The Magician

Chapter 11

Horehound the outlaw was ready for the King’s peace. He was cold, hungry and wished to be free of the malevolent force of the forest. He had lived too long among the trees to be worried about sprites and elves. Father Matthew had once talked of mysterious beings, the ‘Lords of the Air’. Horehound truly believed in these beings he could not see but who crouched in the branches and stared maliciously down at him, who were responsible for the freezing darkness, the tripping undergrowth and the lack of any game to fill his belly and warm his blood. They hid behind that ominous wall of silence and peered out at him, rejoicing in his many hardships. Horehound was truly tired. He wanted to leave the cave and had convinced the rest of his coven to follow him. All were in agreement; even Hemlock had refused to go back and now hoped to be pardoned. Horehound had fixed the time with the red-haired King’s man. Within two days he would be warming his toes in front of the castle fire.

Horehound had cleared the caves, dug up his few paltry coins, placed crude wooden crosses over his dead and pieces of evergreen on poor Foxglove’s grave. He stood at the fire before the cave mouth and burnt their few pathetic belongings, items they would not need or could not take.

‘We shall leave soon,’ he called out over his shoulder. They planned to move to St Peter’s, where they would wait for the red-haired one to bring more food and provender. Perhaps they could shelter in the cemetery, take sanctuary in God’s Acre, perhaps even the church itself? Smoke from the fire billowed up as Horehound planned and plotted. He was still frightened of Father Matthew and his strange powders, but that was the priest’s business.

‘Do you think he’ll help us?’ Milkwort sidled up to Horehound.

‘I hope so,’ Horehound replied.

‘He didn’t last time.’

‘That was because he was ill.’

‘What happens if he is still ill?’

‘Oh shut up!’ Horehound snarled.

He’d plucked up courage to approach the priest but Father Matthew had just opened the casement window and shouted down that there was nothing he could do. Reginald the taverner was just as unwelcoming. He had met Horehound out near the yard gate and, red-faced, drove them away with curses. Horehound was now suspicious; he had listened very carefully to what Hemlock had told him about strangers in the forest. He sighed; but that was the forest, ever treacherous, ever dangerous.

‘We’ll go now. We must thank those who have helped us.’

They let the fire burn down and left the glade in single file, a dozen shrouded figures, men and women who had taken a vow to leave the forest for good. Horehound led the way through what he now called the Meadows of Hell, past strangely twisted trees with their branches stripped, all his secret signs and marks concealed by that freezing whiteness. Sometimes the trees gave way to small clearings. Horehound reckoned he was on a line north of the church, castle and tavern, deep enough within the trees for safety yet not far from help. The outlaw trotted on, trying to ignore the cold seeping through his battered boots and the roughly hewn arbalest, slung across his back, knocking his shoulder. He clutched the knife in the rope around his waist, plodding carefully, wary of the silence. Here and there were the prints of some animals. Horehound hated the snow; in spring and summer you could always tell if someone had passed, but the snow kept falling, covering tracks and prints, making life even more difficult. An owl, deep in the trees, hooted mournfully. Horehound paused. Wasn’t that an evil omen? True, the day was dying but it was not yet dark, so why should an owl be hunting?

They entered the glade where Waldus the charcoal burner’s wattle and daub hut stood protected behind its weathered picket fence. Horehound paused. Usually the smell of wood smoke would be strong and there would be a glint of light between the shutters, but all lay silent, cold and black. Horehound climbed over the fence, treading carefully across the sparse vegetable patch. The door hung loose with no one inside. Horehound grew afraid; he wanted to be away from here. Waldus was gone. Horehound felt a shiver of unease. If the charcoal burner went into the forest, surely his flaxen-haired wife would stay?

They continued on past the charcoal burner’s pit. On the edge of the glade something hung tangled from a bramble bush. Horehound picked this up. It was a rabbit skin, so fresh the blood was still glistening. It had been thrown there like a piece of rubbish. Now who would do that? Rabbits were scarce and precious enough. Who was skilled enough to trap this animal and throw away its skin? Horehound crouched down; he washed the skin in the snow, folded it neatly and put it in his bag. The rest watched carefully.

‘Why throw away a good rabbit skin?’ Hemlock asked. ‘Even Sir Edmund would use it, and he is a travelled man. I was a soldier once in the castle.’ Hemlock couldn’t resist the opportunity to boast. ‘Lady Catherine said that when she was in Paris, I don’t know where that is, but it’s a great city, even ladies’ robes are fringed with rabbit fur.’

‘Never mind that!’ Ratsbayne, a small, furtive-faced man, thrust himself forward. ‘I smell wood smoke.’ Ratsbayne sniffed at the breeze with his pointed nose. ‘Food!’ he moaned in pleasure.

