The Magician

Chapter 10

Magister Jean Vervins wrapped his cloak about him and leaned against the parapet of Corfe Castle, oblivious to the bitter cold and the freezing wind tugging at his cowl. The walkway was slippery underfoot but Vervins wasn’t frightened. In his youth he had served on a cog of war and had trod dangerous slippery decks which moved and twisted on heavy seas. He turned to his right; he was safe enough up here. Ten paces away a sentry crouched against the crenellated wall, warming his hands over the small brazier. He caught Vervins’ gaze and lifted his hand; the Frenchman replied and turned to stare out across the mist-shrouded countryside. Vervins had climbed the steps leading up to the parapet walk resting on his cane, quite determined to escape the cloying atmosphere of Monsieur de Craon. He did not like the royal clerk; he resented his arrogance and above all was deeply opposed to this farrago of nonsense. He wanted to be back in Paris, to be closeted in his own warm chamber at the back of his spacious house on the Rue St-Sulpice. He wanted to return to his books and ledgers, to walk the narrow streets and meet his friends in the cookshops and taverns, or be back disputing terms of law in the cavernous schools of the Sorbonne.

Vervins had studied Friar Roger and dismissed the dead Franciscan as a dreamer and a boaster. He recalled Friar Roger’s statement from the Opus Minus: ‘there is no pestilence to equal the opinion of the vulgar. The vulgar are blind and wicked, they are the obstacle and enemy of all progress.’ How could a follower of St Francis, a self proclaimed scholar, be so dismissive of others? Why all this secrecy? He recalled how Friar Roger had expressly said he had not seen a machine that could fly, yet added, ‘but I know the wise man who has invented such a procedure’. How could he say that? What did it mean? Vervins leaned against the stonework, absentmindedly picking at the lichen and moss growing there. He liked nothing better than to visit the small squares of Paris where troops of travelling mummers and storytellers would set up their makeshift stages and recount legends and stories to astonish the crowd. Was that the case with Friar Roger? A man who hinted at wondrous things but never produced the truth? The English clerks were just as baffled as he over the cipher of the Secretus Secretorum. Was that just mummery cloaked in scholarship? Was there a cipher, or was it a cruel trick by Friar Roger? A way of taunting and teasing other scholars, cleverly hinting that this manuscript contained revelations which would explain the wonders described in his other writings?

Vervins stared along the parapet walk. He was tempted to take off the thick wool-lined gauntlets and warm his fingers over that fire, yet he desperately wanted to be alone. The Secretus Secretorum was one thing, but there were more pressing, dangerous problems; the deaths of his two colleagues had reduced him to a state of constant agitation. Of course, he had to accept the evidence of his own eyes. Destaples had died of a seizure, the door to his bedchamber locked and bolted, whilst Magister Crotoy had slipped down steep steps and broken his neck. How else could it be explained? There was no trickery there, surely? But why had they been brought here, plucked from their beloved studies, forced to endure a sickening sea voyage and the rigours of an English winter in a lonely castle?

Vervins returned to staring out at the countryside. The fields and hedges slept under their carpet of snow, and now and again the mist would shift to reveal the distant trees. From below he heard the sounds of the castle, and beyond the walls the distant cawing of ravens and rooks. He came up here to be alone; everywhere he turned there was smirking de Craon, or the French clerk’s silent and grim-faced bodyguard Bogo de Baiocis.

‘Are you well, sir?’

‘I am well,’ Vervins answered the guard, ‘though freezing cold.’

He closed his eyes. Perhaps they would leave soon, and when they returned to Paris he would keep his silent vow. He would immerse himself in his studies and not be drawn, like the rest, into debates of political theory, or be party to veiled criticism of the power of the Crown, the real reason for his presence here. Vervins was certain that he and the others were being punished for what seemed to be disloyalty to the outrageous claims of Philip of France. They were being taught a cruel lesson to accept that axiom of Roman law, voluntas principis habet vigorem legis – ‘the will of the prince is force of law’.

A particularly stiffening buffet made Vervins flinch. In Paris he loved to climb the towers of Notre Dame and stare out over the city; this was not the same. He walked carefully along the parapet ledge to the door of the tower.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the guard called out. ‘It’s locked, it always is.’

