Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I’m afraid,’ de Craon spoke again, ‘that that was all Magister Thibault was able to decipher.’

  The manuscripts were passed round, all animosity forgotten, as the various scholars studied the letters and began to argue amongst themselves. Corbett sat back, puzzled. He had had the opportunity to look at the French copy, and even a glance at the first page, the colour of the ink, the shape of the letters and symbols, the texture of the manuscript, proved the two manuscripts were a fair copy of each other. At the same time de Craon had been most helpful; indeed, his remarks had surprised not only Corbett but also his own colleagues. Why, Corbett wondered, were the French being so co-operative?

  The discussion continued for at least an hour, parchment and quill being used; de Craon, like a schoolmaster, moved round the table, explaining what Magister Thibault had done, though expressing ignorance at how he had reached such a conclusion.

  The castle bell chimed for the midday Angelis and they paused from their discussions while Corbett led them in the famous prayer, ‘The Angel Lord declared unto Mary’. He noticed, with some amusement, that those clustered around the table fairly gabbled the words and returned immediately to the matter in hand.

  Soon after, Sir Edmund announced that food would be served in the hall below, and Corbett brought the meeting to order. He and de Craon agreed that they would adjourn for the rest of the day whilst Bolingbroke and Sanson compared the manuscripts. Chattering volubly, de Craon led the rest of the group along the passageway into the hall. Corbett and Ranulf stayed to have a word with Sir Edmund. The Constable closed the door behind his guests and, plucking Corbett by the sleeve, took him over to the fireplace, gesturing at Ranulf to join them.

  ‘The snow’s ceased falling,’ he murmured. ‘A peddler has reached the castle; he came in from one of the coastal villages. He brought rumours of the Flemish pirates being seen much closer to the coast than normal.’

  ‘In this weather?’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The seas are swollen, there will be few vessels leaving port. So what are they waiting for?’

  ‘What are they looking for, more like?’ Ranulf retorted.

  ‘I feel nervous,’ the Constable confessed. ‘This castle is well fortified and manned, but sooner or later you and the French envoys must leave. Think, Sir Hugh, of the disgrace if you or Monsieur de Craon, either on land or sea, were ambushed or captured by Flemish pirates. I would hear Edward’s roars from Westminster here, whilst Philip of France’s anger, well . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘But there is no real danger, surely?’ Corbett replied. ‘The pirates are at sea; they are looking for plunder, a careless merchantman, or some unprotected village where they can slaughter fresh meat and retreat to their ships.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ The Constable shook his head. ‘You are a clerk, Sir Hugh, skilled in the matters of the Chancery. I am a soldier. It is rare for pirates to come in so close at such a time, with the weather so bad. Yet they could use it to their own advantage. They could beach their ships, teeming with men, desperate veterans. If they made a landing, it might take days, or even weeks, for a message to get through the snow to London or one of the Cinque Ports. I thought I should tell you.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Will you join us in the hall?’

  Corbett didn’t feel like eating; he made polite excuses and went out, slipping and slithering on the icy cobbles, to his own chamber in the Salt Tower. He waited before the fire until Ranulf and Chanson returned and, whilst the groom guarded the door, he tried to settle the chaos seething in his mind.

  ‘I understand none of it, Ranulf.’ The red-haired clerk sat at the small desk, and dipped his quill into the ink warmed by the fire. ‘It’s like being in the countryside when the mist comes down. Do we go forward or wait until it’s cleared? Anyway, let’s list the obstacles.’

  Corbett walked up and down whilst Ranulf’s pen scratched the parchment, writing in a cipher only he and Corbett understood.

  Primo – Why is our King so interested in Friar Roger’s secret manuscript? What has he discovered which so intrigues him yet he won’t even tell me? He has gone through all of Friar Roger’s writings and brought the Secretus Secretorum from his Treasury of Books at Westminster. Is it because he has heard that Philip of France is equally interested, or is the opposite true? Is Philip simply, like I am, deeply curious at Edward’s close interest in the writings of a long-dead Franciscan?

  Secundo – Is the Secretus Secretorum a genuine manuscript? Does it contain a treasure house of secrets or is it mere babble? Is there a key to the cipher? A genuine key. Edward of England hasn’t translated it, but has Philip of France? According to de Craon, and he showed some proof this morning, one of the lines can be translated. But is that a mere accident?

  Tertio – Why did the French agree so readily to Edward of England’s request? Indeed, insist that such co-operation was in accordance with the Treaty of Paris? Why did they concede to come to England and ask that the meeting take place in a lonely castle near the coast?