‘It must be Waldus.’ Horehound trusted Ratsbayne’s acute sense of smell. They hurried along the narrow lane which snaked through the trees. Horehound glimpsed a glow of fire in the distance. Keeping to the line of trees, he approached the edge of the clearing and stared across the snow-covered glade. A fire crackled in the centre just where the ground rose before falling away the other side. He glimpsed the hunched figure of Waldus, but where was his woman, the flaxen-haired one? Why was he just sitting there? Milkwort pushed his way forward.

‘I’m afeared,’ he hissed. ‘Ratsbayne believes we are being followed but he’s always nervous. What’s wrong with Waldus?’

Horehound strode across, kicking up flurries of snow. Waldus sat slumped, and when Horehound touched his shoulder he toppled on to his side, revealing dead eyes, gaping mouth and that awful cut to his throat from which the blood had slopped out to drench his legs and jerkin. Horehound looked down the rise. More blood stained the snow. He glimpsed some bracken tied up in a bundle. A hand was sticking out of it, and Horehound, terrified, recognised a wisp of flaxen hair. Gibbering with fear, he stared around, the dying light on the snow confusing him. The rest of the group hurried up. Horehound instinctively knew this was a mistake. A movement between the trees, the crackle of bracken, alerted the rest. Dark shapes were emerging. What new horror was this?

Horehound drew his knife, whilst trying to loop off his arbalest, but he was shaking, his fingers sweat soaked. All around the glade echoed those ominous sounds, harsh clicks and the twang of bows. Horehound was hit just above the chest; he dropped like a stone as the rest of his followers died around him.

Corbett felt disgruntled when he awoke. The fire had burnt down and Ranulf and Bolingbroke had not returned. He crossed to the lavarium and splashed water over his face, and for a while leaned against the mantle drying himself. He thought about Lady Maeve and his children; he wondered what they would be doing and quietly wished he was with them. Corbett recognised his own dark mood, so he opened the straps of his saddle bag, took out a small psalter of hymns and songs which he had copied down, and for a while stood in front of the fire singing softly the ‘Felte viri’, a lament on the death of William the Conqueror, followed by three verses of ‘Iam dulcis amica’. He felt better afterwards but then recalled singing that second carol with Louis Crotoy in the porch of St Mary’s church in Oxford. He thought of his old friend’s cold, stiffening corpse, and this provoked him into action. He wanted to go back to the Jerusalem Tower; there was something about that death which puzzled him. He picked up his cloak, swung it about him and paused.

‘Old friend,’ he whispered, ‘are you still teaching me?’ That was it! He recalled Crotoy’s corpse, the heavy cloak which may have made him trip. ‘Nonsense!’ he whispered at the candle flame. Louis was old and cold and the weather outside was freezing.

Corbett rubbed his hands together and absentmindedly put on his war belt. He recalled the times he had seen Louis around the castle, that heavy cloak around his shoulders; he wouldn’t have carried it, he would have put it on! Why wait until you are in the freezing cold, especially if you are leaving a warm chamber?

Corbett blessed himself, whispering the Requiem for Louis’ soul, and hurried down into the yard. He carefully crossed the cobbles, took a sconce torch from its holder, reached the Jerusalem Tower and climbed the steps into the cold antechamber. The door still hung open. Corbett went up carefully into the musty darkness. He found what he had expected: all of Louis’ books and manuscripts had been cleared away, de Craon would have seen to that, but his old friend’s personal possessions were piled neatly on the bed. Corbett sifted through these, picked up the dead man’s boot and felt inside. He smiled as he gripped the loose heel and pulled it out. Taking it over to the far side of the chamber, where he’d placed the sconce torch in a bracket, he examined both heel and boot carefully. Hiding them beneath his cloak, he went back into the yard and stopped a servant.

‘You have a shoemaker here, a cobbler?’

‘Oh yes, sir, Master Luke, and a very good one too!’ the man chatted back. ‘Sir Edmund persuaded him to come from Dover-’

‘Good,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Then seek him out and tell him to come to my chamber in the Lantern Tower, I need his skill.’ He thrust a coin into the man’s hand.

A short while later, as he placed a log on the fire, there was a rap on the door. A thin, wiry man came in, almost hidden by the leather apron he wore, face all shaven, head as bald as a pigeon’s egg.

‘Ah! Master Luke.’ Corbett wiped his hands on his jerkin and ushered the man to a stool. ‘I want you to look at this.’

He handed him the boot and loose heel. The shoemaker asked for a candle to be brought across whilst he studied both of these, muttering under his breath, running his finger along the edge of the heel.

‘Anything strange, Master Luke?’

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ The man blinked, his eyes watering from the cold. ‘Oh dear, yes! You see, sir, this is a good Spanish boot, genuine red leather, Cordova, with a fur lining within, work of a craftsman it is, though not English.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked, holding up a silver coin between his fingers.

