The Magician

Chapter 13

The corpses, all bloodied, were stretched out on the cobbles, row after row like slabs of bloody meat on a flesher’s stall. Corbett followed Sir Edmund as the Constable inspected each corpse on what was proving to be a dark, freezing morning, the sky threatening more snow. The pirates, even in death, still looked sinister and ferocious. Corbett had heard of their exploits in the Narrow Seas. The Flemish fleet comprised all the scum, cutthroats and murderers from the ports of Flanders, Hainault, France, even from Genoa, Venice and further east. They were dressed in a motley collection of gaudy robes and filched armour, hair grown long, faces almost hidden by thick moustaches and beards; here and there lay the occasional youthful, clean-shaven one. Their corpses were already plundered of jewellery; this lay piled high on a table brought out from the tower, and Sir Edmund’s scribes were busy making a tally. The air reeked of blood and iron, and the sight of such corpses had tempered the rage and resentment of the castle folk.

‘At least one hundred,’ Ranulf whispered. Death had been inflicted in a variety of ways. Many still carried the feathered, barbed shafts of the longbowmen; others had hideous wounds to their head, face or chest; a few had been speared in the back; one had lost his head and this had been placed as a macabre joke under his arm.

‘Did they have horses?’ Corbett asked.

‘No,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘Only some sorry mounts they managed to steal from a farmstead.’

Once he had finished his inspection, the Constable climbed a barrel and gave a pithy address extolling the castle folk for their bravery, gesturing at the prisoners now bound and gathered in a huddle, promising that the King’s justice would be done publicly and swiftly.

Once Sir Edmund had climbed down, he, Corbett and Ranulf, with Bolingbroke acting as interpreter, crossed to the council chamber in the keep. This had been transformed, lit by a myriad of candles and warmed by the many capped braziers lined up against the walls and placed in every corner. The great table had been turned round to face the door. Sir Edmund sat in the middle chair, beneath the crucifix, Corbett on his right, Ranulf to his left, with a worried-looking Bolingbroke at one end of the table and a castle scribe at the other. In front of Sir Edmund lay a sword, a small crucifix, and a copy of the chapel breviary. Corbett took out his own commission and unrolled it, using four weights to hold down the corners. At the bottom of the document were his seal and those of the King and Chancellor.

The prisoners were brought in, and pushed and shoved to stand in front of this crudely devised King’s Bench. Sir Edmund declared that they were pirates, invaders, with no rights and subject to martial law. As he spoke Bolingbroke quickly translated. Sir Edmund then listed the charges against them.

‘That they maliciously and feloniously invaded the noble King’s Realm of England, causing devastation by fire and sword, pillaging and killing the King’s good loyal subjects contrary to all usage and law . . .’ Every so often he would pause for Bolingbroke to translate. At the end he asked if they wished to say anything in their defence.

‘Merde!’ a coarse voice shouted.

Sir Edmund asked again if any of them could claim innocence of the charges levelled against them. One of the pirates in the front hawked and spat. Corbett’s unease at such swift justice receded as he studied these invaders. They looked what they were, violent, murderous marauders who had no fear of God or man and would have shown little compassion to any of their victims. He thought of the lonely charcoal burners, poor Horehound and his coven, corpses stiffening under the snow. Staring at these scarred, cruel faces he wondered what other cruelties they were guilty of. He tugged at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered quickly in his ear. Sir Edmund nodded in agreement.

‘Is there anyone here,’ he declared, ‘who can claim innocence of any of the charges? I’ve asked before and I’m asking again, for the final time.’

He was answered with a tirade of abuse in at least half a dozen languages. Despite their shackles the pirates were still dangerous. Corbett noticed how they were shuffling towards the table in front of them, so much so that Sir Edmund’s officers had to form a cordon between them, shields up, swords drawn.

‘Listen!’ Sir Edmund shouted. ‘I am empowered to offer free pardon and amnesty to anyone who can lay evidence on who hired you and why you came here.’ A deadly silence greeted his words. One of the pirates shuffled forward, almost pushing aside the guard.

‘We don’t know who hired us,’ he replied in guttural English. ‘Only our Admiral could tell you that, and he is frying in Hell or raping one of your women. You mean to kill us, why not get on with it?’

‘In which case . . .’ Sir Edmund stood and, one hand holding the hilt of his sword, the other his crucifix, intoned the death sentence: ‘That they are all found guilty of the terrible accusations levelled against them, being the perpetrators of divers hideous crimes . . . and by the power given to me of high and low justice, as Constable of this royal castle, I condemn you to be hanged, sentence to be carried out immediately.’

His words did not need to be translated and were greeted with a roar of abuse. The pirates surged forward, only to be beaten back by Sir Edmund’s guards. They were thrust out into the inner bailey and divided into batches of six. Corbett left the hall as the first prisoners were hustled up the steps to the parapet walk. The nooses had already been prepared, the other end tied round the castle’s crenellations. Father Andrew stood at the foot of the steps, quietly reciting prayers; many of the pirates cursed him as they passed. Once they had reached the parapet walk the noose was put round their necks and they were kicked unceremoniously over the edge. The castle folk had already left, standing in the frozen fields outside to watch one figure after another be thrown over the castle walls to dance and jerk at the end of a rope.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Sir Edmund, I ask you again to make sure no one leaves this castle.’

