by Paul Doherty
‘Because Philip asked for a castle near the coast and agreed you should come to us as a gesture of friendship.’
Crotoy made a rude sound with his lips. ‘Thirdly,’ he continued, ‘why were I and the others selected?’
‘Because of your scholarship?’
Crotoy shook his head. ‘We have one thing in common, Sir Hugh. We are members of the Sorbonne, well known for our opposition to the more strident demands and claims of Philip of France.’
‘And fourthly?’ Corbett asked.
‘Etienne Destaples.’ Crotoy sighed deeply. ‘Did you notice last night, Sir Hugh, how Destaples ate very little at the banquet?’
‘He didn’t trust his host?’
‘No, Hugh, he doesn’t trust his own kind. Destaples was very suspicious, as I am, about why he was brought here. You do realise, Hugh, none of us are friends of de Craon, and we do not enjoy the friendship of Philip of France. The same applied to Magister Thibault.’
Corbett stared into the flames. He recalled the banquet last night. In fact Destaples had had more to say to Bolingbroke than anyone else, whilst afterwards he had approached Ranulf to introduce himself.
‘So why did you come here in the depth of winter?’
‘We had no choice,’ Crotoy murmured. ‘We are servants of the King. If we displease him it is remarkable how swiftly, like Lucifer falling from Heaven, we can be dismissed from our posts. Look,’ Crotoy edged closer, staring around the Hall of Angels to make sure they were not being watched, ‘why are you here, Sir Hugh Corbett? Wouldn’t you like to be closeted with the Lady Maeve, or playing with your children? You serve your King loyally, but do you trust him? Do you approve of everything he does?’
Corbett recalled Edward at the most recent council meeting, his iron-grey hair swept back, face flushed with anger, spittle-edged lips curled in a snarl; or meeting Scottish envoys in a church, garbed in black armour, seated on his great war horse Bayard, drawing his sword and shouting that its blade was the only justice the Scots would receive from him.
‘There’s a difference,’ he mused. ‘My Lord the King is a difficult man but he likes me, he trusts me; sometimes I can temper his rages.’
‘Philip is different. His power grows from year to year. He does not listen to our “Parlements” but to his brothers, Louis and Charles, and a small coterie of lawyers. The only opposition to our King are the universities, their philosophers and the lawyers, and nowhere more so than in Paris. To cut to the chase, Hugh,’ the Frenchman’s face was now pale, and sweat beaded his temples, ‘I truly think we have all been brought here to be murdered, well away from our homes. We are an inconvenience, to be shed like the skin of some fruit, as well as a warning to others back in Paris.’ Crotoy paused as a servant came up to serve them ale laced with nutmeg. ‘No wonder Philip agreed for us to journey to England. Take poor Etienne; by the time his corpse is prepared, packed with spices and ointments, it will be too late for any physician to make a rigorous scrutiny of his body.’
‘But the Secretus Secretorum?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t your master want it translated, the cipher broken?’
Crotoy sipped from his ale. ‘What are we really looking at, Hugh? True learning, or a farrago of nonsense, a fardel, a basket of stupidity fixed on our backs, a cunning device, a subtle ploy, arranged for very many different reasons? Oh,’ he waved his hand, ‘Philip likes his secrets, be they those of Friar Roger or the Templars. He knows about the black powder that can turn into fire. True, Friar Roger can describe wonderful things, but so can a child.’
Corbett grasped his tankard and sniffed at its warm tang, which brought back memories of a flower-filled garden with its heavy spices and fragrant aroma. If Philip was plotting mischief, he wondered – and that was more than a possibility – why was Edward of England involved? What was behind all this?
‘Last night,’ he said abruptly, ‘after the banquet, Destaples and his comrades returned to their chambers. According to the evidence, Destaples changed for bed, drank his mint water and suffered a seizure. He did have a malady of the heart. What other explanation can there be?’ He smiled at Crotoy. ‘Your thoughts are too dark, Louis. If Destaples was suspicious he wouldn’t let de Craon into his chamber, and he would rigorously check anything he was offered to eat or drink.’ Corbett paused. ‘I must ask you this, would Destaples let you into his chamber?’