‘What’s wrong? Why, sir,’ the man laughed nervously, ‘this heel is attached to the boot by a very powerful glue, as powerful as any stitching.’

‘So it wouldn’t work loose easily?’

‘Oh no, sir, that’s why I was examining the edge. You see, sir?’ The shoesmith held up the heel, pointing to the rim. Corbett looked mystified, so Master Luke picked up the boot, returned the heel to its original position and thrust it in front of Corbett’s eyes. ‘Now can you see it?’

Corbett held the heel fast; now he could see that there was a small dent between heel and boot.

‘It didn’t break off,’ he murmured. ‘It was prised off, wasn’t it? Someone thrust a dagger between heel and boot to force it loose.’

‘Very good, sir. A foul trick. There’s other signs, sir. You can see where the blade cut through the gum, and the outer edge of the heel is slightly hacked.’

Corbett examined this and could only agree. He gave Master Luke the coin and thanked him. Once the shoesmith had left, he sat and stared down at the boot.

‘So what do we have here, eh, old friend?’ Corbett talked as if Crotoy occupied the stool opposite. ‘You didn’t leave your chamber and trip. Someone broke your neck, threw your body down those steep steps, draped the cloak over your arm to make it look like you tripped and then loosened the heel on your boot. But how?’ He closed his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards. Someone could have been with Louis in his chamber, but he was certain that, when the corpse was found, the key to the outer door was still in the dead man’s wallet. How could that be?

Corbett rose, capped the candles, put the metal grille in front of the fire, locked his chamber and went back to the yard. He returned Crotoy’s boots to the chamber in the tower and went across to the servants’ quarters, where he asked to see Master Simon the leech. He found him in one of the stables, sitting on a stool cradling a blackjack of ale and deep in fierce argument with one of the stable boys over a sick horse. Corbett crouched beside him. The leech had apparently drunk deep and well; he gazed bleary-eyed at the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal.

‘Another death?’ he mumbled.

‘No, an old death.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The Frenchman, Destaples?’

‘What about him?’

‘He had a weak heart.’

‘That’s true, no wonder he had a seizure.’

‘Is it possible,’ Corbett asked, ‘to give such a man a potion, a herb, let’s say at the ninth hour, the effect of which would only become apparent at the eleventh?’

The leech pulled a face. ‘Of course it is. I can’t tell you how, but mixed with wine, which already quickens the blood and excites the humours, such an effect is possible.’

‘Thank you,’ Corbett tapped the blackjack, ‘and be careful what you drink!’

Next he went to the kitchens, where he begged the cooks for a bowl of hot broth, some fresh bread and a tankard of ale. He could hear the laughter and talk in the hall beyond but decided not to go there. His mind was all awhirl, images came and went; it was like leafing through a psalter where the small illuminated pictures catch your eye. He thought of Louis swinging his cloak about him, the French scholars’ contempt for de Craon, Destaples eating so carefully at the banquet, Vervins falling like a stricken bird from the soaring walls of the castle.

Corbett returned to his own chamber, where he stripped, put on his nightshift and, for a while, knelt by his bed trying to clear his mind. Chanson came lumbering up, almost falling through the door.

‘I’ve drunk far too much,’ he confessed. Corbett stayed kneeling.

‘Do you want to join me in prayer, Chanson?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, no, Ranulf is showing everyone how to cheat. I bring messages from the Frenchman; he says time is passing, tomorrow they wish to start early. He says he is ready to leave.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he is.’ Corbett crossed himself. ‘Tell Monsieur de Craon I will meet him in the solar just after dawn. Oh, and tell Ranulf and William I want them clear-headed.’

The groom left and Corbett climbed into bed. For a while he lay humming in the darkness, the tune of the scholar song, ‘Mache, bene, venies’. He tried to recall all the words to soothe his mind, and slipped into sleep.

When he awoke, the fire had burnt down and the capped candle was gutted. Corbett was reluctant to leave the warmth but eventually braved the icy cold, wrapping a cloak around him and going down into the yard to beg for some hot water so he could shave and wash. A servant came up to build the fire and the brazier. Corbett dressed in the royal colours, blue, red and gold, carefully putting on the Chancery rings as he wondered what the day would bring. He was not surprised to find de Craon and Sanson waiting for him in the solar, fresh and alert, though Ranulf and Bolingbroke, who joined them later, looked rather haggard and heavy-eyed. They sat at a small side table eating bowls of hot oatmeal in which honey and nutmeg had been mixed.

