The Magician

Chapter 1

Paris: August 1303

Walter Ufford was good at peering through keyholes. He claimed to have a natural talent for it, and on that Friday, the eve of the Feast of St Monica, the Mother of St Augustine, he was using his talents on behalf of his master, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England. Ufford was enjoying himself. In fact, when he visited the shriving pew to confess his sins at the beginning of Advent, he would confess to this. Walter Ufford was busy spying on Magister Thibault, Reader in Divinity and Master of the Schools at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. He glanced quickly up and down the gallery. It was deserted. Only the creak of floorboards and the scampering of vermin echoed along that gloomy passageway. Magister Thibault would not want any distraction; after all, it was his house, a soaring three-storey mansion in the Rue St Veuve, only a walk away from the stinking, turbulent Seine. Ufford strained his ears. From below he could hear the sounds of revelry, the music of the rebec, flute and tambour. The dancing had begun. Those dark-eyed moon girls would be cavorting like Salome, drawing lustful glances and rousing the hot passions of the spectators.

‘There’ll be little schooling done tonight,’ Ufford whispered to himself. He pressed his eye against the keyhole. He was so pleased that Magister Thibault had removed the key. The gap was large and provided Walter with a clear view of the old lecher’s bedchamber, a grand place with its polished floor and woollen rugs, the walls covered in costly drapes. A fire crackled merrily in the mantled hearth, whilst the candles placed around the chamber lit up the tableau taking place on the blue-draped four-poster bed. Magister Thibault, naked as the day he was born, was busy cavorting with Lucienne, fille de joie, one of the best the House of Joy could provide. Ufford groaned quietly to himself. Lucienne was a thing of beauty, with her lustrous red hair and snow-white skin. She had the figure of a Venus and the face of an Aphrodite. He watched in quiet surprise at the agility of this old master of the schools. He could hear his groans of pleasure and Lucienne’s cries of joy.

‘He is occupied?’

Walter whirled round, hand going for the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. Despite the scarlet robe and the gilt mask covering his face, he recognised his companion, William Bolingbroke, like Ufford an eternal student of the University of Paris, a man who immersed himself in the scientia naturalis.

‘He’s truly enjoying himself,’ Ufford whispered.

‘Put your mask on!’

Ufford hurried to obey, though he didn’t like the thing. It was supposed to be a fox. He had caught a reflection of himself in a shiny brass jug and considered the mask too life-like. The same went for Bolingbroke’s, an evil animal mask with slanted eyes, fierce snout and horns curling out on either side.

‘It’s so hot,’ Ufford muttered. ‘I am sweating like a bitch on heat.’

Bolingbroke grasped him by the elbow and took him further down the gallery to the small seat under the window casement. He climbed up, opened the latch door and took off his mask, inviting Ufford to do the same. For a moment they both stood revelling in the cool night air.

‘Will he come?’

‘He had better do.’ Bolingbroke turned his face away from the window. He looked pale and drawn, the deep-set eyes ringed in shadow, a sheen of sweat on the broad forehead beneath his close-cropped sandy hair.

Ufford felt a spasm of fear and clutched his stomach. He shouldn’t have drunk so much wine but, as Bolingbroke had said, they had to enter into the spirit of the evening. The masters of the school had organised a party to celebrate the beginning of term, to eat, drink and enjoy themselves before they returned to the rigorous discipline of their studies.

‘Are you sure all is well?’ Ufford whispered.

‘They are as drunk as sots downstairs. Magister Thibault is lost in his pleasures and the rest couldn’t distinguish Alpha from Omega.’

Ufford smiled quietly to himself. Bolingbroke the scholar, always ready to show his learning at the most inappropriate occasions.

‘We had best go.’

Ufford heard the sign, the clanging of the bells from a nearby church marking the hour of Compline. He put on his mask and followed Bolingbroke down the gallery. They paused at the top of the stairs.

‘Take care!’ Bolingbroke urged.

They went down the wooden staircase, on to the second gallery, past various chambers, from where the noises of love echoed loud and clear, down a second side staircase, along a stone-paved passageway, dark but sweet-smelling of spilt wine, and into Master Thibault’s so-called Great Hall. This long wooden-panelled chamber had been transformed for the night’s rejoicing. The trestle tables on either side were littered with fragments of food, splashes of wine, ale and beer. Cups, goblets, beakers and platters lay strewn about, catching the glow of the many candles and torches which lit the room yet also provided shadows deep enough for those who wished to continue their pleasures in private. The benches had been pushed aside. Magister Thibault’s guests stood in a ring, watching three young olive-skinned women, hair black as a raven’s wing, garbed in a motley collection of garish rags, dance and whirl to the click of castanets and the tinkling of little silver bells. The moon women moved to the blood-stirring tune of the musicians, who took their beat from the small boy holding a tambour, almost as big as him, which cut through the rhythm and quickened the pace. Most of the spectators were drunk; even as Bolingbroke and Ufford entered, one broke away to stagger off into the shadows to be sick, kicking aside the great hounds which roamed the halls and jumped on to the tables looking for scraps.

