The Magician

Chapter 7

Horehound sat on the edge of the snow-fringed marsh. He was freezing and famished. He wanted to sleep and dream about a charcoal fire above which venison steaks, basted with oils and herbs, slowly roasted. He shook himself from his reverie – he had seen men of the woods lose their wits; hadn’t that happened to Fleawort three winters ago, when he had run himself to death chasing a stag no one else could see? The cold was intense. Horehound’s belly had had nothing more than watery viper soup, and he realised how desperate the situation had become. Game was growing scarce, or was it simply that they were losing their skill? Foxglove had died chattering his sins whilst Horehound pretended to be a priest and mumbled words which sounded like Latin. One day he would ask a priest if Foxglove would have escaped the pains of Hell. Horehound stuck a finger in his mouth and rubbed his sore gum. The idea which had occurred to him in the warmth of Master Reginald’s kitchen had grown like a seed in the ground. He’d crouched behind the tombstones and watched that King’s man. The stranger was like Sir Edmund – a just, honest officer of the law.

‘I’m sure it is here.’ The outlaw known as Skullcap nudged his leader.

‘I’m not getting too close,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If there is something here to show me, what is it?’

Skullcap edged forward, forcing aside the brambles and the thick hardy bushes. Horehound glanced quickly around. They were not far from the Tavern in the Forest, close to the trackway leading to the castle. He had to be careful. Sir Edmund’s verderers were not unknown to go on patrol even in this weather.

‘Come on,’ he snarled.

Skullcap, eager to prove his case, was now crawling forward. He reached the snow-encrusted reeds and pulled these aside.

‘There!’ he exclaimed.

Horehound edged nearer and moaned quietly at the sight of the corpse bobbing in the shadows. Skullcap, stretching out his cudgel, forced the corpse to turn. Horehound glimpsed a mud-encrusted face with long hair; the dried blood ringing the mouth had mixed with the slime. He stepped back and stared around; whoever had killed that woman, and it must be a young woman, had brought her down here, murdered her and thrown her corpse into the marsh. He padded back, searching the ground for any sign, yet he could find no trace of a horse or a wheel in the frozen snow. Here and there a disturbance, but Horehound’s own footprints, as well as those of Skullcap, would be difficult to distinguish from those of an assassin.

‘What do you think?’ Skullcap crawled close, crouching beside his companion, his thin spotty face flushed with excitement, eyes gleaming, the tip of his nose as red as a cinder glowing in a fire. On any other occasion Horehound would have made a joke of it and stretched out his fingers to what he always called this fiery ember. ‘I saw it this morning, it wasn’t there last night,’ Skullcap hissed. ‘Or I don’t think it was.’

Horehound made his way back to the marsh to take a second look; this time he was bolder, allowing his boots to sink into the icy mud. He took his own cudgel and tipped the corpse. Yes, it was a woman, a young woman, probably from the castle. Her features were hard to distinguish, but he glimpsed the dried blood round that awful wound high in her chest. He retreated hastily, aware of the sombre silence. There was no birdsong, none of that flurrying in the thicket, the sounds of the forest which always reassured him. It seemed as if the winter snow had smothered all life. Horehound curbed his panic. He ran back, grasped Skullcap by the shoulder, and hastened with him into the trees.

‘What shall we do?’ Skullcap demanded. ‘Now we have another horror. You know what they’ll say.’ Horehound tried not to flinch at his companion’s sour breath. ‘They’ll say she was going for a walk down to the church or tavern and one of us killed her.’

Horehound didn’t disagree. If this continued Sir Edmund would be forced to go hunting. He would summon up the levies and they’d enter the forest and see the horror hanging from that oak; it would only fan the fire of their anger. Horehound and the rest of his gang would be tracked by verderers and huntsmen; they would bring hunting dogs and not rest until they had cornered them in some glade. Justice would be quick. They would be either hanged there and then, or taken back to swing from the castle walls.

Horehound looked up through the bare black branches, the melting snow dripping down, splashing his face. A sudden sound made him start, and a rabbit sped from one bush to another, but Horehound was so frightened, so cowed, he couldn’t even think about hunting fresh quarry.

‘I wonder how long?’ he muttered.

‘And we are hungry,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘The meat we are eating is rotten. What can we do?’