De Craon was polite but distant. Now and again he would turn to whisper something to his sombre-faced man-at-arms. Corbett, however, watched Sanson. The French scholar appeared more relaxed, seemingly untroubled by the death of his comrades, and although they hid it well, Corbett could see that Sanson was de Craon’s man, body and soul. I wonder, he thought, smiling across at Sanson, if you were the spy who gave that information to Ufford then lured him to his death. Well, we shall see, we shall see.

They gathered around the great polished walnut table. Corbett sent Ranulf back to retrieve certain manuscripts, whilst Bolingbroke laid out the writing trays with their ink horns, quills, pumice stones and small rolls of vellum.

‘I think I may have a solution,’ Corbett declared.

De Craon, on the other side of the table, raised his eyebrows in surprise, then turned to Sir Edmund, asking if the Catherine wheel of candles could be lowered to provide more light. Corbett described his theory of how Friar Roger must have used what he termed dog or pig Latin to hide his secrets, and when he had finished de Craon sat, fingers to his mouth, staring hard-eyed back.

‘Well, Pierre.’ He turned to Sanson. ‘What would your reply to that be?’

‘Sir Hugh is correct.’ Sanson cleared his throat, his high-pitched voice cutting through the silence. ‘I too,’ he smiled smugly, his fat oily face creasing into a smile, ‘reached a similar conclusion.’

He lifted his hands, snapped his fingers, and de Craon’s man-at-arms brought across his copy of the Secretus Secretorum whilst Bolingbroke placed the English version in front of Corbett. At first the niceties were observed, but Corbett was soon drawn into fierce debate about which secret cipher Friar Roger might have used. He studied the manuscript and began to write down certain phrases which the Franciscan might have used to disguise his true meaning. Sanson countered with alternative explanations. Corbett deliberately increased the pace, scribbling down notes and passing them across the table, eagerly waiting for Sanson’s reply. The hours passed. Outside the window day broke; the steward came in to say that the sky was clear, perhaps there would be no more snow, and did Sir Edmund’s guests require some food? Both parties refused. Corbett kept concentrating on the French. He was not so much concerned about Friar Roger’s cipher as Sanson’s handwriting, and as the day wore on that became more hasty, but Corbett was sure he recognised the same hand as in those mysterious memoranda sent to Ufford, copies of which Bolingbroke had brought back to England. In the early afternoon Sanson declared he was exhausted, sitting back in his chair and throwing his hands up.

‘There’s nothing more we can do, there’s nothing more we can do.’

‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ Corbett agreed.

‘Shall we eat, drink?’ de Craon asked. ‘Not to mention answer the calls of nature.’

His words created a ripple of laughter and he pushed back his chair. ‘Sir Hugh, perhaps we can meet in two hours’ time? Will you join us in the hall?’

‘In a while, in a while,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, I too am exhausted. I must collect my thoughts.’

The solar emptied. Corbett remained seated, whilst Raunulf, who had seen the secret sign his master had given, returned as if looking for something.

‘Not here,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Not here.’ He led Ranulf out of the solar through the kitchens and into the castle yard, then up across the inner ward and on to the wasteland bordering the castle warren.

‘Sir Hugh, what are you trying to do?’

‘Forget Friar Roger, Ranulf, I now know why our King is interested. Friar Roger’s cipher might take months, if not years, to break. We will make no sense of it. What I believe is that those three Frenchmen were murdered. No, no, listen. They were murdered and de Craon has come to Corfe Castle on some secret design of his own. Sanson is his creature. He simply sings the tune de Craon hums.’

Corbett clapped his hands against the cold.

‘The mystery is beginning to unravel, Ranulf, but I’m not too sure which path to follow. I must keep things sub rosa. Whatever is decided,’ he continued, ignoring Ranulf’s look of puzzlement, ‘these proceedings are coming to an end. We have made as much progress as we can and de Craon knows that.’

‘I agree.’ Ranulf gestured back at the hall. ‘Last night de Craon was murmuring that time was passing. No wonder, if you’re correct, Sir Hugh, that he brought those three men here to die; then his task is done.’

‘Oh, there’s more to come,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, when are those outlaws to be admitted to the King’s peace?’

‘Tomorrow morning, but I did promise to take them supplies before this evening, a basket of bread and meat to be left at the church.’

‘I’ll go with you.’ Corbett hitched his cloak about him. ‘But for the rest, we’ll eat, drink and sleep and see which way our French viper curls.’

They returned to the hall where Corbett, keeping his face impassive, chatted to de Craon and drew Sanson into discussion about the writings of Friar Roger. He was now certain that this French scholar was the one who had lured Ufford to his death, so he found it hard to talk, smile and practise the usual courtesies. Accordingly, he was highly relieved, when they reassembled in the solar, to hear de Craon’s declaration that he did not wish to prolong the discussions any further.

