The Magician

Chapter 3

Alusia, the butterymaid, daughter of Gilbert, under-steward of the pantry at Corfe Castle, moved amongst the gravestones and crosses in the large cemetery of St Peter’s in the Wood. Alusia, small and plump, with curly black hair and dancing eyes, was very pleased with herself. The arrival of the King’s men at the castle had caused a great deal of excitement. People pretended to go about their normal business but, as her father remarked, ‘a stranger is a stranger’, and everyone stared at these powerful men from the distant city of London. Alusia had been frightened by the sombre-faced clerk with the black hair and silver-hilted sword, but already the girls were talking about the red-haired one, just the way he swaggered, those green eyes darting about ready for mischief.

Alusia would have loved to have stayed and listened to the gossip, but Mistress Feyner had declared she would leave promptly at noon, and Mistress Feyner was to be obeyed. The castle girls called Mistress Feyner ‘the Old Owl’, because she never missed anything. Hard of face and hard of eye, strong of arm and sharp of wit, Mistress Feyner was chief washerwoman. She knew her status and her powers as much as any great lady in a hall. Indeed, matters had grown worse since Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, had disappeared on Harvest Sunday last. Gone like a leaf on the breeze, and no one knew where. Of course, none of the other girls really missed her. Phillipa, too, had been full of her own airs and graces, especially when Father Matthew gathered them in the nave on a Saturday afternoon to teach all the girls of the area the alphabet and the importance of numbers. A strange one, Father Matthew, so learned.

Alusia looked up at the leaden-grey sky. Was it going to snow? She hoped not, but if it did, at least she’d come here on Marion’s name day to honour her friend’s grave. Alusia blew on her frozen fingers and watched her hot breath disappear. Rebecca should have come with her, but Mistress Feyner had been most insistent that if she wanted a ride in the laundry cart down to the church, she’d have to leave immediately. Mistress Feyner had linen to deliver to Master Reginald at the Tavern in the Forest, and Rebecca would simply have to run to catch up. Alusia could not quarrel with that, but now, in this deserted graveyard, she thought that perhaps she should have waited. Oh where, she wondered, had Rebecca got to? When would she come?

Alusia paused next to her grandmother’s gravestone and stared up at the church, an old place of ancient stone. The nave was like a long barn, though Sir Edmund had recently retiled the roof and done what he could to dress the stone of the soaring square tower. From one of the narrow tower windows candlelight glowed. Father Matthew always lit that as a beacon when the sea mist swirled in and cloaked the countryside in its thick grey blanket. Only the glow of the candles, as well as torches from the castle, could guide people, for Corfe was a dangerous place. To the north, east and west lay a thick ancient forest, full of swamps, marshes and other treacherous places. The girls talked about the sprites and goblins who lived beneath the leaves or sheltered in the cracks of ancient oak trees, of strange sounds and sights, of will-o-the-wisps, really ghosts of the dead, which hovered over the marshes.

Alusia stared round the sombre churchyard; a mist was creeping in now, even so early in the day, its cold fingers stretching out from the sea. She hitched the cloak she had borrowed from her father close about her, a soldier’s cloak of pure wool and lined with flock, with a deep cowl to go over her head. She wondered whether Father Matthew was in the church, and if he would come out. She would pretend she was searching for herbs, but of course, the real herbs didn’t bloom until May, and spring seemed an eternity away.

Alusia was looking for a grave, Marion’s tumulus, that small mound of black earth which marked her close friend’s last resting place. Marion, bright of eye, always laughing, whose corpse had been found beneath the slime of the rubbish in the outer ward of the castle. She had been the first to be killed, a crossbow bolt, shot so close Alusia’s father said it almost pierced poor Marion’s entire body. The castle leech, together with Father Matthew and old Father Andrew, assisted by Mistress Feyner, had dressed the body for burial. Alusia and the rest of the girls were excluded, but she had stolen up that afternoon and slipped through the door. Now she wished she hadn’t. Marion’s face had been a gruesome white, dark rings around those staring eyes, from which the coins had slipped. Flecks of blood still marked her mouth, whilst so many cloths had been wrapped around the wound her chest appeared to have swollen.

