The Magician

Chapter 2

Horehound, with his companion Milkwort, hid amongst brambles and undergrowth, quiet as dappled roe deer. They crouched as if carved out of stone, watching the trackway which wound out of the forest to climb the chalky downs to Corfe Castle. Six weeks had passed since Horehound had found the murdered girl out near the castle. Since then there had been another one, Gunhilda, her battered corpse discovered amongst the rubbish heaps on a piece of wasteland within the castle itself. Father Matthew had preached vehemently against these gruesome murders both in his pulpit and again at the market cross. Yet what good would that do? Killing was part of life. A reward had been posted on Horehound’s head because he and Milkwort had to hunt to live, poaching Lord Edmund’s deer and filching whatever they could. They had spent November hunting, trapping deer and rabbit, drying the flesh and salting it in vats of brine deep in the forest. The Ancient One, a member of their group, had advised them to fill their larder against the winter; he had prophesied how the snows would come and how life, once again, for Horehound and his band would balance on a knife edge.

Advent had arrived, and the church was preparing for the birth of the infant Christ. Father Matthew had already decked the nave of St Peter’s with evergreen, whilst his parishioners were collecting wood in the cemetery and common land to build a crib. All this had been swept aside by fresh news and busy rumour; everyone was agog with excitement. Strangers were moving into the area! Corfe Castle was to be the meeting place for a council between the clerks of France and England. Horehound did not know who the King of France was. The Ancient One had told him that the Kingdom of France lay across the Narrow Seas and had once been ruled by the kings of England. Horehound had listened to the gossip. He’d acted suitably impressed as he squatted amongst the trees at the rear of the Tavern in the Forest, sharing gossip with the pot boys from the tap room who could so easily be bribed for local news and information in return for a basket of succulent fresh rabbit meat. He depended on such news, ever vigilant lest the Sheriff of Dorset move into the area with his comitatus, ready to hunt the likes of Horehound down. He’d questioned the pot boys closely. At first they teased him as he sat between Milkwort and Angelica, Milkwort’s woman. The pot boys claimed royal justices were coming, their execution cart trundling behind them surmounted by stocks, gibbets and whips, to punish Horehound and his coven. One boy, more insolent than the rest, even hinted that Horehound was responsible for the death of the local maids. The outlaw had yelped his innocence until the others laughed and reassured him. ‘One-ear’, so called because a dog had bitten off the other one, claimed it was because of ‘Ham’, which provoked more laughter, until he correctly recalled the details he had learnt from a sottish man-at-arms: how the Council was to discuss a Franciscan called Roger Bacon, a local man, born at Ilchester, just over the Somerset border. Horehound listened round-eyed. Even he had heard stories about the magical friar who’d travelled far to the east to study in some great city.

‘Why would they want to talk about him?’ he had asked. The boys had simply shaken their heads and returned to discussing the gruesome murders.

The finger of suspicion for the deaths pointed directly at someone in the castle rather than anyone from the forest or one of the local villagers. After all, as One-ear pointed out, and he was regarded as wiser than the rest because he could count to ten and knew his letters, the corpses of the poor maidens had been found either in the grounds of the castle itself or near its gateway. Horehound wasn’t concerned about such murders, as long as he and his ilk weren’t blamed. Yet the presence of King’s men in the area alerted him to danger, whilst the ‘horror of the forest’ still cast a deep shadow over both himself and his group. Horehound wished he could be free of all that, as well as gossip about what might be glimpsed in the forest.

Last night rumour, like a mist, had swirled up the secret forest paths. The King’s men were on their way. So Horehound and Milkwort were ready. They had to make sure about these strangers, and what better opportunity than a mist-strewn morning at the beginning of December when the light was poor and the forest dripped with damp, whilst their bellies were warmed with viper broth and chunks of steaming rabbit meat?

Horehound tensed. The strangers were coming, the clip-clop of their horses echoing like a drumbeat. He peered down the track. The riders emerged out of the thinning mist, four in all, three riding abreast, the last bringing up the rear, trying to manage a vicious-looking sumpter pony. The rider in the centre was talking, gesturing before them at the castle. As the line of trees thinned, just opposite where Horehound and Milkwort crouched, the riders reined in to take a full view of Corfe Castle. They did not speak in Norman French but English, so that the fourth man, the moon-faced, blond-haired groom, with a clear cast in one eye, could understand what was being said. The leading man, whom Horehound immediately christened ‘the King’s henchman’, was describing the history of the castle. He had a strong, carrying voice as he informed his companions about how, in the ancient times, a king had been stabbed in its gateway whilst princes of the blood had been starved in its ancient dungeons.