‘No.’ The answer was emphatic. ‘Oh Blessed Virgin guard us,’ Crotoy breathed. ‘We don’t trust de Craon and we certainly don’t like each other. According to the rest, none of us visited Destaples after he retired. I certainly didn’t, whilst the other two were deep in their cups. I would take it as a certainty that Destaples would never have permitted de Craon to be alone with him, in France, never mind here. It was the same on board ship and our journey from Dover. You see, Hugh, for all we know, one of us, including myself, learned professors of the Sorbonne, could be in de Craon’s pay.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Corbett asked.
‘I was trained in logic, Hugh, to create a hypothesis based on evidence and develop that logically, but as the years have passed,’ Crotoy rose to his feet, ‘I’m aware of other feelings and thoughts.’ He patted Corbett on the shoulder and leaned down. ‘God forgive me, Hugh, but I think I have been brought here to die, and if that happens, whatever you think of me, I want justice. Oh, I’ll be careful, but there again,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘so was Destaples.’ Crotoy strode away.
Corbett finished his ale and thought of that locked chamber, of Destaples writhing on his bed. Surely Crotoy was wrong? Nobody had done any violence. If the dead Frenchman distrusted his own, he certainly wouldn’t trust an English clerk. He placed his tankard on a nearby table and stared around the hall. Gazing up at the dais where they had feasted so well the night before, he tried to recall what he had seen and wondered if Louis Crotoy was right. As they all had eaten and drunk, had murder been planned?
When Corbett left the hall, the snow was falling so heavily the castle folk had retreated to the stables, outhouses or their own cottages built against the wall. He entered the Lantern Tower and quickly climbed the staircase. Destaples’ chamber was now empty, except for a guardsman dozing on a stool just inside the doorway. Corbett told him not to mind as he quickly walked around the dead man’s room. Destaples’ robes still hung on a peg, but as he expected, the coffers and chests had been packed and removed, probably by de Craon, for safe keeping.
‘I was here, you know.’ The man-at-arms sitting on the stool, cradling his helmet, gestured at the bed, his dirty, podgy fingers jabbing the air.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett answered.
‘I was here when they broke down the door, that’s why Sir Edmund left me here.’
‘Did you see anything suspicious?’ Corbett asked.
‘Nothing but that old man sprawled on the bed.’ The guard pointed at the small four-poster, its curtains tied tightly back.
‘And was it like this?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Edmund was most careful. The body was twisted,’ the man-at-arms said, ‘as if the old man had tried to rise. The bed curtains were pulled back, there was a goblet on the table, and that small coffer, but nothing else.’
‘And the door was certainly locked?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh yes,’ the man replied. ‘Some of the castle folk,’ he continued, ‘whisper that this is a cursed place.’
Corbett threw the man a coin and, as he went back down the stairs, idly wondered if the guard had spoken the truth.
If people are to be subject to the same law, at least let it be the law of England for the English and of France for the French and not the law of Lombardy.
Roger Bacon, A Compendium of the Study of Philosophy
Chapter 6
‘I do not believe such things are possible; they are fanciful notions. It is my belief Friar Roger was a great scholar with a lively imagination.’
Louis Crotoy sat back in his chair, pushing away the manuscript
s in front of him as if they were soiled. Corbett, sitting at the end of the table, wondered whether his old friend had decided to confront the danger; by rejecting Friar Roger, he was implicitly demanding this meeting be brought to an end. De Craon, however, at the other end of the table, appeared unruffled. He had taken his cloak off and unlaced the quilted jerkin beneath.
‘I agree.’ Jean Vervins leaned forward, staring down at de Craon. ‘In his De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae, Concerning the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature,’ Vervins translated the title as if the others had no knowledge of Latin, ‘Friar Roger claims,’ he picked up one of the manuscripts before him, ‘there are marvels created solely by the agency of art or nature. In these there is no magic whatsoever. Why?’ Vervins lifted his head and smiled thinly. ‘Because, so Friar Roger claims, it has been proved that all magical power is inferior to that of art and nature.’
‘What are you saying?’ de Craon asked.
‘Nothing, my Lord,’ Vervins retorted. He blinked his tired eyes and scratched the tip of his sharp nose. ‘But it follows logically that if marvels are the result of art and nature, then they can be seen by all and there is no secret knowledge.’
