The Magician

Chapter 9

Corbett stared down at the two corpses. They had been stripped and washed, and Father Andrew had blessed both with incense and holy water, anointing the five senses with sacred oil. He had sighed, muttered prayers, then left the corpses to Simon the leech, who was now examining both carefully. Chanson and Bolingbroke had also withdrawn, driven out by the smell of decomposing flesh. Father Andrew had left the thurible open, and Corbett heaped incense on top of the glowing charcoal, welcoming the gusts of fragrance. Lady Constance, who proved not as squeamish as others, had also done her best, scattering rosewater and providing Corbett and Ranulf with pomanders saturated in perfume.

Ranulf’s return with the corpses so soon after the funeral Mass for the other victims had created chaos and consternation which gave way to shock and grief. The remains were immediately recognised. Mistress Feyner had stared down at the sled and grieved, made all the more piteous by her soul-wrenching silence, her face contorted by the mute agony of loss. She opened her mouth to speak but could find no words, simply covering her eyes with her fingers whilst friends led her away. The parents of Alusia had sat for a while just staring down at the corpse until her mother began to scream, becoming so fretful Lady Constance and her maid, clasping her arms, took her into the Hall of Angels.

Corbett’s anger at Ranulf’s disappearance soon calmed when he realised what the man had done and the manner in which he had confronted his fears. Ranulf had ridden across the drawbridge like the figure of Death, hooves drumming on the wood. The garrison had already been alerted by sentries on the gatehouse who had reported a line of men emerging from the trees. Ranulf had tried to persuade Horehound and his gang to bring the corpses into the castle yard, but the outlaw chief had shaken his head.

‘Only this far,’ he declared. ‘When the pardons are given, I shall come into the castle to receive the King’s peace.’ He and his companions had melted away.

Sir Edmund had sent out a cart to bring in the corpses, laying them out on a sled just within the gateway to the inner ward. De Craon and his retinue had excused themselves, whispering their condolences. The crowds around the sled had turned ugly, and Corbett had been reminded in no uncertain way of his vow to bring the killer to justice.

‘Well, sir?’ he asked now, breaking from his reverie.

‘Well, sir,’ the leech replied drily, ‘both girls are dead. Phillipa, you can tell,’ he pointed to the corpse, ‘in life must have been comely and plump.’

The leech had covered her face with a coarse linen cloth. He had been pressing the girl’s tummy and examining very carefully the purple weal around the throat before scrupulously inspecting the girl’s hands. He got to his feet and covered his nose and mouth with a perfumed cloth, breathing in deeply.

‘I have tended the dead on battlefields in Wales and Scotland; I’ve seen more corpses,’ he blinked his watery eyes, ‘than some people have seen summer days, but the horror never escapes you. Phillipa killed herself; she climbed that oak tree and used the fabric from her own gown. It’s made of hempen, thick and coarse, strong as any rope. There is no other wound to the body, no blow, no bruise. Alive her flesh must have been as white as marble, and yet so soft and warm. A loving girl.’ He edged up closer. ‘I will not whisper this aloud,’ he added. ‘The girl should be given honourable burial. Father Matthew will see to that. She’ll not be treated as a suicide, buried at the crossroads under a gibbet with a peg driven through her heart.’

‘There’s something else?’

‘I am only a leech, Sir Hugh, I am not a physician.’

‘Whatever you are, you are very astute.’

‘Phillipa was expectant, possibly in the early stages. The lower part of her belly is swollen. I think her monthly courses must have stopped for at least two months; that’s why she may have killed herself, steeped in shame, or what she thought was shame.’

‘And Alusia?’ Corbett glanced around the leech at the other corpse, the bloody quarrel lying beneath the sled.

‘The same as the rest, but her killer must have been very close; it’s a wonder the bolt didn’t pierce her entire body. Yet what was she doing out in the forest, Sir Hugh? I’ve heard the whispers; Alusia was terrified of going there. Why should a young woman who knows about these deaths, who found one of the victims on a forest trackway, leave the safety of our castle?’

‘Unless she was killed elsewhere?’ Corbett mused. ‘They say the marsh is near the Tavern in the Forest.’

Ranulf walked to the doorway and leaned against the lintel, sucking in the icy fresh air.