‘Where are you going?’ the Constable asked.

Corbett smiled. ‘I need to talk to a priest.’

Corbett was relieved to put the castle behind him. The execution party was now moving round the walls, and as he looked back he could see those small black figures, some still, others kicking in their death throes. He turned away and whispered a prayer, patting his horse’s neck, then pulled up the edge of his cloak to cover his nose and mouth, turning his head slightly as the bitter breeze stung his face. He held the reins slack, allowing his mount to pick its own way along the frozen track. Behind him, huddled on his mount, sat Ranulf, deeply silent. Corbett knew the reason. Many years ago he had rescued Ranulf from a hanging, and the sight of such executions always provoked bitter memories.

The snow had turned to ice, and on either side of the track Corbett saw signs of the recent attack, wet patches of blood, a shattered club, a buckle or button. He paused as Ranulf pushed his mount towards a thick clump of gorse where the corpse of another pirate lay, sprawled crookedly in death, one hand turned as if trying to pluck the yard-long shaft embedded deeply in his back. They entered the line of trees; here again were more scenes of the bloody pursuit: a corpse half hidden by the snow overlooked by Sir Edmund’s men, and more and more of those dark bloody patches.

When they reached the tavern, its cobbled yard was deserted. Corbett dismounted, told Ranulf to wait and walked into the tap room. He was met by the chief ostler, who informed him that Sir Edmund had given the tavern to his care for the time being. ‘We are still looking for those who fled.’ His sad eyes held Corbett’s. ‘Young boys and maids out in the freezing forest. We’ve been out there and seen some terrible sights. Corpses, throats slit from ear to ear, tinkers and travellers, God’s poor men, only looking for a warm fire.’

‘The Castilians?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir, we thought they were what they claimed to be. They would leave now and again; I always thought they were going to the castle. Then the others came, silently, just before dark, terrible men, Sir. They kept careful watch on the road. Some of the maids were cruelly abused.’

‘Well they are either dead,’ Corbett replied, ‘or about to meet their final judgement.’ He told the ostler to keep careful watch lest pirates who had survived the fight were hiding out amongst the trees.

‘Is it going to end like that?’ Ranulf asked as Corbett remounted. ‘Bodies dangling from the wall? Who, Sir Hugh, will answer for the hideous murders in the castle? Your good friend Louis-’

Corbett held up a hand. ‘I’m tired, Ranulf, of secret books and hidden ciphers, de Craon’s treachery and his lust for my blood. There’s still work to do.’ He smiled. ‘We have a priest to see. Always remember, the mills of God’s justice may grind infinitely slowly, but they do grind infinitely small.’

The trackway outside the church and the churchyard itself bore witness to the recent conflict. Some of the crosses and headstones had been overturned whilst a pile of bloody rags lay heaped against the cemetery wall. Father Matthew was standing on the church steps, busy sprinkling water in all directions.

‘I’m hallowing this place,’ he explained, as Corbett and Ranulf dismounted. ‘Well,’ he held up the holy water stoup and the small asperges rod, ‘it’s the least I can do.’ He sprinkled a little water in Corbett’s direction. ‘Sir Edmund told me about Mistress Feyner. You did well, clerk; another devil in our midst, though.’ Father Matthew sighed. ‘God rest the poor woman.’

Corbett stared at this kindly priest with his heavy peasant face, now unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, and realised how shrewd a man he was; just a glance, a movement of the lips proved the old proverb that still waters run very, very deep. Corbett rested one foot on the bottom step of the church.

‘I came to thank you, Father.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘And to congratulate you on your return to good health. When I came here last you were warning us, weren’t you? You could smell the odour of cooking and so could I. And what poor priest would throw a beautiful bronze bowl out amongst the rubbish near the rear door?’

‘I hoped you would see that.’ Father Matthew kept his head down. ‘God have mercy on me, Sir Hugh, I had no choice. They were in every chamber in the house and they held the hostages in the church; they were as fearsome as Hell. I thought I would never meet devils incarnate! Hell must have been empty, for all its demons came to Corfe.’

‘You escaped?’

‘A long story.’ Father Matthew smiled. Corbett noticed how clean and even his teeth were, whilst the ragged black mittens on his hands couldn’t hide the elegance of his long fingers. ‘The pirates were leaving, eager for more mischief. I simply escaped into the church and barred the Corpse Door. Thanks be to God, if I hadn’t I’m sure they would have slit my throat and those of the other people they brought in.’

‘Where have they gone?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Oh, back to their homes. I gave them what I could.’ Father Matthew made to turn away.

‘John?’

Father Matthew whirled round, and if he hadn’t been holding the water stoup so carefully he would have dropped it. He gaped towards Corbett.

‘I, I don’t . . .’

‘You’re not a priest,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘You are a scholar pretending to be a priest. Your real name is John. Many years ago, in a different world, you were the disciple, the close friend, the personal messenger of the Franciscan brother Roger Bacon, scholar of Oxford and Paris.’

‘I, I don’t know.’ Father Matthew had turned so pale Corbett strode up the steps and grasped him by the arm.

‘I think you had best come into the church where you have hidden for so long.’