Alusia found the grave, marked by a simple cross, with Marion, Requiescat in Pace burnt in by the castle smith. She knelt down and, from beneath her cloak, took a piece of holly she had cut, the leaves sparkling green, the berries bright. She placed this near the cross. She would have liked to have brought flowers, but it was the dead of winter. Didn’t Father Matthew say the holly represented Christ, the evergreen, ever-present Lord, whilst the berries represented his sacred blood? Alusia scratched her nose and tried to recall a prayer. Father Matthew had taught them the Our Father in Latin. She tried to say this. Latin was more powerful, it was God’s language. She stumbled over the words Qui est in caelo, ‘Who art in heaven’, and gave up, simply satisfying herself with the sign of the cross. Then she sat back on her heels. Why would someone kill poor Marion, and the others? One by one, in the same manner, a crossbow bolt through the heart, or in Sybil’s case through her throat, ripping the flesh on either side. Who was responsible? What had the victims been guilty of? The castle girls, in their innocence, were full of gossip about young men, eagerly looking forward to this feast or that holy day, be it Christmas when the huge Yule log crackled in the castle hearth, or May Day when the maypole was erected under the sheer blue skies of an early summer. Yet what crime in that?

Alusia lifted her head, staring back towards the lych gate. For a moment she thought she had seen someone. The church bell began to toll, the sign for midday prayer; not that many people listened. Alusia made the sign of the cross again and got to her feet. The other girls were buried nearby. Why had they died? The gossip said they hadn’t been ravished, so what was the purpose? Poor girls with nothing in their wallets, not even a cheap ring on their finger.

Alusia walked slowly to the lych gate and on to the narrow trackway leading up to the castle. The trees thronged in on either side, and the mist had grown thicker. Alusia walked briskly, then paused at a noise behind her. She turned swiftly, but there was no one. She walked on until she noticed a flash of colour on the verge beside the track. Intrigued, she hurried over. It was a bundle of cloth, dark greens and browns, and a glimpse of reddish hair. Alusia stood, gripped by a numbing fear. Wasn’t that Rebecca’s hair? Weren’t those her colours? Breath caught in her throat, she stooped and pulled at the bundle. The corpse rolled back: sightless eyes, a blood-caked mouth, and just beneath the chin, that awful bloody wound with the crossbow quarrel peeping out. It was Rebecca, and she was dead yet alive, for Alusia could hear a terrible screaming.

The discussion in the council chamber had grown more heated, Bolingbroke striding up and down, obviously angry that he and Ufford had risked their lives, with Ufford paying the ultimate price, merely to steal a copy.

‘It was necessary,’ Corbett shouted. ‘His Grace the King has taken a deep interest in Friar Roger’s writings. We had to make sure that the book we held, our copy of the Secretus Secretorum, was accurate. I have compared the two, and as far as I can see, with all their strange symbols and ciphers, they are in accordance.’

Sir Edmund sat watching this confrontation; Ranulf was quietly enjoying himself. He liked nothing better than watching old Master Longface in debate. Moreover, he knew Bolingbroke of old as a passionate man, and Ranulf, who had done his share of fleeing from those who wished to kill him, sympathised with his anger.

‘What we must look at, William,’ Corbett kept his voice calm, ‘is the logic of the situation.’

‘Logic?’ Bolingbroke retook his seat. ‘Sir Hugh, I know as much about logic as you do, we are not in the schools now.’

‘Yes we are.’

Corbett smiled, then paused as the servant whom Sir Edmund had summoned brought in a fresh jug of ale and soft bread from the castle ovens. He was glad of the respite as the drink was poured and the bread shared out.

‘We must apply logic.’ He spoke quickly as Bolingbroke filled his mouth with bread and cheese. ‘What concerns me is not the copy, or what happened when you stole it, but why Magister Thibault came down to that cellar on that night of revelry. Why did he bring that young woman with him?’

‘Ufford had no choice but to kill them!’

‘I’m not saying he did. Walter was a dagger man through and through. What I suspect is treachery. Let me describe my hypothesis. Here we have two clerks of the English Secret Chancery, scholars from the Halls of Oxford, pretending to be scholars at the Sorbonne. The order goes out, our noble King wants the French copy of Friar Bacon’s Secret of Secrets. You and Ufford cast about, searching for it. A traitor emerges from amongst the French, this mysterious stranger who offers you the manuscript.’

‘He didn’t offer,’ Bolingbroke answered, his mouth full of cheese. ‘He simply told us where it was and promised that we would receive an invitation to Magister Thibault’s revelry.’

‘Do you know who this person was?’ Ranulf asked.