‘And yet he contradicts that,’ Crotoy put in. ‘Friar Roger talks of, and I quote, “marvellous devices constructed in antiquity and in his time, and he has met people who are acquainted with them explicitly”.’
‘He says that,’ Vervins’ voice rose, ‘in his work De Arte—’
‘Except for the instrument of flying,’ Corbett intervened.
‘Ah,’ Crotoy retorted, ‘but he claims to have met someone who has thought it through. Here is Friar Roger claiming that he has actually spoken to someone who at least, in theory, has constructed a device which can fly.’
‘He is referring,’ Pierre Sanson spoke up, fat face all flushed, thin hair damp; he too had loosened his cloak, throwing it on the back of his chair, ‘he is referring,’ his squeaky voice caused laughter amongst the henchmen sitting near the hearth, ‘to Peter Marincourt.’
‘Ah yes,’ Crotoy shook his head, ‘this mysterious philosopher who was supposed to have taught Friar Roger in Paris. Look,’ he leaned his elbows on the table, ‘I concede that Friar Roger made incredible claims. Listen.’ He picked up a manuscript. ‘He actually writes, “It is feasible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be constructed which could move under the guidance of one man, and go so much faster than a galley full of oarsmen”, and again, “It is feasible that a cart could be made to move with incredible speed and such motion will not depend on man or any other creature.” Later on,’ Crotoy dropped the manuscript, ‘he talks of a device which, if constructed, could take a man to the bottom of the sea, unscathed. Now,’ the Frenchman warmed to his theme, ‘what happens if I claimed to have built a set of wings to fly from the top of the keep of this castle? Is there anyone here who would like to try it?’
The question provoked a burst of laughter. Corbett, hiding the lower part of his face behind his hand, glanced at de Craon slouched in his chair, face all puckered up as if he was following every jot and syllable of this debate. He had concluded that, apart from the plump Pierre Sanson, the French scholars had very little respect for Friar Roger’s claims and were deeply suspicious of the Secretus Secretorum. They had also quickly come to terms with the death of their comrade; there was little sign of mourning, except for Crotoy, who had asked Father Andrew to celebrate a Requiem Mass later that day. De Craon had received Sir Edmund’s promise that the body would be cleaned and gutted, packed with ointments and spices and sent by cart to Dover for the journey back to France. Once they had all gathered here, Crotoy had led the attack, fielding the hypothesis that if Bacon’s claims in other manuscripts, which could be read, were ridiculous, why should they take notice of some secret manuscript indecipherable and totally resistant to translation? In other words, Corbett wryly reflected, the French scholars wanted to go home.
‘But you have proof of this,’ Bolingbroke broke in. ‘When I was in . . .’ he paused and stopped himself in time, ‘in the Halls of Oxford, a lecturer had to prove his case either by logic or experiment.’
‘Precisely!’ Crotoy seized on Bolingbroke’s words. ‘In his work the Opus Maius, Friar Roger claims that if you cut a hazel twig in two and separate the pieces, the two isolated parts will try to approach one another; you will feel the effort both ends are making.’ He leaned down and picked up a hazel twig, placed it on the table, took a knife, sliced it in two and held the pieces apart. Sir Edmund, seated in a high chair to Corbett’s right, rose to his feet, watching intently.
‘Do you see any movement?’ Crotoy declared. The Constable came round the table. Crotoy thrust the twigs into his hands. ‘Do you experience any sensation of these twigs, like lovers, yearning to meet?’
Sir Edmund held them for a while and shook his head.
‘In other words,’ Crotoy finished his declaration with the classic phrase of the schools, ‘that which is to be proved has not been proved. Therefore the hypothesis on which it depends cannot be valid.’
‘And yet,’ Bolingbroke declared, ‘in that same work you quoted, Friar Roger talks of “certain igneous mixtures, saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur which, when wrapped in parchment and lit, creates great noise and flame”.’
‘But is that proof?’ Vervins jibed. ‘If you throw a slab of meat into a hungry kennel you will hear great noise.’