The priest didn’t resist as Corbett led him into the dark, smelly nave which still bore signs of occupation by the pirates. Stools and benches were overturned; near the baptismal font was a pile of horse manure. The floor was stained and two shattered pots lay directly beneath the oriel window, catching the poor light pouring through.

Ranulf pulled back his cowl and absentmindedly blessed himself. Corbett’s declaration had taken him by surprise. He found it difficult to accept that a great scholar of Oxford should be hiding in such a shabby church. Yes, old Master Longface had his own ways; if the King wouldn’t let his right hand know what his left was doing, Corbett was even worse. The priest was deeply shocked, trembling so much Ranulf had to prise the water stoup from his grip and urge him to sit on the small high-backed chair just under the window. Corbett sat on the stool opposite.

‘Would you like some wine, Father? I will call you Father, though you are not a priest. Oh, you tried to be, but you hold the Host the wrong way. Now and again you forget your duties, such as neglecting to administer the last rites to that poor maid found on the trackway outside.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘Yes you do,’ Corbett continued evenly. ‘We could go across to that house, and sooner or later I will find a hidden compartment. I wonder what it will contain? An astrolabe, a calculus, a compass, maps of the heavens, charts of the seas, perhaps one or two books, and a jug of that fiery powder which the King uses to loose his bombards and hurl bricks at castle walls?’ He paused. ‘Why should a poor parish priest have such an expensive bronze bowl and use it so much it is caked with black powder? But there again, you know all there is to know, don’t you, about Friar Roger’s ignis mirabilis? You’ve read the formula, you know how to mix it.’ Corbett smiled. ‘You’ve committed no crime, Father Matthew, except one, I suppose. You will produce letters from some bishop which will declare you are a priest, yet I’m a royal clerk and even the best forgeries can be detected. I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for you, would it, to buy the finest vellum, a quill, a lump of wax, and forge your own seal? How many people can read such a document? And who really cares? After all,’ he waved around, ‘St Peter’s in the Wood, outside Corfe Castle, is not the richest benefice in God’s kingdom. What are its tithes and annual revenues, Father, a mere pittance?’

‘They’ll burn me!’ Father Matthew lifted his head. ‘You know that, Sir Hugh. They’ll ransack my house, take away the gold and silver I have hidden. They’ll burn my books like they did Friar Roger’s. For what? Because I’m a scholar? Because I want to probe the mysteries? What harm have I done anyone? True,’ he nodded, ignoring the tears spilling down his cheek, ‘I have no power to change the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. I have no authority to loose people from their sins, but if there is a God, He must be compassionate. He will understand.’

Corbett listened as this former scholar made his confession. How he had been born not far from Ilchester, orphaned young, and had travelled to Oxford, where Friar Roger had received him kindly. He explained how the friar had given him an education second to none, in the Quadrivium and Trivium, in mathematics, logic, astronomy and Scripture, as well as a variety of different tongues.

‘He was my Socrates.’ Father Matthew smiled. ‘And I sat at his feet and drank in his wisdom. But,’ he sighed, ‘Friar Roger clashed with his own order in the person of the Father-General, the great scholar Bonaventure. He lost the protection of the papacy and spent years in prison. After his release, he travelled back to Oxford a broken man. When he died, the good brothers nailed his manuscripts to the wall to rot.’ He shrugged. ‘Or so rumour had it; by then I had fled. Friar Roger told me to hide, to keep well away from both his order and the Halls of Learning. I travelled back to Ilchester but no one recognised or knew me. I heard that this parish had no priest.’ He forced a smile. ‘Well, you know the rest. You’re right, Sir Hugh, no one cared. The Bishop’s clerk was so ignorant he couldn’t even translate the Latin on the letter I had forged. But what could I do? I wanted to continue my studies.’ His voice faltered.

‘The secrets?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah, I thought you would ask about that. I heard about the meeting at Corfe. I wondered if I should flee, but that would have provoked suspicion. Who would care about an ignorant parish priest?’

‘Would the King know?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is that why he chose Corfe?’

‘Possibly,’ Father Matthew conceded. ‘Perhaps he thought such a meeting might provoke the interest of Friar Roger’s hidden disciples. The truth is, Sir Hugh, there’s only one, and you are looking at him. When I met you,’ he sighed, ‘I did wonder. You are sharp of eye, keen of wit.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want my house ransacked, I don’t want my books burnt, I don’t want to be dragged before some archdeacon’s court or local justice. Sir Hugh, I have done no harm, I have done no ill.’

‘I’m not going to pass sentence, Father Matthew, but I asked you a question. The secrets?’

‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d say I was lying. Friar Roger’s secrets are described in his manuscripts. He talked of things, Sir Hugh, of men he had met in France, of mysterious documents, of marvellous machines beyond our comprehension.’

‘The Secretus Secretorum?’

‘Ah, that.’ Father Matthew closed his eyes and breathed in. ‘Friar Roger was very careful,’ he began. ‘Many people regarded him as a magician.’

‘Was that true?’

The priest opened his eyes. ‘Yes and no, Sir Hugh. Friar Roger was a member of a secret circle of scholars. In his letter On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature he attacks magic as trickery.’

‘So what was he frightened of?’

