I gather, Magister Thibault was reluctant to go down. According to the evidence, he was probably showing off to his lady friend. Yet why should a Paris courtesan be interested in an old manuscript? Was she told to take Magister Thibault down there at that time? If so, the person who betrayed Philip, this mysterious master of the University, also tried to betray Ufford and Bolingbroke. Indeed he nearly succeeded. Ufford was killed and Bolingbroke only escaped by mere chance and his own skill.

Corbett shook his head. ‘I can make no sense of that.’ He sipped at a beaker of wine.

Sexto – The deaths in this castle. I have sworn to find the killer. But why are hapless young maids being killed by a crossbow bolt? They are not ravished or robbed, their corpses are being found both within the castle and outside. The killings began after the Feast of St Matthew. First, a young woman disappears, but the rest have been found in or near the castle. Some attempt has been made to blame a coven of ragged outlaws. I don’t believe that. First, why should they harm local girls – they would only stir up hatred in the local community against them. Secondly, that’s why those outlaws were waiting for us in the cemetery. They know that a King’s man has arrived in Corfe and they don’t want to be hanged for murders they haven’t committed. I wonder what they meant about the horror in the forest?

‘We could ride in there.’ Chanson, crouching by the door, grinned eagerly at Ranulf. ‘We could go deep into the forest and follow the ancient trackways.’

‘Why don’t you go?’ Ranulf snapped.

‘Pax,’ Corbett declared. ‘Let’s go back and see what we know.’ He seized a quill and a piece of parchment and drew a crude map. ‘This is Purbeck Island – there’s sea to the east and to the south. Corfe lies here, high on the downs which stretch down to the sea. Further north, just as we enter the forest, is the church of St Peter’s and the Tavern in the Forest, with a small village lying further to the east. Now, most of the victims have been found in or near the castle, the only exception being poor Rebecca, who was killed on a trackway outside the cemetery. These young women had little in common except that they lived in the castle and met every Saturday with Father Matthew in the nave of his church. They were all killed by a crossbow bolt loosed so close the quarrel was embedded deep in the flesh. From the little I have learnt, the girl Alusia journeyed to the cemetery to pay honour to a dead friend buried there, also a victim of this malevolent killer. She went down on a cart with Mistress Feyner, who takes laundry between the castle and the Tavern in the Forest. Apparently Rebecca was supposed to go with her but she didn’t arrive in time.’ Corbett went and stood by Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, Ranulf, why should someone murder young women? If it’s not to ravish them or rob them?’

‘Revenge, hatred?’

‘Look, Chanson.’ Corbett snapped his fingers. ‘Go down to the castle yard, bring up Alusia and Mistress Feyner. Tell them the King’s man wants a word with them.’

When Chanson had left, Corbett sat in the chair as Ranulf read through what he had written. The clerk of the Chancery of Green Wax was impatient. The day was almost halfway through and he had not yet seen the Lady Constance. He’d received a small scroll last night tied with a purple ribbon in which Lady Constance had assured him that if he wished to walk the castle gardens with her, his company would be most acceptable. Corbett watched his companion most closely and hid a smile. In any other instance he would have teased him, but Ranulf was so quiet, it was clear he was smitten.

‘We will have to go to the woods, Ranulf. We need to meet that outlaw band and find out what they mean about the horror in the forest.’

Ranulf agreed. He stared across at the black wooden cross, the yellowing figure of Christ writhing there, and hid his fears. The King had often plucked him by the sleeve, taken him to one side and showed him what could be his; ambition burned fiercely within him. Sometimes he considered the Church as a path to advancement, but now he thought that the Lady Constance would be a good match, her father a friend of the King. He felt Corbett’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Be careful,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Remember, Ranulf, we are guests here.’

Before Ranulf could answer, there was a knock on the door and Chanson led in Mistress Feyner. ‘I could not find Alusia,’ the groom announced breathlessly. ‘No one has seen her.’

‘Probably gone off with that Martin,’ Mistress Feyner sniffed, plumping herself down on a stool. ‘Well, sir.’ Mistress Feyner pulled off her woollen mittens. Corbett glanced at the chapped red hands. The cloak was patched and she pulled it closely around her whilst staring round the room. ‘My husband made some of the furniture here; he was a carpenter. What do you wish? I’m a busy woman, and tongues will clack.’