Horehound crouched, assuming what he thought was his wise look. What could he do? Master Reginald’s generosity had been stretched far enough. And Father Matthew? Horehound recalled that fire leaping up and shuddered. The villagers? He breathed in. They had little enough to share, and once they heard about that girl’s corpse, every peasant’s hand would be set against them. So who was responsible? How could a young woman’s body, a crossbow bolt embedded in her chest, be floating in that marsh so near to the tavern? Was Master Reginald responsible? Had the wench gone down there? The taverner could be a brutal man, well known for his liking of the ladies. What about Father Matthew? Was the priest a warlock? Why should he be sprinkling powders on his own at the dead of night in his church?

‘At least another quarter to spring,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘Milkwort wonders if any of us will be alive by Lady Day.’

Horehound sprang to his feet and hurried away. Skullcap, in surprise, followed him.

‘What’s the matter?’

But Horehound, shoulders hunched, ran on, deeper and deeper into the forest. Skullcap paused to catch his breath. They weren’t going back to the camp, but towards that glade ringed by ancient oaks, and with that horror hanging from one of the outstretched branches. Horehound was going to break his own rule, and Skullcap had no choice but to follow.

They reached the glade, but this time Horehound didn’t stop. Ignoring Skullcap’s cries, he raced across and halted directly beneath the corpse for the first time ever, staring up at that hideous face, made all the more gruesome by the passing of time and the pecking bites of birds and animals. The eyes had gone, leaving only black staring sockets, and the neck was all twisted, head to one side. Horehound wrinkled his nose at the smell of death. Although hideous in aspect, the corpse had now lost its horror. It was only the pathetic remains of a young woman, who had climbed up the oak, draped part of her long fustian skirt over the branch and fashioned a noose. Horehound could see how easy that would be; even the ancient ones could climb a tree like that. She must have moved along the sturdy branch, knotted one end around her throat and one end around the bough and simply let herself drop. Horehound walked around the corpse. Or had she killed herself? Had someone else brought her here and murdered her in this macabre way? He stared at the hands, the pared nails, then at the twisted cloth strong as rope. It would take some time before it rotted and allowed the body to fall.

Horehound drew his knife and scrambled up the trunk of the oak. Using the gnarled knots for steps, he edged along the branch and, positioning himself carefully, sawed through the cloth until it ripped and the corpse plunged to the forest floor. The sheer effort and tension had exhausted Horehound. He put the knife between his teeth and dropped lightly to the ground. Using the frozen, sodden leaf meal, the outlaw covered the corpse, trying not to look at that face, praying quietly to himself, begging Christ’s good mother to help him.

‘Who is it?’ Skullcap drew closer.

‘Just another girl. The flesh is beginning to decompose.’ Horehound went to a nearby rivulet to wash his hands. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, not yet, not until they find her.’

Horehound picked up his cudgel, took one last look at that forlorn heap, and found the pathway which would lead him back to the hidden cave where the rest of his band sheltered. He was almost there when he caught the first smell of wood smoke and the delicious tang of roasting meat. He stopped so abruptly Skullcap collided with him.

‘Do you remember Fleawort?’ he muttered. ‘And the fantasies he saw? I can smell roasting meat.’

‘So can I,’ Skullcap retorted.

They ran through the tangled undergrowth, desperate to seek the source of the smell. Horehound couldn’t believe his eyes when he reached the glade. The outlaws had left their cave and built up a great fire, and were roasting strips of meat and drinking greedily from the small cask being handed around. Horehound drew his dagger, then smiled as one figure emerged from the rest, pushing back a tattered cowl. It was Hemlock! Horehound hurried across to hug this comrade who had left shortly before the eve of All Souls, saying he would try his luck further to the east.

‘What brought you back?’ Horehound demanded.

Hemlock pushed aside his strange hair, thick and black with white streaks like the fur of a badger. He was a tall, sinewy man, the bottom half of his face hidden by a moustache and bushy beard. Horehound noticed the scar just under his comrade’s left eye. The wound was still fresh.

‘I have my own men now.’ Hemlock jabbed a finger towards the fire. ‘I brought two of them with me, just in case. They fetched the meat and the cask of ale.’

‘Where from?’ Horehound demanded.

‘Ah!’ Hemlock smiled and put a finger to his lips. ‘I must tell you what I have seen and then you must see what I have witnessed.’ He shook his head and laughed at Horehound’s protest. ‘Come,’ Hemlock gestured, ‘fill your belly, then I’ll solve the riddle . . .’