‘That things which could be regarded as magic are really the creation of the human mind, of a newly found wisdom. Friar Roger often talked about the great scholar Peter de Marincourt, with whom he worked in Paris. Peter taught him great secrets, for example, how a glass could be built so that the most distant objects appear near at hand, and vice versa. Sir Hugh, how can you explain such a thing to an ignorant bishop or inquisitor? Friar Roger became frightened. He was also deeply resentful at the way he was imprisoned and silenced, so he wrote the Secretus Secretorum, his handbook of secrets. It’s a mixture of the sources of his knowledge and future predictions, as well as how certain experiments can be conducted. He wrote it in a secret cipher, and before you ask, Sir Hugh, there is no translation. On his deathbed Friar Roger whispered to me that the key to that book was his own mind and that when he died that key would disappear. Now, Sir Hugh, you may drag me to London, have me tortured, threatened, I would say no different. The Secretus Secretorum,’ Father Matthew raised his voice so it echoed round that sombre church, ‘is Friar Roger’s treasury of secrets. It is also his revenge on those who rejected him. He could have said so much but no one wants to die screaming, lashed to a pole with the flames roaring around you.’

Corbett moved on his stool. He had interrogated many men, some consummate liars, and on such occasions he rejected logic and reason and trusted his own feelings. He instinctively felt that Father Matthew was telling the truth.

‘So that book will never be translated?’

‘Never!’ Father Matthew agreed. ‘And the more it is copied, the more it is added to so the more difficult it will become.’

‘And Friar Roger’s wealth?’ Ranulf asked. ‘He talked about spending two thousand pounds. Did he discover the Philosopher’s Stone? Unravel the secrets of alchemy?’

Father Matthew threw his head back and laughed.

‘He had hidden wealth,’ he replied, and sat chuckling to himself.

‘Hidden wealth?’ Ranulf insisted.

The priest gestured with his hand. ‘Go back to Corfe Castle, Red-hair, and gaze upon its battlements. Men lived on that spot before the Romans ever came. It’s been a royal residence, a place of power. Tell me, what do people do in times of danger? How do they protect their wealth?’

‘They bury it.’

‘That’s one thing Friar Roger learnt from Peter de Marincourt. How to find hidden wealth. Speak to the country people, Sir Hugh, men of Dorset and Somerset. They will tell you how, with a mere stick, they can divine underground streams or wells. According to Friar Roger, Peter de Marincourt discovered a way of finding hidden treasure. Don’t doubt me, Sir Hugh; even without such knowledge, tell me, how often is treasure trove found in London, gold, coins, silver from some forgotten age? That was the source of Friar Roger’s wealth. He wasn’t greedy for money; he just saw it as a means to an end.’

‘Do you know that method?’ Ranulf asked.

Father Matthew shook his head.

‘I suspect it is one of the secrets he locked away in the Secretus Secretorum, which,’ he spread his hands, ‘to me, like you, is an impenetrable wall.’

‘Yet you were Friar Roger’s favourite pupil; he described you as a great scholar.’

‘He also loved me dearly as a brother. He said the time was not ripe for such knowledge, that if he revealed his most secret thoughts it would only place me in deadly danger.’ Father Matthew slumped in the chair, weaving his fingers together. ‘What more can I say?’

Corbett stared up at that sombre nave. A slight mist had crawled under the door and through the gaps in the shutters, so it looked like a hall of ghosts. The altar at the far end was bare and gaunt, dominated by a stark crucifix.

‘Are you happy here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I am. I come from these parts. I think I do something useful. I truly care for these people.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I have a little wealth hidden away, I have my books. It is an ideal place for a scholar to remain hidden and pursue his studies.’

‘I shall tell you what I will do.’ Corbett got up, scraping back his stool. ‘In the spring I shall invite you to London and present you to the Bishop of London; he is a friend of mine, he will be only too happy to ordain you a priest and issue letters from his chancery. As for your friendship with Friar Roger,’ Corbett rehung his cloak about him, ‘why not leave that as one secret hidden amongst so many?’

‘I have your word?’ Father Matthew asked, the relief apparent in his face.

‘You have my word, Father.’

‘Then I shall tell you something.’ The priest pushed himself up. ‘You’ve a kind heart, clerk, and a good voice. When I was in the castle I became agitated. I met someone who, I thought, might recognise me.’

‘One of the Frenchmen? De Craon?’

‘No, the one who struts like a cheerful sparrow. Monsieur Pierre Sanson. But, Deo Gratias, it has been many years since he last spoke to me. About twelve years ago,’ the priest continued, ‘Pierre Sanson was part of a French delegation which came to Oxford. They stayed at the King’s palace at Woodstock. You may recall the occasion? The marriage of the King’s daughter Margaret to the Duke of Brabant? Naturally, scholars visit each other. Sanson claimed he was deeply interested in Friar Roger’s work and came to ask him about his secrets. My master was old and frail. He never was sweet-tempered,’ he added quickly, ‘and gave Sanson short shrift. When the Frenchman asked him about his secrets, Friar Roger replied that he would conceal them in a document and make copies of it, and if the world could unearth these secrets then it was welcome to them.’ Father Matthew blessed himself quickly. ‘What I am saying, Sir Hugh, is that from the very start the French knew the Secretus Secretorum could never be deciphered.’