Horehound watched most closely. The speaker was the first King’s man he had seen for years and he wondered about his title. Turning his head, he caught the name ‘Sir Hugh’. He was tall and slender, with dark skin and large oval eyes, a sharp nose above full lips and a clean-shaven chin. A peregrine falcon, Horehound reflected, and he felt his stomach curdle. Horehound lived on his wits, and he knew this man was dangerous, just by his calm manner, the authority with which he spoke. He was dressed simply enough, in a dark blood-red cotehardie above pale green leggings pushed into high boots on which glittering spurs jingled. A ring sparkled on his finger, and beneath the cloak he wore some collar of office around his neck. As the King’s Man turned, pushing back the cowl of his cloak, Horehound could see that his black hair was tinged with grey, swept back and tied at the nape of the neck.

Horehound shifted his attention to the others. The nearest to him sat astride a big-girthed horse with gleaming saddle and harness. This second King’s man was dressed like a raven in his black leather, a broad war belt slung diagonally across his chest, whilst the cross hilt of his sword was looped over the saddle horn so it could be drawn swiftly and easily. The black leather garb accentuated the narrow pale face under the fiery red hair. ‘The fighting man’ was how Horehound would describe him later, a clerk but also a killer, just from the way he sat, hands never far from his weapons. The rider on the far side was sandy-haired and looked like a clerk in his sober cloak, his hair shaven close to his ears.

Horehound turned to Milkwort and winked. His companion grinned; his leader was satisfied. The King’s men hadn’t brought soldiers, so they wouldn’t be hunting them.

‘Shall we go?’ Milkwort whispered. As he moved his foot, the bramble bush shook. Horehound, horror-struck, gazed back at the trackway. The King’s men had stopped talking and were staring directly at where they were hiding. Both outlaws stiffened. The red-haired one, the fighting man, following his master’s gaze, swung easily out of the saddle, drawing his sword as he did so. He edged across the path, his left hand going behind his back to find the dagger strapped there, drawing closer to the line of brambles and tangled weed which stretched like a net between the trees. Horehound nudged Milkwort.

‘Now,’ he whispered.

Both men turned and, at a half-crouch, raced back into the darkness of the mist-hung trees.

‘Let it be, Ranulf.’ Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, gathered up the reins of his horse. Ranulf resheathed his sword and returned to his own mount.

‘Are you sure, Master?’

‘As God is in Heaven, I thought someone was there.’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘Perhaps children from the village; their curiosity must be stirred.’

Ranulf of Newgate, Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, wondered how long Sir Hugh had known about the secret lurkers. He was convinced they weren’t children; he had glimpsed broad shoulders and a tangle of hair, and one of them had definitely been carrying a crossbow. But there had been no real danger.

‘Master Longface’, as Ranulf called Sir Hugh whenever he was discussing him with Chanson the groom, was only intent on letting their horses rest before the steep climb to the castle gates, hence the brief pause. Ranulf glared at Chanson, who was now grinning wickedly at him.

‘They may not have been children, Ranulf,’ whispered the groom, ‘but very big rabbits. They grow very large around here.’ Chanson was pleased to have the opportunity to tease Ranulf, whose one fear, as he had openly confessed himself, was the countryside, with its menacing woods, lonely open meadows and stretches of land with no sign of human habitation, the only sound being the screech of birds and the ominous crackling amongst the trees either side of the track. Ranulf was a child of the narrow lanes and runnels of London, and was quick to pine for what he termed ‘the comforting stink and close warmth of a town or city’. Ranulf slipped his boot into the stirrup and remounted.

‘If they had rabbits as big as a house,’ he retorted quickly, ‘you still wouldn’t be able to hit one.’

William Bolingbroke, Clerk of the Secret Seal and recently returned from Paris, heard the remark and joined in the teasing. Amongst the clerks of the Secret Chancery, Chanson’s lack of skill as an archer was notorious. Given any weapon, this Clerk of the Stable, with such a notable cast in his eye, was judged to be more of a danger to himself than any mailed opponent.