Corbett sat on his bed, leaning back against the bolsters, body slightly crooked as he bent over to take full advantage of the candle glow from the nearby table. The fire had been built up, the braziers crackled. Corbett was pleased to be out of the freezing cold. At the foot of the bed, his back to the great chest, Chanson was busy repairing a strap, while across the chamber Ranulf was teaching Bolingbroke how to cheat at hazard, showing him how to switch good dice for cogged ones. Ranulf moved so quickly, so expertly that Bolingbroke protested, so Ranulf demonstrated the sleight of hand more slowly.

‘You must be fast,’ he warned. ‘If you are caught, knives will be drawn.’

Bolingbroke took his own dice out and cast a few winning throws, causing loud laughter as Ranulf realised the other man was, perhaps, as adept at cheating as he.

Corbett went back to studying the King’s own copy of Roger Bacon’s Opus Tertium. He quietly mouthed the words the friar had used to describe his life of study: ‘“During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom. I abandoned the usual methods.’” Corbett glanced up. The usual methods, he reflected, what were they? Disputation? Argument? The exchange of ideas with other scholars? ‘I have spent more than twenty pounds,’ Friar Roger had written, ‘on secret books and various experiments, not to mention languages, instruments and mathematical tables.’ Corbett pulled himself up, resting the heavy tome in his lap, keeping the place with his finger. What, he wondered, were these secret books? What experiments? Had Friar Roger really discovered or stumbled on secret knowledge? He opened the book and read again, following the words with his finger, translating the Latin as he read. He moved the manuscript to study more closely the phrase ‘twenty pounds’. He noticed the manuscript was marked, the ink rather blotched, as if someone had tried to scratch the words out, blurring the letters.

Corbett, exasperated, closed the book and put it on the table beside him. For a while he watched the two gamblers, marvelling at Ranulf’s persistence. He had learnt from Chanson how, as soon as they had returned to the castle, Ranulf had done some studying of his own, searching out the Lady Constance; they’d sat, heads together, in front of the great hearth in the Hall of Angels.

‘They talked, Master. Oh, how they talked!’ Chanson had reported. ‘And the Lady Constance, she laughs a great deal.’

Ranulf looked across, caught Corbett’s stare, smiled and raised a hand. You always make the ladies laugh, Corbett thought, that’s one of your talents. Ranulf, sharp of wit and tart of tongue.

Bolingbroke had reported back how he and Chanson had compared the two manuscripts, which were identical in every aspect.

‘Like peas in the same pod,’ he concluded, ‘but as for understanding it, the French have retired to their own quarters to study the mystery.’ Corbett too had decided to go once more through Friar Roger’s writings to find a clue, some key to the mysteries.

Chanson scrambled to his feet, still clutching his stirrup leather.

‘What hour is it?’ Corbett asked.

The groom went into the far corner and took the hour candle from its lantern holder.

‘Somewhere between six and seven in the evening. It’s dark outside. Master, I am hungry.’

Corbett picked up the manuscript he had been reading.

‘Say after me, Chanson, Opus Tertium.’

Chanson repeated the words.

‘Now,’ Corbett ordered, ‘go and give my compliments to Monsieur Crotoy. Ask him may I borrow their copy of Friar Roger’s work of the same name.’

‘But you already have a copy,’ Chanson protested, pointing to the calfskin-covered book. ‘And it’s cold out . . .’

‘Do as you are told, groom of the stable,’ Ranulf snapped, eager to retaliate for Chanson’s teasing about the Lady Constance. ‘Oh, never mind.’ He pushed back the stool and put on his boots and cloak. ‘I’ll fetch it myself.’

‘Ah, and that’s the last we will see of you before midnight.’ Chanson ducked as Ranulf went to cuff his ear.

Corbett swung off the bed. He followed Ranulf out on to the stairway, flinching at the blast of cold air.

‘There’s no hurry,’ he whispered, ‘but even if you do meet the Lady Constance, don’t forget what I’ve asked.’

Ranulf grinned and, whistling under his breath, padded down the steps. Corbett returned to the chamber, washed his face and hands, and chattered to Bolingbroke for a while about the secret manuscript. A servant brought up some bread, cheese and a pot of slightly rancid butter. Corbett asked him of any news of the castle.