Corbett extended his hand and the priest grasped it warmly.

‘I’ll see you in the spring, Father. I’ll send an escort to accompany you.’

Corbett and Ranulf made their farewells and returned quickly to Corfe. They tried not to look at the row of corpses clustered together like flies hanging from the battlements but thundered across the drawbridge and up into the inner bailey, where Sir Edmund’s retainers were still busy removing all sign of the recent conflict. Corbett was lost in his thoughts, ruthlessly determined on his course of action. When Sir Edmund came to greet them, Corbett enquired about de Craon, only to find that the Frenchman was sulking in his chamber. He took the Constable out of earshot, even from Ranulf, and whispered urgently to him. Sir Edmund made to object, but Corbett insisted and the Constable agreed. Ranulf was keen to seek out the Lady Constance, but his plea died on his lips at Corbett’s dark look.

‘Ranulf, I need you.’ He gave that lopsided smile. ‘The mills of God are beginning to turn.’

They went up to the chamber, Corbett preparing the room, dragging chairs and stools in front of the fire which Chanson was building up. The groom had slept through most of the battle; consequently he had to suffer Ranulf’s constant teasing and was only too pleased to escape to the kitchens to bring back ale, bread and cheese and strips of smoked ham. Bolingbroke joined them and Corbett ushered him to one of the stools in front of the fire.

‘I would have gone with you, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke sat down and picked up the small platter on which Chanson had served the food. ‘This is like the castle of the damned; virtually the entire curtain wall is festooned with hanged men.’ He bit on a piece of cheese.

‘We shall be gone soon.’ Corbett sat in the chair and wetted his lips with ale. ‘And what will you do then, William?’

‘Oh, I shall journey back to London. I may ask for some leave from the business of the Chancery. You will find me another post, Sir Hugh?’

‘I shall find you nothing!’ Corbett replied. Bolingbroke dropped the cheese he held.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Do you pray for his soul, William? Your good friend and companion? Your brother-in-arms Walter Ufford?’

Ranulf stiffened; even Chanson, sitting almost in the inglenook, forgot his food.

‘You’re a traitor, William,’ Corbett continued, ‘and I shall show you how. Two things in particular. First, let’s go back to Magister Thibault’s house in Paris. You remember it well: the Roi des Clefs who could open any door, chest or coffer?’

‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Of course you do, you were there. The King of Keys was wounded, his hand and wrist spiked by a caltrop, pumping out blood, screaming until Ufford had to cut his throat. Do you remember what the King of Keys carried? A pouch of strange instruments, master keys, cunning devices to turn a lock or force a clasp. What happened to these?’

Bolingbroke’s face grew pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the panic obvious in his eyes.

‘They were left there.’ He made to rise. Ranulf, sitting beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back down.

‘You took them,’ Corbett continued. ‘You picked them up. Who would notice? The King of Keys was dead, Ufford all a-panic. You used those keys on two occasions, the first when you murdered Crotoy and the second when you murdered Vervins.’

‘I was with you when Vervins died.’

‘Of course you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But you had given the keys to de Craon so that he or his henchman could creep up those tower steps. As the Gospel of St John says, “In the beginning was the Word”,’ Corbett sipped at his ale, ‘“and the Word was with God”. That is where all this began, Bolingbroke, with the pursuit of knowledge, used by de Craon and his sinister master to trap our King. Philip of France crows like a cock; he has Edward of England trapped by the Treaty of Paris, the Prince of Wales is to marry Philip’s only daughter Isabella. But there is a fly in the ointment: me and my spies in France and elsewhere. Philip would like to sweep the board. He knows about Friar Roger’s secret writings but he also knows that those writings can never be deciphered, whatever Magister Thibault claimed. Philip of France studies Edward of England most carefully, as he has for the last twenty years. The English Exchequer is bankrupt, Edward has wars in Scotland and he must defend the Duchy of Gascony. Earlier this year, our fat little Sanson inveigled Edward into studying Friar Roger’s manuscripts, a secret letter addressed only to our King. Perhaps it wasn’t Sanson but Philip himself whetting his appetite. Anyway, Edward loves a mystery, particularly when he learns that Philip of France is also studying those same manuscripts. Edward’s rivalry with Philip is legendary.’

‘I know nothing of this,’ Bolingbroke bleated.

‘Don’t you, William? I think you may have helped Sanson. Who knows? Perhaps you sent messages yourself through Ufford. Ah well, Edward of England prides himself on being a scholar. He reads Friar Roger’s work and stumbles on, or is allowed to stumble on, a great secret: Friar Roger’s bold assertion that he had spent over two thousand pounds, a veritable fortune, on his studies. Our King wonders, where and how could a poor friar, of common stock, draw on such wealth? He must have some great secret. And so the hunt begins.’

Corbett sipped from his ale, and before Bolingbroke could stop him, leaned across and plucked the dagger from its sheath on the clerk’s belt.

