Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

  The small castle chapel seemed gloomier than the night before. Father Andrew was already vested in the purple and gold of Advent. Corbett knelt with the other early risers, mostly men-at-arms and servants, as they huddled together in the small sanctuary. Father Andrew intoned the Mass, all its readings and antiphons foretelling the birth of Christ and God’s great promise of salvation. Corbett took the Sacrament and, once Mass was finished, lit a taper before the Lady Altar and waited, stamping his feet, until the priest left the sacristy.

  ‘Father, I am sorry to trouble you, but the girl who was brought in yesterday . . .’

  ‘I am saying her requiem at noon today,’ Father Andrew answered.

  ‘Has the corpse been coffined?’

  The old priest paused. Sniffing and coughing, he gazed watery-eyed at Corbett. ‘No, it’s still in the death house. The leech has prepared her.’

  ‘Can I see her, Father? I would like to scrutinise the corpse once more.’

  The old priest shrugged, led him out of the church and around the side into a small barn-like building built against the castle wall. It housed two corpses. Father Andrew explained that one was a beggar man, found on the edge of the road, who had died suddenly the day before Corbett had arrived. The beggar was already shrouded in a thick canvas cloth, only the face-piece pulled away to reveal a thin, cadaverous face, sharp nose and hollow eyes. Next to him, also on trestles, was an arrow chest, so long and thin it looked as if Rebecca’s corpse had been squeezed in. Corbett pulled back the shroud. She was now dressed in a white shift, her black hair falling down either side of her face. With the priest muttering under his breath about the stench, Sir Hugh carefully scrutinised the corpse. He tried to hide the deep sadness at such a waste, as well as a grumbling anger at the soulless violence. The quarrel had been removed, the wound filled with spices and covered with a herbal poultice.

  ‘In life she must have been comely,’ he whispered, lifting the shift to examine the girl’s rounded thighs and flat stomach. As he pressed his hand down against the cold, hard flesh, he caught the faint smell of herbs.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what are you looking for? This is unseemly.’

  ‘Death is unseemly, murder is unseemly. I made a vow. I will see the person who killed this young woman hang.’

  Corbett noticed the purple patches on the arm; they looked like bruises. He noticed also how the skin was scraped, and when he turned the corpse over, similar marks could be seen on the shoulders and the back of the neck. He heard voices outside, so he repositioned the corpse, pulling down the shift and covering it with the shroud cloth.

  ‘What I am searching for, Father, is a solution to this mystery. How a young woman comes to be found on a lonely trackway with a crossbow bolt in her chest.’ He tapped the makeshift coffin. ‘When the corpse was brought in yesterday, you were there. How was she garbed?’

  ‘A dark green gown, boots on her feet. I accompanied the leech back here. Beneath the gown she wore a kirtle, thin and patched; she was dressed like any other girl in the castle.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Corbett mused, walking to the door. He went out into the castle yard. Although it was still snowing, people were busy about their tasks. Small bonfires had been lit, water was being drawn from the well, stables opened, children and dogs chasing around. The blacksmith was firing his forge, shouting at his apprentices to bring more charcoal. A horse, more skittish than the rest, and glad to be free of its stables, whinnied, its hooves pawing the air. Bakehouses and ovens were lit, barrel-loads of food, slabs of salted meat and baskets of not-so-fresh bread being wheeled down to the tables, boards laid across trestles, where the garrison would muster to break its fast.

  Corbett walked around, watching the people at their work, now and then returning a greeting. A young woman came tripping along the cobbles, a heavy basket in her hand. Corbett stopped her, took the basket from her and, looking down, realized they were greasy pots and pans from the kitchen being taken to be scrubbed in vats of boiling salted water. The girl was pretty, her thin white face shrouded by reddish hair.

  ‘Why, sir, thank you.’ Her accent was thick, rather musical, the words clipped, running breathlessly into each other.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Why, Master, Marissa.’