‘Sir Edmund,’ de Craon pushed himself to his feet, ‘we have trespassed on your kindness long enough. We have now reached certain conclusions regarding Friar Roger’s writings. I agree with Sir Hugh,’ he smiled blandly, ‘that our Franciscan scholar invented a new language and only the good Lord knows how it can be translated. Nevertheless, this meeting at Corfe, despite the unfortunate deaths which have occurred, marks a new development in the ties binding our two kingdoms together. Scholars of both realms have met and exchanged knowledge – a matter most pleasing to our Holy Father the Pope. Perhaps these meetings will become more frequent and encompass a wider range of matters in the years to come,’ De Craon was now beaming from ear to ear, as if announcing the most marvellous news, ‘when the son of our sovereign lord will sit on the throne at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. However, I have an admission to make. A document was found on the person of that poor unfortunate woman who, I understand, took the lives of young maids in this castle. I now declare the document was written by me.’ He raised his hand in a sign of peace. ‘I wished her to buy supplies from the local tavern and paid her well to do so.’

‘Why?’ Sir Edmund broke in brusquely. ‘Our castle is well stocked.’

‘No, no, Sir Edmund, you have it wrong. Our meeting is drawing to an end, and although this is your castle, I insist that tomorrow night I be your host, that I buy the wines and food as a small thank you for your kindness and hospitality. However,’ de Craon sighed, ‘the best-laid plans of men can often go awry. Sir Edmund, I still insist that I host this banquet, that I pay your cooks and servants as well as for every delicacy served. You must,’ he added silkily, ‘accept the munificence of my master.’

Sir Edmund had no choice but to agree, even though he nudged Corbett under the table.

‘If Sir Hugh is in agreement,’ de Craon continued like a pompous priest from his pulpit, ‘we will bring these discussions to an end. Tomorrow I must see to certain matters, the collection of our manuscripts and the packing of our valuable belongings. Our horses and harnesses must be prepared and, of course,’ de Craon’s face assumed a false mournful look, ‘there is, Sir Edmund, the sad problem of conveyancing the corpses of my three dead comrades. Nevertheless, let us rejoice,’ he continued, ‘at our achievement. Finally,’ he lifted a finger, ‘Sir Edmund, I have stayed in your magnificent castle yet never once been beyond its walls. I would like to ride out with a suitable escort to visit this famous tavern so many of your servants talk about. I need to look at its wines, choose something special for tomorrow night.’

De Craon sat down, and Sir Edmund immediately rose to say what a great honour it had been to host this meeting, how he regretted the deaths of three of de Craon’s retinue and that, of course, he would place his kitchens, his servants, cooks and store rooms at Monsieur de Craon’s disposal. Corbett followed next, with what Ranulf later described to Chanson as a polite and pretty speech which echoed many of de Craon’s sentiments. How pleased he’d been to renew his acquaintance with a French envoy and how he looked forward, with even greater pleasure, to future meetings. He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice even though de Craon smirked throughout. At the end he added that he and his retinue would also be riding out on certain business and would de Craon accept his company and protection? The Frenchman quickly agreed.

A memorandum was drafted and transcribed by Bolingbroke in which de Craon, Sanson and Corbett briefly summarised their meeting regarding Friar Roger’s writings and the conclusions they had reached. Corbett and de Craon signed the document, Sir Edmund acting as witness, before it was confirmed with the seals of both kingdoms. Bowing and shaking hands, offering assurances of eternal friendship, the French and English envoys separated. Once de Craon had left, Corbett slumped in his chair, resting his face in his hands.

‘He is up to mischief,’ Sir Edmund growled. ‘You can tell that.’

‘Up to?’ Bolingbroke retorted. ‘I think he has achieved what he came for. He has discovered what we know about Friar Roger’s writings, which is the same as he now knows, that the Secretus Secretorum is written in a strange language, though God knows whether that will ever be translated. More importantly,’ Bolingbroke picked up his goblet and banged it on the table, ‘three magistri from the University of Paris have suffered unfortunate accidents. Philip has rid himself of critics and sent a warning to the rest. Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke got up from the chair, ‘I’m not too sure whether I want to eat his food and drink his wine.’

‘You will,’ Corbett smiled back, ‘simply because you have to.’

Bolingbroke sketched a sarcastic bow and walked out of the solar, leaving Corbett and Ranulf with Sir Edmund.

‘So there is no mystery about that document found on Mistress Feyner?’ Sir Edmund clicked his tongue. ‘It was just the courteous Monsieur de Craon planning a surprise for us.’

‘I still think he is planning a surprise.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wish to God I knew what it was. Sir Edmund, we will get our horses prepared; we must take advantage of the daylight.’