Bolingbroke shook his head.

‘No, we never met him; he communicated through memoranda left at our lodgings. I have shown you those I kept; the others I destroyed.’

Corbett nodded. He had scrutinised the scrawled memoranda. The Norman French was written in a hand he didn’t recognise, providing information for his two secret clerks.

‘What I do know,’ Bolingbroke continued, sipping his ale, ‘is that a month before Magister Thibault’s revelry, this Frenchman discovered what we were looking for and, in return for gold, told us where it was and how we could take it. I think that somehow or other he alerted Magister Thibault and brought him down to that cellar. We were to be trapped there but Magister Thibault was an old sot, full of wine and lust, and perhaps he refused to believe what he was told or didn’t realize the significance. More importantly, this traitor also told Seigneur Amaury de Craon and the Hounds of the King what was happening. We were fortunate. We were supposed to be trapped either at Magister Thibault’s or at our lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, but we escaped. We separated; they probably thought Ufford was more important and pursued him-’

‘Did you see him die?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘I was near the Madelene Quayside when I heard the clamour. A beggar told me how royal troops had been in that quarter since the early hours. I decided to leave Paris by another route. I joined a group of pilgrims journeying to Notre Dame in Boulogne.’ Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘It was easy enough. I pretended to be a French clerk. It was simply a matter of reaching the port and securing passage on an English cog.’

‘Who do you think this traitor was?’ Corbett asked.

‘It could have been de Craon himself, or one of the men he is bringing with him.’

‘And why do you think he is bringing them to England?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Two reasons,’ Bolingbroke replied, ‘and I have thought deeply about this. First, I am sure Philip of France would love to discover the secrets of Roger Bacon. He is genuinely interested and wants to see what progress, if any, we English have made.’

‘And secondly?’

‘Secondly, Sir Hugh, what if . . .’ Bolingbroke paused, running his finger round the rim of his tankard. ‘What if we turn the game on its head? What if Philip of France has broken Friar Roger’s secret cipher and has discovered the hidden knowledge? How to make a glass which can see something miles away, or turn base metal into gold.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘What if de Craon is bringing the periti, the savants of Paris, to discover if we have done the same? And if we haven’t, to confuse us further, hinder and block our progress?’

‘There’s another reason, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh. Philip of France does not like the University of the Sorbonne. Oh, if it agrees with what he says he is all charm and welcoming, but if it doesn’t, Philip’s rage blazes out like a fire. I wonder if he has already broken the secret cipher, and is sending these men to England so that they can be killed, murdered, and the blame laid at our door.’

‘Nonsense!’ Launge shook his empty tankard as if it was a sword.

‘No, no.’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘I follow your logic, William.’ He smiled. ‘What if Philip has broken the secret cipher, and what if he wants to rid himself of the periti, men who have also discovered that knowledge? The last thing Philip would want is one of these professors claiming the knowledge for himself and writing his own book, eager for fame amongst the universities and schools of Europe. We all know our doctors of divinity and theology, how they love fame as much as gold; indeed, the two often go together.’ He paused. ‘More seriously, Philip is looking for a crisis. He has bound our King by treaty, he wishes to depict Edward of England as the oath-breaker, the wily serpent. He knows that Edward’s motto is “Keep Troth”, yet he realises Edward would storm the gates of Hell if it meant escaping from the Treaty of Paris. Let’s say, for sake of argument, something happens during this French embassy to England. Philip will turn and scream for the protection of the Pope, who will bind our King even closer with heavier penalties and dire warnings.’

‘But you must have considered this before you accepted the French embassy?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Of course I did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have shared similar thoughts with the King, though not as detailed and sharp. As God is my witness, both Philip and Edward richly deserve each other, two cunning swords-men circling each other in the dark, each looking for the advantage.’ He laughed drily. ‘Do you know, gentlemen, isn’t it ridiculous – or as they would say in the schools of Oxford, mirabile dictu, marvellous to say – that the one thing which unites Edward of England, Philip of France, Amaury de Craon and myself is the belief that something will happen during de Craon’s stay here at Corfe. Only the good Lord knows what.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Sir Edmund asked.

‘The French are to be given good secure chambers.’

‘They won’t want guards, they never do,’ the Constable retorted. ‘They will only accuse us of eavesdropping or treating them like prisoners.’