‘Oh, by the way, William,’ he patted Bolingbroke gently on the arm, ‘the Constable’s men are now going through your possessions. They are looking for the King of Keys’ tools; I’m sure they’ll find them. So,’ Corbett cleared his throat, ‘let us go back to our own King, the prince to whom we both swore fealty. He tries to hide Friar Roger’s reference to the treasure spent in the pursuit of knowledge. The King is also worried about his copy of the Secretus Secretorum being accurate. Perhaps Monsieur Sanson helped in this? Anyway, Edward of England wants to steal the French copy, so he instructs me to contact our clerks in Paris to move Heaven and Earth to obtain it. Of course, what we don’t know is that Walter Ufford has been baited, teased into a trap, and this is where you come in, William. You are a scholar at the Sorbonne, you have already been under suspicion as a spy, a clerk of the Secret Chancery in England. De Craon or Sanson approached you. Did they threaten you with the horrors of Montfaucon, or offer you gold and silver, a sinecure in France?’

Bolingbroke stared impassively back.

‘Well, you know the story better than I do,’ Corbett continued. ‘So, we come to the night of Magister Thibault’s revelry. You were invited to all that mummery. Magister Thibault is distracted by a nubile courtesan called Lucienne. Did you hire her? Was it de Craon? Or was it both? Anyway, she is under strict instructions to flatter the old fool, to persuade him to take her down to his treasure house to see the precious manuscript he is working on for the King of France.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Bolingbroke stammered. ‘Magister Thibault came down by accident. He didn’t know when we would be there.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I suggest that when you went down to that cellar you passed Monsieur Sanson and gave him a sign. He would then hasten up the stairs to make sure Lucienne kept her part of the bargain. I agree, it would take some time to rouse that old goat from his bed, but Magister Thibault stumbled down into that cellar. As soon as he opened the door he was a dead man. Ufford cuts his throat and that of Lucienne. Walter was always a ruthless man. A short while later the King of Keys is wounded and later killed; you secretly seize his keys. Eventually you and Walter make your escape, two successful spies who have achieved the task assigned to them.’

‘Why didn’t they arrest us there and then?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.

‘That’s not such a good question,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They needed you, William, they wanted you to escape.’ He paused, rubbing his hands together. ‘You and Walter did what any spies would do; you separated, though not before you made sure that you escaped with the Secretus Secretorum.’

‘The dice!’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘You have cogged dice – that’s the way I’d decide anything. You’re as sharp as I am, Bolingbroke, you’d make sure you won.’

‘Yet that was only the beginning of the mischief,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Craon constructed a plot of many layers. The first was to remove certain opponents from the University of Paris, scholars opposed to the outrageous claims of his royal master; that’s the one thing Thibault, Destaples, Crotoy and Vervins had in common. Sanson was also one of these but, unbeknown to his colleagues, he was de Craon’s man, body and soul. Philip of France later proposes this meeting. He wants a castle on the south coast, somewhere lonely for the next part of his plot. Edward of England rises to the bait and chooses Corfe, an indomitable fortress, not very far from where Friar Roger was born. Perhaps the meeting would arouse local interest and curiosity, particularly that of any disciples of Friar Roger hiding in the area. However, that part of Edward’s stratagem,’ Corbett winked quickly at Ranulf, ‘failed to come to fruition. Have you communicated with de Craon,’ he asked sharply, ‘since the attack by the Flemish pirates?’

‘I don’t know what-’

‘I wonder if he will betray you. If I offer him secret, safe and immediate passage back to France, he might sacrifice you. Why, William,’ Corbett leaned over, touching the clerk’s face, ‘you are beginning to sweat. Are you hot?’

‘Sir Hugh, you accuse me of treason and murder!’

‘Yes, yes, I do. Your hands are stained with the blood of an old friend. Oh, you acted the part so well, William. You even declared that de Craon might be bringing those scholars to England to have them murdered. You spoke the truth yet at the same time posed as a perceptive, loyal clerk of the English Crown who had doubts about de Craon from the very beginning. Yes, yes,’ Corbett blinked, ‘you knew the truth because you were party to those murders.’

‘I was asleep when Destaples died.’

‘Of course you were. You had already murdered him. The French magistri were no fools. Destaples was more suspicious of de Craon than anyone else. Why should he distrust an English clerk? You sat opposite him at the banquet on the night they arrived. You had been told he had a weak heart, and with the cups being filled and platters being brought it would have been so easy for you to pour a powder into his wine cup. What was it, William? Foxglove, to quicken the heart? Destaples could have died at table or returning to his chamber. Who could have been blamed? He was not a strong man, he had just completed a most vexatious journey, and he suffered a seizure.’

‘Ranulf,’ Bolingbroke turned beseechingly, ‘we have shared the same chamber . . .’

‘We also shared the same friend,’ came the reply. ‘The same master, the same oath.’

‘Louis Crotoy was next.’ Corbett patted Bolingbroke on the arm, making him turn back. ‘Louis was much more careful and prudent, but of course he never realized that de Craon had a spy in my retinue. Like Destaples, he would be wary of de Craon but not one of my clerks. Late that afternoon, the day he died, Louis heard a knock on the outside door. He came down, opened the squint hole and glimpsed William Bolingbroke, trusted colleague of his friend Sir Hugh Corbett.’ Corbett kept his voice even. ‘The rest was so simple. You were invited in. You’re a strong man, William, Louis was fairly frail; you broke his neck and threw his corpse down the steps. You then loosened the heel of a good boot – I can prove it was cut – and rearranged his cloak, creating the illusion that Louis had tripped and fallen. To all intents and purposes an accidental death, an impression heightened when you placed both keys in his wallet. You locked the outside door using one of the devices you had taken from Le Roi des Clefs.’ Corbett paused as if listening to the sounds of the castle. ‘You made a number of mistakes, William. Most importantly, just after Louis was killed, you raised the possibility of it not being murder by pointing out how both keys had been found in his wallet.’