‘Not very good,’ the servant replied. ‘The girl Alusia has not been found.’ He went to the door and looked back, ‘You seem to have missed the excitement, sir. You heard the clamour?’

‘I did.’ Bolingbroke cleared the table of dice. ‘I heard shouting from below, though I didn’t hear the tocsin ring.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t much.’ The servant lifted the latch. ‘One of the guards on the curtain wall saw a fire at the edge of the forest.’

‘A fire?’ Corbett asked. ‘In the snow, in the depth of winter?’

‘Sometimes it happens,’ the servant replied. ‘There are outlaws in the forest, travellers and tinkers, wanderers who do not like to come under the eyes of the Constable. They collect dry bracken and light a fire; sometimes it gets out of hand. Two winters ago they nearly burnt the death house at St Peter’s, but now Father Matthew keeps them out of the cemetery at night – he’s very strict about that. Anyway,’ the servant opened the door, ‘Sir Edmund sent a rider out; the fire was nothing.’

When he had left, Corbett shared out the food and drink.

‘If Alusia is still missing,’ Bolingbroke spoke up, ‘it must be serious. No wench would go wandering in the darkness on a freezing winter night. Sir Edmund will have to wait until the morning before he can send out a search party.’

Corbett stared at Bolingbroke’s long, rather lugubrious face and mop of sandy hair. The pouches under his eyes gave him a sleepy look, belied by the laughing mouth. A good swordsman, Corbett reflected, Bolingbroke had been Ufford’s constant companion in the Halls of Oxford and entered the Secret Chancery as a clerk.

‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, William.’

‘What for?’

‘Ufford, you must mourn him.’

‘I’ve had Masses sung for him in the Chapels Royal at Westminster and Windsor.’ Bolingbroke looked away, leaning against one hand on the mantle, staring down at the floor. ‘Ten years in all.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I met Walter in a tavern near Carfax. Like Ranulf, he was cheating at dice. I had to rescue him.’

Chanson, mending the leather on the floor, stopped. He liked nothing better than to listen to the stories of the clerks. He always hoped Sir Hugh would send him to the school in the transept of the manor church at Leighton.

‘Did he leave any family?’ Corbett asked.

‘A young woman in London. I gave her the news myself that Walter would not be coming home.’

Corbett sipped at his tankard. Sometimes he deeply regretted what he was doing. Both Ufford and Bolingbroke had come to his attention because of their skill, their knowledge of tongues, particularly Norman French and the patois of the countryside. They had both served in the King’s wars in Scotland, and such a background made them ideal students for the Sorbonne.

‘Do you resent de Craon being so close?’

‘No,’ Bolingbroke sighed. ‘There are clerks in the Chancery offices whose fathers fought mine in Wales. It’s like a game of hazard, Sir Hugh; if you lose, what’s the point of cursing the victor? One day,’ he lifted his own tankard in toast, ‘I shall return to the table and pay Monsieur de Craon back in similar coin.’

‘Tell me once more,’ Corbett sat down on the great chest at the foot of the bed, ‘how this magister at the Sorbonne provided the information.’

‘I’ve told you, he left letters at our lodgings.’

‘Did you trust this King of Keys?’

Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘He was a thief from the alleyway; despite his pompous title, he was a housebreaker. He would not have become involved if he hadn’t been paid so well. In the end he died with Magister Thibault.’

‘And both you and Ufford knew about the coffer in the strongroom?’

Bolingbroke nodded.

‘And who hired the King of Keys?’

‘Walter and I did that.’

‘And the girl?’ Corbett asked. ‘The one with Magister Thibault?’

‘I’m not too sure,’ Bolingbroke scratched his neck, ‘but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say our traitor hired her. We waited in the gallery upstairs until Thibault was, well . . .’ he shrugged, ‘otherwise engaged with her, then we went down. We must have been there an hour before the old fool appeared.’ He chewed on some bread. ‘We were trapped,’ he declared slowly, ‘and I still am.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I often wondered why the trap wasn’t sprung at Magister Thibault’s home, but now Destaples has died, I realise we were meant to kill Thibault. The same is true of my escape.’ He glanced sharply at Corbett. ‘Don’t you see, I was meant to escape, allowed to return to England with that manuscript. If I hadn’t, there would have been no meeting at Corfe.’ Bolingbroke snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! As I approached the Madelene Quayside, I’m sure I was being followed. A beggarman told me the Hounds of the King were in that quarter. After a while, all signs of any pursuit disappeared. I got safely out of Paris, on to the road north, but I was meant to. I was simply a piece on de Craon’s chessboard,’ he added bitterly. ‘So God knows what that bastard is plotting. My only comfort is that we might do some good here. I mean,’ Bolingbroke nodded towards the door, ‘about these poor wenches.’