Vervins lifted the iron ring but it wouldn’t turn. He sighed in exasperation and walked gingerly towards the guard, who rose from his crouched position to allow the Frenchman past to the approaches of the outside steps. Vervins was careful. He paused by the brazier and, taking off one gauntlet, spread his fingers over the spluttering coals. The guard, smiling at him, pulled the brazier closer to the wall to ensure the Frenchman had safe passage. As Vervins went to thank him he felt a sickening blow to the back of his head. He staggered, dropping the cane, and slipped over the edge, his body hurtling down to smash against the cobbles.

The sound of the tocsin alarmed Corbett and brought him and his two companions sprinting into the yard. A small crowd already ringed the fallen Frenchman, who lay sprawled, his head smashed like an egg against the sharp icy cobbles. Sir Edmund and his officers came hurrying up, followed by Father Andrew, his metal-tipped cane clattering against the ground. Soon after, Magister Sanson forced his way through, took one look at his comrade and immediately fell into a dead faint. De Craon arrived, shouting at Sir Edmund that Sanson should immediately be removed to the infirmary as he turned over the still, bruised corpse of Vervins.

Corbett did not interfere. A witness breathlessly informed him how he had seen the Frenchman on the parapet walk staring out over the countryside. He had begun to walk back to go down the outside stairs when he had apparently slipped and fallen. Simon the leech had the corpse placed on a makeshift stretcher and turned the dead man’s head between his hands to the left and right, his fingers searching for cuts.

‘The skull is fractured.’ The leech looked up at Sir Edmund. ‘It’s like a piece of pottery, cracked and splintered. He must have hit the cobbles, and the force of the fall made him spin like a top. His head bounced like a ball hitting the ground.’

Corbett stared up at the parapet walk high above him. The brazier still glowed there. He recalled de Craon’s remark about Vervins’ liking to stand there. Had that most sinister of men already decided how another of his retinue should die?

‘Where is the sentry, Sir Edmund?’

The Constable beckoned forward a thin, gap-toothed young man, all anxious-eyed and pale-faced, who kept wiping his sweaty hands on a stained jerkin. Corbett took him by the shoulder and led him away from the crowd whilst de Craon and Sir Edmund debated what should be done with the corpse.

‘It wasn’t my fault, sir.’ The soldier broke free of Corbett’s strong grip, staring fearfully at Bolingbroke and Ranulf, who had brought their war belts down and were strapping them on. ‘I didn’t push him, I was half asleep.’ He gestured up to the soaring parapet. ‘I’m on the dusk walk; I sit and warm my hands over the coals, out comes the Frenchman. I tell him to be careful. I couldn’t understand much of his reply but he said he had served on cogs and would often climb the steps of No’dam.’

‘Notre Dame,’ Corbett corrected him.

‘That’s right, sir. He said he liked heights, wanted to see the countryside. I told him there wasn’t much to see. I could tell he was talking to himself, he seemed worried.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘He went to the tower door at the end of the parapet walk.’

Corbett followed the man’s direction. The tower, like a rounded drum, soared up from the bailey to dominate the curtain wall parapet, a fighting place with arrow slit windows. He went round the back of the tower and into the narrow recess. He tried the door but it was locked. He came back to the sentry.

‘Why is that door locked?’

‘Ah!’ The soldier half-smiled. ‘The Constable is a strict man, he doesn’t want people coming up distracting the guards.’

Corbett studied the tower. Built into the curtain wall of the castle, it jutted out slightly from the outside wall so that defenders could use it to assault the flanks of any enemy force trying to breach the wall with a battering ram. The door to the narrow entrance was on the far side of the tower, so anyone could enter unseen from the bailey.

‘And the door at the top?’ he asked.

‘Also locked,’ the guard conceded. ‘Sir Edmund doesn’t like us creeping in there and falling asleep.’