  ‘Tell me, Marissa . . .’ Corbett carried the basket across the yard, and the other women stood back, gaping at this powerful King’s man helping one of their own. He placed it down on the cobblestones, as far away from the fire as possible so that it would not be scorched. ‘Tell me, Marissa,’ he took a coin out and, grasping the girl’s chapped hand, made her take it, ‘do you have a cloak?’

  ‘Oh no, Master.’ She must have glimpsed the disappointment in Corbett’s face. ‘But I can always borrow one.’

  ‘And if you were to leave the castle?’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t ask for one,’ she grinned, ‘otherwise people would know that I was leaving.’

  Corbett turned away in disappointment, as he realised why Rebecca wasn’t wearing a cloak.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’

  He looked round. Bolingbroke, nursing his sore head, came trudging through the snow.

  ‘I drank too much,’ he confessed. ‘I had to go straight to bed. Now the cold is sobering me up.’ He squinted at Corbett, who saw the cut marks on his cheek where the clerk had tried to shave himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m prying.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I should say trying to discover something about that murder yesterday morning.’ He gestured round at the inner ward, now busy as any marketplace. ‘There’s nothing, and de Craon has insisted on an early start.’

  Corbett led Bolingbroke across to the hall to break their fast. Ranulf was already there, keen and sharp as a knife, trying to persuade Chanson, who looked much the worse for wear, to eat some bread and take a sip of watered ale. De Craon and his entourage entered, and pleasantries were exchanged before they adjourned to the solar, which was reached by going down the passageway which ran under the minstrels’ gallery. A warm, comfortable chamber, sure protection against the freezing cold, its walls were cloaked in heavy woollen drapes of dark muted colours. The polished wooden floor was covered by turkey carpets and the fire in the great hearth was already merry and full, its flames roaring up. A long walnut table dominated the centre of the chamber, a high-backed quilted chair at each end, with similar chairs arranged along both sides. On the table lay writing trays containing ink horns, sharpened quills, pumice stones and a small jar of fine sand. At either end stood a hardened leather drum, its cap thrown back to reveal cream-coloured rolls of vellum and parchment. The Catherine wheel of candles had been lowered from the black-beamed ceiling. Each container held a costly beeswax taper, so as to provide good light for those at the table, and three sets of brass candelabra had also been lit for good measure.

  The seating arrangement was agreed upon: Corbett and de Craon at the ends, their clerks and advisers along either side. Father Andrew came to intone the Veni Creator Spiritus. Corbett pronounced himself satisfied and, leaving Chanson to sit with the other henchmen on either side of the mantled hearth, took Ranulf and Bolingbroke back to his own chamber. He felt in the toe of one of his riding boots, took out a ring of three keys and crossed to the iron-bound coffer at the foot of the bed.

  ‘This used to be the castle treasury,’ he explained, slipping two of the keys off the ring. ‘It’s the work of a craftsman, constructed specially in the Tower of London. You’ll not find its like anywhere. All three locks are distinctly separate; we shall each hold a key.’

  He distributed the other two keys, the locks were turned, and Corbett pushed back the lid and, helped by Ranulf, lifted out the red quilted Chancery box. This, too, possessed two distinct locks, to which Ranulf always carried the other key. Corbett broke the red and green seals, and the locks were turned. Inside was a further lid which only Corbett could unlock in order to draw out the leather pouches containing the leather-bound copies of the Secretus Secretoru
m, and other manuscripts of Roger Bacon. Each pouch had been sealed by the King himself using his signet ring, pressing it into the blood-red wax.

  ‘The King was most insistent.’ Corbett smiled at his two companions. ‘He regarded these as he would any treasure in the Tower.’ He took out the Secretus Secretorum, with its dark red Spanish leather cover, its clasp containing a brilliant amethyst. ‘This is not,’ he winked at Bolingbroke, ‘the manuscript you stole from Paris, but the King’s very own.’

  He put the pouches and what they contained on the floor.

  ‘I’ve also brought my own ciphers, as well as the various ones used in the Secret Chancery, not to mention those used by myself.’ He got to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees. ‘Not that they have done any good,’ he sighed. ‘Friar Roger’s cipher resists everything I know.’