A short while later, Corbett, feeling very self-conscious, led his own retinue and de Craon’s across the drawbridge and out along the trackway leading down into the forest. The sun had grown stronger, the sky was a wispy white-blue, and although it was late afternoon, the countryside seemed bright under its canopy of white snow now melting and breaking up. De Craon chatted, saying he had studied Corfe and the surrounding countryside very closely before he had come to England, how it reminded him so much of Normandy, especially the fields, meadows and woods around Boulogne. Corbett half listened. Despite the break in the weather and the knowledge that his meeting with de Craon was drawing to an end, he felt a deep unease, a tension which stiffened the muscles of his back and thighs, like a jouster getting ready for the tourney, wondering what danger it might bring. He stopped at the edge of the forest, his gaze drawn by the blackened patch of burnt earth, the pile of charred branches and brushwood.

‘That comes from the fire the other night,’ Sir Edmund’s steward, who was accompanying them, remarked. ‘Travelling people. Often from the battlements you can see such fires glowing in the forest.’

As they entered the canopy of trees, de Craon continued his chattering, questioning the steward about hunting rights and the season for deer and did the forest hold wild boar? Corbett found the Frenchman’s constant talking a source of deep irritation, and was only too pleased when de Craon reined in and summoned forward his man-at-arms.

‘Go ahead of us,’ he ordered. ‘Sir Hugh, you talked of outlaws?’

‘They are no danger,’ Corbett reassured him.

‘Never mind, never mind.’ De Craon gestured. ‘It’s better to be safe than to be sorry. Follow the trackway,’ he ordered his man-at-arms, ‘but go no further than the tavern.’

The man answered reluctantly in French. De Craon’s voice became sharp. The man-at-arms turned his horse, dug in his spurs and cantered deeper into the trees. ‘As long as he keeps to the trackway,’ de Craon muttered, ‘he’ll be safe.’

By the time they had reached the tavern in the forest, Bogo de Baiocis was standing in the yard shouting for the taverner and telling one of the stable boys to be careful with his horse. Sir Hugh and Ranulf stayed outside the gate with the rest while de Craon entered the tavern. A short while later he came out smiling to himself, his servant carrying two small tuns of wine.

‘I paid him well.’ De Craon gestured at Bogo de Baiocis to give one of the tuns to the steward. ‘The best Bordeaux, imported four years ago; they say it’s the finest those vineyards ever produced.’

For a while there was confusion as Bogo de Baiocis went back to the tavern to collect rope so that they could tie the tuns to the horns of their saddles. De Craon added that he had ordered certain items for the castle kitchens which Master Reginald would deliver personally to Corfe. Corbett declared that he and Ranulf were journeying on to the church and invited de Craon to accompany them, but the Frenchman politely refused.

‘I passed the church as we entered Corfe,’ he remarked, swinging himself up into the saddle. ‘A lonely, gloomy place, Sir Hugh. You have business with the priest there?’

‘More with certain outlaws,’ Ranulf replied.

Corbett waited until de Craon and the rest were back on the trackway leading to Corfe.

‘What’s the matter, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf pushed his horse alongside.

‘I wish I knew, Ranulf.’ Corbett watched the group of horsemen disappear round the bend. ‘I truly do.’ He glanced up between the trees at the blue sky. ‘The weather has improved, the sun is out; you remember the old saying, Ranulf: “Vipers and adders always come out to greet the sun”?’

He urged his horse on, Ranulf following slightly behind. The forest either side of them was noisy with the melting snow slipping off branches and the drip-drip of water. Here and there the trackway was slippery and Corbett had difficulty controlling his horse.

‘Horehound and the rest,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘will be nervous. I don’t think they truly trust us.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘let’s tell them we are coming. Ranulf, you remember the words of the song ‘Jove cum Mercurio’? I’ll sing the first verse to remind you of the words, then you can come in and repeat each line. If the outlaws hear us they will know that we mean peace.’ And without waiting for a reply Corbett began the lusty student song, distracting Ranulf from his fears about the forest whilst assuring anyone in hiding that they came in peace.

As they reached the cemetery wall, following it round to the lych gate, Corbett’s song died on his lips. The cemetery looked bleak in the sunlight, the crosses and headstones drenched in melted snow, and from the trees beyond came the cawing of rooks. No one was about. Corbett had expected the outlaws at least to build a fire, and even if they were hiding, to have left a scout or guard. They dismounted and hobbled their horses. Ranulf, uneasy, drew his dagger; Corbett followed suit. They walked round the church but could detect no sign of life. Both the main door and the Corpse Door were locked, and no glimmer of candlelight showed through the wooden shutters.