‘Let them clack.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Mistress, would you like some wine?’

Mistress Feyner’s small black eyes creased into a smile. ‘Why, sir, that would be most welcome; heated with an iron would be better.’

Corbett nodded at Chanson to do it. The groom took a pewter goblet, filled it with wine and, taking an ember from the fire, placed it in the cup before sprinkling in a little nutmeg and mace from the small spice box.

‘You are chief laundrywoman of the castle?’

Mistress Feyner’s black eyes were cold and watchful, one thin hand combing her tangle of grey hair. She quickly grasped the pewter cup wrapped in a cloth, nursing it before taking a sip.

‘You know what I am, sir. What do you want?’

‘When did your daughter disappear?’

‘Just after the Feast of the Exaltation of the True Cross. It was Harvest Sunday, that’s right. Father Matthew had organised a special mass in which the Holy Rood would be taken in solemn procession around the cemetery. Phillipa was there.’ The black eyes blinked. ‘I thought she was with the other girls, but that afternoon she never came home. Sir Edmund was kind and organised a search, but nothing was found.’

‘Do you think she has run away?’

‘Run away, sir? Why should my daughter run away? She was the apple of my eye. A good girl, Sir Hugh, with fine skin and lovely eyes, gentle as a baby fawn she was. Father Matthew’s best scholar, or that’s how he used to tease her. She had many friends.’

Mistress Feyner held the goblet in one hand and tapped her chest with the other. ‘I carried that girl for nine months. I would like to tell you, sir, that she ran away, that she is safe in some city or town, but a mother knows, sir, here, in the heart. Phillipa’s gone.’ Her voice broke. ‘If only I could have her body back for burial, sir.’

‘What do you suspect happened?’

‘Killed, like the rest,’ came the tired reply. ‘The forest is full of swamps, marshes and morasses, but I would like her back, just to hold her one more time.’

Corbett opened his purse and drew out three silver coins. ‘Here,’ he urged, ‘take them for yourself and for a Mass offering.’

Mistress Feyner nodded softly.

‘Now, the morning Rebecca’s corpse was found?’

Mistress Feyner lowered her head, a formidable woman, determined not to let this man see her cry.

‘I apologise for my questions, Mistress,’ Corbett pulled his chair a little closer, ‘but the people of this castle want justice.’

‘Alusia and Rebecca planned to visit Marion’s grave. They wished to place greenery on it, they wanted a lift on the cart. Alusia arrived but Rebecca never did. I had to leave. I stopped outside the cemetery, on the trackway. Alusia climbed down, I continued. You see, sir, Master Reginald has a fierce temper and a sharp tongue. The linen from the tavern is brought to the castle to be washed and cleaned. Master Reginald pays well, he buys supplies from Sir Edmund and often sells goods to our Constable. There’s a good understanding between Corfe and Master Reginald. However, when the taverner wants his clean washing, he wants it immediately.’

‘Mistress?’

She looked at Ranulf. Corbett she liked, felt comfortable with, with his soft dark eyes and smiling mouth, a man who could speak in honeyed tones, but this one, with the hair the colour of the devil and eyes like the castle cat, she would have to be wary of. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You went along the trackway that winds past the church. It was there that Rebecca’s body was found. Did you see anything?’

‘Well of course not, though her corpse may have been there. You must remember the snow was falling. I kept my eyes on the horse and the trackway ahead. Bitter cold it was. Alusia said the same, huddled in her cloak sitting beside me.’

‘So,’ Ranulf put his quill down, ‘Rebecca might have gone to the cemetery beforehand and met her killer?’

‘But why didn’t she wait for me? What I think happened,’ Mistress Feyner drank from the cup, ‘is that she must have left the castle after me and met her death.’ She glanced at Corbett. ‘I can tell you no more, sir. People blame the outlaws, but I do not.’ She drained her goblet and got to her feet. ‘I thank you for the money.’

‘Mistress Feyner?’ She lifted the latch and turned round. ‘If I put you on oath, if I formed a jury and asked you under the law to name a suspect . . .’ The laundrywoman dropped the latch and came back.