Corbett walked to and fro, staring up at the wall so dizzyingly high above him. The entrance to the tower was so well concealed it would have been easy for anyone to slip through. Yet that was locked, and according to the guard, so was the one at the top, whilst there had been no one on the parapet walk except Vervins and the sentry. Another unfortunate accident? Had the Frenchman slipped? Or had the dizzying height been too much for him? Corbett recognised why Sir Edmund had to be so strict. Doors to towers were often locked and sentries had to be kept in full view; many a castle had fallen because its guards had left their post.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Corbett sighed.

‘You are going up, sir? You should be careful! Even Sir Edmund only puts on sentry duty those who are used to such heights. I volunteer because it’s better than digging latrine pits.’

‘What precisely happened,’ Ranulf asked, ‘when Vervins fell?’

‘I’ve told you and Sir Edmund,’ the guard said. ‘The Frenchman came up, he leaned against the wall, now and again he turned to greet me. He decided to go down. He tried the door to the tower but it was locked. He came towards me, very careful he was, carrying his cane. He took off his gauntlet to warm his fingers on the coals. I crouched against the wall to give him as much room as possible. I pulled the brazier away, he went to pass, he cried out, then slipped. I saw his body fall, it bounced on the cobbles, rolling, spinning like a top. I best go with you, Sir.’

Preceded by the guard, and ignoring Sir Edmund’s shouts, Corbett and Ranulf gingerly climbed the steps, which were carefully sanded against the slippery ice. Corbett tried to remain calm and not look down, concentrating on the soldier in front. When they reached the top, the coals in the small brazier had turned a dusty grey, and the wind was strong and cutting. Corbett grasped the rope which ran the length of this outer wall. He edged along and turned, staring out over the battlements at the winter countryside. He understood why a man like Vervins would come here, away from the noise, smells and bustle of the castle; an opportunity to drink in the fresh air, and if the guard was right, Vervins was a man used to such heights. Edward, the King, was similar. On one occasion he had actually held a council meeting on the top of a tower, much to the horror of some of his advisers. Gripping the guide rope, Corbett carefully turned and stared down into the castle yard. A dizzyingly sickening drop which made his stomach clench in fear.

‘Best not look down, sir,’ the guard warned.

Corbett walked carefully along the parapet. From below it looked narrow, but it was in fact a broad thoroughfare, at least two yards wide. It stretched from the steps which bisected it to the tower at the far end and, more importantly, the door to the tower which Vervins had tried to open. Corbett gingerly walked towards this door. Of stout oak, it was strengthened with a thick tarry substance as protection against the weather, and reinforced with rusty iron studs. He grasped the cold ring; it held firm, so he walked back carefully. Ranulf had flattened himself against one of the crenellations. The guard squatted where Vervins had suffered his fatal fall.

‘He was here, just where you are standing, sir, then he fell away.’

‘And where were you?’

‘As I am now, sir.’

Corbett crouched down and felt the parapet walk, sifting the grit and sand between his fingers. There was no ice here, no crack or crumbling which could explain Vervins’ accident. He looked back towards the door. Something he’d glimpsed there intrigued him.

‘So, Vervins . . .’ Corbett quickly pulled up his cowl as a gust of freezing wind stung his face and made his eyes water. ‘So, Vervins had his back to the tower, as did you. He was holding his cane?’

‘Suddenly he gives a cry, sir, and falls to his death.’

Corbett returned to the tower, turning a deaf ear to Ranulf, who was already regretting following his master up to this soaring, freezing parapet wall. He examined the door. He’d noticed the spyhole just above eye level, a square of wood about a foot across on stiff leather hinges. He pushed at this but it held firm. He had seen the type before, a squint which could be opened from the inside so that the guard could see who demanded entrance, or who was walking along the parapet walk.

‘It can only be opened from inside, sir. Two pegs keep it in place, rather stiff it is,’ the guard called out.

Corbett thanked him and, followed by a grateful Ranulf, walked down the steps into the castle yard. Vervins’ body had been removed. Sir Edmund, in his cloak, was in deep conversation with the leech.

‘Another accident, Sir Hugh?’ Corbett could tell from the Constable’s eyes that something was wrong.

‘You don’t believe it was an accident, do you?’ Corbett replied.

Sir Edmund shook his head, his lips twisted in a bitter grimace.