Corbett walked out of the cemetery along the path leading to the priest’s house. He knocked at the door, but the sound rang hollow and the windows on both ground and upper floor were shuttered. He walked round the back, stopping at the water butt. He noticed how the ice had been broken, the water level much fallen. He caught the faint smell of food, of meat and bread and the tang of spices. The rear door was also locked. Corbett stepped back to look up and his foot caught a brass bowl, which clanged like a trumpet. Cursing, he picked it up, and was about to throw it further into the garden when he noticed how the inside was lined with black dust. He examined the bowl more carefully, weighing it in his hands. It was of good quality, heavy, not something a poor priest would likely throw away. He sniffed and caught the smell of saltpetre, the same odour he had detected in the church. He gently placed it down.

‘Father Matthew!’

No answer. Corbett walked around the house again and knocked vigorously on the door.

‘Father Matthew, I wish to have words.’

He heard a sound above him and looked up. The priest was visible through the top window shutters, his face pale and unshaven.

‘Why, Sir Hugh. I’m sorry I can’t come down. The sweating sickness, I believe. I’ve not been well.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Ranulf shouted back. ‘Do you need anything, any food?’

The priest shook his head. ‘I haven’t eaten for days but I think I’m getting better.’ He forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I will make some gruel or oatmeal. Please give Sir Edmund my regards and tell the castle folk they must use the castle chapel. Father Andrew will look after them.’

‘You know the outlaw Horehound?’ Corbett shouted up.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I do.’

‘Have you seen him or any of his coven?’

The priest shook his head. ‘I heard the rumours, Sir Hugh, about how they’d entered the King’s peace, and I am pleased, but I have heard no sign of them.’ The priest was now gabbling. ‘Sir Hugh, it is cold. I will see you shortly.’

Father Matthew withdrew his head, closing the shutters behind him. Corbett walked back to the church steps and stood sheltering in the alcove, watching Ranulf go through the cemetery as if the outlaws were hiding there.

‘What are you looking for?’ he called.

‘I thought they might have come and left, but there is no sign of them; no one has been here.’ Ranulf walked back. ‘Though,’ he sighed, ‘the snow is beginning to melt.’

Corbett stared across at the silent, forbidding priest’s house.

‘Why should a priest,’ he asked, ‘use a good bronze bowl to mix saltpetre and other substances then throw it out into the garden? Why does he say he hasn’t eaten when I can smell the odour of cooking?’

‘He did say he was going to make some oatmeal or gruel.’

‘True.’ Corbett stamped his feet. The day was dying and they could not stay here much longer.

‘Ranulf, something may have delayed Horehound. He knows where we are; let’s return to the castle.’

They mounted their horses and rode back along the trackway. When they came to the tavern they saw the gates closed. Corbett glimpsed the light of lanterns and candles, and the faint, pleasing sound of a lute drifted out. They passed two chapmen, half bowed under the bundles piled up on their backs, eager to reach the castle before nightfall. They shouted a greeting; Corbett raised a hand in reply.

On their return to the castle, Corbett told Ranulf that he should begin preparations for leaving; he also asked his henchmen to bring some food and wine from the kitchens.

‘You are not joining us in the Hall of Angels?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I’m tired of de Craon’s smirking face. Anyway,’ Corbett slapped Ranulf’s shoulder with his gauntlets, ‘I know you will be busy with the Lady Constance.’

Corbett went up to his chamber, where he checked the great chest at the end of the bed and carefully searched the room for any sign of an intruder, but could find none. He built up the fire, lit more of the capped candles and cleared the small writing desk. He took out of the Chancery box some ink, his writing tray and a smooth sheet of vellum. He intended to write letters to the King and Lady Maeve, but what could he say? He couldn’t hide his growing anxiety as well as his anger at de Craon’s smug arrogance, as if the Frenchman had told a very funny story of which Corbett couldn’t see the point. He now accepted that de Craon had brought those three magistri from Paris to have them killed, but what further mischief was planned? He divided the piece of vellum into four, giving each column a heading, ‘De Craon’, ‘The Deaths’, ‘The Castle’, ‘The Church in the Forest’, then, using his own secret cipher, filled each of these categories with what he had seen and learnt, recording conversations, glimpses, who had been where when something had happened. He thought of Father Matthew, his pale, unshaven face, that lonely house and deserted cemetery.

Ranulf came up with a tray of food. Corbett drank the wine too fast; he felt his face flush and his eyes grew heavy. He could understand the deaths, the murder of the three Frenchmen, but how, and who was responsible? He took a second sheet of vellum and, going back to the Chancery box, brought out all he had learnt about Ufford’s stay in Paris. The hours passed and Ranulf returned to see that all was well. Corbett, immersed in his task, only mumbled a reply. He bolted the door once Ranulf had gone and lay down on the bed only intending to sleep for a short while, but he woke in the early hours, cold and tense, the fire gone down and many of the candles gutted. He pulled the cover over him and went back to sleep.