‘Why should a girl kill herself,’ he asked without turning, ‘because she was expecting a baby? Phillipa’s mother is most loving.’ He gnawed on the knuckle of his hand. His journey into the forest hadn’t frightened him, yet he’d felt a deep oppression as he brought these corpses in, as if the souls of the two girls were earthbound, clustering by his side, begging ghostly for justice. He felt disgusted at what he’d seen. These were his people. He had grown up with girls like this in the fetid alleyways of London. They were full of life, eager for love, desperate to secure a grip on life, to marry well and settle down. Why should such a girl hang herself? To conceive a child was a natural thing and, whatever the Church said, blessed by God. He recalled what Chanson had told him about Corbett’s interview with the man-at-arms and the red-haired Marissa; he imagined Phillipa that autumn Sunday morning walking into the forest to meet her Goliard.

‘Sir Hugh, would you excuse me?’

Before Corbett could reply, Ranulf, taking his sword belt off the peg just inside the doorway, strode across the castle yard, strapping it about him. He approached the well where servants were filling buckets; he glimpsed the tap boy who had been brought from the tavern, crouched beside a fire, gnawing greedily on a piece of meat. He raised his hand. Ranulf replied, ignoring the dark looks of the servants.

‘Marissa!’ he shouted. ‘Marissa, the King’s man wishes words with you again.’

The red-haired girl stepped away from the group, fearful of this clerk with his sword belt clasped around his black leather jacket, those cat-like eyes studying her intently.

‘Come here, girl.’ Ranulf gripped her by the shoulder. ‘I want to see you, and the man-at-arms known as Martin, in the council chamber on the bottom floor of the keep. You know where it is.’ He took out his Ave beads from his wallet. ‘I shall recite five of these; by the time I’ve finished you must be there.’

In fact Ranulf had reached only the fourth when Marissa and Martin, gasping for breath, hurried into that cold, murky chamber, the only light being the squat tallow candle in the centre of the table.

‘Good, good.’ Ranulf ushered them in, then kicked the door shut, pulling across the bolts. As he drew his sword and dagger, Martin’s hand fell to the knife in his own belt. ‘Please don’t do that,’ Ranulf asked. ‘You’re in no danger if you tell the truth. I want the truth.’

‘About what?’ Marissa stammered, stepping behind Martin for protection.

‘Come here.’ Ranulf beckoned to Martin. The man-at-arms edged forward and Ranulf grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him to the far end of the hall, then brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s shoulder.

‘I have done no wrong,’ Martin declared.

‘Except for Phillipa,’ Ranulf replied. ‘You are considered gallant with the ladies, aren’t you, with your leather jacket and proper boots? You wear a sword belt and swagger like the rest of us. Phillipa lived in dreams, didn’t she? You and she used to meet. Did you know she was pregnant? I am keeping my voice to a whisper so only you and I know what is being said here. Now, according to my law, there are two pleas, guilty or very guilty. Guilty is you and Phillipa lay together and she conceived. Very guilty is you and Phillipa lay together, she conceived but now you are going to lie.’

Martin gazed back, stricken-eyed.

‘It’s not a crime,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘I’m not saying she killed herself for that. I think I know why she killed herself. But are you the father of her child?’

Martin began to tremble and Ranulf moved the sword swiftly to the other shoulder, bringing it down with a slap.

‘God have mercy on me,’ the man-at-arms replied, ‘but it must be me. She was a maid when I met her, her head full of dreams and fantasies. It was after Midsummer’s Day; I followed her into the forest. I took some wine and bread, but after that . . .’

‘Did you boast about it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I dared not.’ The man-at-arms glanced down the hall at Marissa, who sat on the edge of a bench. Ranulf followed his gaze.

‘I was fearful,’ the man-at-arms continued. ‘Mistress Feyner has a fiery temper. I was supposed to be her Goliard. I did not know what to do, then Phillipa disappeared.’

‘She wasn’t liked by the other girls, was she?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Phillipa was a dreamer,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘She had listened to tales about knights and squires; she even knew the tale of Arthur. She was clever with the horn book, she could count to one hundred and read the words of the missal. She was even learning some Latin and French.’

‘And the other girls teased her?’

