by Paul Doherty
‘Master Ranulf,’ she whispered, ‘what are you trying to do? Do you want to play cat’s cradle with me? If you want to talk, then talk! Or do you wish something else? To take me aside and whisper the sweet words of a troubadour?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Or will you appear beneath my window tonight with rebec and flute and chant how my skin glows like soft satin and my eyes, well . . .’ She waved her hand. Ranulf blushed and quietly thanked God that Chanson wasn’t nearby.
‘My Lady,’ he stammered, glimpsing Corbett moving towards the door. ‘My Lady, certain tasks await me.’ Face burning, he hastened after his master.
‘Ranulf!’ He turned.
‘I wish you had,’ Lady Constance whispered. ‘I wish you would.’
Ranulf could take no more, but fled into the icy night, quietly whispering the Deo gratias.
Corbett was still full of the singing. ‘You see, Ranulf, when you have more in the middle group, where the voice is not so deep as the line behind or the row in front . . .’ He continued his lecture as they crossed the snow-filled bailey, torches spluttering against the falling snow sent sparks flying like miniature beams of light to sizzle on the icy cobbles. The bailey was full of noise as carts and barrows were pushed away, horses stabled and the castle folk sheltered and hastened their preparations against the encroaching icy darkness. Ranulf made his hasty farewells and Corbett, still full of the choir music, returned to his own chamber, where he closed the door, refilled his wine goblet and stretched out before the fire. De Craon, he realised, would soon be here. He thought of the choir at Leighton; perhaps it should be divided in two and arranged in stalls? His mind drifted to that snow-bound church, those hooded, masked figures in the cemetery. What did their leader mean by the horror hanging in the woods . . .
Ranulf shook his master awake. ‘The French have arrived, we must prepare.’
Corbett struggled up. Ranulf had already changed into a cotehardie of Lincoln green edged with silver, over a white linen shirt and dark brown leggings; his face was shaven, his hair oiled, his fingers beringed, and round his waist was a narrow leather belt with a sheath for a stabbing dirk.
‘The Lady Constance will think you are quite parfait,’ Corbett teased, but Ranulf was already striding to the door; he did not wish to discuss that matter any further!
Servants came into the room struggling with buckets of boiling water for the lavarium bowls. Once they had gone, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved, donning a clean linen vest, drawers and cambric shirt. Humming the Offertory canticle from the second Sunday of Advent, he took from his travelling chest a cotehardie displaying the red, blue and gold of the royal household. He donned black hose, pushing his feet into soft leather boots and placing the silver filigree chain of office around his neck and the signet ring of the Secret Chancery on the middle finger of his left hand. As he was brushing his hair, Ranulf and Chanson came into the room.
‘I’ve done the best I can.’ Ranulf pointed at Chanson, resplendent in a new woollen jerkin, his hair looking even more spiked than ever. The teasing continued as Bolingbroke entered and described de Craon’s arrival.
‘I’ve been round this castle.’ Bolingbroke sat down on the coffer at the end of the bed. ‘It’s a veritable rabbit warren, with more gaps and alleyways than any ward in London.’ He looked at Corbett. ‘There’s talk about the promise you made . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded. ‘It’s a promise I shouldn’t have made.’ He paused as the castle bell chimed, the signal that the feasting would soon begin.
Corbett led his retinue down through the bitter cold and across to the Hall of Angels. The long chamber now blazed with light and colour. Fresh greenery had been arranged, logs piled high in the hearth and the flames roared up into the stack. Braziers glowed and incense-holders from the church gave off their own spiced fragrance. Musicians in the gallery practised the flute and plucked the strings of a harp. The great table on the dais was covered in white damask and bright with gleaming jugs, goblets and flagons.
De Craon and his entourage were standing in front of the hearth, sipping cups of spiced wine. Corbett, a false smile on his face, but eager to observe etiquette and protocol, strode across. He embraced the russet-haired, dark-faced Frenchman who, he knew, wanted to kill him, and exchanged the oscuum pacis, the kiss of peace, with lips which had cursed him and clasped hands, eager to be stained with his blood. De Craon, too, observed the niceties. He stepped back, hands spread out, greeting Corbett in Norman French, conveying to him the good wishes of his most gracious master. Corbett’s rival was also dressed in the livery of another royal household, a cotehardie of blue and white, emblazoned with silver fleur-de-lis. They stood exchanging pleasantries, toasting their respective masters, de Craon obviously smirking, making no attempt to hide the rancour in his eyes. Further introductions were made. Ranulf gave the sketchiest of nods to de Craon’s black-haired henchman, Bogo de Baiocis. Corbett icily introduced Bolingbroke; de Craon clasped the clerk’s hand, gripping it tight.