‘We must go on. Sir Edmund will be expecting us.’ Corbett leaned over and gripped Bolingbroke’s wrist. ‘William, I am content you are with us.’ He winked. ‘Though I am certain that the Seigneur de Craon will not be so easily pleased.’ Corbett pulled back his hood. ‘You are well, William?’

‘Curious, Sir Hugh.’

‘Of course, but remember, those things done in the dark will soon be brought into the light of day.’ Corbett urged his horse on. ‘Or so Scripture would have us believe.’

They left the shadow of the trees, spurring their horses over the grassy chalkland up towards the castle built on its successive mounds, one above the other, which provided it with its impregnable position. Corbett had visited Corfe years before. His parents had farmed land in Devon and they had taken their favourite son to see the glories of the King’s builders and stonemasons. He had worked in London and Paris, yet even the sights of those cities, not to mention the passing of years, had done little to diminish his awe at this formidable fortress, with its lofty crenellated walls, soaring towers, battlemented turrets and thick-set drum towers. From the keep, on the top of the hill, fluttered the royal banner of England, the golden leopards clear against their scarlet background, and next to it the personal standard of Sir Edmund Launge, the Royal Constable, silver lions couchant against a dark blue field.

At last they reached the castle, clattering across the drawbridge and in under the sharp teeth of the raised portcullis. They crossed the outer ward or bailey, as busy as any market square with its stalls, smithies, stables, cookhouses and ovens being hastily prepared for another day’s business. Somewhere a bell clanged, and a hunting horn brayed, almost drowned by the baying of a pack of hounds, hungry for their first meal of the day. On tables just inside the gateway, where the blood ran like water, the warrener was laying out the skinned corpses of game for the flesher to gut after he had finished hacking at a whole pig, the severed head of which lay forlornly in a tub of brine, frightening the curious hunting dogs with its still, glassy stare. Fires and braziers crackled. Children shrieked and danced around them, pushing aside the mastiffs which drooled at the smell of salted bacon being laid across makeshift grills to sizzle until brown. Washerwomen struggled to carry baskets of stinking clothes to the waiting vats. Verderers hung more game from poles while the whippers-in fought to keep back the dogs as they placed bowls underneath the cut throats of beast and fowl to collect the blood. Further up, a horse suspected of being lame was being led out of the stables for a horse-leech to inspect. Men-at-arms and archers lounged about, their weapons piled before them as they grouped round a fire and broke their fast on coarse rye bread, spiced sausage and a jug of ale. No one challenged Corbett or his retinue; they were allowed to pass through the bailey, across a second drawbridge spanning a dry fosse, and into the inner ward, a more serene place, dominated by its soaring keep and towers. Guards lurked in the shadows beneath the portcullis, more in the bailey beyond, whilst archers on the battlements turned to watch the newcomers arrive. Corbett reined in and dismounted, glancing across at the Great Hall, a manor house in itself. Built of good stone and fronted with ashlar on a red-brick base, it boasted a black-tiled roof and two low, squat chimney stacks. This was the Constable’s personal dwelling, comprising hall, kitchen, solar and buttery, with his private chambers above. Sir Edmund Launge, accompanied by his wife and daughter, was already hastening down the steps to greet them. Ostlers and grooms hurried up to lead away their horses. Sir Edmund strode across, sending chickens and ducks squawking away in protest.

‘Sir Hugh!’

‘Sir Edmund!’

They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Corbett went to show his commission from the King, but Launge waved it away with his fingers, demanding to be introduced to the rest of his party. Corbett did so. Pleasantries were exchanged. Questions were asked about Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve, and his two children, Edward and Eleanor, named after the King and his late lamented Queen. Corbett enjoyed the introductions, eager to view Ranulf’s reaction.

Sir Edmund was small and thick-set, grey hair straggling down either side of a square face burnt dark by the sun. A sombre-eyed man, his beard and moustache neatly clipped, Sir Edmund was dressed in a green and gold cotehardie with a black leather belt around his waist. Corbett knew the Constable of old as a born soldier, a skilled jouster and one of the old King’s comrades, entrusted with the care of this important fortress. Lady Catherine Launge was buxom and plump, her red-cheeked face and grey hair almost hidden by a voluminous old-fashioned wimple. Dressed in her dark blue gown with a silver girdle, she stood on tiptoe to greet Corbett before introducing what Corbett knew would be the source of Ranulf’s astonishment, her truly beautiful daughter. Constance was tall and willowy, her glorious auburn hair plaited under a bejewelled net. She wore a pelisse across her shoulders, and her dark tawny dress ringed a swan-like neck. But it was her face which Corbett found so beautiful; oval, with pale ivory skin, perfect features made all the more exquisite by calm sea-grey eyes. Corbett winked at Ranulf, who now realised why his master had told him he would be surprised, and so to be careful to observe all the courtly etiquette at Corfe.