Bolingbroke and Ufford pushed their way through the throng. Ufford felt as if he was in one of the circles of Hell, surrounded by men and women in gaudy robes, the air reeking of their cheap perfume, their faces hidden behind the masks of dogs, badgers, hawks, griffins and dragons. Eyes glittered, fingers snatched at his clothing; he was pushed and knocked by those eager to watch the dance and join the rest as they edged closer and closer to the twirling Salomes. When the dance stopped, who ever had won the women’s favour enjoyed their bodies.

Ufford felt slightly sick, and tried to curb the panic seething within him. These were doctors of the law, masters of logic, professors of divinity, now giving themselves up on a fool’s night to every whim of taste and passion. He was sure he recognised Destaples and Vervins, who were easy to distinguish by their height. Across the hall, as if to distance himself from the orgy, sat Louis Crotoy, whilst fat Pierre Sanson plucked at Bolingbroke’s sleeve only to be pushed away. At last they were through, going under the minstrels’ gallery and into the kitchens. Revellers had slunk here to satisfy their thirst and see what extra wine they could filch from the servants and scullions. Elsewhere the servants were busy either washing down the blood-soaked fleshing tables or helping themselves to the remainders of the feast. No one paid Ufford and Bolingbroke much heed as they went out into the cobbled yard, a dark, dank place, rich with the stench from the stable. Bolingbroke slipped across the yard with Ufford following closely in the shadows, opened a postern gate in the high curtain wall and whistled softly into the darkness. The whistle was returned. Ufford, peering through the gloom, saw a shape move, and the Le Roi des Clefs, the King of Keys, stepped in close. Bolingbroke rebolted the gate and all three men crouched in the shadows.

Le Roi des Clefs was as thin as a wizard’s wand. His hair, prematurely white, parted down the middle, fell just below his ears. His peculiar face fascinated Ufford, so thin, the chin so pointed, it looked like the letter ‘V’; close-set eyes, a beaky nose above a small mouth. Ufford smelt the fragrance and recalled Bolingbroke’s observation that this master housebreaker hated hair on his own face as well as on the face of anyone he did business with. Naturally, early that evening, both he and Bolingbroke had shaved themselves well.

‘You are ready?’ Bolingbroke asked.

Le Roi des Clefs peered around. ‘You are by yourself?’ His English was good, the soft voice emphasising every word.

‘Of course we are!’

‘One gold coin.’ The King of Keys stretched out a hand, the tips of his fingers visible in the dark leather mittens. Bolingbroke handed over the gold coin. The King of Keys held it between forefinger and thumb, bit it, pronounced himself satisfied, and went back to the gate. He returned with two leather sacks. The larger one he handed to Bolingbroke, whilst the other he tied to the belt strapped around his leather jerkin. Bolingbroke undid his own sack and took out two war belts, each carrying a sword and dagger. He and Ufford strapped them on, and digging into the sack again, Bolingbroke brought out two small arbalests and a stout leather quiver of bolts.

‘We are ready.’

They slipped across the yard and into the kitchen, their cloaks hiding both the war belts and the arbalests. The servants were now fighting over a juicy piece of lamb, whilst in the far corner a greyhound stood staring at the place where he usually lay, which was now occupied by a reveller busy lifting the skirts of a kitchen slattern. No one noticed the three newcomers as they opened the cellar door and went down the ill-lit stone steps. At the bottom they stopped and grouped together. Bolingbroke took one of the torches from the sconces on the wall and led them further into the darkness. On either side stood barrels, vats and casks, most of them broached for the evening’s feasting so the ground was slippery underfoot. At the far end of the cellar they reached a stout wooden door reinforced with metal studs. The King of Keys crouched down, whispering to Bolingbroke to hold the torch closer as he emptied his sack of small rods and key-like instruments. For a while he just knelt, crouching, whispering to himself, cursing in the patois so common in the slums of St Antoine.

‘Can you do it?’ Bolingbroke whispered.

The King of Keys paused in his fiddling and gave a cracked-toothed grin.

‘Be it the Tabernacle of St Denis, or the treasure house of King Philip, there is not a lock in Paris I cannot break.’ He held up one of the devices. ‘No lock can withstand these; it’s only the poor light which hinders me.’ As if to prove his point, he inserted the small rod and Ufford sighed in relief at the satisfying click.

The door opened. The chamber inside was no more than a whitewashed box, the ceiling, with its heavy black beams, only inches above their heads. Around the room were ranged chests, coffers and caskets: Magister Thibault’s treasures. Bolingbroke ignored these, leading them across to a heavy iron-bound coffer, dark blue in colour and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis. The coffer had three locks at the front and one on either side. The King of Keys pulled it closer and stared at it curiously.

‘What does it contain? A king’s ransom?’

‘The Secretus Secretorum,’ Ufford replied.

‘The what?’

‘The Voice of God,’ Ufford retorted.