‘Make sure they are given the keys to their chambers,’ Corbett tapped the table top, ‘and that they eat together in the hall. As for the castle, let them go wherever they wish.’ He pushed back his chair, a sign the meeting was over. ‘But if they leave the castle they must have an escort.’

Sir Edmund rose to his feet, bowed and left. Bolingbroke asked if there was anything further. Corbett shook his head. The clerk departed saying he needed to change, wash and sleep.

‘What now?’ Ranulf asked.

He lounged in his chair, playing with the dagger sheath on his war belt. He placed this on the table before him and peered up at Corbett.

‘You really do expect mischief, don’t you?’

Corbett walked to the door which Bolingbroke had left half open. The gust of cold air was welcoming, but as he pulled the door shut, he noticed the first snowflakes fall.

‘I don’t know what to expect, Ranulf. You know Edward of England; he rejoices in the title of the Great English Justinian, he has a passion for knowledge. Once he becomes absorbed in something he becomes obsessed. He has been through Bacon’s writings time and time again, like some theologian poring over the scriptures. He has insisted that I do the same. I have his copies of Friar Roger’s works in that coffer.’

‘Was the friar a magician?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett drew the trancher of bread towards him, cut a piece, dabbed it in the butter jar and put it in his mouth. ‘Ranulf. Again it’s logic. Have you ever lain in the grass,’ he grinned, ‘by yourself, stared up at the sky and watched a bird hover? Have you ever wondered what it must be like to fly, to be a bird? Or leaned over the side of a ship and wondered what really happens beneath the waves?’

‘Of course,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Your mind wanders.’

‘People like Roger Bacon go one step further. Is it possible? Can it be done? They speculate,’ Corbett continued, ‘they become intrigued, and so the experiments begin.’

‘Do you believe in this secret knowledge?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Corbett swirled the ale round his jug. ‘I believe in logic and deduction. If something is possible, does it become probable? What is the relationship between an idea and a fact? If we build a machine such as a catapult, to hurl rocks at a castle wall, is it possible to construct another machine to throw them even further and harder? Go down to the castle yard, Ranulf, study those Welsh bowmen. They don’t use an arbalest but a bow made of yew which can loose a yard-long shaft. In Wales I watched a master bowman fire six such arrows in the space of a few heartbeats whilst a crossbowman was still winching back the cord of his own weapon.’

‘When the French come . . .’ Ranulf decided to change the subject. He knew from past experience how Corbett’s military service in Wales always brought about a change in mood. Sir Hugh still suffered night-mares about those narrow twisting valleys and the cruelties both sides perpetrated on each other. ‘When the French come,’ he repeated, ‘will de Craon accuse Bolingbroke of theft and murder?’

‘Great suspicion but little proof.’ Corbett laughed drily. ‘Oh, he’ll know and he’ll know that I know, which will make us both very knowledgeable, but de Craon is too cunning to accuse anybody. He may make references to it, but no outright allegation. He might talk about a housebreaker called Ufford, a scholar and an Englishman, being killed, but that is as far as he will go. The dead do not concern de Craon. Like a fox which has killed a pullet, it has only whetted its appetite for-’

Corbett started at the shouting from outside.

‘Woe unto you who has done this! Limb of Satan, fiend of Hell, innocent blood cries for vengeance and justice! Cursed be ye in your thinking and in your drinking . . .’

The rest of the proclamation was drowned by a soul-chilling scream, followed by shouts and yells. Corbett and Ranulf hurried to the door. The snow was swirling under a biting wind, but the flurry of winter was ignored as members of the castle, men, women and children, ran towards a tall balding man, his lower face covered by a luxuriant beard and moustache, who stood, dressed all in black, beside a small hand barrow. Corbett ran down the steps, forcing his way through the throng. On the hand barrow sprawled the corpse of a young woman, the sheet which had covered her pulled back to reveal a bloodless face, staring eyes and a quarrel high in the chest which had rent flesh and bone. A line of blood coursed down from the girl’s gaping mouth. A woman knelt beside the hand barrow, fingers combing her grey hair as she threw her head back and shrieked at the low grey sky. A man beside her, dressed in a leather jerkin, tried to comfort her. Others were gathering around, shouting words of comfort and condolence. Another young woman, hysterical with grief and fear, crouched holding on to the barrow until others prised her fingers loose and led her away. The crowd was turning ugly with shouts and curses, and Corbett became aware that the main accusations were levelled against an outlaw band and its leader, Horehound.