‘I’d like to say, Sir Hugh,’ he edged closer to Corbett, ‘that an old man missed his footing, but de Craon tells me Vervins was used to such heights, in fact he revelled in them, while my soldiers tell me it was quite common for him to climb up on to the walls. He seemed to like it. You’ve been up there; the parapet walk is broad, firm and sanded.’

Corbett turned to the leech.

‘Did you find any other wound?’ he asked him.

‘Nothing,’ the man replied. ‘His head is a maze of cracks, splinters, like a dropped pot.’

‘But no arrow or dagger mark?’

‘No,’ the leech protested. ‘Nothing like that! He could have been struck by a pole, the flat of a sword, or even a rock hurled by someone. Yet the guard reported nothing wrong. All I can say,’ the leech concluded, ‘is that the Frenchman’s skull is a mass of bruises and cracks.’

‘But all of them could have been the result of the fall, not the cause,’ Corbett added.

‘Exactly, sir. Now, I’m freezing and I have another corpse to strip.’ The leech hurried off. Corbett pointed to the tower door.

‘I have the keys,’ the Constable declared. ‘As the guard has probably told you, I keep both doors firmly locked. There’s only one set.’

Sir Edmund called for a steward to bring the keys and a short while later the man came hurrying up, a large jangling ring in his hand. At Corbett’s bidding he unlocked the tower door. Corbett, followed by Sir Edmund, Bolingbroke and Ranulf, stepped into the musty darkness. It seemed even colder inside than out. The Constable took a tinder from the ledge, lit a sconce torch and carefully led them up the steps, Corbett walking just behind him. In the poor light he could detect nothing amiss. One hand gripping the guide rope, they passed stairwells leading to deserted rooms and eventually reached the small passageway at the top, where they all stopped, gasping. Sir Edmund fitted the torch into one of the clasps on the wall, and the flame, catching the draughts, flared up, illuminating the door. Corbett noticed how this door was not only locked but kept secure by clasps at top and bottom. He stared down at the hard paved stone; again, there was nothing out of place. He could see the faint glimpse of light around the squint hole, and he released the pegs, caught hold of the leather strap and pulled down the squint to provide a clear view of the parapet walk.

‘Sir Edmund, if you could?’ Corbett gestured for the rest to stand back, whilst he adopted the stance of a man armed with a crossbow.

‘What are you thinking, Sir Hugh?’

‘I have no evidence,’ Corbett gazed through the gap, ‘but this squint folds away quietly. The hinges are leather, I loosened it with barely a sound. Is it possible that someone, armed with a crossbow and a blunted bolt, was watching Vervins from here? It would be easy to hit a man on the back of his head. Ranulf, wouldn’t you agree?’ He stepped aside as his henchman also pretended to be a crossbowman.

‘An easy target.’ Ranulf closed the squint then opened it again; the wood came away without a sound.

‘It’s possible,’ Corbett declared, ‘for the killer to have been here. Every so often he could open that slat and glimpse where Vervins was. Hiding behind this door, he would hear the Frenchman walking up and down.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ the Constable protested. ‘The door at the bottom is locked, there is only one key and my steward would never give it up, not even to you, Sir Hugh, without my permission.’

Corbett absentmindedly agreed. He thanked Sir Edmund and asked him to keep the bottom door open so that he could continue his investigation.

‘Go down into the yard,’ he told Bolingbroke. ‘Search the cobbles, see if you can find anything suspicious.’

‘But they are encrusted with mud,’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘Sir Hugh, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Look anyway, you may be fortunate.’ Corbett returned to examine the squint, opening and shutting the wooden slat. He asked Ranulf to go down and order the guard to resume his watch on the parapet wall, and when he did so, Corbett began to play with the squint, opening and shutting it, shouting at the guard to tell him if he noticed anything amiss. After a while the soldier came to the door, pushing his face up against the gap.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he called out, ‘I’m hardly aware of you being there. You could open and shut the squint and I would hardly notice. The door lies in a shadowy recess away from the light.’

Corbett thanked him, closed the slat and, crouching down, sat in the corner of the stairwell, blowing on his fingers. Ranulf, leaning against the wall, kicked the toe of his boot against the brickwork.