The King of Keys stepped away. ‘This is not black magic, is it? It does not contain some malignant root or book of spells? Messieurs, I am frightened of magic.’

‘It is not magic,’ Ufford soothed, ‘but knowledge. It contains a manuscript of the secret writings of Friar Roger Bacon, once a scholar at the Sorbonne.’

‘What?’ the King of Keys laughed. ‘You have hired me, the Master of the Locks, the King of Keys, to steal the manuscript of a Franciscan?’

Ufford’s hand fell to his dagger. ‘You have been well paid, Monsieur, whoever you are. One gold piece to be hired, two for opening that coffer and two more when we part. Now upstairs Magister Thibault rides his young filly while his guests acquaint themselves with all the sins of the flesh. You must hurry.’

The King of Keys returned to the coffer. Bolingbroke went back to close the doors and make sure all was well. Ufford crouched against the wall, willing his stomach to quieten itself and his sweat to cool, all the time watching the King of Keys, his hands now free of those leather mittens, fondling the locks as he would a lover’s hair, chuckling quietly to himself.

‘Monsieur, this is the work of craftsmen,’ he declared, walking over to Ufford.

‘Domine miserere!’ Ufford whispered. ‘They always come back for more.’ He glowered at the King of Keys, noticing how thin and spindly his legs were in their dark woollen hose, how his feet seemed to swim in those flat-heeled boots.

‘Two more gold pieces.’ The Master of the Locks held out his hands.

Ufford glanced at Bolingbroke, who opened his purse and handed the coins across. Ufford lifted up his arbalest, pulled back the cap to the quiver, took out one of the barbs and placed it in the polished slot. The King of Keys, however, just pocketed the gold, winked and returned to his task.

‘I hope you open it,’ Ufford called out. ‘Either you do and we leave with that manuscript, or . . .’

‘Don’t threaten me,’ the King of Keys hissed back, now busy with another lock.

Ufford fell silent. Cradling the arbalest, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He would be glad when this evening was over. It would be good to return to England and receive the praise and rewards of Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets! He smiled to himself. He liked Corbett, a man of few words, a good master with no illusions about the great Edward of England. He recalled the last time he and Bolingbroke had met Corbett. When was it? Eight weeks ago, around the Feast of Corpus Christi? Corbett had come to Paris on the pretext of some diplomatic incident and had met his two secret clerks, as he called them, at a small auberge beyond the city walls, on the road to Fontainebleau. He had not told them much; he didn’t need to, for both Ufford and Bolingbroke were scholars of the natural sciences as well as the Quadrivium and Trivium, the logic, metaphysics, philosophy and ethics of the Masters. They had been in Paris for three years now, collecting information on behalf of the English Crown. Now their task had changed . . .

Corbett had hired a chamber at the auberge, and had seated them close around a table whilst his henchman, Ranulf of Newgate, dressed in black leather, guarded the door. Ufford was constantly surprised at the contrast between Corbett and Ranulf. Sir Hugh was dark-faced with deep-set eyes, his clean-shaven face and regular features always composed. ‘A man of clean heart and clean hands,’ as Ufford secretly called him. Ranulf was different, red-haired, those slanted green eyes and pale face always watchful, a fighting man, expert with the sword, dagger and garrotte. Ufford had listened to the rumours, how Ranulf had once been a riffler, a roaring boy, from London’s stinking alleyways, rescued by Corbett from the gallows. Ranulf had educated himself, unlike Corbett, who had studied at the Halls of Oxford. A man of bounding ambition with the talent to match, Ranulf was now Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.

‘There, I have it!’ the King of Keys exclaimed.

Ufford broke from his reverie at the sound of a click. The King of Keys had opened the two side locks and was working busily on the three at the front.

‘Hurry up,’ urged Bolingbroke, leaning against the door.

Ufford stared at his companion. Bolingbroke was usually a serene man, composed and rather elegant in his ways, fastidious in his habits, but tonight he was clearly agitated. Ufford knew the reason. One of the magistri upstairs was a traitor. Neither Bolingbroke nor he knew which one, but after all their searches they’d been informed how the University of the Sorbonne did possess a copy of the Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon, and how its scholars were busy studying its cipher. The mysterious traitor had offered to sell the Secretus to the English Crown. At first Bolingbroke and Ufford had been cautious; they were being watched, suspected of being Secret Clerks. But, there again, it was a question of much suspected and nothing proved. Now it had all changed. Somebody had learnt about their secret meeting with Corbett. How the Keeper of the King’s Seal had urged them to find that manuscript, or a copy, steal it and bring it immediately to England . . .

Ufford lifted his hand in the sign of peace, Bolingbroke smiled thinly back and stared down at the King of Keys busy on the coffer. Neither Bolingbroke nor Ufford knew the source of their information; letters were simply left at their lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, above the Martel de Fer tavern, describing how the Secretus Secretorum had been handed to Magister Thibault, who kept it in a coffer in the strong room in his house.

‘D’accord!’ Another click. The King of Keys turned and ceremoniously lifted the clasp.