Once protocol had been observed, Sir Edward insisted on taking Corbett and his party on a swift tour of the keep and inner ward, introducing them to officers of the garrison. Ranulf, reluctantly bidding the Lady Constance farewell, had no choice but to follow. Corbett became aware of how truly powerful the castle really was, with its mailed force of knights, men-at-arms and archers, as well as a company of Welsh longbowmen trained to deliver massed volleys of their goose-quilled yard-long shafts. He became breathless as they climbed the keep and the towers of the inner bailey. He and his party were to be lodged in the Salt Tower, which lay to the east of the keep, a collection of rather shabby chambers furnished with the bare necessities. Launge apologised, saying he had done what he could. Corbett’s chamber was on the second floor of the tower, while his three companions would share a chamber above. He brushed aside Sir Edward’s apologies and pronounced himself satisfied; his room was circular, its walls lime-washed, the wooden floor covered in rugs. A four-poster bed stood in the centre of the chamber, warmed and protected by dyed woollen drapes. There was a table, chairs, stools and a chest for his belongings, as well as a sufficiency of candles and lanterns as the window was a simple square, closed by a wooden board. He realised Launge had tried to make it as comfortable as possible; at least the chamber had a hearth built against the outside wall, with small-wheeled braziers either side.

‘I have reserved the best chamber above the long hall for the Seigneur de Craon.’ Sir Edmund raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Though personally I would like to throw him into the moat.’

Corbett laughed and stood aside as Chanson, helped by castle servants, brought in his belongings, along with his precious chancery coffer, which Corbett insisted on immediately placing in the iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.

‘It’s the stoutest in the castle,’ Launge explained. ‘Your chancery coffer arrived yesterday escorted by a troop of lancers, and spent the night in my strongroom. That chest is just as safe.’

‘It’s just what I want.’ Corbett patted the Constable affectionately on the shoulder and went up the spiral staircase to inspect his companions’ quarters.

Afterwards, Corbett, Ranulf and Bolingbroke met with the constable in the council chamber, a long, low-ceilinged room on the ground floor of the keep. It was so ill lit by the narrow loopholes and arrow slits that the air was thick with the smoke from candles and torches. Sir Edmund ordered the doors to be closed, waving Corbett to one end of the heavy oaken table. He served them some ale, bread and cheese, then sat on Corbett’s right, facing Ranulf and Bolingbroke. He asked about the King, and Corbett replied tactfully. He didn’t think it was appropriate to inform Sir Edmund about the King’s sudden rages at being trapped in a peace treaty with Philip of France.

‘What problems do you have here, Sir Edmund? The fortress is well manned; you have many soldiers.’

‘Drawn in from outlying garrisons,’ the Constable replied.

‘And the reason?’

‘Flemish pirates, a swarm of them, have been seen off the foreland; they are packed in herring ships guarded by cogs of war. According to rumour they have been raiding coastal villages in Cornwall, Devon and Dorset.’

Corbett drank his ale and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. Pirates, sheltering in the ports of the Low Countries, were a constant threat, but why had these appeared now? Did it have anything to do with his meeting de Craon at Corfe Castle? Corbett had many spies in Hainault, Flanders and Brabant, port officials and sailors who provided him with information about these pirates. They were financed by merchants, powerful men in cities like Dordrecht who secured letters patent from their rulers to harass other countries’ shipping in the Narrow Seas. They could also be hired by foreign princes, as Edward of England had often done in his wars against France, Scotland and Wales. Had they been employed now by Philip of France, or was this just the normal pirate activity which plagued the southern coast of England?

‘You are worried, Sir Hugh?’

‘Of course I am. Have they been seen off Corfe?’

Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘This castle is too powerful. Why throw yourself against the rocks when you can gather a richer harvest in the fishing villages to the west?’

‘And what else?’ Corbett insisted. ‘I heard rumours about young maids being brutally murdered.’