‘Sir Hugh, you don’t believe the assassin came up here?’

‘I will tell you what I believe, Ranulf: we are lost in a forest where the mist hangs heavy and the trees cluster thick, and when they thin, it is only to expose some marsh or morass. I don’t believe these deaths were accidental, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure or Louis slipped on a sharp stairwell. Why should Monsieur Vervins, so used to heights, who came up on the parapet walk to relax and enjoy himself, a man who was very careful, why should such a man cry out and fall to his death? Very clever, mind you.’ Corbett bit his lip in anger. ‘Vervins’ head has more bruises than he has hair and I am certain de Craon will assure Sir Edmund it wasn’t his fault, that Vervins shouldn’t have been up on the castle walls on an icy day.’ He leaned across, plucking at Ranulf’s cloak. ‘Something is amiss, I don’t know what. De Craon is secretly laughing at us.’

‘If we tell him what we’ve found,’ Ranulf declared, ‘he will laugh even harder. One thing, Master, he cannot blame any of us for Vervins’s death; we were with you in your chamber when he fell.’

‘Aye,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but I wonder where Monsier de Craon and that silent retainer of his were?’

‘They can’t have been here.’ Ranulf helped Corbett to his feet. ‘The tower door was locked, you keep forgetting that.’

He and Corbett returned to the yard, where Bolingbroke was still sifting with his boot amongst the straw, dirt and ice. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he grumbled, ‘nothing at all.’ He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his fingers.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ The Constable came running across and handed Corbett a small scroll. ‘Mother Feyner’s corpse was stripped; we found this in the pocket of her gown.’

Corbett unrolled the parchment, a neatly cut rectangle, on it inscribed a few lines. The hand was clerkly, the words English: And enough bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn Mass.

‘In God’s name,’ Corbett muttered, ‘what on earth is this?’ He handed it to Ranulf, who repeated the words loudly.

‘It wasn’t written by us, Sir Edmund,’ Ranulf explained.

‘I’ve shown it to de Craon, he claims to have no knowledge of it either. Apparently Mistress Feyner may have been taking it down to the Tavern in the Forest. It looks as if someone was trying to buy food from Master Reginald, but why so flowery?’

Corbett plucked the manuscript out of Ranulf’s fingers and read it again. He felt a prickle of fear; he’d read enough ciphers to detect a secret message.

‘We also found two freshly minted coins,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘I can only deduce that Mistress Feyner was paid to take that parchment to Master Reginald, but the message is strange enough. I understand the reference to bread, but damsons in December?’

Corbett folded the parchment up and slipped it into his purse.

‘And Vervins?’ he asked.

Sir Edmund sighed in exasperation. ‘The victim of an unfortunate fall. What more can be said?’

Corbett and the two clerks returned to his chamber. Chanson had built up the fire. For a while they discussed Vervins’ death and the strange piece of parchment Sir Edmund had found. The day wore on. Corbett returned to his studies; at least he had solved one mystery and had shared it with his colleagues just before the tocsin sounded.

‘Is that really why the King has sent us here?’ Chanson had followed the proceedings carefully; he now sat opposite Corbett, who was comparing the two manuscripts on his lap.

‘In the Opus Tertium,’ Corbett explained, ‘Friar Roger makes a very strange confession. Listen: “During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom”.’ Corbett looked up. ‘Then he goes on, “I have spent more than two thousand pounds on secret books and various experiments.” Now this is what’s written in the French copy of the Opus Tertium. However,’ Corbett was aware how silent the chamber had fallen; Ranulf and Bolingbroke walked over, ‘as I was about to explain fully, before Vervins’ fall, in our noble King’s version, Friar Roger claims it was only twenty pounds.’ Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Which is correct?’ Bolingbroke asked

‘The French version, it must be. Our King has tried to interfere with the manuscript. He’s rubbed out two of the noughts.’

‘Are you sure it’s not French pounds?’ Bolingbroke demanded. ‘The livre tournis is only a quarter of the value of sterling.’

‘No, no.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘Friar Roger was English, he’s talking of two thousand pounds, a King’s ransom. Let me give you an example, Ranulf. Remember when you became a Clerk of the Green Wax, you were instructed on the workings of the Exchequer. You do recall the assignment given to you?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘we were told to remember certain figures, it was a form of scrutiny.’