Sir Edmund, along with his wife and daughter, had arrived. Constance, her beautiful face shrouded by the hood of her cloak, took the distraught mother, lifting her up and pressing her body next to hers as she led her away. Lady Catherine hastened to help. Sir Edmund ordered his men-at-arms to keep the crowd away, shouting at them to go back to their business. After a while order was imposed. The grieving parents were taken into the long hall. The young woman’s corpse was inspected by the dry-faced castle leech, who introduced himself simply as Master Simon. He carefully examined the body and shook his head.

‘No bruises, no violation; death must have been instant. Sir Edmund, there is nothing I can do.’ He pointed to the quarrel dug deep into the flesh. ‘Except take that out and prepare her for burial.’ He walked away shaking his head, muttering about the girl’s death being similar to the rest.

Corbett crouched down beside the barrow, whilst Sir Edmund led the black-clad priest away, having introduced him to Corbett as Father Matthew, parish priest of St Peter’s in the Wood. Father Matthew had a strong face, lined and ashen, and hollow eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He was shaking slightly and muttered an apology about his outburst, putting it down to the horror of what he had seen. Sir Edmund called for a servant to bring a cup of posset. The snow was falling heavily now, covering the sheet-white face of the murdered girl. A flake settled on her half-open eye; others mingled with the dry blood. Corbett’s finger brushed the feathered quarrel, a stout, ugly dart, embedded so deeply the feathers mingled with the ruptured flesh. When he glanced up, the priest had returned and was staring down at him.

‘So you are the King’s man?’ Corbett noticed the fear in the priest’s eyes. ‘I apologise once again, but . . .’ Father Matthew stumbled as he gestured at the corpse. ‘It was in the lane outside the church, crumpled like a bundle of rags. I was in my sacristy when I heard Alusia’s chilling scream. She’s the girl who found the corpse. Apparently she’d arranged to go down to the cemetery to visit the grave of another victim, her friend Marion. This lass,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘was meant to go with her. Poor Rebecca! Anyway, Alusia left on Mistress Feyner’s cart, thinking Rebecca would join her later. Of course, she didn’t. When Alusia left the cemetery she stumbled across her corpse.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Such horror! I’d forgotten the warning of the ancients, Praeparetur animus contra omnia.’

‘Prepare your soul for the unexpected,’ Corbett translated. ‘You are a student of Seneca, Father?’

‘Many years ago.’ The priest seemed pleased at the arrival of the old chaplain Father Andrew, who came hobbling across almost hidden by his cloak, a walking stick in one hand, a small reed basket in the other.

‘Have you performed the rites?’ the old priest asked.

‘No, Father, I haven’t. I forgot.’

Father Matthew knelt, the snow swirling around him, and whispered the words of absolution, ‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis,’ ‘I absolve you from your sins.’

‘And now the anointing,’ Father Andrew cackled. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t forget the anointing. Extreme unction is one of the Sacraments of the Church. I can’t do it myself.’ Father Andrew’s light blue eyes peered at Corbett. ‘It’s the rheums in my legs, you know.’

Father Matthew snatched the phial of holy oil from the basket and began to anoint the palms of the dead girl’s hands, then her feet, slipping off the coarse leather sandals, before anointing her eyes, ears and mouth. Corbett looked over his shoulder. Ranulf stood watching avidly. Corbett recalled his henchman’s ambition, one he voiced now and again, that if the path of preferment meant ordination as a priest, he would seriously consider it.

Once the anointing was finished, Sir Edmund ordered some men-at-arms to take the corpse down to the small shed which lay behind the castle chapel, St John’s Within-the-Gate, near the entrance to the first bailey. Then he stared up at the sky, a sea of iron grey, the snowflakes shifting in the sharp breeze.

‘Sir Hugh, my apologies, you haven’t eaten, well, not properly.’

He invited the priests to join them, but the old castle chaplain declared he would watch by the corpse and pray. They watched him go, then hurried across to the Constable’s quarters. The hall was a welcome relief from the bitter cold and the grim, sombre council room. It was a long vaulted chamber, its beams painted a deep black, its walls covered in white plaster as background for a series of beautiful paintings of angel musicians, all playing different instruments: lutes, harps, viols, pipes, clarions and shawms. Sir Edmund, to ease the tension, explained how Lady Catherine had a fascination with angels, adding that the hall’s tapestries and gaily coloured cloths celebrated similar themes.