Sir Edmund put his face in his hands. ‘If God be known, I wish they were rumours. Five corpses in all, killed at close range by a crossbow bolt.’ He removed his hands and took a deep breath. ‘Three of the corpses were found in midden heaps in the castle wards; two were found outside, one near the moat, the other in the approaches leading to the eastern postern gate.’

‘When did these murders begin?’

‘About two months ago . . . yes, it must be.’ Sir Edmund chewed the corner of his lip. ‘The first was found after Michaelmas, a castle girl who served at the nearby inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’

‘Three corpses found in the castle?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Two outside? The murderer must be someone who lives here.’

Sir Edmund glared at this red-haired clerk. ‘I have reached the same conclusion myself, sir.’

‘No offence.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to placate the father of the beautiful woman he had just met and couldn’t forget.

‘My officers and I have investigated.’ Sir Edmund took a deep breath. ‘All five girls were from the castle. You know how it is. Corfe is a small village in itself; we have a leech, who also acts as an apothecary, we have a small market, a chapel served by old Father Andrew. People come and go: traders, tinkers, pedlars, the moon people and the road folk, the wanderers, the tinkers.’

Corbett held his hands up, fingers splayed. ‘But five corpses?’ The Constable was unable to hold his gaze. ‘Five corpses in what, the space of two months? This bloody work can’t be laid at the door of some itinerant. The assassin must live somewhere close, perhaps only a short walk from this room.’

Corbett pressed against the table, pushed back his chair and went across to one of the loopholes, standing on a ledge to peer out. He felt tired and sweaty; the fug in the room was thick. He had slept badly the night before, whilst the journey had been cold and hard. He did not relish his meeting with de Craon and was alarmed at the reports Bolingbroke had brought from Paris. And now this! Corbett thought of similar murders he had encountered in Suffolk and elsewhere, evil men hunting down young girls, slaughtering them like a weasel would birds in a farmyard, falling on them like a hawk would a dove. There had been murders like this in London; even the Royal Council . . .

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘I was thinking.’ Corbett returned to the table, patting Ranulf on the shoulder and glancing at Bolingbroke, who was half asleep in his chair. ‘I was thinking,’ Corbett repeated, sitting down, ‘of similar murders. They have been discussed even at Westminster. Young women being slaughtered, often abused, their bodies thrown into a river, sometimes even buried beneath a screed of soil in one of the city cemeteries.’

‘There have been murders since the days of Cain,’ Launge pointed out, ‘and maids have been ravished since time immemorial.’

‘No, this is different.’ Corbett raised his tankard against his cheek, relishing its coolness. ‘Sir Edmund, you have heard how the Commons and the Lords have approved measures, statute law, to clear the highways and make the roads safer. Do you know the reason for that? They say that the countryside is changing. There’s no longer any need to plough the land or sow a crop.’

‘Just grass it over,’ Sir Edmund declared, ‘and let the sheep graze. It’s happening all through Dorset and Devon. God forgive me, in my own manor I have done the same.’

‘The foreign merchants can’t get enough of our wool,’ Corbett continued, ‘and King Edward sells it to the Frescobaldi bankers in return for treasure to finance his wars. They say it takes twelve people to plough, sow and harvest a field, but one man to guard a hundred sheep. Villages are dying, the poor are becoming poorer and they flock to the cities, London, Bristol, York, Carlisle, or to the great castles like Corfe, young maids looking for employment, sometimes without kith or kin or a place to lay their head. In Southwark alone there are five thousand whores, easy prey for the foxes, the hawks and the weasels, those with killer souls.’ Corbett paused, half listening to the sounds of the castle carrying faintly through the thick walls of the keep. For a few moments he felt a deep pang of home-sickness and wondered what the Lady Maeve would be doing. ‘What hour is it?’ He turned to Sir Edmund.

‘It must be about nine.’ The Constable apologised for the hour candle not being lit.

‘If we can,’ Corbett sighed, ‘we shall help trap this murderer. Do you suspect anyone?’

Launge shook his head.

‘The hour hurries on.’ Corbett drew himself up. ‘We must come to the business in hand. When do the French arrive?’

‘They should be here late this afternoon. They landed at Dover three days ago. Seigneur de Craon, four professors from the Sorbonne, de Craon’s bodyguard and a few royal archers. Why this meeting?’ Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘And why here?’