‘In mine,’ Corbett declared, ‘many years ago, when I was examined before the great Burnell, I was asked to memorise the income of the Crown at the beginning of our King’s grandfather’s reign. If I recall correctly, the entire Crown revenue in 1216 was about thirty thousand pounds; that’s about the same time Friar Roger was growing up. Now we know that Friar Roger came from fairly poor people at Ilchester just across the Dorset border.’ Corbett paused. ‘Ilchester,’ he muttered, ‘it’s only a day’s journey from here. Isn’t that strange? Yes, yes,’ he continued talking to himself, staring at the dancing candle flame, ‘very strange indeed, that the King should send us here, not far from where Friar Roger was born.’

‘Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf passed a hand in front of his master’s face. ‘Sir Hugh, what are you muttering about?’

‘I’m not muttering, I’m just speculating why Edward the King is so keen on Friar Roger; why he wants the Secretus Secretorum translated. Here we have a Franciscan, vowed to poverty, declaring he has spent an amount equivalent to almost one fifteenth of the entire Crown revenue on the pursuit of knowledge. Friar Roger, of low to middling birth, a scholar and a Franciscan! Where did he get such money? How on earth could he spend two thousand pounds?’

‘He’s lying,’ Bolingbroke declared. ‘He must be.’

‘Why should he lie?’ Corbett asked. ‘Shall I tell you something, William, I think Friar Roger made a mistake, he let something slip, and our King fastened on this. To disguise it, even from us, the King tried to change the text. He’s the only person who’s recently handled this manuscript,’ Corbett added grimly. ‘Look,’ he picked up the manuscript, ‘it’s obvious, indeed quite clumsy. Edward has done his best to reduce that amount. I’ve read it a number of times. First I dismissed it as a mark on the page. It was only when I borrowed Crotoy’s version that I realised what our wily royal master intends. Edward has spent treasure in his war against the Scots. He believes Friar Roger was an alchemist able to change base metal into gold. He also believes the Secretus Secretorum will demonstrate how he achieved this.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ Bolingbroke sat down on the stool. ‘I don’t believe in alchemy and the philosopher’s stone. And if our King does, why should he want to share such knowledge with the French?’

‘Ah.’ Corbett lifted his head and smiled. ‘What you don’t know, William, is that if the French are being cunning, so is our King. I am under strict instructions from Edward to compare notes with the French, to learn everything they know. I’m like a thresher in a barn. I have to separate the wheat from the chaff but make sure only the former is gathered by the King of England.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sure de Craon has received similar instruction.’

He tapped the bound manuscript. ‘I will confront the King with what I know, I’ll tell him not to be so suspicious. If he had told me this in the first place a great deal of hardship might have been avoided.’

‘Can we translate the Secretus?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Perhaps. We have discussed every single type of cipher, but there is one left, a secret language.’ Corbett paused to collect his thoughts. ‘Friar Roger wrote his Secretus Secretorum in Latin. He used that language as the basis to develop his own secret tongue, what clerks call “pig Latin” or “dog Latin”. Let me explain. To all words beginning with a vowel, a, e, i, o, u, you merely add the syllable “whey”, so the word for is, est, becomes estwhey, the word for love, amor, becomes amorwhey. It is simple enough.’ Corbett sat on the writing stool as the others gathered around. ‘Any word which begins with a consonant,’ he winked at Chanson, ‘that is, a letter which is not a vowel, the first letter is moved to the end of the word and the syllable “ay” is added at the beginning. So, in Latin, the word for are, sunt, becomes ayunts. Now,’ Corbett gestured, ‘this is a very simple version; you can change the rules to suit yourself, but as long as you know what the secret word is, in this case “whey” or “ay”, then any cipher becomes easy to translate.’ He gestured at the Secretus Secretorum. ‘Friar Roger based his secret language on that principle. If we could only find out what the key was, then the manuscript might give up its secrets and the King may have his treasure.’ He threw his quill down. ‘But it’s easier said than done.’