  Sir Hugh gave the manuscripts to Ranulf, telling him to put them back in their pouches and relock the coffers. They were about to leave when there was a pounding on the door, and one of Sir Edmund’s stewards burst into the chamber.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you best come, one of the Frenchmen,’ he fought for breath, ‘one of the Frenchmen has died from a seizure.’

  Corbett shouted at Ranulf to guard the manuscripts with his life and, accompanied by Bolingbroke, hurried across the bailey to the Lantern Tower. The steward explained how three of the clerks were lodged there, with de Craon above the Hall of Angels, and Crotoy in the nearby Jerusalem Tower, so called because it once contained a small chapel. The door to the Lantern Tower thronged with men-at-arms. They stood aside as Corbett strode through, up the stone spiral staircase and into a stairwell which led into a chamber. The door, its leather hinges snapped, rested against the cracked lintel. The castle leech, with Father Andrew nearby, was bending over the corpse sprawled on the bed. De Craon and his three companions were standing near the ash-filled hearth, looking on anxiously.

  Corbett stared at the corpse. Destaples had definitely died of a seizure. His narrow face was all mottled, eyes popping and staring, mouth open as if ready to scream. He felt the Frenchman’s hand; the flesh was cold, hard and stiff.

  ‘He’s been dead hours,’ the leech declared mournfully, wiping his hands on a napkin. ‘The fire’s gone out, the chamber is freezing; he must have died shortly after going to sleep.’

  Corbett glanced quickly at the bedside table and the little coffer, lid open, full of miniature green leather pouches. He picked one of these up, undid the cord and sniffed, but detected nothing but crushed mint, and the same from the empty goblet nearby. He sprinkled the water dregs on his hand, then closed his eyes and thought of other chambers where men and women had died violent deaths, suicides who locked and bolted the door, victims who thought they were safe, not knowing that they were being as zealously hunted as any beast in the forest. How many corpses had he stood over? How many times had the questions been put?

  ‘Are you certain it was a seizure?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘If you are looking for poison,’ the leech replied, ‘this is not the case. A true seizure, Sir Hugh, a stopping of the heart, a closing of the throat, swift convulsions. Death would have been instantaneous.’ He gestured with his head towards the group of Frenchmen. ‘They say he had a weak heart.’

  ‘Oh, Sir Hugh.’ De Craon came forward. ‘I must admit my suspicions were roused.’ He beat his chest like a mock penitent. ‘I confess my evil thoughts, but Destaples was old, his heart was weak, the sea voyage wasn’t pleasant.’ De Craon gestured at the side table. ‘This excellent physician has already examined all these pouches and the goblet. They contain nothing but mint. Etienne enjoyed an infusion mixed with water just before he went to sleep.’

  Corbett didn’t glance at Bolingbroke, even though he recalled the clerk’s earlier warnings about why the Frenchmen had been brought to England. He gazed down at the corpse. ‘Sir Edmund?’

  The Constable, who had been standing near the window, arms crossed, deep in thought, walked out of the shadows.

  ‘Did anyone approach the bedside table?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, when the door was forced?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s voice was like a purr, ‘I know your mind.’

  ‘Do you?’ Corbett snapped.

  ‘You suspect foul deeds, but I assure you—’

  ‘Monseigneur is correct,’ Sir Edmund intervened. ‘We were gathered in the solar. I noticed,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘Monsieur Destaples was absent. I sent a steward to investigate. He reported back that he could not rouse him. I did not alarm anyone but came across myself. I eventually had the door forced and found what you see. I left a guard near the bed with strict instructions whilst I checked both the wine and water jugs. Sir Hugh,’ the Constable shrugged, ‘this man died of a seizure.’

  Corbett gazed round the chamber, which was very similar to his own. Now the shock had passed, he noticed how cold it was, and yet everything was in its place, neat and tidy, more like a soldier’s room than a professor’s. He glimpsed the robes hanging from the wall. Destaples had changed into a linen nightshirt and must have been in bed when he had the seizure. A mass of white wax coated the candle pricket.