‘Someone told me.’

‘Was it de Craon? You weren’t present when the corpse was found. I kept that information strictly to myself. Then it was Vervins’ turn. What are you going to say, William? That you were here with me and Ranulf when he fell to his death? Well of course you were! But Vervins liked that parapet walk. It had become something of a routine. What happened was that, using one of the instruments from the Roi des Clefs, Bogo de Baiocis, de Craon’s henchman, was given a free hand. The door into the side of the tower is hidden from public view. It would be easy for Bogo to slip through and up the steps with an arbalest and blunted bolt. He opened the small slat in the locked door leading on to the parapet; this provided an excellent view. The arbalest was well oiled, the bolt placed in the groove, the catches released. Vervins stumbles and falls to his death. The assassin slips down the steps out of the tower, quickly locking the door behind him. Nobody would dream of looking for a blunted bolt, and any bruise on Vervins would be considered as a result of the fall.’

‘You asked him to search for it,’ Ranulf declared.

‘Oh yes, I did. If he’d found it he wouldn’t hand it over. You’re responsible for a number of murders, William. Magister Thibault; your good friend Ufford, a colleague of mine, a trusted English clerk. You have the blood of those three Frenchmen on your hands, in particular that of my good friend Louis Crotoy. Finally,’ Corbett moved quickly and slapped Bolingbroke across the face, ‘you tried to murder me! At first I thought it was the killer of those young women, but when I trapped Mistress Feyner I realised that though she could loose a crossbow bolt up close, she could not fire through the darkness with such accuracy and speed. On the night I was attacked only three people knew where I was going: me, Chanson and you. No, don’t,’ Bolingbroke had opened his mouth to protest, ‘don’t lie, William, don’t say that I must have been followed. Mistress Feyner would never have done that. De Craon?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘That’s not the Frenchman’s style; he wouldn’t want to be caught attacking the King’s clerk on English soil.’

‘But why?’ Chanson, standing behind Corbett, listened to these accusations against a clerk he had grown to like, even admire.

‘Why, Chanson? Well, now we come to the real business in hand. It wasn’t the writings of Friar Roger Bacon but something much more serious. The Secretus Secretorum was written in a cipher. De Craon knew that our King’s appetite had been whetted. This meeting was proposed,’ Corbett waved his hand, ‘to make it more palatable to our King, whilst the French insisted it should be in some castle along the southern coast, well away from any town or city. Corfe may be impregnable but there’s not a castle built which can’t be taken by stealth and treachery. The Flemish pirate fleet was hired, paid good gold and silver as well as offered the prospect of wholesale plundering. They appeared in the Narrow Seas and ravaged the coastline further to the west. De Craon also sent agents into England: those Castilians pretending to be wool merchants. They took up residence in the Tavern in the Forest; others took the role of pedlars, tinkers and chapmen. I’m not too sure if they were taken directly to England or landed by the pirates; they could even have been Flemings themselves. Philip and de Craon are very cunning. It’s wintertime, the roads are deserted, Corfe is surrounded by forest, and so the game begins. De Craon acts all innocent, but that fire at the edge of the forest, on the night I was attacked, was a signal that all was ready. The accidental fire which later occurred in the castle was de Craon’s reply that the assault was to continue as planned. De Craon, of course, sent a message to his agents at the tavern giving them the time and place. He also arranged that banquet the night before, hoping the Corfe garrison would be caught unawares.’

‘If you hadn’t trapped Mistress Feyner?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes,’ Corbett agreed. ‘For all her evil, some good did come out of it.’

‘But why?’ Chanson repeated.

‘Oh, a number of reasons. First, I’m sure de Craon and his party would have escaped unscathed, but me? The Keeper of the Secret Seal, de Craon’s mortal enemy? The nemesis of his master? I would be killed along with Ranulf-atte-Newgate, principal clerk of the Green Wax, and Chanson, Clerk of the Stables; perhaps Sir Edmund and his family would have been taken for ransom.’ Corbett snapped his fingers. ‘Yes, that’s it, the same fate would befall de Craon, though he would be tended to gently enough and later released under some fictitious arrangement.’

Ranulf watched Bolingbroke carefully. He had attended the King’s Bench in Westminster and seen men sentenced before the justices in eyre or the justices of oyer and terminer. Condemned men always acted as if they were drunk, unable to accept what was happening. The same was true of Bolingbroke. He hadn’t even touched his face where Corbett had smacked him, but sat, half turned in his chair, lips slightly parted, only the occasional blink or twitch of a muscle showing he was awake and listening.

‘It wasn’t just murder, was it?’ Corbett continued. ‘But also my destruction and that of Ranulf. On the morning of the attack I locked my chamber. You opened it. You hoped that the pirates would storm the Salt Tower, force that great coffer behind me-’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in.’