‘We call it the Hall of Angels.’ He gestured around. The hall was certainly comfortable and tastefully decorated, its hardwood floor polished and free of the reeds and rushes which collected filth and could reek like a midden heap. At the far end was a minstrel’s gallery, and down either side long trestle tables of good stout walnut, polished until they shone in the light of cresset torches and candles. In the centre of the hall, almost facing the principal doorway, was a large mantled hearth, a yawning cavernous fireplace protected by a wire mesh grille, behind which a stack of logs burned merrily. At the other end of the hall, under heraldic banners, stood the high table on its dais, and in the centre of the table rested a beautiful silver castle which served as the great salt holder. Sir Edmund, pointing out various features of the hall, took them up to the table and grouped them round it. Servants hurried from the kitchens behind the dais with steaming bowls of barley soup, followed by platters of towres, a delicious veal omelette, with buttered bread and a dish of diced vegetables. Sir Edmund poured the wine, a sparkling white, especially imported from vineyards of the Rhine. To keep their fingers warm, small ornamented chafing dishes, filled with charcoal and sprinkled with thyme, were placed along the top of the table. Father Matthew, declaring himself famished, ate quickly, and when he had finished accepted a dish of rather fatty lamb cutlets served in a mint sauce.

‘You are fasting, Father?’ Ranulf teased.

‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Sir Edmund,’ Father Matthew nodded towards the Constable, ‘insists that I dine with him here.’ He grinned. ‘So I thank him by prayer, good works and fasting for the next meal.’

‘Father,’ Corbett waited until the chuckling had subsided, ‘you have brought in the sixth victim.’

‘Aye, it is; six in all. Five buried in my cemetery, five requiem masses, five sprinklings of holy water, five crosses, five mothers and fathers to console.’

‘And you have no suspicion why this has been done?’

The priest shook his head. ‘That is the first corpse I have found. The rest? Well, Sir Edmund will tell you about them. Just lying there she was. Crumpled, like a bundle of cloth tossed aside. But why?’ The priest talked as if to himself. ‘She was only a poor maid, she had nothing but her comeliness.’

‘I heard people blame the outlaws.’

‘Outlaws,’ Sir Edmund interrupted. ‘You would think they were William Wallace. A paltry group of men and women,’ he explained to Corbett, leaning across the table. ‘Poachers and petty thieves. Oh, they’ve done enough to hang, but why should they kill young women? Three of the seven victims have been found in the grounds of the castle.’

‘I thought it was six?’

‘One is missing,’ Sir Edmund explained. ‘Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, she is the principal laundrywoman here. About ten weeks ago, just after the harvest was brought in, Phillipa disappeared after Sunday Mass. According to common report she claimed she was going for a walk but never returned. I sent out men-at-arms and riders who scoured the countryside; they went as deep into the forest as they could. I asked the fishermen along the coasts to watch the tides, but no corpse has ever been found.’

‘I organized my parishioners,’ Father Matthew added. ‘Every dell, wood, copse, ditch and cave on Purbeck Island was searched but nothing was found. Mistress Feyner now believes her daughter is dead, the first victim of these horrid murders. A time of tribulation, the worst since I joined the parish.’

‘How long ago was that?’ Corbett asked, scooping up a piece of omelette with his horn spoon.

‘About eleven years. I originally come from Durham, but was unable to obtain a benefice there.’ The priest swiftly reverted back to the murders. ‘Truly this is a time of fear; as Ovid says: Omnibus ignotae mortis timor, “In all creatures lurks a fear of unknown death.” No one understands why these young women have been killed in such a brutal fashion.’

Corbett leaned over and whispered to Sir Edmund, the Constable turning his head to listen intently.

‘Is there anything,’ Ranulf asked, ‘that all these victims have in common?’

The priest pushed away his platter, cradling his wine cup. Corbett noticed how, despite his burly appearance, Father Matthew’s fingers were long and slender as a woman’s.

‘What do they all have in common? I understand your logic.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But I do not know your name.’

‘Ranulf, Ranulf atte Newgate, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

‘Those things,’ the priest replied, ‘which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another. The same rule of logic applies to all these victims. They are poor, they are young, they live in the castle, they all look for work, either in the castle, or the great prize, being a slattern or maid at Master Reginald’s inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’

‘And there’s your school,’ Sir Edmund added.