‘Why, sir, would you do that? If you did, you could not summons me; my daughter is one of the victims, I’m certain of that. But I shall tell you something, sir, and I think of it every time I visit that tavern. Mine host is a former soldier. Many of the girls have worked in his tap room, and Master Reginald, well, his hands and his lips are always hungry. My Phillipa served there as a slattern in the kitchen. She called him as lecherous and hot as a sparrow.’

‘But he is not of the castle.’

‘Oh yes he is, Sir Hugh. He often brings his cart here; his purse is always jingling and his eye always bright.’

‘But none of the girls were ravished?’

Mistress Feyner returned to the door. ‘Ask amongst the girls, Sir Hugh. Master Reginald, how can I put it, may be a cock in a small barnyard, but he’s a gelded one.’

‘You are repeating rumour,’ Ranulf mused.

‘No, sir, whoever you are.’ Mistress Feyner grinned over her shoulder. ‘Master Reginald has tried to finger my bodice and got nothing for his pains. He’s tumbled others; the soil has been fresh but the plough has been weak. Master Reginald secretly knows that, for all his crowing, he’s mocked by the very ones he pursues. You should go down to the tavern, Sir Hugh, and ask your questions. He does business with Horehound.’

‘Horehound?’

‘Oh, he and his coven take the name of herbs and plants, but they are not as fierce as they sound. Petty thieves and poachers,’ she sighed, ‘men and women trapped between the castle and the forest. So, if that’s all?’ and not waiting for an answer, she opened the door and left.

Corbett began to put on his riding boots.

‘Oh no,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘Are we going hunting, Master?’

‘Let’s eat.’ Corbett got to his feet, strapping on his war belt. ‘We’ll visit the tavern and taste Master Reginald’s cooking, then we’ll visit the church. I understand Father Matthew celebrates Mass late in the day.’

Ranulf and Chanson prepared hastily, and booted and spurred, they collected their horses from the stable. The snow had stopped falling but lay ankle deep. Corbett carefully led his horse across the slush-strewn cobbles, then mounted.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett turned in the saddle. Bolingbroke hastened down the steps from the Hall of the Angels and, cloak flying, came running across. ‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’ The clerk pushed back his thinning hair and wiped the drops from his face. ‘I’m wasting my time here. Sanson and I are comparing the manuscripts. They are the same, but as for their meaning . . .’

Corbett leaned down and patted Bolingbroke on the arm.

‘No, no, stay here and watch what happens.’

They crossed the outer bailey, silent under its carpet of snow. Most of the garrison had now withdrawn indoors. They clattered across the drawbridge, the smells of the castle fading as they reached the trackway leading down to the fringe of trees. It was a bitterly cold landscape, the sky iron-grey and lowering, and beneath it only two colours, black and white. The trees and bushes, stripped of their leaves, made a sharp contrast to the silent whiteness around them. Corbett was glad of his heavy cloak and warm gauntlets. He guided his horse carefully along the trackway whilst above them two crows disturbed from their tree cawed noisily. He could tell from the track that few had left the castle. Here and there he could see the prints of birds and animals. A splash of blood and a few pathetic feathers showed where an animal had gorged on warm flesh in this icy wilderness.

Slumped in his saddle, Corbett reflected on the various problems facing him. He was so absorbed, he started with surprise as Ranulf called to him that they were approaching the Tavern in the Forest. They entered by the main gateway, an arrowshot from the trackway. The inn was a two-storey wooden-plaster building on a red stone base; it boasted a tiled roof and a small stack for the smoke to pour out. The yard was empty apart from two ostlers, one breaking the ice in the water trough whilst the other swept manure into a pile in the corner. The reek of horses mingled sharply with the sweetness from the nearby bakehouse and kitchen.

Corbett, throwing back his cloak, walked into the tap room. Ranulf followed, noticing the various doors and windows, just in case they had to leave more quickly than intended. It was a comfortable room with clean, whitewashed walls, and a black-beamed ceiling from which small sacks of vegetables and rolls of smoked meat hung to dry in the heat, well away from the rats and mice. A brazier stood in each corner, a large one in the centre. At the top of the communal table a fire glowed in the hearth built into the outside wall. At one end, near the kitchen, were a range of vats and barrels, and from the kitchen Corbett could hear the clatter of pans and pots, the shouts and cries of slatterns and servants. A few villagers were seated around the table; they looked up as Corbett entered and huddled closer to discuss the newcomers. In the far corner, grouped around a brazier, were five men, their dress almost hidden by cloaks and cowls. They too turned. Corbett glimpsed swarthy faces, black beards and moustaches.