‘They teased her,’ Martin agreed. ‘Harassed her like sparrows would an owl caught in the daylight.’

Ranulf resheathed his sword. ‘And of course,’ the clerk smiled thinly, ‘once she had fled, they’d simply dismiss it, wouldn’t they, as part of Phillipa’s madcap dreaming?’ Ranulf grasped the man-at-arms by the shoulder. ‘One day in your sorry life, Martin, make a pilgrimage. Walk barefoot to some shrine, spend good silver for a Mass to be sung for the souls of that woman and her child who died before God’s plan for them was complete.’

With a flick of his wrist, Ranulf dismissed them both and waited until they had left. He doused the candle and left the keep, striding across the yard to the death house. He was surprised to find Lady Constance and her maid waiting outside, deep in conversation with Corbett.

‘My Lady has been making her confession.’ Corbett smiled. ‘She now realises that on the night Monsieur Crotoy died, she distracted you.’

‘My Lady is never a distraction,’ Ranulf bowed, ‘and the fault was entirely mine.’ His heart leapt at Constance’s beaming smile.

‘I think we were talking about a token, weren’t we?’ she murmured.

Ranulf blushed.

‘I felt guilty,’ Lady Constance continued, ‘then I recalled something. Early on the day he died, my maid and I visited Monsieur Crotoy. He seemed most friendly. I wanted to ask him about the fashions in Paris. We’d heard stories about new clothes and head-dresses. Monsieur Crotoy was most helpful and charming. He took us up into his chamber, where we shared wine and a dish of marchpane. When we visited him, the outer door was locked.’

‘I wondered about that,’ Corbett said. ‘How Louis could have heard anyone knocking on the door.’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, Sir Hugh. The passageway between the doors creates an echo; you can hear any noise. I know. When I was young I used to hide there from my mother. Did you also notice, Sir Hugh, in the outer door there is a narrow grille, a small trapdoor. You pull back the flap and look through to see who is waiting. Now when Monsieur Crotoy let us in, I teased him about the doors being locked. He replied that if he had his way he would have bolts on the outside door as well. I asked him what he was fearful about, didn’t I?’ She turned to the maid, who agreed. ‘Did he not trust my father? Or did he think all English men wore tails? Monsieur Crotoy said something strange; he reassured me that he trusted my father completely, while he also talked warmly of his friendship with you, Sir Hugh. He added that, since the death of Monsieur Destaples, he feared his own kind rather than any other and had vowed he would let none of them into his chamber. He was quite insistent on that and repeated the remark at least twice. I felt sorry for him. When we left, he followed us down and locked the outside door behind us.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you should know that.’ She sketched a bow at Corbett, winked at Ranulf, tapped him gently on the shoulder and walked away. Corbett, frowning, watched her go.

‘Now, isn’t it strange, Ranulf – why should that viper de Craon claim he visited Louis? Louis was very careful! He wouldn’t show de Craon the courtesies extended to Lady Constance. So why does that Frenchman lie? He claims to have visited Louis; I don’t think he did.’

They returned to the death house, where the corpses lay covered in canvas sheets. Corbett crossed himself and was about to leave when he noticed the garments stripped from both young women lying in a heap on the floor. He went across and sifted through these. Phillipa’s had grown threadbare, the colours running, due to the exposure in the forest; the only personal item found was a small set of Ave beads, eleven in all, which could be worn round the wrist. Alusia’s were drenched in mud. Corbett put on his gauntlets and shook out each item, and exclaimed in surprise at what fell from the thick serge gown. He picked it up. It was a piece of wood, around which strips of wire had been wound to form a handle. He could slip three of his fingers into the gap. He stared curiously at it.

‘Ranulf. What is this?’

‘Where did it come from?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Alusia’s gown is thick, it was caught in the thread.’ Corbett pointed to the sharp end of the wire.

Ranulf took it out to the doorway, turning it over in his hands. ‘It’s a crude brush,’ he declared, ‘the type used to remove mud and dirt from linen. Once it has been weakened by the water you scrape it off. My mother had one. She carried it on a cord from her belt. Alusia must have been wearing it on the day she was killed.’

Corbett felt a tingle of excitement in his stomach. ‘I wonder,’ he whispered. ‘Ranulf, go and ask someone where Alusia worked. Would she wash clothes?’