‘Seven months ago,’ Corbett replied, ‘Edward of England sealed the peace treaty of Paris with his beloved cousin Philip of France. They promised to settle all differences over shipping in the Narrow Seas, as well as Philip of France’s claim over certain territories in dispute in the English Duchy of Gascony. Our King was forced to agree to a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Isabella, Philip’s only daughter. The French King is beside himself with glee; he sees himself as a new Charlemagne – the king before whom all other kings and princes will bow. He looks forward to the day when one of his grandsons sits on the throne at Westminster whilst another is made Duke of Gascony. He hopes this will weaken English control over south-western France and make it easier to absorb Gascony into the Capetian patrimony. Philip sees himself as the glorious descendant of St Louis. He claims that his family, the Capets, are of sacred blood. He is helped in all this by the Papacy, who, as you know, because of family feuds in Rome, have moved to Avignon in southern France.’ Corbett placed his thumb against the table top. ‘The French have the Pope there.’ He pressed his thumb even harder. ‘The Treaty of Paris is protected by the most solemn penalties imposed by the Pope.’

‘And our King wishes to escape it.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He would love to tell Philip to tear the treaty up, leave Gascony alone, stop meddling in Scotland and allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he wishes. In truth, Edward is trapped. If he breaks the treaty he will be excommunicated, cursed by bell, book and candle, an outcast in Europe. He would love to go to war, but the barons of the Exchequer say the treasury is empty.’

Corbett paused for effect. Everything he said the Constable knew. Both he and Corbett had fought in Scotland, where the Scottish princes refused to bow to Edward. More and more armies were being sent north, more treasure drained away.

‘And so we come to Friar Roger Bacon. He was born in the last years of King John, our present King’s grandfather, at Ilchester in Somerset. He proved to be an outstanding scholar, studying at Oxford and Paris. While in Paris he came under the influence of Pierre de Marincourt. People claim that Marincourt was a magician who had discovered secret knowledge.’

Corbett glanced at his two companions; Ranulf was listening intently, as he did to anything on education or knowledge. Bolingbroke had roused himself, eager to discover the true reasons for his flight from Paris, and Ufford’s hideous death.

‘Bacon became a Franciscan,’ Corbett continued. ‘He wrote a number of books, Opus Maius, Opus Minus and Opus Tertium. He also disseminated a number of treatises, such as The Art of the Marvellous and How to Prevent the Onset of Old Age. At first Friar Roger was supported by the Papacy, but eventually he fell under the suspicion of heresy, and until shortly before his death in 1292, some eleven years ago, he was kept in prison. His writings were frowned upon, and they say that when he died, his brothers at the Franciscan priory in Oxford nailed his manuscripts to the wall and left them to rot. Friar Roger’s disciples dispersed. We know of one, a scholar called John whom Bacon often sent to the Holy See. After Friar Roger died, these followers disappeared like puffs of smoke on a summer’s day.’

‘This secret knowledge?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I have studied Friar Roger’s works,’ Corbett replied, ‘as has Master William here. His theories are truly startling. He talks of being able to construct a series of mirrors or glasses which will make places miles away appear so close you could touch them. He claims that Caesar built such a device before his invasion of Britain.’ Corbett warmed to his theme. ‘He talks of carts which can travel without being pulled by oxen, of machines which can go to the bottom of the sea, of ships which don’t need rowers, even of machines that can fly through the air. He also talks of a black powder which can create a thunder-like explosion, a mixture of saltpetre and other substances.’

‘But these have been talked of before.’ Bolingbroke spoke up. ‘Even the great Aristotle claims it is possible to build a machine to go along the bottom of the sea.’

‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded, ‘but Friar Roger is different. His Grace the King and I have been through his papers. Bacon actually insists that he has seen some of these experiments work.’ Corbett sat back in his chair, gazing around this stark whitewashed chamber, so simple and bare, nothing but a crucifix and a few coffers and a side table for jugs and goblets, such a contrast to what he was describing.

‘Impossible!’ Sir Edmund breathed. ‘This is witch-craft, magic, the ravings of a warlock.’

‘Is it?’ Ranulf retorted. ‘In the Tower, the King’s engineers are working on bombards which can throw a stone harder and faster against a castle wall than a catapult. The Flemings are building a ship with sails different from ours which make their cogs faster yet sturdier.’

‘I know, I know.’ Sir Edmund sipped from his tankard. ‘But why should his Grace the King be interested in all of this? The schools are full of new wonders; new manuscripts are being discovered; even I, an old soldier, know this. As you do, Sir Hugh. You have debated in the Halls of Oxford and listened to the schoolmen.’