‘For God’s sake,’ Ufford whispered hoarsely, and gestured at the other two locks. The hour was passing, the revellers upstairs might want some more wine and they must not be disturbed. If they were arrested . . . Ufford closed his eyes; he could not bear the thought.

During the last few days, whilst they had planned the robbery, both he and Bolingbroke had been aware of dark figures standing at the mouths of alleyways watching their lodgings. Corbett had warned them to be careful of Seigneur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the Secrets of his Most Royal Highness Philip IV of France. He was Corbett’s mortal enemy, dedicated to frustrating the designs of the English Crown, and he had a legion of spies and informers at his disposal, nicknamed the ‘Hounds of the King’. Ufford and Bolingbroke had discussed the danger but they had no choice. Yet if they were caught? Ufford grasped the arbalest tighter. They would be taken to the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber beneath the Louvre of Paris, questioned by the Inquisitor, strapped to the wheel of Montfaucon and spun while the hangman smashed their limbs with mallets, before they choked on one of the soaring gibbets near the gates of St Denis. Ufford closed his eyes and prayed. He had visited Notre Dame this morning, lit three tapers in the Lady’s Chapel and knelt on the hard stone floor, reciting one Ave Maria after another.

To break the tension, Ufford got to his feet and walked across to his companion.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why is the manuscript so valuable?’

Bolingbroke shifted his gaze and put a finger to his lips.

‘Bacon was a magician,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘He discovered secrets, the hidden knowledge of the Ancients. He said . . .’ He paused as the King of Keys freed another lock and moved to the last one. ‘You know the rivalry between Philip of France and Edward of England; either will do anything to frustrate the other.’

‘But Roger Bacon was a friar,’ Ufford pointed out. ‘They are always hinting at secrets.’

‘Did you know-’ Bolingbroke broke off, moving away from the door. Ufford had heard it too, the sound of footsteps. At the far end of the strongroom the King of Keys also recognised the danger. Ufford winched back the cord of his arbalest. Bolingbroke, grasping the torch, quickly went round the chamber dousing the candles, hissing at his companions to join him in the corner. Ufford, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat, stood beside his companions, the pool of light from the torch dancing around them. He prayed it was only a reveller coming down for more wine or ale. Then the footsteps drew nearer, a woman laughed, and to Ufford’s horror the door at the far end opened in a pool of light and a man and woman entered the chamber. Both had drunk deeply. Ufford heard a strident voice, speaking quickly in French, wondering why the strongroom door was open. Heart thumping, Ufford realised what had happened. Magister Thibault, together with the fair Lucienne, had come down to inspect the treasure room. The old goat was showing off, eager to impress this beautiful courtesan, but he was too drunk to fully realise what had happened, and instead of retreating, he closed the door behind him and staggered across the room, lifting the tallow candle he carried.

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ What is this? He swayed in the pool of light, cursing sharply as a piece of hot wax dropped on to his hand.

‘Kill him,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘Kill him now!’

Magister Thibault walked towards them.

‘Who’s there?’ he screeched.

Ufford stepped into the pool of light, the arbalest still hidden beneath his cloak.

‘Magister Thibault, good evening. My friends and I became lost and found ourselves down here.’

Thibault, full of wine and hot from the pleasures of the bed, blinked his watery eyes.

‘Why, it’s Ufford the Englishman, who is always asking me questions about Albert the Great.’

Ufford took a step closer. The Magister studied him quickly from head to toe. Thibault’s mood was changing.

‘What are you doing here?’ Thibault stepped back in alarm. The woman, leaning against the wall, was falling asleep. She seemed unaware of any danger, thumb in her mouth, laughing softly as if savouring a secret joke.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Thibault stepped back further. Ufford brought up the arbalest and released the bolt, which thudded deep into Thibault’s chest, sending him staggering back. The candle dropped from his hands as he went to clutch the feathered barb embedded deep in his chest. At first, unaware of the pain or the blood pumping out, he opened his mouth to scream, but Ufford leapt forward and struck him on the side of the head with the arbalest. The Magister slumped to his knees, groaning in pain, coughing on the blood frothing between his lips. Ufford simply pushed him to one side and raced towards Lucienne, who stood, hands still to her mouth, staring as if it were all a dream. Ufford felt a pang of pity at that beautiful face, the lovely lips, the pale ivory skin. He clutched the young woman by the neck and drove his dagger deep beneath the heart, drawing her closer on to the blade, watching the life-light die in those exquisite eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ufford whispered.

‘I . . .’ Lucienne’s eyes rolled in her head, she gave a cough and a sigh. Ufford lowered her corpse to the floor.

‘We’ll hang!’ The King of Keys gazed in horror at the two corpses. Blood was snaking out, pools forming and running down the lines between the paving stones.

Ufford couldn’t stop trembling.

‘I had no choice,’ he gasped. ‘If I didn’t we would have hanged. Finish what you’re doing,’ he snarled at the King of Keys, and running over, he pulled across the bolts securing the door.