As Ranulf hurried off, Corbett went back into the death house and stood between the corpses; eyes closed, he prayed that what he had discovered would be of use.

‘Sir Hugh!’

Corbett opened his eyes. Ranulf had returned.

‘Alusia worked in the buttery. She never washed clothes.’

‘Mistress Feyner,’ Corbett whispered, ‘she is the laundrywoman, Ranulf.’ He crossed himself and led Ranulf out of the death house. ‘Go and fetch her,’ he declared. ‘Bring her to my room but don’t alarm her.’

Corbett was seated in the chair in front of the fire when Ranulf ushered Mistress Feyner into the chamber. He rose to greet her, grasping those strong hands and guiding her to the high-backed chair opposite. Mistress Feyner had been crying until she was red-eyed, yet she was watchful, tense.

‘Mistress Feyner, you are a widow. Your husband was a carpenter.’

‘He was, and a very good one,’ she declared.

‘He was also a crossbowman,’ Corbett continued, ‘serving the King’s armies.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Do you still have his arbalest? His quiver of quarrels, perhaps two or three of those?’

Mistress Feyner remained silent. She glanced across at Ranulf.

‘I don’t want to talk while he is here.’ She pointed at Ranulf. ‘I don’t like his eyes.’

Corbett glanced at Ranulf, pulled a face and indicated he should stand outside. Once he had gone, Corbett leaned closer.

‘Mistress Feyner, Phillipa was your only daughter. A man can never understand a mother’s love. You knew what was happening, didn’t you? How your daughter was clever at the church school, quick with her numbers, able to read the words, but the other girls didn’t like that, did they? Matters grew from bad to worse, especially when Phillipa began to talk about the mysterious Goliard, the landless knight who lived in the forest. In truth there was no Goliard. Phillipa was a dreamer, much taken with Martin, the man-at-arms. Mistress Feyner, did you know . . .’ He paused, wondering whether to tell this mother what Ranulf had hurriedly informed him of while she had waited outside.

‘What?’ Mistress Feyner stretched a hand out to the fire but held Corbett’s gaze. ‘What are you going to say, King’s man? That she flirted with Martin and made the others even more jealous. So what?’

‘You know what I’m going to say,’ Corbett replied. ‘Those girls drove Phillipa out into the forest; their constant bullying, their cruel mockery forced your daughter away. They turned her wits. Only the good Lord truly knows what happened out there in the green darkness. Phillipa took her own life. You sensed that, didn’t you? You, the loving mother, knew she would never return.’

The woman tried to reply, but her lower lip quivered. Despite her roughened skin, her face had turned pale.

‘Even when she had gone,’ Corbett continued evenly, ‘the whispering didn’t stop, the mockery. Did you hear the words “good riddance” muttered? You were distraught, beside yourself with grief. You hid it well as your sorrowing turned to anger. You are a castle woman, Mistress Feyner, I suspect you have been one all your life. Sometimes when the armies march, the women go with them. Your husband must have instructed you on the use of a crossbow; how to place the bolt in the groove and wind back the winch, how to prime it well and have it ready. Crossbows come in all sizes. I’ve seen one which can be carried in one hand, but the bolts are always deadly. You are strong after years of bending over the vats and scrubbing; you have good muscular arms and wrists. An arbalest would be easy for you to use, especially so close.’

The woman lifted her hand, but Corbett continued.

‘You knew your daughter was dead, forced out by those other wenches, cruelly treated and abused, so you waged war against them. You reasoned,’ he shifted in his chair, ‘that something must have happened to Phillipa. You would have liked her body found, but you had no doubts about her fate and that the people responsible had to be punished.’

‘Are you sure, King’s man?’

‘Oh I’m certain. You had the motive and you had the means, your husband’s arbalest.’

‘I am Mistress Feyner, not some soldier.’

‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘you are Mistress Feyner the laundrywoman; who would suspect you? You moved amongst those young women like a pike amongst carp, choosing your victim. You could listen to all the chatter, who was going where, what they had planned, where they would meet. You also have some status in this castle. You could lure a wench here or there to lonely spots, like midden heaps or outhouses.’

Mistress Feyner sat like a woman in a dead faint, head down, hands resting in her lap.