Corbett went and lay on the bed while Ranulf and Bolingbroke began a heated discussion about what he had told them. He stretched out, half listening to Chanson, who, bored with the chatter of clerks, had returned to mending a bit which, he claimed, could be made more comfortable for the horse’s mouth. Corbett stared up at the coloured tester above the bed. He didn’t know whether to be angry or laugh at the King’s considerable deceit, but that was Edward, suspicious and wary, a man who truly believed, though for different reasons than the Good Lord intended, that the right hand should not know what the left hand was doing.

Where had this all begun? Corbett reflected. Until late summer Edward had been engaged in trying to break the Treaty of Paris and escape the moral and legal obligation of marrying off the Prince of Wales to Philip’s only daughter Isabella. The King had worried away at this as a mastiff would a piece of meat, giving Corbett no peace. The Keeper of the Secret Seal had, in the hot months of July and August, moved to the Tower as more and more reports flooded in from his spies in France, Gascony and Flanders. Edward had prayed, lighting great tapers in front of his favourite saints, that Corbett’s spies would find some pretext for the English to repudiate the Treaty of Paris and all it entailed. Were Philip’s troops massing on the Gascony border? Would Philip hand over the disputed castle of Mauleon? Would the French pay the dowry payments? Would the French insist that the Prince of Wales be sent to Paris for a betrothal ceremony? Were French ships beginning to gather in the Channel ports? Corbett had become exasperated with the King’s constant demands for information. In the end, all he could prove was that Philip was as cunning and wily as Edward. In September there had been a respite. The King had travelled to the royal palace of Woodstock, just outside Oxford, and returned full of praise for the writings of Friar Roger Bacon. The libraries of the Halls of Oxford, Cambridge and elsewhere were ransacked as the King collected the dead Franciscan’s books. He had become fascinated with the Secretus Secretorum and indulged in a royal rage when he learnt that the University of the Sorbonne in Paris owned a similar copy.

‘Yes,’ Corbett muttered, ‘that’s when the dance began.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Nothing, Ranulf, I’m just talking to myself.’ Corbett returned to his reflections. Edward had dispatched the most cloying letters to his ‘sweet cousin’ in Paris, asking if it would be possible for the French Crown to loan him their copy of the Secretus Secretorum. Philip, of course, had politely refused. Nevertheless, the French King’s curiosity had been piqued. Corbett didn’t know whether Philip had been motivated by his arch-rival’s interest or had been following a similar vein himself. Edward, of course, became deeply suspicious, and when his clerks, including Corbett, were unable to translate the cipher used in the Secretus Secretorum, the English King had given way to even darker suspicions. Was his copy of the book truly valid? Corbett had been given strict instructions to establish the truth.

He’d travelled to Paris himself to instruct Ufford and Bolingbroke. They had discovered how the French had already copied the Secretus Secretorum. Corbett had told them to ignore all other work but to steal or buy, by any means possible, the French version. Ufford and Bolingbroke had cast about, searching like good hunting dogs for a track to follow. They had been delighted when approached by someone in the University only too willing to sell them valuable information. They had been invited to Magister Thibault’s revelry and everything should have gone according to plan. They had hired the Roi des Clefs, the King of Keys, and, for all Corbett knew, even the young courtesan who had kept Magister Thibault amused, but then something had gone wrong. Thibault had disturbed them and been killed whilst Ufford and Bolingbroke had to flee for their lives. Corbett recalled the gruesome details about the Roi des Clefs: how his hand had been so badly injured that Ufford had had no choice but to cut his throat. A grisly death, Corbett reflected, for a man who had boasted that no lock could withstand his secret keys and devices. Ufford, too, had been killed, Bolingbroke narrowly escaping with his life.