The lock-breaker returned to his task. Ufford paced up and down, while Bolingbroke simply slumped by the wall, staring at the stiffening corpses. Ufford started as Thibault’s corpse twitched and a gasp of air escaped from his stomach. The King of Keys, sweat-soaked, concentrated on the last lock. He gave a cry of triumph at the click, threw back the lid and plunged his hand inside, only to give the most hideous scream. Ufford spun round. Bolingbroke moaned quietly, like a man caught in the toils. The King of Keys turned, and Ufford stared in horror. Little caltrops, balls, their spikes as sharp as razors and as long as daggers, had pierced the hand and wrist of the King of Keys. He staggered towards Ufford, arm out, staring beseechingly, blood pumping from his wrist like water from a drain.

‘My hand,’ the King of Keys moaned, ‘my hand. I shall never . . .’ His face was a liverish white at the shock of what had happened. ‘God damn you!’ he whispered.

The sudden horror of this hidden device had made him unaware of the seriousness of his wound, but Ufford knew enough about medicine to realise that a large vein had been cut.

‘Help me!’ the injured man pleaded. ‘For God’s sake!’

He slumped to his knees and tugged at the spike in his wrist, but the pain sent him writhing to the floor. Ufford ran across and, helped by Bolingbroke, tried to extract the caltrop, but it was embedded too deep. The King of Keys was shaking, the blood gushing from the wound so fast Ufford knew he couldn’t staunch it.

‘Help me, please!’ the King of Keys repeated.

‘Of course, of course. We need to cut some cloth.’

Ufford drew his dagger, one hand going to cover the King of Keys’ eyes, the other slicing the blade deeply across the man’s throat.

‘We can do no more.’ He stared at Bolingbroke grasping the King of Keys’ sack, who now asserted himself as if waking from a dream.

‘True, he was dead already.’

They went across to the casket and, grabbing it by the lid, tipped the contents on to the floor. They fell with a crash, more of those deadly caltrops bouncing across the paving like some dangerous vermin escaping from a hole. Bolingbroke, however, sighed in relief at the leather bag tied at the neck which also fell out. He picked this up, undid the knot and slid out a bound book. He took it beneath the sconce torch, undid the leather clasp and quickly leafed through the pages.

‘Do we have it?’ Ufford demanded.

‘We have it!’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘The Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon!’

They fled the strongroom taking their weapons and the leather sack with them. Ufford stopped at the wine cellar, fingers to his lips, staring at the small casks and vats above the wine barrels. Climbing up, he took one down, prised the bung hole loose with his dagger and shook the oil on to the floor as he and Bolingbroke made their way back to the steps. When it was emptied, he threw it down and raced up the cellar steps. At the top, grasping the torch, he stared down at the glistening oil, then tossed the torch in and slammed the door shut.

They raced through the kitchen, past sleepy-eyed scullions. In the yard two revellers were being sick over the horse trough. Bolingbroke and Ufford pushed them aside and hastened to the gate and out into the shadowy side streets of Paris. As they reached the end of the alleyway, the faint sounds of clamour rose behind them. Looking back, Ufford saw a glow against the sky. The fire he had started was now raging.

‘Why?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Why not?’ Ufford gasped for breath. ‘It will create what the French would call a divertissement. Come, let’s go.’

They walked quickly, but did not hurry. The watch were out, groups of halberdiers dressed in the city livery, but the clerks carried passes and were allowed to go unmolested. They avoided the main thoroughfares where the chains had been drawn across, or the open squares lit by torches and candles placed around the statues of the local patron saints. In the shadows stood crossbowmen, city bailiffs, ready to apprehend any law-breaker. Ufford took a deep breath. He regretted the deaths, but what could he do? The King of Keys would have died anyway. And as for Magister Thibault? Ufford’s lip curled. The Magister was a stupid old man who should have fallen to his prayers. It was Lucienne’s face he could not forget: those lovely eyes, her pretty mouth gaping, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her soft warm body. In a way she had reminded him of Edelina Magorian, the merchant’s daughter in London who sent him such sweet letters and was so eager for his return.

They were now approaching the Porte St Denis and the great gallows of Montfaucon. The long-pillared, soaring gallows standing on its fifteen-foot mound, the execution ground, the slaughteryard of Paris, with its hanging noose and ladders stark against the starlit sky and, in the centre, a deep pit to receive the corpses. Ufford shivered and looked away. He would make sure he would not be taken alive, thrown into the execution cart, battered and bruised and forced to dance in the air for the delight of the mob. He gripped the leather sack more tightly. They would never come back to Paris and he was glad. There would be other assignments, though Corbett would not be pleased that such deaths lay at his door.

‘Walter?’

Ufford started and realised they had reached the mouth of the narrow alleyway leading to the Street of the Carmelites. Bolingbroke pulled him deep into the shadows of an overhanging house. ‘For God’s sake, man, keep your eyes sharp!’