‘You studied in Paris sir?’
‘Why, yes, my Lord.’ Bolingbroke deliberately answered in English. ‘But I had to discontinue my studies because of certain matters.’
‘If you ever come again,’ de Craon’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand, ‘I must entertain you. There’s a very fine cookshop near the Quai de Madelene.’ Swift as a snake in the grass, he turned immediately back to Corbett. ‘Sir Edmund has been telling me about your singing. I, too, have sung in the Chapel Royal at St Denis.’ De Craon’s hand went to his chest and he bowed. ‘My master has congratulated me on my fine voice, and there is nothing better my daughter Jehanne likes than to join me in that beautiful song ‘Companhon, farai un vers desconvenent’. You know it, Sir Hugh? It was composed by William, Duke of Aquitaine, when Gascony was part of the domain of France.’
Corbett couldn’t help laughing at the sheer insolence of de Craon’s remark. De Craon decided to act surprised.
‘You mock me, sir?’ Corbett teased.
‘Would I mock you, Sir Hugh? Don’t you believe that I have a fine voice, or an equally fine daughter? When you are next in Paris, I must entertain you at my house.’ De Craon’s smile widened. ‘It is far, far away from the Quai de Madelene, I assure you.’
Corbett hid his own surprise. He had always considered de Craon a villain steeped in subtlety and cunning, without family or interests. He could tell from Ranulf’s grin that perhaps he and his French opponent had more in common than he might concede.
‘And your companions?’ Corbett asked.
De Craon hastened to introduce the four professors: Etienne Destaples, a tall, gaunt professor of divinity; Jean Vervins, lanky and thin, with the lugubrious face of a man who reflected a great deal but spoke very little. He was, like Destaples, dry of skin and dry of tone, a man with tired eyes who kept fidgeting, whispering to Destaples and glancing around in disdain. Pierre Sanson, professor of metaphysics, was more convivial, his small, plump face wreathed in a perpetual smile. He, like the rest, was dressed in dark garb with a thick fur-rimmed robe around his shoulders. Louis Crotoy was introduced last, a small, aristocratic-looking man with rather elongated sharp blue eyes, his hair pure white. Unlike the others, he grasped Corbett’s hand and drew him close, exchanging the kiss of peace. Corbett smelt that perfume with which Crotoy always anointed himself, a fragrance which took him back down the years to those sombre, dusty school rooms in the Halls of Oxford.
‘It’s good to see you, Sir Hugh, a little older but only just a little.’
He stepped away as de Craon came between the two. ‘I understand you know each other of old?’
‘A great honour on my part,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Louis is once heard never forgotten. He lectured on logic in the schools of Oxford.’
‘Sir Hugh was my favourite pupil,’ Crotoy answered. ‘Not because of his logic; I have just never met a man who takes things so seriously.’ His remark provoked laughter. ‘And now,’ Crotoy continued, ‘such serio
usness is needed.’ He spoke quickly in Norman French, and by the look in his eyes, Corbett realised that this old friend, this master of the sharp thought and the shrewd word, wished to talk with him in secret.
Sir Edmund clapped his hands, summoning the servants to replenish cups and serve soft, spiced slices of bread. The conversation turned to the weather, the horrors of the sea voyage and the history of the castle itself. Corbett tried to draw Crotoy into conversation, but whenever the Frenchman drew closer, de Craon or one of the others appeared at their side. Corbett plucked at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered about the seating arrangement; the Constable nodded, promising he would do what he could.
When a trumpet sounded from the minstrels’ gallery announcing that the first course was to be served, Corbett found himself on Sir Edmund’s left, with de Craon on the Constable’s right, but more importantly, Louis Crotoy was seated between himself and Ranulf. The wine goblets were filled, toasts made and the first course was served: roasted salmon in an onion wine sauce, followed by spiced capon and chicken mixed with cumin and cream. The wine circulated, faces becoming flushed, voices raised. De Craon’s retinue relaxed as the leader of the French envoys quietly conceded that he could do little to interfere between Sir Hugh and his old teacher.