‘I would agree.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ve heard the whispers about a magical bronze head which can speak all manner of wisdom, whilst they claim the Templar order have discovered the secrets of Solomon, but it is,’ Corbett grinned, ‘as if someone claims to be able to call Satan up from Hell. He may be able to, but will Satan come?’ His words created laughter, which lessened the tension. ‘Friar Roger, however, is different. During his captivity he wrote another book, the Secretus Secretorum, or Secret of Secrets, in which he revealed, in great detail, all his secret knowledge. He wrote the book then copied it out again. The original went to Paris, whilst the copy stayed in England.’

‘That’s why Ufford died?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied more sharply than he intended.

‘We stole the original?’

‘No,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘you only stole a second copy; that’s what you brought back to Westminster. The original is still kept by King Philip himself in his treasure house.’

‘What!’ Bolingbroke would have sprung to his feet, but Ranulf gripped him by the wrist, forcing him to stay seated. Bolingbroke knocked the tankard off the table. ‘A copy? Is that why Walter died? We failed!’

‘You didn’t fail.’ Corbett’s voice remained calm. ‘Edward of England wanted to know if his copy and the copy kept in Paris were the same. I am pleased to say they are.’

‘What does it say?’ Sir Edmund ignored Bolingbroke’s outburst.

‘That’s the problem.’ Corbett got to his feet and went to retrieve the tankard. He refilled it and placed it in front of his clerk, patting him gently on the shoulder before resuming his seat. ‘The Secretus Secretorum is written in a cipher no one understands. Whoever breaks that cipher will enter a treasure house of knowledge. For months, the clerks of the Secret Chancery have tried this cipher or that in a search to find a key. We know de Craon’s clerks have been doing the same, to no result. Edward knows Philip has the Secret of Secrets; the French know Edward has a fair and accurate copy.’

‘Ah,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Now I see. Philip has invoked the peace treaty, the clauses stipulating how he and Edward are to work together.’

‘Precisely.’ Corbett steepled his fingers. ‘Philip has demanded, especially since the theft of the copy from Paris, that both kingdoms share their knowledge. He knows I am responsible for the secret ciphers of the Chancery, so he called for this meeting.’

‘Why here?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Philip is being diplomatic. He wants to reassure Edward. He simply asked that the meeting place be in some castle on the south coast, not Dover or one of the Cinque Ports, well away from the hustle and bustle of the cities. Edward proposed Corfe, and Philip agreed. De Craon will bring with him four professors from the university, experts in the study of Bacon’s manuscripts, men skilled in breaking ciphers. They will meet myself, Bolingbroke and Master Ranulf here.’

‘Who are they?’ Bolingbroke asked. ‘What are their names?’

‘Etienne Destaples, Jean Vervins, Pierre Sanson and Louis Crotoy.’

Bolingbroke whistled under his breath. ‘They are all professors of law as well as theology, leading scholars at the Sorbonne.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I know one of them, Louis Crotoy; he lectured in the schools of Oxford, a formidable scholar, with a brain as sharp as a knife.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

‘You don’t believe what?’ Ranulf smiled.

Bolingbroke just shook his head. He took off his cloak and threw it over the table, fingers going for his dagger in its leather sheath. ‘Philip means mischief; there is treachery here.’

‘Which is why we are meeting here,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Tell me again, William, why Ufford killed Magister Thibault.’

‘He had to.’ Bolingbroke sat down and rubbed his face. ‘We were in the cellar trying to open that damnable coffer.’

‘But why?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why should Thibault, whom Ufford last saw cavorting with a buxom wench, leave his bed sport, his warm, comfortable chamber, and, on a night of revelry, take that woman down to a cold cellar? What was he going to show her? A precious manuscript she couldn’t understand?’

‘Perhaps he was boasting,’ Ranulf said. ‘He wanted to impress her?’

‘But why then?’ Corbett insisted. ‘At that specific moment on that particular night?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bolingbroke shook his head. ‘But yes, I’ve thought the same. You’ve asked me often enough, Sir Hugh; now Thibault’s colleagues are coming, you ask again. I truly don’t know.’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘I have also wondered how Ufford was trapped and caught.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure the manuscript we stole was genuine? Or has Philip simply put fools’ caps on all of us?’