The three newcomers took a table just near the door. One of the villagers turned and gave a chipped-toothed smile, lifting his hand, palm exposed, the customary greeting for peace. Corbett responded. A tap boy came running up with a tray of leather blackjacks full of ale, and without being asked, placed them on the table.

‘Is Master Reginald here?’ Corbett asked him.

‘I’m here.’

The taverner emerged from the shadows around the barrels and vats where he had been working, a dark-haired, sour-faced man, small and thickset but quick and soft-footed. Unlike other taverners, there was none of the hand-wringing or wiping of the hands on the apron, the greasy smile or bowing of the head.

‘You are strangers here? Why should strangers be travelling in such weather?’ Master Reginald glimpsed Corbett’s silver chain; now he did smile, the quickest of bows, and snapping his fingers, he called the tap boy back, gesturing at the blackjacks. ‘Proper tankards,’ he demanded, ‘and the best ale from the barrel.’

He paused as an old woman, resting on a cane, staggered out of the kitchen and came to sit in a chair directly opposite him. She had a scrawny neck and the face of an angry chicken, hair piled high on her head. She beat her cane on the floor as she glared at the newcomers.

‘My mother.’ Master Reginald’s smile was genuine. ‘Sirs, would you like something to eat? I have a fine venison stew, the meat is fresh and cured, newly baked bread and a bowl of onions and leeks fried in butter?’

Corbett nodded. He took his horn spoon from his wallet and waited for the taverner to bring the food from the kitchen.

‘You’re the King’s man, aren’t you?’ Corbett nodded and made the introductions, then pointed at the tankards. ‘There should be four. I would like you to join us, sir.’

‘I’m busy.’

Ranulf grasped his wrist. ‘We are King’s men,’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘I want some food,’ the old woman shouted.

‘Ask the cook,’ Master Reginald shouted back. He tried to pull free from Ranulf’s grasp.

‘We are King’s men,’ Ranulf repeated, ‘and carry his seals. We wish to buy you a tankard of ale and share local gossip.’

The taverner agreed reluctantly and sat like a prisoner at the bar. Corbett ate hungrily, while Master Reginald became more nervous and wary. When he had finished his meal, Corbett wiped his bowl with a dollop of bread, cleaned his spoon on a napkin and put it away.

‘Do you know the outlaw Horehound?’

‘I’ve never-’

‘Yes you do.’ Ranulf picked up his dagger, which he had used to share out the bread. ‘You’re a taverner, on the edge of a forest where outlaws lurk. They come to you for food and sustenance, they sell you fresh meat, they tell you who’s on the road.’

‘Tell the outlaw Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘that the King’s man wants urgent words with him. It will be to his profit. You won’t forget, will you? Secondly, these young women who have been killed. Some of them served in this tavern. Do you have a crossbow, Master Reginald?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a crossbow, as have many of the villagers and castle folk. I also have a longbow, a quarterstaff, a sword and a dagger. I served in the Earl of Cornwall’s retinue in Gascony. My mother owned this tavern, as her grandfather did before her.’

‘And you have made it splendid with the plunder of war. Did you know any of those dead girls?’

‘Of course I did.’ The taverner kept his voice low. ‘I often need help in the kitchens and tap room. In winter trade is poor, but once spring comes, the roads and trackways are busy with people coming into the castle.’

‘Did you have a grudge against any of them?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Were they surly or impudent?’

‘Some were, some weren’t. Some had light fingers, others were prepared to sell themselves to customers. Some I liked, others I did not.’

‘And you often go to the castle?’

Corbett was now closely watching the group in the corner.

‘Well of course I do. I consider myself Sir Edmund’s friend.’

‘Who are those?’ Corbett asked, nodding toward the group he had been watching.

‘They are Castilians, trapped here by the snow. They are visiting the farmsteads and manors. They wish to buy up this year’s crop of wool. Such visitors are quite common now, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett nodded; English wool was as precious as gold in foreign markets. Many cities and powerful groups of merchants sent their envoys to England to buy the wool direct.