Ufford swallowed hard. He could feel the night cold as he peered down that alleyway, the crumbling houses jutting out above their neighbours, almost blocking out the sky. Here and there a lonely candle burned in a casement window. A river mist hung thin in the air, blurring the light of the lantern horns slung on hooks outside some of the tenements. He narrowed his eyes. The street was the same; that stinking sewer down the centre. He could see the corner of a runnel, the place where footpads lurked, but this appeared deserted.

‘I can see nothing wrong.’

Keeping to the line of the houses, they edged down towards the small tavern known as the Martel de Fer, the Sign of the Blacksmith, above which they had their room. The tavern was closed and shuttered for the night, as was the small apothecary opposite. Ufford stared across at this, looking for any chink of light, but all was cloaked in darkness. They went up the outside stairs into their narrow, shabby chamber with the paint peeling off the walls and the air rancid with the smell of cheap tallow candles. Even as Bolingbroke struck a tinder to light these, Ufford could hear the scampering mice. Yes, he would be glad to leave this place. The candles glowed, and Ufford stared around at the hard cot beds, the battered chests, the rickety table and stools. On the wall, just near the arrow slit window boarded up against the night, hung a crucifix on which the gaunt white figure of Christ writhed in mortal agony. Ufford looked away. He could not forget Lucienne.

He placed the leather sack under the bed, built up the brazier and began to destroy sheaves of paper from the secret compartment hidden beneath one of the chests: letters and memoranda they had received from England. Bolingbroke was doing the same. Then they took down leather panniers from hooks on the wall and filled these with their pathetic possessions, sharing out the gold and silver the English Ambassador had given them when he’d met them amongst the tombstones at St Jean. They washed their hands and faces, and divided their remaining food – a loaf of bread, some cheese and a small roll of cooked ham – whilst they finished the jug of claret purchased from the tavern below. At last all was ready.

‘We should go now.’ Ufford picked up the leather sack. ‘Who shall carry this?’

Bolingbroke drew the dice from his wallet.

‘Three throws?’

‘No, just one.’

Bolingbroke grinned, leaned down and shook the dice on to the floor. ‘Two sixes.’

Ufford picked up the dice.

‘Do you wish to throw?’ Bolingbroke asked.

Ufford shook his head and handed the leather sack over. Bolingbroke drew out the manuscript and began to leaf through the pages.

‘It’s in cipher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What does it contain, Walter? It has cost the lives of three people and could send us to our deaths. Oh, I know.’ He raised his hand. ‘I’m a scholar like you. I’ve read Friar Roger’s On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature.’ He smiled. ‘Or, as Magister Thibault would have said, De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae.’

‘You know what it says, William?’

‘I can suspect,’ Bolingbroke replied. He closed his eyes to remember the quotation. ‘“It is possible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be made which can be guided by one man and will move with greater swiftness than if they were full of oarsmen.”’ He opened his eyes.

‘What did he mean by that?’ Ufford asked

Bolingbroke pulled a face, closed the book, fastened the clasp and placed it carefully back in the leather sack.

‘We should go,’ Ufford repeated.

‘We are not to be at the Madelene Quayside until the bells of Prime are being rung.’ Bolingbroke cocked his head at the faint sounds of clanging bells. ‘The alarm has been raised, the fire at Magister Thibault’s must have spread. But no, Walter, we will stay, at least for a while.’

Ufford lay down on the bed, eyes watching the door, aware of the shifting shadows as the candle flame fluttered at the draughts which seeped through the room. He thought about being back in London, of sitting in the tiled solar at Edelina’s house, a warm fire glowing, the air fragrant with the smell of herbs and spices; of cleaning his mouth with a snow-white napkin as he bit into tender beef or drank the rich claret her father imported.

Ufford’s eyes grew heavy but he started awake, alarmed by a sound from the street below. He leapt from the bed and, hurrying across to the arrow slit, carefully removed the plank which boarded it and stared out. The cold night air hit him even as a stab of fear sent his heart racing. Dark shapes shifted in the street below and a light glowed from the apothecary’s shop. He was sure he heard a clink of steel from the alleyway, the muffled neigh of a horse. He felt his legs tense as if encased in steel. There were people below; he saw a movement and caught the glint of armour. He whirled round.

‘They’re here!’ he gasped, aware of the sweat breaking out on his face, his hands clammy.

‘Nonsense!’

‘They’re here,’ Ufford repeated. ‘The Hounds of the King, de Craon and company.’ He picked up his war belt and strapped it round his waist. Then, snatching his cloak and saddlebags, he opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. He was aware of Bolingbroke breathing behind him. The alleyway below was empty.

‘Down the steps quickly,’ Bolingbroke urged. ‘Separate. If I am caught I’ll destroy that manuscript. Remember, the Madelene Quayside, the boatman in the scarlet hood – he’ll take you downriver to The Glory of Westminster, an English cog. Its captain’s name is Chandler.’