Corbett got up from the chest and walked around the side of the bed. ‘And what do you think about these killings, William? What does logic tell you?’

‘First,’ the clerk replied, ‘the victims trusted their killer, which is why he was allowed to approach so close. Secondly, therefore, it must be someone who lives in the castle or close by. Thirdly, the assassin must be someone skilled in the use of an arbalest and . . .’ He paused.

‘And what?’ Chanson asked.

‘Someone,’ Bolingbroke pretended to glower at Chanson, ‘who is not afraid. He is prepared to kill for no other reason than the killing itself. Have you seen a fox raid a hen run, Chanson? There may be sixty, and he will take only one, yet he will kill until no bird is left alive.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett concluded, ‘the assassin is killing not for profit or sexual pleasure but out of sheer hatred or revenge.’

Corbett reflected on the number of men he had hanged for the assault and rape of women. They had all been different, criminals who had taken secret pleasure from their sin, but the killer at Corfe . . .?

‘Chanson?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Of your kindness, go down into the castle yard. If you see Ranulf, remind him why I sent him, but search out a young red-haired woman called Marissa, and tell her that the King’s man who asked about her cloak would like to meet her. Once you’ve done this, ask Marissa about a man-at-arms friendly with Alusia and any of the other girls who have been killed. Tell her she will be rewarded for her pains. If she names someone, bring that person to me. Oh, and you know where the laundry-women have their vats?’ Chanson nodded. ‘Seek out Mistress Feyner, say I want fresh words with her.’

Chanson put on his boots and left. Corbett went and sat opposite Bolingbroke, who had picked up one of the manuscripts.

‘What do you think, William? Are we chasing will-o-the-wisps here? The Secretus Secretorum – is it a puzzle which can be solved?’

‘I went through the script with Sanson, Sir Hugh. It’s written in Latin but I hardly recognised a word. Now, Magister Thibault,’ Bolingbroke grew enthusiastic, ‘what he did was very clever. He formed the hypothesis that if Friar Roger wrote a secret cipher, like all people who use such devices he would have become tired at the end and made a mistake. That phrase “I shall give you many doors” is a fine example of it. Now, as you know, Sir Hugh, once you have one line of a cipher, it becomes easy to tease out the rest. But this is where our problem begins; in this case it does not.’

Corbett closed his eyes and groaned. ‘I advised the King of that,’ he whispered. ‘Friar Roger may talk about his marvels, and the Secret of Secrets may hold the truth, yet I’ve read the friar’s works.’ He opened his eyes. ‘He truly was an arrogant man with a contempt for other scholars. What if he wrote that book in a cipher used once only and understood solely by himself? If that is the case, the key will never be found and the cipher will remain unbroken.’

Corbett opened the Opus Tertium he had been reading, but found he couldn’t concentrate. He took the psalter Lady Maeve had given him and leafed through the pages. The illuminations always fascinated him; the use of colours and vivid schemes, Christ stretched like a piece of vellum on the Cross. He read the prayer on the adjoining page, and allowed his mind to drift. The Lady Maeve had given him the psalter on his birthday, the previous August. He glanced up. Bolingbroke was asleep in the chair. Corbett stretched out on the bed. He couldn’t forget that girl’s corpse, sprawled on the hand barrow, and the priest, Father Matthew, was a strange one. Why had he made those mistakes in church? Corbett’s eyes opened wide with a sudden realisation. When he brought the corpse in, he thought, it was Father Andrew, the old priest, who insisted the last rites must be given.

He heard footsteps outside and rose as Chanson led the red-haired Marissa, followed by a young, pockfaced man-at-arms, into the room. Marissa looked freezing in her thin gown; the man was dressed in a sweat-stained leather jerkin over a linen shirt, padded hose and battered boots which looked a size too big for him. Chanson introduced the stranger.

‘This is Martin.’

Corbett clasped the man’s hand and ushered them both to stools in front of the fire. Marissa was friendly, happy at the chance to be warm. Martin, a local man from his accent, was quiet of eye and not overawed by Corbett. He asked bluntly why he had been summoned.