‘You have a covered cart inside the castle walls, full of dirty washing or baskets of clean linen for Master Reginald. You can move that cart around the castle on any pretext, such as collecting laundry or exercising the horses. Who gives Mistress Feyner a second glance? Who senses the murderous anger seething within you? Yes, Mistress Feyner?’ She did not look up. ‘I don’t know how you lured the other victims, but as for Rebecca, well, you heard about her plans to visit her friend’s grave in the cemetery of St Peter’s in the Wood. You offered both Rebecca and Alusia a ride in the cart. On that particular morning, a cold December day, with the light hardly broken, Rebecca came first and you were waiting for her with the arbalest loaded. She hadn’t even collected her cloak. She died in an instant, and you wrapped her corpse in a canvas cloth and lifted it easily into the cart where it would lie well hidden. I’m sure when we inspect the cart we will find traces of your murderous work. Alusia arrives, and of course Rebecca isn’t there. You become impatient and leave. No one stops you, no one thinks that Mistress Feyner is an assassin, whilst your horses really pull a death cart. You reach St Peter’s church, Alusia steps down and hurries off. You go to the tail of the cart, let down the flap, pull out the canvas-bound corpse, unroll it and leave it by the side of the trackway. Only for a few heartbeats are you vulnerable or exposed, then you are gone.’

‘I could have been seen.’ Mistress Feyner’s voice was gratingly harsh.

‘Seen? By whom? I’ve been along that trackway, it is too close for any of the outlaws to come. You can see back down the path and ahead, whilst the cemetery wall would hide you from Father Matthew locked away in his house behind the church. You have claimed one more victim but now you are wary. King’s men have arrived in Corfe. I take a vow, at the time rashly, to hunt the killer down. You may have decided to pause for a while until I was gone, but Alusia was dangerous. She may have seen or heard something as she went into the cemetery. Perhaps she may have wondered why neither of you saw the corpse on your way down to the church. You knew she would never leave the castle. However, because of the chatter, you knew of her friendship with Martin. Alusia was nervous, stretched like a bowstring. Did you give her some false message from Martin to meet him here or there, some lonely spot? If things went wrong, you could always allege you made a mistake or were misled. On that night you were waiting for her, perhaps in the usual lovers’ tryst, that ruined passageway leading down to the old dungeons. You killed Alusia, wrapped her body up and hid it. But you made one mistake.’

Corbett picked the wire brush from the sack beside him and held it under Mistress Feyner’s nose.

‘The dead don’t just stand and watch, woman; they sometimes help. You made a mistake, one of your brushes was found on Alusia’s corpse. Why should she have that? She never worked in the laundry room.’

Mistress Feyner lifted her head and smiled sweetly.

‘Sir, how clever you are.’ The smile faded. ‘How clever you are,’ she repeated. ‘I really don’t know what was wrong with my Phillipa. Sometimes I thought she was with child, but if she was,’ the woman chatted on, ‘she would have told me, wouldn’t she? Sharp as a pin she was, King’s man. Oh, she had her ways, her dreams and madcap tales. She listened too intently to Lady Constance’s stories about mysterious knights, yet she was as bright as a button, my Phillipa, sharp as a dagger. Like her father she was, yes, he fought with a crossbow but he was also a skilled carpenter; he could carve out of wood and make such shapely things. Father Matthew complimented her. She understood a little Latin and French and he was teaching her to read from the lectern in church, and that was the problem. Those harridans were jealous of her! Harassed her, bullied her.

‘On Harvest Sunday last, during Mass, I could see their spiteful glances, laughing behind their fingers. Phillipa, all pale, left the church, saying she felt sick. I never saw her again. Sir Edward was kind, a search was made, but I knew my Phillipa.’ Mistress Feyner tapped her breast. ‘Here, in the sanctuary of my heart, I knew something had happened. The weeks passed, Phillipa never returned, I accepted she was dead and grieved silently. I heard the tales, the gossip, about that skulker who calls himself a man-at-arms.’ Mistress Feyner was looking at a point above Corbett’s head, letting her heart gush out the hatred which curdled there. ‘That horde of bitches never grieved, not a tear fell over Phillipa, no one ever comforted me, no one ever grieved. I knew they were guilty. I held them responsible.’