Sir Edmund stepped through the door. Chanson, who had gone to answer, was handed a small leather sack.

‘I found it, Sir Hugh, not in his chamber but in a crevice further up the steps. Keys, instruments you would use to pick a lock.’ Sir Edmund’s face was wary. ‘Sir Hugh, what is going on here? I’ve tried one of the devices myself, it can turn a lock as quickly as any key.’

‘If you could wait outside, Sir Edmund? I do apologise, I will tell you in due course.’ The Constable made to refuse. ‘Please, Sir Edmund.’ The Constable sighed, shrugged and went out, slamming the door behind him.

‘The attackers were after the Chancery box, weren’t they?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, they were. Can you imagine, Ranulf, what a great prize that would have been? The death of the Keeper of the Secret Seal whilst his ciphers, the ones we use to communicate with our spies abroad, the different codes, the variety of symbols, the tables and the keys, all falling into de Craon’s hands. What a great achievement! The secret doings of the English Chancery would be ruined for months, even years. De Craon would be given access to every agent and spy from Marseilles to beyond the Rhine. He knew that I would bring them with me, not to a meeting in France but to a place in England. Of course, Bolingbroke would confirm this, especially as I was attending a meeting about secret ciphers and codes. They may have picked something up from my dialogue with Sanson, but that would be nothing to compare to the looting of this chamber and the removal of our own secret books and manuscripts. Philip would truly become the master. Edward of England, already bound by the Treaty of Paris, would have all his secrets laid bare. Philip and de Craon would act the innocent, publicly bewailing what had happened but privately rejoicing at their great triumph. It was never,’ Corbett concluded, ‘a matter of Friar Roger, just a continuation of the old game of who wields power in Europe. But why you, William?’

Bolingbroke’s lips moved.

‘Do you want to deny it?’ Corbett asked. ‘I can go and see de Craon, tell him what I know. I will wager that he will act the Judas and betray you for less than thirty pieces. Or I can have you bound and sent under guard to Westminster. You can stand trial before King’s Bench; the charges will be high treason and homicide. The evidence against you is pressing, William. You will be lodged in the Tower and dragged from there on a hurdle to Smithfield, where they will hang you. Just before you choke to death they will cut you down for the disembowelling. Once you are dead your head will be severed, your body quartered and placed on spikes along London Bridge.’

‘Gold.’ Bolingbroke’s hand went to the weal on his face. He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Gold and silver.’ He stretched out his fingers to the fire. ‘Last summer, just after the Feast of the Baptist, Sanson asked to meet me in his chambers. De Craon was there. They said they had evidence that I was a spy. They could arrest me and hang me at Montfaucon. They promised me life, wealth and honour in France. I was tired, Sir Hugh, tired of the rotten food, of the rat-infested garrets, of acting the poor scholar. It was so simple, so easily done. I was trapped.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘In the twinkling of an eye.’ He talked as if speaking to himself. ‘And once trapped? Well, it was like when I was a child running down a hill; once you begin your descent you can’t stop. I thought, what did it really matter, serve this king or serve that king?’

‘Would you point the finger at de Craon?’ Corbett asked.

Bolingbroke snorted with laughter.

‘What proof do I have? You can’t play that game, Sir Hugh. You would have to confess that Ufford was a spy and de Craon would simply listen and laugh. The only proof you have is the evidence you laid against me. Not enough to hang him.’ He shrugged. ‘But certainly enough to hang me. I do not want to take that journey to Smithfield.’

‘Do you confess?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In this chamber I confess. In your presence I admit to the truth. I have innocent blood on my hands, and of all the deaths it’s Walter’s I feel most bitter about. De Craon promised he would be taken prisoner, perhaps exchanged for one in England.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘But what’s the use? You have the power of a justice, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke pleaded with his eyes. ‘A swift death, a chance to be shriven by Father Andrew? Let it finish here.’

Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘Take him outside, inform Sir Edmund of what we have learnt, let Bolingbroke admit his guilt. He is to be taken under guard to the chapel. Father Andrew can hear his confession, and whilst he whispers the absolution ask Sir Edmund to have the executioner prepared. Make it swift, a log and an axe. William, I do not wish to see you again.’

Ranulf seized Bolingbroke by his arm and pulled him to his feet. The clerk was unresisting; he even loosened his own belt, throwing it to the floor. He then took off his Chancery ring and let it fall at Corbett’s feet. Chanson made to accompany Ranulf but Corbett pulled him back.

‘No, no,’ he whispered when they had left. ‘You stand by the door, Chanson.’

Corbett took out his Ave beads and began to thread them through his fingers. He tried to concentrate on the words but let his mind drift, willing the time to pass as swiftly as possible. He heard shouts and cries from outside, the sound of running feet and the bell of the castle chapel tolling long and mournful.

‘Chanson.’ Corbett called the groom over. ‘Go and tell Monsieur de Craon,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘that William Bolingbroke, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been executed for treason and murder. Tell him that one day our noble King will explain to the Holy Father in great detail what happened here. Oh, and Chanson, do tell de Craon that it is not the end of the matter; for me it’s just another beginning.’