  ‘He didn’t even have time to douse the candle,’ Corbett murmured.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ De Craon, clapping his hands for warmth rather than attention, walked over to the bed. ‘Sir Edmund, I suggest we have a small respite and perhaps begin our meeting, shall we say,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘at ten o’clock.’

  The Constable agreed. Corbett left the tower, sending Bolingbroke back to keep Ranulf company.

  ‘Do you think, Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke came back across the yard, fully distracted by his own thoughts, ‘do you think Destaples’ death was natural?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett rasped, watching his own breath hang heavy on the icy air. He was aware of the scenes in the bailey around him, how the noise of the people, the creaking of the carts, the neighing of the horses, seemed muffled on this sombre morning. According to all the evidence, Destaples had died in his sleep and there was nothing to be done. De Craon acted blunt and honest with not even a hint of accusation. And yet? He slapped Bolingbroke on the shoulder. ‘Tell Ranulf to stay in my chamber.’

  Corbett walked across to the stables and stopped halfway at the well, using the cover of the people milling there to watch the entrance of the Lantern Tower. De Craon and the others came out, each going their separate ways. Corbett went striding back.

  ‘Louis, Louis, can I have words with you?’

  Crotoy, muffled in his black coat, turned and smiled. ‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand.

  ‘That’s right, Louis.’ Corbett kept his smile fixed. ‘Just exchange pleasantries,’ he whispered. ‘Now, about these manuscripts?’ He raised his voice and chatted about ciphers and vellum until de Craon and the rest were out of earshot. ‘Well, Louis.’ He took the Frenchman by the elbow, gently steering him across the bailey towards the Hall of Angels. ‘One of your comrades is dead.’

  ‘He wasn’t a comrade,’ Crotoy declared. ‘I disliked Destaples intensely; he was of narrow mind and sour soul. He once wrote a commentary on the first chapter of John’s Gospel. By the time I had finished reading it I couldn’t decide if Destaples thought of himself as St John come again, or even Christ. He seemed to have a natural knowledge about the divine, much deeper than us common mortals.’

  Corbett laughed out loud. He had forgotten the intense rivalries which set these professors at each other’s throats.

  ‘I’ll tell you two other things,’ Crotoy continued. ‘De Craon and his royal master disliked Destaples. He knew enough scripture to challenge Philip’s authority. Do you remember the line, “Do not be like the pagans whose rulers like to make their authority felt”? Destaples constantly reminded Philip of it.’

  ‘And the second thing?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Why, Sir Hugh, weak heart or not, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure. Somehow or other he was murdered.�
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  ‘What?’ Corbett stepped back. ‘You, a friend of de Craon?’

  ‘I’m no friend,’ Crotoy intervened, ‘neither to him or his royal master.’

  They paused as a cart trundled by, standing back so they weren’t splashed by the icy mud.

  ‘Let’s go into the Hall of Angels,’ Crotoy continued. ‘Let’s talk as if we are still exchanging pleasantries. How many years have I known you, Hugh, twenty, twenty-two?’ He nudged Corbett. ‘Do you think, because I’m French, I’m not your friend? Do you think because we are from different kingdoms we are not of one mind, of one soul?’

  They entered the Hall of Angels, where servants were clearing away all the signs of revelry from the previous evening. They walked over to the fireplace, taking two stools, and sat basking in the warmth. Crotoy positioned himself so that he could watch the main door, whilst he quietly instructed Corbett to guard the entrance leading from the solar.

  ‘If anyone comes,’ he murmured, stretching out his hands, ‘we are discussing the relative merits of Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. Now, to your real question. Hugh, I don’t know why I’m here. Yes, I’m an expert on ciphers. I have studied the writings of Roger Bacon but I judge him to be a boaster and meddler. Oh, a true scholar, but one full of mischief. His writings abound with his own pride and pre-eminence. I understand the attraction of finding the true worth of the Secretus Secretorum, but now I’m confused.’ He leaned forward, using his fingers to emphasise the points he was about to make. ‘Why are we here, Hugh? The real reason. To share knowledge?’ He shook his head. ‘Our royal masters despise each other. Secondly, why here at Corfe?’