She glanced at Corbett and blinked.

‘In the end it was so easy. My husband’s arbalest was clean and oiled. I had three quivers of quarrels; I vowed to use them well. I began with those who gossiped and sneered the most; they came like flies to the honey pot. So stupid, so easily trapped. Rebecca, sidling up beside the cart when it was in the outhouse as I was loading Master Reginald’s linen. All concerned she was about visiting her friend’s grave. False tears in her eyes, stupid mouth pulled down in grief. Grief?’ Mistress Feyner spat the word out, talking to Corbett as if he was a fellow conspirator. ‘Grief? She had never once asked about Phillipa, my daughter who had no grave. I killed her so easily in that darkened place.’ She paused, nodding to herself. ‘You’re right. The cart is high, it’s so easy to hide a corpse.’ She laughed sharply. ‘She wanted to visit her friend; I thought, well, why not join her? As for Alusia,’ she shrugged, ‘she may have seen something so I pretended Martin wished to see her near the ruined doorway. It’s a pity he didn’t come. I judged him guilty as well.’

‘You left her there?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes. The next morning, before dawn, I decided to exercise the horses. No one gave me a second glance, why should they bother about me? They didn’t even care to make a proper search for my daughter. It was a dark morning, the mist curling. I carted the corpse down to the marsh.’ She sighed. ‘I thought it would sink, but I don’t really care. Phillipa has been found, she’s back, and as for you, sir . . .’

Mistress Feyner got to her feet, stretching out her hands as if she expected them to be bound. Corbett, surprised, sat back in the chair and the laundrywoman moved as swiftly as a cat. She picked up the iron poker from the hearth, swinging it, aiming for Corbett’s head. He threw himself forward, head down, and the iron bar whirled above him. He moved to grab Mistress Feyner but she had already dropped her weapon and was running for the door.

‘Ranulf!’

Mistress Feyner swung the door open and Corbett followed in pursuit, only to realise Ranulf wasn’t there, but at the foot of the steps. He came pounding up, alarmed by the noise and the crash of the door. Mistress Feyner turned right, fleeing further up the spiral staircase. Corbett and Ranulf followed. The steps were steep, twisting sharply as they followed the line of the wall. Corbett felt a little dizzy whilst Mistress Feyner, light on her feet, raced ahead. On the storey above she stopped to send some wood, stacked in a window embrasure, rattling down, impeding Corbett’s progress. He and Ranulf kicked the obstacle aside, and by the time they glimpsed her again she had reached the top, bursting through the door on the roof of the tower. She tried to bolt it from the outside, but in her haste was unable to draw across the rusting iron. Corbett paused, gasping for breath, his sweat-soaked hand slipping down the mildewed wall. The reek of this ancient place made him cough and splutter on the dust swirling through the air.

‘I want her alive, Ranulf.’ He put his hand on the latch. ‘There is no place for her to flee. I want to know why she attacked me.’

They opened the door to be buffeted by the icy wind. Mistress Feyner had reached the battlements and stood with her back to one of the crenellated openings. She seemed all composed, a smile on her lips. Corbett edged gingerly across the hard-packed ice.

‘Surrender!’ he called out. ‘Give yourself up to the King’s justice.’ He beckoned with his hand as he moved forward.

Mistress Feyner climbed up into the gap, holding the stone either side, bracing herself against the wind which sent her hair and gown billowing.

‘Please,’ Corbett begged, ‘there will be mercy as well as justice.’

‘What does it matter, King’s man?’ Mistress Feyner called back. ‘What does anything really matter now?’ And spreading her arms as if they were wings, she fell back.

Corbett and Ranulf, slipping on the ice, strode across. Steadying themselves against the battlements, they peered over. Mistress Feyner lay below, black and twisted against the snow. Already a dark puddle shrouded her head like some sombre nimbus. People were hurrying across, shouting at each other.

‘God have mercy on her,’ Corbett whispered. ‘God give her peace.’

They went back down the steep stairwell. Corbett stopped to secure his chamber before continuing down into the yard. Sir Edmund and Bolingbroke were already waiting.

‘I told them what had happened,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Sir Edmund went looking for further proof.’ Corbett stared down at the bundle at the Constable’s feet: a dark-stained sheet, an arbalest polished and clean, next to it a leather pouch of crossbow bolts.