‘Do they trust you?’ Corbett asked.
‘Of course,’ Louis replied. ‘They are just curious.’ He patted Corbett gently on the hand. ‘De Craon attended the Halls of Cambridge, Destaples has lectured in this kingdom as well as at universities in Lombardy. Knowledge has no frontiers, Sir Hugh. You are well?’
For a while the conversation turned to personal matters; eventually Corbett pushed away his silver platter.
‘Friar Roger Bacon?’
‘I’m not too sure, Sir Hugh, whether he was a buffoon or a genius.’
‘Have you translated the Secret of Secrets?’ Corbett asked.
‘Of course not,’ Crotoy whispered, ‘but there are rumours that Magister Thibault had begun to.’ He kept his face impassive. ‘You heard the news, Sir Hugh? Magister Thibault organised a great feast, an evening of revelry, but a dreadful accident occurred. They claim housebreakers tried to rob his cellar and, either by accident or design, began a fire which swept through the house. All the guests escaped safely, including myself, but the King’s men who were sent down to investigate maintained that in the cellar they found three corpses, or what was left of them: the mortal remains of Magister Thibault, a young woman he was dallying with, and someone else, a stranger. A tumultuous evening! They say one of the housebreakers was English, a clerk called Walter Ufford. I saw him at the revelry that night, along with a man who looked very much like your companion Bolingbroke.’
Corbett glanced down the table at William Bolingbroke, deep in conversation with Destaples. He could hear the loud debate over the logic of the famous theologian Abelard, who had used his book Sic et Non to poke fun at other theologians and their misuse of scripture.
‘I doubt if William was there,’ Corbett turned his head, ‘but if he was, and proof was offered, I would investigate more thoroughly.’
Crotoy laughed. ‘And perhaps you should ask him if Magister Thibault’s prize possession, his copy of the Secret of Secrets, came into his possession. Our royal master was furious.’
‘What at?’ Corbett asked. ‘Magister Thibault’s death or the theft of the manuscript?’
‘His Grace,’ Crotoy’s voice was barely above a whisper, ‘is angry at many things, Sir Hugh. He is angry at me and others of the university. He has surrounded himself with flatterers, men like Pierre Dubois, sycophants who recall the old adage of the Roman jurists, “How the will of the Prince has force of law”. As he grows older Philip does not take kindly to opposition.’
‘And his interest in Friar Roger’s theories?’
‘If your King is interested, so is mine. There is no doubt that our learned friar was a treasure house of secret knowledge, but whether it is worth a sou is for us to decide.’
‘Had Thibault broken the cipher?’ Corbett asked. ‘When we meet we have to share such knowledge.’
‘I think he had, or at least had begun to. Now I and my companions must earn the good grace of our master by finishing the task. I have spent many years on ciphers, Sir Hugh, the writings of Polybius and other ancients, but the device Bacon used to hide his knowledge is the most difficult I have ever encountered.’
‘And Magister Thibault,’ Corbett continued, ‘the night he died, why should he be found in the cellar?’
‘His strongroom was there,’ Crotoy replied. ‘I was in the hall of his house that evening. I had withdrawn from the revelry. People had drunk too much and the filles de joie were becoming more abandoned by the hour. I was near the door when Magister Thibault appeared. I asked him to join us, but he refused. The young woman he was with, an exquisite courtesan, remarkably beautiful, she too was objecting.’
‘Objecting!’ Corbett exclaimed.
Crotoy made a gesture with his hand for Corbett to keep his voice down. ‘Yes, objecting. She said it was cold and she didn’t want to go down to a freezing cellar. “You asked me to,” Magister Thibault replied. They left, and a short while later servants reported smoke and flames pouring up from the basement.’ Crotoy shrugged. ‘Now, Ranulf . . .’