‘I have been searching for Alusia,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I’m on sentry duty at dawn, the first watch of tomorrow.’

‘I won’t keep you long.’

Corbett served them steaming cups of posset wrapped in rags and sat between them. Bolingbroke had gone across to splash water on his face from the lavarium.

‘Your name is Martin,’ Corbett began, ‘a friend of Alusia, the girl who is missing. Do you know where or why she may have fled?’

‘Fled?’ Martin’s lip jutted out aggressively. ‘Alusia has not fled. She was terrified at what she saw yesterday; she would not go out of the castle again until this killer is found and despatched to Hell.’

‘So where is she?’ Bolingbroke came over, wiping his face and hands.

‘I don’t know. She left her parents last night, sometime between Vespers and Compline, and never returned.’

‘Were you to meet her last night?’

‘No, I was not.’

Corbett studied the open, weatherbeaten face; he’d already glimpsed the leather wrist guard and the calluses on the man’s fingers.

‘You use a crossbow?’

‘Yes, and I’m very skilled,’ came the hot reply. ‘I can hit my mark from ten yards, I do not need to get too close.’

‘Peace, peace,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Did Alusia tell you anything about what happened yesterday?’

‘No, I hardly saw her. She was resting, all disturbed. I did have a few words with her, nothing more.’

‘And you knew the other girls, the ones who’ve been murdered?’ Bolingbroke asked from his chair. The man-at-arms glanced sideways at Marissa, sitting beside Corbett as still as a statue.

‘I knew some of them,’ he mumbled.

‘Especially Phillipa.’ Marissa forgot her shyness and glared at the man-at-arms. ‘You said Phillipa was sweet on you, or were you just boasting?’

‘Just boasting,’ Martin replied, flushed-faced. ‘She was a strange one.’

‘Phillipa?’ Corbett asked. ‘Mistress Feyner’s daughter?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Chanson, where is Mistress Feyner?’

‘She said she would come when she was ready,’ Chanson replied.

‘Oh, good.’ Corbett turned back. Marissa was still shivering, and he put his cup down and went across to the cloaks hanging on a peg. He took one down and draped it over Marissa’s shoulders.

‘You’re most kind.’ She preened herself.

‘It is yours,’ Corbett replied. He took two coins from his purse and handed one to each of them. Martin accepted reluctantly. Marissa snatched hers, then drew the cloak close to her, treasuring the coin; she was flattered by the attention of this King’s man who allowed her to sit so close to a fire and drink posset from a pewter goblet. Corbett, glancing down, saw a penny whistle lying on the floor, one Chanson used. He picked it up and absentmindedly put it in his wallet.

‘You said Phillipa was a strange one?’

‘Oh yes,’ Marissa replied, ‘full of herself. She claimed one of the outlaws, a mysterious man she called the Goliard, loved her, and said how they would meet under the forest greenery. She claimed he was a landless knight living in his own castle in the forest.’ Marissa put a hand to her face and giggled. ‘We said she was living in her dreams.’

‘Were you close to her?’

‘No. Some of the others may have been.’

‘And when did she go missing?’

Marissa closed her eyes. ‘On that Sunday when we gave thanks for the harvest. The weather was lovely. I remember seeing her in the cemetery after Mass, then she disappeared. We thought she had gone into the forest to meet her Goliard.’

‘Did you take part in the search?’ Corbett asked the man-at-arms.

‘Yes, I did. From the forest down to the sea. We found nothing. And now, sir,’ Martin scraped back the stool, ‘I truly must go.’

‘Before you do,’ Corbett lifted a hand, ‘did you have a trysting place?’

‘A what?’

‘A secret place,’ Bolingbroke explained, ‘where a man might meet the lady of his heart.’

‘There’s some ruins,’ the man-at-arms replied, ‘at the far wall beyond the keep. A passageway leading down to the dungeons and cellars; it was our place.’ He ignored Marissa’s giggle. ‘I’ve been down there, it’s deserted.’

He was about to leave when there was a knock at the door and Mistress Feyner came bustling in, the sleeves of her gown pulled back to her elbows, her hands and wrists red raw. She totally ignored Marissa and Martin and, without being asked, flounced down on a stool in front of the fire. When Bolingbroke served her some posset from a goblet kept in the inglenook, she snatched it from his hands.