‘Ah yes,’ Bolingbroke retorted, ‘but that is to be expected. What I am saying is that Friar Roger did prove that mixture would lead to that effect, as he does in Chapter Seven of the Opus Maius, where he demonstrates how a rainbow can be measured.’
‘What if,’ de Craon’s voice cut like a lash; the French envoy was clearly annoyed at the cynicism of his companions, ‘what if the solution to all these riddles lies in the Secretus Secretorum? Perhaps,’ he waved a hand, ‘the answer to how a cart can move of its own accord, or the split ends of a hazel twig attempt to meet each other, might be resolved there? Doesn’t Friar Roger claim,’ de Craon closed his eyes to remember the words, ‘“for the wise have always been divided from the multitude, and have hidden the secret truths of wisdom, not only from the vulgar, but even from common philosophers”?’
‘Arrogance,’ Crotoy jibed. ‘If Jesus could reveal divine truths then why can’t Friar Roger confess his secrets?’
‘Ah no,’ de Craon retorted. ‘Didn’t Jesus himself say that he spoke to the multitude in parables but bluntly and openly only to his own followers? Gentlemen, we are here not to debate Friar Roger’s claims but to break and translate the cipher of his secret manuscript; that is what our royal masters have demanded.’
De Craon glared down at Corbett, willing his support, but before he could reply, the door was flung open and a messenger came in and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear. The Constable nodded but gestured at Corbett to continue. The Keeper of the Secret Seal opened the leather bag at his feet and drew out his copy of Friar Roger’s Secretus Secretorum.
‘Monsieur de Craon is correct,’ he began. He patted the cover, noting with amusement how de Craon had produced his own copy of the same work. ‘Everything depends on this manuscript.’ He undid the clasp and turned the crackling parchment pages. ‘At first sight it looks easy, a Latin manuscript, here and there strange symbols, but the words make little sense. If translated they are like the babblings of a child.’
‘Which they are,’ Crotoy intervened.
‘We don’t know that. Now, Friar Roger actually lists seven ways of writing a cipher. First, behind characters and symbols; we all know that method. Secondly, in parables, stories which are known only to the writer and his chosen reader. There are other more technical ways, such as,’ Corbett ticked the next three off on his fingers, ‘the use of words where only consonants are deployed; or different alphabets. Friar Roger studied Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin, so he could have used any of these, or a language not known to anybody. The sixth method is the rejection of letters
and the use of mathematical signs; and finally, much more subtly, the writer creates his own alphabet, his own language, consisting of different types of symbols and marks which are known only to him and those to whom he has revealed them. Now, as far as we know, the Secretus Secretorum was written by Bacon and a copy made. We are not too sure whether the English King owns the original or his Grace the King of France, but we are assured – are we not, Monsieur de Craon? – that these two manuscripts are identical in every way.’ De Craon nodded slowly. ‘So I propose,’ Corbett continued, ‘we compare the manuscripts one more time. We can spend the rest of the day doing this. I recommend therefore that Master Bolingbroke and Magister Sanson carry this task through.’
‘What if,’ Ranulf, who’d sat fascinated by the argument, tapped the table with his hand, ‘what if a key does exist?’
‘A great search has been made.’ Pierre Sanson shook his head. ‘There is not even a hint or a whisper that such a document exists. What we have to do here is understand the Latin words used as well as the different symbols and characters which separate them.’
‘As a gesture of goodwill,’ de Craon pulled himself up in his chair, ‘and by royal command from my master, I can reveal that Magister Thibault, before his unfortunate accident,’ de Craon glared at Bolingbroke, ‘actually found a key, and was hopeful that he could translate the entire manuscript!’
The French envoy revelled in the consternation his remark caused. Corbett glared in disbelief. Ranulf leaned over to whisper to him to keep calm.
‘Monsieur, you jest?’ Ranulf protested.
‘Monsieur does not jest. If you turn to the last page of the Secretus Secretorum,’ de Craon waited until Corbett had done so, ‘in the second line there is an apparently meaningless phrase “Dabo tibi portas multas”, “I shall give you many doors”.’
Corbett, staring intently at the last page of the manuscript, studied the particular line as the Frenchman explained how, if certain letters were removed and specified characters transposed, the words he had quoted emerged from the jumble on the page. Sir Hugh could clearly make out the word dabo.