‘Oh yes, my school.’ The priest smiled. ‘Every Saturday afternoon I gather all the young women into the nave of the church to teach them the basic rudiments of reading and writing. There must be about thirty girls in all. Some are very quick, young Phillipa certainly was. I give them some buttermilk and freshly baked bread and, in summer, the best honey from my hives. On Sunday it’s the turn of the young men. I’m very proud of my school,’ he added.

‘So would I be,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where I began, the transept of St Dunstan’s church, followed by cathedral school and after that, the Halls of Oxford. Small sparks can be fanned into flames.’ He paused as a servant carrying a leather bag entered, then bent over and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear.

‘They’ll be here in a short while, but in the mean time . . .’ The Constable pushed across the leather bag. Corbett took out the wicked-looking quarrel which the leech had removed from Rebecca’s chest; at one end were sharp barbs like those on a fish-hook, at the other a flight of stiffened feathers. It had been cleaned but Corbett noticed how the impact had bent one of the barbs, and even the ugly tip was slightly blunted.

‘Do you recognise it, Sir Edmund?’

‘There are thousands like it in the castle.’

Corbett weighed the quarrel in his hand. ‘Rebecca was found on a trackway; at a guess her killer stood only a yard away. Now here was a young woman fleet of foot and sharp of ear. If she felt threatened, she would run, but she didn’t. She was facing her killer, she must have allowed the assassin to draw very close. Now tell me, sirs, on a lonely, misty trackway, on a cold December morning, in a place and at a time when hideous murders have taken place, why should this young woman not show any fear?’

‘Before you say it,’ Father Matthew’s voice was hard, ‘she would allow her priest to walk close, but I was in my church.’

‘Pax, pax,’ Corbett whispered. ‘No one accuses you, Father, let alone suspects you. Who else?’

‘A friend,’ Ranulf declared, ‘another young woman, or someone old and frail? Rebecca was not frightened.’ He paused at the clamour around the hall door. Sir Edmund shouted at his guards to let them pass and a group of men and women shuffled into the hall, staring round in wonderment before turning to bow towards Sir Edmund.

‘They are the parents,’ Sir Edmund whispered, ‘of the dead girls. I’ve gathered them as you asked.’

Corbett waited until they all stood just inside the doorway before going down to greet them. The rest of the company on the high table followed. Sir Hugh asked the parents to sit, then introduced himself.

‘Have you been sent down here?’ A small, slender woman with wiry grey hair and fierce eyes in a sweat-soaked red face stared eagerly at Corbett. ‘Has the King himself sent you down here to seek justice for our daughters?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied quickly, ‘that is one of my tasks. Sir Edmund, perhaps we could serve our guests a cup of warm posset; their hands are chapped and their lips blue with the cold.’ His words were welcomed, and for a while there was some confusion as the cooks and scullions from the kitchen brought out a bowl of heated wine, muttering under their breath about interfering clerks whilst they doled out the hot spiced drink. Corbett himself took a cup and toasted his guests sitting either side of the trestle table. He turned to the woman who had addressed him.

‘You are?’

‘Mistress Feyner, chief washerwoman of the castle.’ She hitched her tattered shawl about her shoulders. Corbett noticed how the smock underneath, although threadbare, was spotlessly clean, whilst the woman’s chapped red hands glistened with oil.

‘I am a widow, sir, and my only daughter Phillipa was the first victim, although she has never been found.’

‘I’ve heard this,’ Corbett replied, ‘but is there anything you can tell me about why your daughters should die in such a hideous fashion?’

At first there was silence, but then the clamour of replies began. Corbett listened carefully before holding his hands up for silence.

‘But there are no strangers in the area.’

‘There’s the outlaws,’ Mistress Feyner shouted. ‘Horehound and his coven.’

She was immediately contradicted by the others, and Corbett sensed she was not popular amongst the others.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ a man who introduced himself as Oswald retorted. ‘Horehound is a poacher, a petty thief, one of us but fallen on hard times. Why should he slay our daughters?’

‘It must be someone we know,’ a voice shouted. ‘Here in the castle.’

Corbett glanced down the table at the old woman, dressed in dusty black, her long white hair falling to her shoulders, Corbett detected a slight accent and commented on it.

‘You’ve got sharp ears, clerk. I’m not from these parts, I’m from Gascony.’