‘I can’t be here long. Are you asking these two about my daughter?’ She drank greedily from the cup. ‘If you have questions about Phillipa then ask me.’

‘She was last seen on the Sunday in the cemetery after Mass.’

‘Yes, she was. She told me she was going to collect flowers.’

‘Not to meet the man known as Goliard?’

Mistress Feyner threw a venomous glance at Marissa, and yet the way she moved her lips and blinked, Corbett could see she was on the verge of tears. She handed him her cup and got to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about Goliard,’ she whispered. ‘My poor Phillipa was lonely.’

‘But she claimed to meet him.’

‘Yes, yes, she did.’ Mistress Feyner rubbed her hands down her gown. ‘I can’t tell you sir, I truly can’t. My Phillipa has gone and so have the rest; now they are searching for poor Alusia.’

‘This trysting place,’ Corbett asked, ‘the passageway leading down to the old dungeons?’

‘That’s a favourite place.’ Mistress Feyner smiled. ‘We searched it for Phillipa as we have for Alusia; there is nothing there. There’s never anything there,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘I must visit it,’ Corbett declared. ‘Perhaps I will meet Ranulf! Mistress Feyner?’ He took her hand in his, letting her grasp the concealed coin. ‘I thank you for your pains.’

Once the three had left, Corbett put on his boots and took his heavy cloak from the peg, fastening the clasp under his chin.

‘I wish to walk this castle; I want to see what’s happening.’ He nodded to Bolingbroke and Chanson, then paused. ‘Chanson, for the love of God, go and find Ranulf. Tell him I want to speak to him before we meet the French, before we sup this evening.’

Corbett went down the freezing cold staircase and out into the bailey. Here and there sconce torches flickered bravely against the darkness. People ran across, moving hastily from one shelter to another, eager to escape from the chilling wind. Corbett pulled the hood over his head and walked around the keep. On one occasion he stopped, staring up at the masonry soaring into the skies, a forbidding, massive rectangle of stone. At various levels torches and candles glowed from the arrow slit windows. He walked along the side of the keep, passing through the small village where the castle folk lived in their wattle-and-daub cottages built against the walls and towers. A busy place, children still ran screaming about, dancing around the bonfires and makeshift braziers. The air was full of cooking aromas, the smell of tanned leather, the stench of horse manure and the sweet fragrance of hay from the barns. Now and again someone called out a greeting and Corbett lifted his hand in reply. He paused to talk to some of the men-at-arms and asked where the passageway was. They pointed deeper into the darkness.

Corbett was now on the other side of the keep. He climbed the brow of the hill which gave the keep its dominating aspect and walked through what must be the gardens of the castle, hidden under their cover of snow, down more steps, stumbling and slipping as he crossed what seemed to be a wasteland of snow and gorse only to realise it must be the castle warren. There were few buildings here: outhouses with empty windows and a few makeshift bothies. Nearby stood the engines of war, two catapults and a large mangonel. Above him on the parapet Corbett could see the sentries, only a few here, standing beneath torches lashed to poles. On the breeze he caught the faint strains of a song a soldier was singing to amuse himself. At last he reached the curtain wall and, going along the wasteland, found the crumbling passageway leading down to what must have been old cellars and dungeons carved out beneath the castle walls like a crypt in a church.

The steps were uneven, made more treacherous by the icy snow. Corbett held his breath as he went down, regretting that he had not brought a cresset torch. They were too steep. Corbett, cursing, clung to the wall and edged his way down. At the bottom the passageway ran on a little further. His hand felt the wall, and he sighed with relief as his fingers touched the thick tallow candle either left by the cellar man or, perhaps, brought by the lovers who met there. He took his own tinder from his pocket and, after a great deal of effort, lit the thick wick. Cupping the flame in his hand, he held the candle up. The walls of the narrow passageway stretched before him, shadows dancing in the candlelight, the beaten earth ending in a fall of masonry. Corbett walked forward, studying the ground carefully, but could find nothing. He returned to the steps and paused. The snow had turned into a muddy slush and he could tell that people had been here, probably looking for Alusia. He climbed the steps carefully. His search was futile, yet this was a lonely place. If a young woman had come here by herself and the killer had been waiting . . .

Corbett reached the top step and, cupping the candle, was about to walk through the ruined stone entrance when he missed his footing and slipped, just as the crossbow bolt smashed into the crumbling masonry above him.