Officially, Edward of England had no knowledge of such dark deeds, so the cloying letters between him and ‘his sweet cousin of France’ had continued apace. Philip had been most amenable to sending a delegation to England, suggesting that, with the hardship of winter, the meeting should be in some secure place on the south coast, away from the hustle and bustle of London, but close enough to Dover. Edward had rubbed his hands in glee and immediately sent instruction that Sir Edmund prepare Corfe Castle. Now they were here. The French hoped they would learn from the English, whilst Edward prayed that, during these discussions, Corbett would stumble on the cipher which would translate the Secretus Secretorum and, perhaps, reveal the true reason for Friar Roger’s wealth, not to mention other marvellous secrets. Ranulf had kept his own counsel but Bolingbroke had also advised both the King and Corbett that Philip had other designs. The French King was resented by many of the professors and scholars of the Sorbonne University, who were alarmed at the growing power of the French Crown and the outrageous theories of royal lawyers like Pierre Dubois. Bolingbroke had been proved right. Corbett had no proof, but he strongly believed that all three deaths which had occurred here were highly suspicious. Philip was not only getting rid of opponents but cruelly warning others at the University that they faced a similar fate. Like Pilate he could wash his hands, claim the deaths were accidental and, if suspicions were aroused, blame the insidious English.

What else was there? Corbett tried to ignore the bloody work of Mistress Feyner. He wondered what other news the outlaws had to tell him. He recalled Sir Edmund’s worries about the fleet of Flemish pirates so active in the Narrow Seas. What was the loose thread here? Corbett recalled Destaples sprawled on his bed; poor Louis lying in a puddle of his own blood, neck all twisted; Vervins, dropping like a stone from the parapet wall. Were they all accidents? Corbett closed his eyes. He returned to the problem of the three deaths of intelligent, astute men who had no illusions about their royal master and took every precaution to keep themselves safe. They would keep well away from de Craon and yet, if it was murder, they had been killed by someone who could go through locked doors to commit such dreadful acts.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett opened his eyes; the castle bell was tolling loudly. ‘Sir Hugh, it is growing dark.’ Ranulf leaned over him. ‘We are going to the Hall of Angels.’

‘To meet the Lady Constance?’ Corbett teased.

Ranulf turned away. Corbett heard them leave, closing the door behind them. He got up, walked across to the table and sifted through the scraps of parchment Bolingbroke and Ranulf had used. They had, apparently, been searching for the ciphers Friar Roger had employed in constructing his pig or dog Latin. Corbett picked up the Opus Tertium, leafing through the pages, then turned to the front of the book where Crotoy had written John, Chapter I, verse 6-7. He studied this curiously. What did Louis mean? Going across to his psalter, he leafed through its pages and found the first chapter of John’s Gospel, ‘In the beginning was the Word, the Word was with God and the Word was God.’ He then followed the verses down to 6 and 7: ‘A man came, sent by God, his name was John, he was not the Light but came as a witness to the light.’

Corbett closed the psalter and put it back on the table. Searching amongst the manuscripts, he found his copy of Friar Roger’s Opus Maius. He had read this closely before leaving Westminster and the name John pricked a memory. He found the reference in Chapter Ten. Bacon had dedicated this Opus Maius to Pope Clement IV and sent it to the supreme Pontiff with a young man whom the friar had taught for the previous five or six years. Corbett now read this reference carefully. John was apparently no more than twenty years old at the time. Friar Roger described him as a brilliant pupil, an outstanding scholar, to whom he had entrusted secret knowledge. He had written, ‘Any scholar might listen with profit to this boy. No one is so learned, in many ways this boy is indispensable.’ And the even more startling claim, ‘He excels even me, old man that I am.’

Corbett closed the book.

‘Louis, Louis,’ he whispered, ‘what did you mean by this?’

He stood by the fire, watching the white ash break and crumble under the heat. Crotoy had been a master of logic; he had taught Corbett how there were often different paths to the same conclusion. Had Crotoy realised that the cipher couldn’t be broken? But was there another way of resolving the mystery, of discovering who this scholar John was? Was he still alive, sheltering in England or France?

Corbett put on his boots and grabbed his cloak. He would join the rest in the Hall of Angels. As he doused the candles, he recalled that mysterious scrap of parchment found on Mistress Feyner. That was something he had forgotten, yet something he should probe. Why had she been carrying such a message? Who was it from? What did it mean? And enough bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn mass. What was the French for belly? Ventre? Corbett placed the grille in front of the fire. The message hadn’t been written by him or any of his retinue. It was a mystery to Sir Edmund, so it must have been written by de Craon. What further mayhem was he plotting?