Crotoy hastily turned away from Corbett, leaving the Keeper of the Secret Seal alone with his thoughts. Sir Edmund was now deep in conversation with de Craon, describing the fortifications of Corfe Castle and the building work which was to begin once spring arrived. Corbett sat staring into his wine cup. He had advised his own royal master that this meeting at Corfe was highly dangerous. Philip and de Craon were plotting something, but what? And although he had questioned Edward closely, the King would not reveal the reason for his own deep interest in the writings of Roger Bacon.
Corbett stared down the table at the various faces. According to Bolingbroke, who, flushed-faced, was still lecturing Destaples, there had been a spy at the University of the Sorbonne who had been prepared to sell Magister Thibault’s copy of the Secret of Secrets. Ostensibly he had done it for gold and silver. Had that same person simply been a catspaw, the means to trap Bolingbroke and Ufford? But there again, de Craon could have brought his men to that cellar and apprehended them there and then. And why had Magister Thibault gone down to the cellar? According to Crotoy, it seemed as if Thibault had meant to meet someone there. Had Thibault been the spy? And why had de Craon allowed the copy of the Secret of Secrets to be stolen in the first place? Did that manuscript hold something very dangerous? Was that the reason for the meeting at Corfe?
Corbett raised his goblet to his lips but thought again. He needed to keep his mind clear. Sitting back, cradling the goblet, he smiled to himself. Logic could only be based on what happened, not what might happen, as Crotoy had taught him, so he would have to wait . . .
Alusia, daughter of Gilbert, was recalling the shock of discovering Rebecca’s corpse. She had knelt beside it on that cold cobbled trackway, aware of someone screaming, and it was only when she heard Father Matthew approaching that she realised that she herself was making that terrible noise. The priest had raised her to her feet, his strong arms about her, one hand stroking her hair as he tried to comfort her. He had told her to stay beside the corpse whilst he hurried over to the church and brought back the hand cart. She’d helped place poor Rebecca’s corpse on it, covering it with the stained canvas cloth the priest had brought with him. Once they had returned to the castle, Alusia had been comforted by her parents. They’d brought her a cup of warm posset from the kitchen and her father had hurried to Mistress Feyner for a few grains of valerian to help her sleep.
Alusia had slept long and deep, and only as she woke became truly aware of the horrors she had witnessed that day. Both Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had come down to question her but Alusia was confused, still suffering from the effects of the powdered wine. She explained how she and Rebecca, close friends, had decided to slip away from the castle and
meet under the lych gate so that they could lay greenery on Marion’s grave. After all, it had been her name day, and they wished to do something to mark their friend’s passing. Alusia described the church and the snow-covered forest, how quiet it had been; she even recalled the cawing of the rooks and crows.
‘But did you see anything?’ Sir Edmund and Father Matthew had been kindly but persistent. Alusia had shook her head and babbled about the silence and the snow, about poor Rebecca lying like a bundle of cloth on the trackway.
‘Did you see anything strange?’
Again Alusia had shaken her head. She couldn’t recall anything, and yet now she was more awake and fresh, certain memories did come back. It was like waking up after last Midsummer’s Day, when she had drunk deep of the cider and danced with the rest on the castle green. At first she couldn’t recall anything, but then the memories had returned, how she had kissed that boy or this; more importantly, how Martin, that handsome man-at-arms, had caught her eye, studying her from afar. He had held her tight whilst the dancers whirled and the air was piped full with the wild music of the tambour, rebec and flute. Now it was the same. Her parents had told her what had happened to Rebecca’s remains, lying cold and stiffening in the death house next to the castle church. How Father Matthew had brought Rebecca’s corpse and herself back to Corfe. How he had anointed the body . . .
Alusia, sitting up in her parents’ bed in the loft of their small house built against the castle wall, tried hard to remember. Sir Edmund had said that sharp-eyed King’s man might come to question her. So what could she say to him? Yet the memories were there. She was sure she had glimpsed someone, just for a moment, near the lych gate, and what was Father Matthew doing on the trackway? Alusia recalled how Father Andrew, about this time last year, had been called to give the last rites to a sentry who’d slipped from the castle parapet walk and fallen to his death. He had knelt down and whispered the words of absolution into the dead man’s ear. Why hadn’t Father Matthew done that to Rebecca? Hadn’t that same Father Matthew taught them that the soul never left the body immediately, so absolution could still be given and the skin marked with the holy oils hours after death?