‘We found them,’ Sir Edmund declared. ‘The crossbow was in a hole beneath her cottage floor. The cloth was folded neatly in the cart. So evil.’ He turned and spat.

‘No,’ Corbett disagreed. ‘A poor woman, driven witless by grief, revenge and hatred. Anyway,’ he gazed up at the snow-laden sky, ‘this bloody work is finished; we have other things to do.’ He patted the Constable on the shoulder. ‘Give her body an honourable burial. She sinned but truly believed she had been grievously sinned against.’

Already a crowd was beginning to gather, eager with questions; Sir Edmund waved them away whilst Corbett took his two companions up to his chamber. For a short while he sat hunched in front of the fire, warming himself, wondering if he could have done things differently. Mistress Feyner had killed, and killed again. The castle folk would have demanded justice and she would have received little mercy, being thrust in some dungeon then tried before the justices in eyre, before being dragged on a hurdle at a horse’s tail to be hanged on some gibbet or, even worse, burnt alive outside the castle gate.

Ranulf brought Corbett some watered wine. He sipped it carefully, calming his mind.

‘We will not meet de Craon today. So, let us draft the pardon letters for the outlaws.’

The two clerks muttered in protest, but when Chanson arrived they began the laborious process. Sheaths of vellum were smoothed with pumice stone. Corbett dictated the words, Ranulf and Bolingbroke writing them down before copying them into formal letters, dating them on the eve of St Nicholas, the thirty-first year in the reign of Edward the First after the Conquest. The hard red wax was melted, Bolingbroke carefully ladling it out on to the prepared parchments. Corbett opened the secret Chancery box and carefully made sure his own ciphers were there before taking out the precious seal and making the impressions. Certain places in the document were left blank to insert names of individuals, but they all read the same, ‘that X be admitted, with full pardon and mercy, into the King’s peace, and that this pardon was for divers crime, poaching, housebreaking, robbing the King’s highway . . .’

‘I must go,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I promised I would meet them, to assure Horehound and all his followers that all would be well. I also offered to bring supplies.’

When Ranulf had left, taking Chanson with him, Corbett replaced the secret Chancery box and, trying to forget that black figure, head soaked in blood, sprawled out in the snow, took out the Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger and began leafing through the pages. He found it difficult to concentrate. Despite what justice would have been meted out to her he regretted Mistress Feyner’s death; even more that he had failed to question her about the murderous assault on himself.

Corbett eventually composed himself and became engaged in a fierce debate with Bolingbroke over the value of the Secretus Secretorum and the cipher Friar Roger had used. The more he studied the strange Latin words, the more convinced he became that the Franciscan had invented a most cunning code. He and Bolingbroke tried every variation they knew, and Corbett had to check himself lest he inadvertently gave away his own ciphers used in the letters and memoranda issued to his agents across Europe. They tried position codes, code wheels and the most complex multiplication table codes, studying the vertical pattern with the letters forward or backward. Bolingbroke confessed to being almost certain that Friar Roger’s cipher was based on one of these. Corbett, however, remained unconvinced and kept returning to the key Magister Thibault had found on the last page, ‘Dabo tibi portas multas’ – ‘I shall give you many doors’. He realised how the letters of this phrase were separated, transposed and confused by blocks of other letters which somehow gave the words a Latin ring, and isolated what he called these alien obstacles, but when he applied them to other lines and sections of the manuscript it failed to resolve the mystery. He and Bolingbroke must have argued for an age, and when Ranulf returned drenched in melting snow, Corbett welcomed the break.

‘Yes, I met Horehound and his lieutenant Milkwort. They have agreed to come into the castle the day after tomorrow and accept the King’s peace. Strange,’ Ranulf sat on a stool to remove his boots, ‘they were full of mumbles about the taverner Master Reginald, who drove them away, whilst Father Matthew was ill, claiming he was too weak to congratulate them on the good news. Sir Hugh?’ He glanced across. Corbett had been half listening, staring intently at the copy of the Opus Tertium de Craon had lent him. He placed this on the bed and went to get his own copy, one finger on the text comparing the two pages.

‘I’ve found it,’ he whispered and glanced up. ‘At least I know that!’