‘I go to the castle, and Mistress Feyner, the laundrywoman, comes here.’ Master Reginald chattered on. ‘Sir Hugh, I know which path you are leading me down, but I am innocent of any crime.’ The taverner finished his tankard. ‘I do not know why these young women were killed, but now, sir . . .’ He scraped back the stool, got to his feet and walked away.

Corbett asked for the tally, and as he paid he studied the wool merchants, heads together, chattering in a tongue of which he caught a few words. He paid the boy and walked over to the foreigners. At his approach one of the Castilians turned, then rose to his feet, hand outstretched.

‘Monsieur,’ he spoke in accented Norman French, ‘you have business with us?’

Corbett gripped the outstretched hand.

‘No, sir, I am only curious.’

He glanced quickly at the man’s companions; black-haired, moustached, swarthy-faced, about the same age, they could have been taken for brothers, although up close Corbett recognised the differences in both dress and manner. Two were apparently merchants, whilst the others, by their ink-stained fingers, were clerks or scribes. The table in front of them was littered with scraps of parchment and a small box of lambswool.

‘You have been in England long?’ Corbett asked.

‘About six weeks.’ The Castilian now spoke English, in a harsh, guttural way; lean-faced and weary-eyed, he glanced over Corbett’s shoulder at Ranulf standing in the doorway. ‘Sir, I understand you are a King’s man?’

‘In which you understand correctly, sir. I wonder if I can see your letters of commission?’

The smile faded from the Castilian’s face.

‘Sir, we are merchants. We have letters of protection.’ He sighed at the way Corbett kept his hand outstretched, then talked quickly to his companions, one of whom handed over a large leather wallet. The Castilian introduced himself as Caratave; he undid the leather pouch and took out a sheaf of documents. Corbett scrutinised them. They were written in Latin and Norman French. The first was from the King of Castile asking that these merchants be given safe passage. The others were letters from the English Chancery. Corbett even recognised the clerk’s hand on licences issued to enter Dover.

‘I thank you, sir.’ He handed the documents back. ‘But now, if you are approached by the sheriff’s men, you can say that Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, has confirmed your documents. May I buy you some wine?’

The offer was curtly refused. Corbett bowed and walked out into the stable yard.

‘What do you make of that?’ Ranulf whispered.

‘Curiosity, Ranulf, curiosity, that’s all.’ Corbett gazed up at the sky and turned his face against the stinging cold wind. ‘Here we are, Ranulf, in the King’s own shire of Dorset, at Corfe Castle. Monsieur de Craon weaves his web and spouts his lies. Offshore Flemish pirates come close to land, and now we have Spanish merchants.’ He shrugged. ‘They seem legitimate enough.’

Chanson brought their horses from the stable and paid the grooms. Corbett grasped the reins and led his horse out on to the trackway. He had hardly mounted when it shied violently at the boy who burst out of the bushes on the side of the path, knocking the snow from his hair and ragged clothes. Corbett steadied his horse and quickly dismounted.

‘You served us.’ He recognised the boy from the tavern.

‘Aye, Master, I did, and my ears are sharp.’

‘Are they, boy?’

Corbett patted his horse’s neck and, feeling beneath his robe, took out his money purse. The boy’s eyes rounded.

‘I’ll make sure Horehound gets your message.’ He deftly caught the coin Corbett threw.

‘And the foreigners?’ Corbett asked.

The boy, grasping the silver coin tightly, shook his head. ‘They talk in their own tongue; sometimes it’s difficult to understand. All they are interested in is wool and which farms are to be visited or which manor lord has the best flocks. They gave Master Reginald good silver for that information.’

‘You didn’t come for that, did you?’ Ranulf drew his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘No I didn’t.’ The boy licked his lips and looked furtively back towards the tavern. ‘It’s the young girls who were killed. I don’t like Master Reginald, too free with his fists, and he is always trying to put his hand up some wench’s skirt. They make fun of him, you know.’

‘Who?’ Corbett asked, leaning down again.

‘The wenches. They composed a song about him. One night, just as autumn broke, they came down and sang it beneath his window, a truly rude song with lewd words. Master Reginald drove them off.’