Ufford nodded and raced down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he turned left and ran up a runnel, blind walls on either side. He didn’t know which way Bolingbroke had gone but his companion was forever wandering off by himself and knew the city like the back of his hand, even better than Ufford did. Ufford ran like the wind. He was aware of beggars, with their white, pinched faces, crouching in doorways, of dogs snarling and slinking away as he lashed out with his boot. He passed a small church, its steps crumbling; he glimpsed the face of a gargoyle and thought it was Magister Thibault laughing at him. He kept to the poor quarter, ill-lit and reeking with offensive smells, slums rarely patrolled by the watch or city guards. One thing he kept in mind: the map he had memorized. He reached the Street of the Capuchins and stopped to catch his breath, to ease the stabbing pain in his side. He resheathed his dagger, squatted down and, fumbling in his pocket, found a piece of cheese. He tried to chew on this but his mouth was dry so he spat it out.

Ufford tried to make sense of what was happening. They had stolen that damnable manuscript, Bolingbroke had it, and now they were only hours away from safety. Once aboard that cog, de Craon and his Hounds could bay like the dogs of Hell, but they would be safe. Yet how had it happened? Ufford breathed in deeply, his ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Had he made a mistake or were the Hounds chasing poor Bolingbroke? He tried to soothe his humours by recalling Edelina’s face, but it was Lucienne’s that came to mind, that pretty mouth opening, the blood spurting out. Ufford half dozed. He recalled his question to Bolingbroke. What was so precious about that manuscript? London and Paris were full of magicians! Friar Roger had made remarkable prophesies, but surely they were just vague imaginings? The pain in his side eased and Ufford tried to concentrate on his own predicament. It was Bolingbroke who had discovered where the manuscript was, liaising with this mysterious traitor, but what then? Was it that traitor who’d betrayed them? Was it a trap? Was the manuscript Bolingbroke carried genuine or a forgery?

Ufford peered down the Street of the Capuchins. From where he squatted he could see glimpses of the river and caught the glow of the quayside torches fixed on their poles. Perhaps the boatman would come early. He got to his feet and walked slowly down the street. From a casement window a child cried, a strident sound piercing the night. A dog howled and Ufford started at the swift swirl of bats in the air above him. From a garden further down an owl hooted, and he recalled old wives’ tales about an owl being the harbinger of death. He was halfway along the Street of the Capuchins when he heard the clink of metal behind him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he turned. A line of mailed men, heads cowled, had emerged from an alleyway. They stood silently, like a legion of ghouls spat out from Hell.

‘Oh no!’ Ufford gasped.

‘Monsieur,’ a voice called. ‘Put down your arms, and return that manuscript.’

Ufford peered through the gloom. He could make out the livery, the silver fleur-de-lis on a blue background: the Hounds of the King! He drew his sword and dagger and turned to run. He was finished. A second line of men had appeared, blocking any escape to the quayside. Again the voice, loud and clear: ‘Monsieur, put down your arms, we wish to talk to you about what you have stolen.’

Ufford recalled the gibbet of Montfaucon, black and stark, the rumbling of the execution cart, the whirl of the wheel as the torturers broke legs and arms with their mallets.

‘I cannot lay down my arms, I have no manuscript.’ He spread his hands. ‘I demand safe passage.’

The line of men facing him, dressed like the others, began to walk towards him, ominous figures of death. Ufford murmured an act of contrition and crouched, sword and dagger out, and the silence of the street was shattered by the clash of arms and the hideous screams of the Englishman as he died.

In a narrow, reeking runnel scarcely a mile away, William Bolingbroke crouched in a filth-strewn corner, his leather bag between his feet. At the mouth of the alleyway squatted a beggar who’d told him that the Hounds of the King were swarming along the riverside. So what should he do now? The waiting cog was out of the question. He tried not to think of Ufford, but reflected instead on their master, Sir Hugh Corbett. What would he expect Bolingbroke to do? What was the logic of the situation? This was his best protection, his sure defence against any danger, now or in the future. Bolingbroke chewed on his lip and carefully plotted his way through the maze confronting him.

Corfe: October 1303

The ancient ones believed that Corfe Castle in the shire of Dorset was the work of giants, a grim mass of masonry which stretched up to the sky. Towers, battlements, crenellated walls and soaring gateways dominated the fields, meadows and thick dark forests which stretched down to the coast. On that freezing night, the Feast of Saints Simon and Jude, the castle was shrouded in darkness broken occasionally by the glint of light from the flaring torches and crackling braziers ranged along the battlements to provide light and warmth for the sentries.

The outlaw known as Horehound, however, was glad of the freezing cold. No parties would leave the castle, so its constable would not be hunting him and his companions. The outlaw hid deep in the shadows of a great oak tree. A more pressing problem was hunger. The roe deer had been too fleet, whilst such a hunt would always provoke suspicion. Consequently Horehound had laid his rabbit traps and, with his leather sack over his shoulder, intended to see what the early-evening harvest had brought in. He grasped his crossbow and sought reassurance by touching the knife thrust through the leather belt around his waist. He felt comfortable in the clothes he had stolen from a merchant taking wine to the castle, a foolish knave who thought he could sit on his cart and rattle along the trackways of the forest without surrendering the usual toll, a skinflint who hadn’t bothered to pay out for an escort. Horehound had taken his clothes and his wallet but let him keep his wine, cart and horse. The outlaw appreciatively rubbed his woollen jerkin and pulled the heavy black cloak closer. He listened to the darkness for any sound. Sometimes the constable sent out his verderers and huntsmen, but Horehound could hear nothing in the dark of the night.