‘And your name?’

‘To you and everyone here, Juliana, Mistress Juliana they call me, clerk. My granddaughter was killed near the castle moat but the others were placed near midden heaps. How can it be Horehound? He never comes into this castle.’

Corbett allowed others to speak, and as he did so stared at their lined, grimed faces, the anger and desperation in their sad eyes, the way they raised their chapped hands, sometimes joined as if in prayer, looking expectantly down at him, the King’s Man, ready to dispense justice. He felt as if he had gone back in time, gazing at the faces of his own mother, father, aunts and uncles. Men and women tied to the soil, ‘earthworms’ as his mother described them.

Despite Ranulf’s muttering and a tap on his ankle, Corbett publicly promised what he quietly prayed he could carry out: to hunt down the assassin of their daughters and see him hang. The group slowly began to take their leave. Father Matthew assured Corbett he was always welcome in his church, and left. Sir Edmund shook his head and quietly whispered how he hoped Corbett would keep his promise but that he too could not stay any longer as he expected the French to arrive before nightfall.

‘Can you do that?’ Ranulf asked as he followed Corbett across the castle bailey, head slightly turned against the sharp breeze, the snow now falling heavily, coating everything in a sheet of white. Corbett cursed as he slipped on the cobbles but then steadied himself.

‘I have to, Ranulf. Could you not feel the sea of misery in there?’

They entered the Salt Tower and went up to Corbett’s chamber.

‘You’ll rest now?’ Ranulf asked, alarmed to see his master slip on his war belt and lift up his thick grey cloak.

‘The French will be here soon and the snow is falling.’ Corbett patted Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘We might become prisoners of Corfe and I want to look where we are. There’s no need for you to come.’ And before Ranulf could reply, Sir Hugh, spurs jingling, was halfway down the stairs.

Ranulf closed his eyes. For a few short heartbeats he cursed Corbett. Old Master Longface expected Ranulf to follow; that was why he hadn’t locked the room. Ranulf stared at the ironbound coffer at the foot of the bed. It looked secure enough to hold what Corbett called his treasures of the Chancery, his bible of secrets and manuscripts of symbols. These contained the ciphers and hidden writing the Keeper of the Secret Seal used to communicate with his spies, from Berwick on Tweed in Scotland to the far-flung outposts of the Teutonic knights far to the east of the River Rhine. Corbett had brought these, and other books of secrets, with him as he always did, to continue the day-to-day business of the Chancery as well as a possible means to translate Friar Roger’s enigmatic puzzle.

‘As I can bear witness!’ Ranulf whispered. He had been with Corbett, burning the candles low in the Chancery rooms at Westminster, the Tower and even Leighton Manor. Corbett had neglected the Lady Maeve and his children, totally immersed in his task, only to grow increasingly frustrated.

Ranulf went across to the coffer and, crouching down, examined the three stout locks, the work of a craftsman. Then he blew out the candle glowing under its cap and, removing the key, locked the door from the outside and raced up the steps to his own chamber. He would have preferred to go wandering around the castle until, by accident of course, he met the Lady Constance. Perhaps he could persuade her to sit with him in a window seat? His mind was busy with all sort of chivalric notions, snatches of poetry, fitting similes and those subtle compliments a gentleman should pay to a lady. But now, there was more pressing business. Ranulf could not forget that last meeting of the Secret Council at Westminster. Edward of England, roaring like a bully boy, kicking over chairs and stools, pounding the table like a spoilt child as Corbett explained how Friar Roger’s cipher could not be broken and that they might learn more after meeting with de Craon. Once the meeting had ended, the King had taken Ranulf aside, as he was growing more accustomed to do, and pressed him against the wall, his elbow digging into the clerk’s chest as he whispered in his ear. The warning had been simple: the King loved Corbett as a brother but de Craon was a most venomous viper in the grass. Edward had made Ranulf swear an oath on life and limb that if de Craon threatened Corbett, or worse, did him injury, Ranulf was to take the Frenchman’s head.

‘But he is an envoy!’ Ranulf gasped, fearful yet flattered by the King’s attention.

‘Then he is a dead envoy.’ The King smiled drily. ‘I am not asking you to take his head literally. I will be content that de Craon dies of some mishap. You do understand, Master Ranulf, what a mishap is?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Good.’ The King had smiled and dug his elbow deeper. ‘Because if you fail, some mishap might occur to you.’