The boy jumped with glee as Corbett spun him another coin. He caught this and, quick as a rabbit, disappeared back into the bushes. Corbett turned his horse and glanced at the gateway. He thought of Master Reginald with his cart going in and out of the castle, of that crossbow carefully stowed away.

‘Some of the wenches,’ Ranulf declared, reading Corbett’s mind, ‘might have been friendly with him; they would allow him to come close.’

‘Aye, they would,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wonder if we have just supped with their assassin.’

They continued their journey down to the church, and by the time they had hobbled their horses just inside the lych gate, they could tell by the tolling of the bell that Father Matthew had already begun his Mass. Corbett walked into the church and paused in the porchway, sniffing the air. It was not the usual incense or wax, or even the mustiness of an ancient place, but an odour he couldn’t recognise or, as yet, place. Ranulf was also intrigued, and pulled a face at Corbett’s questioning look.

From the small sanctuary Father Matthew’s powerful voice echoed.

‘Respice mei Domine, respice mei Domine.’ Look at me, Lord, look at me.

Corbett joined the small congregation of villagers, charcoal burners and woodmen who had drifted into the church for the Mass arranged to suit their hours of labour. They worshipped God, ate and drank in the nearby tavern and worked until it was too dark to continue, a motley collection in their fustian jerkins, hose and shabby boots. The women wore high-necked gowns and dresses, dark greens or browns; they stamped their mud-encrusted boots against the sanctuary floor, pulling back hoods to reveal faces turned raw by the biting wind. They were friendly enough, peering shyly at these King’s men, openly admiring the leather riding boots and Ranulf’s quilted jerkin.

Father Matthew, however, standing at the altar in his purple and gold vestments, was intent on the Mass. Corbett listened carefully to the Latin and recognised that the priest had not only a good knowledge of the classics but a sure grasp of the Roman tongue. The Latin of many village priests was sometimes difficult to understand, but Father Matthew enunciated every syllable. Corbett watched with interest as he celebrated, turning to lift the Host, calling on the congregation to adore the Lamb of God.

Once Mass was finished, Corbett waited in the porch for the priest to join them.

‘Well, well.’ Father Matthew came striding down the nave, black robe fluttering. He clasped Corbett’s hand. ‘Sir Hugh, you wish to have words with me?’

‘First, Father, the smell?’

‘A little sulphur,’ the priest replied. ‘Sometimes I leave the door open; we’ve even had the occasional vixen nest her cubs in here. They always leave their offerings to the Lord!’

‘Could we go to your house, Father?’

‘I have to take the Viaticum to some of our sick,’ the priest apologised. ‘But one day soon, Sir Hugh . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Tell me, Father, do you have a crossbow?’

‘Yes, I do,’ the priest replied wearily. ‘And a quiver of quarrels. I wondered when you would come and question me, Sir Hugh, yet I’ve told you all I can. As regards those young women, I school them here in the nave, I hear their confessions, and on Sundays and Holy Days I share the Eucharist with them.’

‘They are not unruly or disobedient?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir Hugh, if you wish to find out what they think of me, why don’t you ask them? On the morning I found poor Rebecca, I was here in the church. I heard Alusia scream. It cut like a knife.’ Father Matthew stared at this sharp-faced clerk and the other one standing deep in the shadows. ‘I really must press on.’ His words came out in a rush. ‘Soon it will be the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and after that comes Christmas. I must start collecting wood for the crib, as St Dominic taught us.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Sir Hugh, you are always welcome to return.’

‘I think he wanted us to go.’ Ranulf grinned as they unhobbled their horses.

‘He did seem nervous,’ Chanson intervened.

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

Corbett gathered the reins in his hands and stared back at the church, an ancient building with crumbling steps, though the door was new and reinforced with iron studs.

‘A strange one, Father Matthew,’ he mused as he thrust his boot into the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. ‘His Latin is perfect, yet he held the Host in a way he should not. After the consecration, Ranulf, the priest is to keep his thumb clasped against his forefinger; it’s a petty part of the ritual.’

‘Perhaps he was cold, as I was,’ Ranulf snapped.

‘And for a poor parish priest he seems to know a great deal about the Virgin Mary and the teaching that she was conceived without sin, and yet,’ he urged his horse on, ‘he doesn’t seem to remember that it was St Francis, not St Dominic, who fashioned the first crib.’