Horehound picked himself up and decided to move on. He knew the paths and could use the castle like a sailor would a star on an unknown sea. He moved easily; he knew there would be no one in the forest tonight. No danger lurked there. He loped like some hunting dog taking its time, certain of its quarry. The real danger was out in the open, in the meadows or pasturelands, or the great expanse before the castle. The track snaked before him. Now and again Horehound paused to crouch and sniff the air before continuing. He reached where he had set his traps, only to be bitterly disappointed: the rabbits caught had already been devoured by the vermin of the forest, some fox, weasel or stoat pack. Nothing was left but the remains caught in the wire or the tarred wooden rope. Horehound cursed under his breath. He had what? Eighteen or twenty souls to feed, three of them old, five women, two children.

He continued on, reaching the broad track which would lead down to the main castle gate. He looked to his left and right. The forest path, bathed in faint moonlight, was empty; no danger there. Horehound kept to the verge, ready to slip back into the trees should danger threaten. The further he went, the more he picked up new smells, not of wet wood or leaf meal, but wood smoke and the delicious odour of burning meat. He was now approaching the Tavern in the Forest, a favourite meeting place for the surrounding villagers and all those doing business with the castle, but that was usually in fairer weather, not when winter swept in cold and hard. Horehound slipped back into the forest, approaching the tavern from the rear. He was wary of its owner, mine host Master Reginald, with his fierce dogs. The outlaw gave the tavern a wide berth and passed by its rear wall. The smells from its kitchen drifted rich and tantalising, and Horehound looked longingly at the distant gleam from its windows and the smoke billowing up from its fires. Sometimes Master Reginald would tolerate him and a few of his companions, to sit in the inglenook and warm themselves, gobble a bowl of rabbit stew in return for whatever they had caught in the forest.

Horehound moved on. Now and again the trees gave way to some dripping glade or treacherous morass. As usual, he circled these and continued his journey. The trees thinned. Horehound was now out in the open, climbing the slight escarpment from which the castle reared up into the sky. This was a favourite place for rabbits. Corfe had its own warren and some of the rabbits bred there often escaped to begin colonies of their own. The previous night Horehound had set traps very near the moat. He hoped the bitter cold and darkness would blunt the sentries’ vigilance. As he approached, he could smell the rank stale water, and grateful for the mist now beginning to boil, he searched out where he had laid his traps and was delighted at the soft plump corpses waiting for him.

He’d almost filled his sack when he came across the corpse. The young woman lay sprawled on the edge of the moat, hidden beneath some gorse, opposite a narrow postern gate to the castle. Horehound almost screamed with fright. Edging closer, he felt the girl’s face and her long hair, and touching her neck, he felt the coldness of death as well as the feathered quarrel embedded deep in her chest. He glanced up at the pinpricks of light along the battlements. There was nothing he could do, and retreating into the night, he returned to the forest by a different route, skirting the nearby village.

He reached the cemetery of the church of St Peter’s in the Wood and stopped before the lych gate. Should he go in and seek Father Matthew, a kindly, honest-faced priest? Surely he too must be concerned about the stories. How many now? Two or three young women, and tonight’s victim made possibly four, all brutally murdered. Two of the corpses had been found in the castle itself, and the third, like tonight’s, on the approaches to it. Horehound was deeply troubled. He did not want to think of the other nightmare, which he called ‘the horror of the forest’, that lonely glade, the sombre oak tree and that corpse hanging like the victim of some barbaric sacrifice. The outlaw stared across the cemetery. He could glimpse no light from the priest’s house, whilst the church was a sombre mass of stone, black against the night. Such matters would have to wait. Horehound loped on.

Inside the church, Father Matthew knelt, enveloped by the darkness. He was crouching just within the sanctuary, his back against the communion rail, staring at the small lantern which hung next to the pyx above the high altar. He crossed himself once again and quietly murmured the Confiteor, the ‘I Confess’, reciting his sins and begging pardon and penance for them. It was the same every night. Whenever he could, Father Matthew doused the lights of his house and came to pray in the cold darkness, an act of reparation, allying himself with Christ’s agony in Gethsemane. He recalled the words of Psalm 50: ‘A pure heart create for me, oh God, put a steadfast spirit within me.’ His dry lips and tongue stumbled over the word ‘steadfast’.

Father Matthew laughed bitterly to himself; he could pray no more. The cold darkness also reminded him of that cell, and above all of that voice whispering its secrets through the darkness. Such memories provoked tears, reminding Father Matthew of his mysterious past. Putting his face in his hands, he wept bitterly for what he had done, as well as what he should have done but had failed to do.