Corbett woke some time later and attended Father Andrew’s dawn mass in the small castle chapel. The priest wore black and gold vestments whilst he offered the intercessory prayers for the dead. The day was proving to be a fine one. Outside the chapel both the inner and outer wards were bustling with people coming into the castle. Now the roads were clearing, a servant told him, more chapmen and travelling tinkers seemed to be on the move, all eager to take advantage of the break in the weather. Corbett went over to the kitchen to break his fast. The servants were busy preparing for de Craon’s feast to be held that evening. He glimpsed the boy Ranulf had brought from the tavern, his hair and face all washed, an old jerkin about his bony shoulders. He even boasted a woollen pair of hose, and good stout boots on his feet. Corbett called him over. The boy, chewing on a piece of chicken, pushing the morsels into his mouth, came over wide-eyed.

‘You don’t want me to go back, do you?’

Corbett smiled, took a coin from his purse and gave it to the boy.

‘What do they call you?’

‘I think my name was Tom, but usually they call me Fetchit.’

‘Very well, Tom Fetchit. Did you know Horehound the outlaw well?’

The boy’s eyes slid away.

‘Come on,’ Corbett urged. ‘There’s no crime in speaking with men of the woods. Here, lad, you can have this coin too. You know Horehound,’ Corbett continued, ‘was going to take the King’s pardon? We were supposed to meet him yesterday. Ranulf, the red-haired one, took food down to him in the saddlebags.’

‘And?’ the boy asked as his curiosity quickened.

‘Neither Horehound nor any of his coven appeared.’

The boy stopped his chewing.

‘Are you surprised? Does that appear strange?’

The boy turned and dropped a piece of chicken on the floor; immediately a large mastiff snapped it up.

‘That’s not like Horehound, sir,’ the boy replied. ‘He would never refuse food; something must be wrong.’

Corbett gave the boy another coin and walked out across the yard. He heard the crack of a whip and turned as Master Reginald drove his cart into the inner ward, one of his ostlers sitting beside him. Corbett decided to return to his own chamber, to scrutinise everything he had written the night before. The others came up, Ranulf, Bolingbroke and Chanson, but they could see their master was distracted, and Ranulf was only too eager to return to the Hall of Angels and seek out the Lady Constance.

The day passed slowly for Corbett. Now and again he left to walk across to the Jerusalem Tower, and later in the afternoon he returned to that crumbling doorway and the dark, lonely passageway leading down into the old dungeons. This time he went armed, sword belt about him, accompanied by two of Sir Edmund’s Welsh archers. He recalled the terrors of that night, of hiding in the freezing darkness as the assassin waited to take advantage.

He returned to the inner ward just as the coffins bearing the dead Frenchmen were blessed with incense by Father Andrew, before being loaded on to a cart to be taken on their long journey to Dover and across to France. Corbett couldn’t tell which coffin was Crotoy’s, but as he watched the cart leave, he crossed himself, quoted the psalm of the dead and quietly promised he would seek vengeance for his old friend’s murder.

Ranulf was waiting for him on the steps to his chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you have been wandering this castle like a ghost. Sir Edmund is insistent that we show de Craon every courtesy.’

‘Is he, now?’

Corbett took out the key and unlocked his chamber. Ranulf followed him inside. He helped Corbett shave, then laid out the red, blue and gold cotehardie, the white cambric shirt and the dark blue hose Corbett always wore on such formal occasions. Ranulf could see old Master Longface was distracted, even forgetting to put on his chain of office or take the Chancery rings from the small casket on the table. Even when they reached the Hall of Angels, Corbett remained silent and withdrawn, almost unaware of the lavish preparations Sir Edmund had made for the banquet: the fire roaring in the hearth, the dais covered in snow-white cloths glittering with silver and gold flagons, goblets, tranchers and knives. The air was rich with savoury smells from the nearby kitchens, soft music floated down from the minstrels’ gallery and even the chill corners of the hall were warmed by fiery braziers.

Sir Edmund and his family were sumptuously dressed, Lady Constance looking truly beautiful in a gown of dark blue, a gold cord round her slim waist and an exquisite white veil covering her lustrous hair. Corbett greeted them distractedly, and, when de Craon invited them into the circle around the great fire, he just nodded and went and stood beside Father Andrew.

‘I did what I could,’ the old priest whispered. ‘I know one of the Frenchmen was your friend, Sir Hugh, but in Dover their corpses will be embalmed again. I’m glad you were able to attend the Mass. I intend to say Mass again for them tomorrow, the Feast of St Damasus.’

‘St Damasus?’ Corbett queried.

‘One of the early popes,’ the priest replied. ‘I think he was a martyr who died for the faith. Sir Hugh, what’s the matter?’

‘Damsons,’ Corbett replied enigmatically. ‘Damsons,’ he whispered, ‘which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn mass.’