  ‘Because they knew,’ Ranulf lifted his head, ‘that Edward would agree to that. He does not like you in France. If Philip insists that the two courts co-operate, it’s the least Edward can expect.’

  ‘True, true,’ Corbett murmured. He paused before the fire and stared at the faces cut into the wooden shelf. The sculptor had tried to imitate the faces of gargoyles seen in churches but in the end had satisfied himself with simple roundels, the eyes, nose and mouth cut roughly into them. Corbett continued his pacing.

  Quarto – De Craon brings experts on Friar Roger’s writings from the Sorbonne. These men are also experts on ciphers and secret letters. One of these has already died in unfortunate circumstances. My old friend Crotoy confesses that none of these periti, or experts, are friends of the French King. They oppose his ideas of kingship. Crotoy is convinced that Destaples was murdered but there is not a shred of evidence to prove that. He is also of the mind that he himself, and the others, are marked down for death, that they have been brought to England to be killed, that they will all die in unfortunate incidents. Louis Crotoy believes such ‘accidents’ will be dismissed, and if there is any suspicion, it will be laid firmly at the door of the perfidious English.

  Quinto – The business in Paris. Ufford and Bolingbroke maintain that one of the masters of the University, in return for gold, informed them where Magister Thibault’s copy of the Secretus Secretorum was kept. Ufford and Bolingbroke stole this, but for some unknown reason, Magister Thibault and the young whore he was entertaining went down to the strongroom at the very moment of the robbery. From what I gather, Magister Thibault was reluctant to go down. According to the evidence, he was probably showing off to his lady friend. Yet why should a Paris courtesan be interested in an old manuscript? Was she told to take Magister Thibault down there at that time? If so, the person who betrayed Philip, this mysterious master of the University, also tried to betray Ufford and Bolingbroke. Indeed he nearly succeeded. Ufford was killed and Bolingbroke only escaped by mere chance and his own skill.

  Corbett shook his head. ‘I can make no sense of that.’ He sipped at a beaker of wine.

  Sexto – The deaths in this castle. I have sworn to find the killer. But why are hapless young maids being killed by a crossbow bolt? They are not ravished or robbed, their corpses are being found both within the castle and outside. The killings began after the Feast of St Matthew. First, a young woman disappears, but the rest have been found in or near the castle. Some attempt has been made to blame a coven of ragged outlaws. I don’t believe that. First, why should they harm local girls – they would only stir up hatred in the local community against them. Secondly, that’s why those outlaws were waiting for us in the cemetery. They know that a King’s man has arrived in Corfe and they don’t want to be hanged for murders they haven’t committed. I wonder what they meant about the horror in the forest?

  ‘We could ride in there.’ Chanson, crouching by the door, grinned eagerly at Ranulf. ‘We could go deep into th
e forest and follow the ancient trackways.’

  ‘Why don’t you go?’ Ranulf snapped.

  ‘Pax,’ Corbett declared. ‘Let’s go back and see what we know.’ He seized a quill and a piece of parchment and drew a crude map. ‘This is Purbeck Island – there’s sea to the east and to the south. Corfe lies here, high on the downs which stretch down to the sea. Further north, just as we enter the forest, is the church of St Peter’s and the Tavern in the Forest, with a small village lying further to the east. Now, most of the victims have been found in or near the castle, the only exception being poor Rebecca, who was killed on a trackway outside the cemetery. These young women had little in common except that they lived in the castle and met every Saturday with Father Matthew in the nave of his church. They were all killed by a crossbow bolt loosed so close the quarrel was embedded deep in the flesh. From the little I have learnt, the girl Alusia journeyed to the cemetery to pay honour to a dead friend buried there, also a victim of this malevolent killer. She went down on a cart with Mistress Feyner, who takes laundry between the castle and the Tavern in the Forest. Apparently Rebecca was supposed to go with her but she didn’t arrive in time.’ Corbett went and stood by Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, Ranulf, why should someone murder young women? If it’s not to ravish them or rob them?’

  ‘Revenge, hatred?’

  ‘Look, Chanson.’ Corbett snapped his fingers. ‘Go down to the castle yard, bring up Alusia and Mistress Feyner. Tell them the King’s man wants a word with them.’

  When Chanson had left, Corbett sat in the chair as Ranulf read through what he had written. The clerk of the Chancery of Green Wax was impatient. The day was almost halfway through and he had not yet seen the Lady Constance. He’d received a small scroll last night tied with a purple ribbon in which Lady Constance had assured him that if he wished to walk the castle gardens with her, his company would be most acceptable. Corbett watched his companion most closely and hid a smile. In any other instance he would have teased him, but Ranulf was so quiet, it was clear he was smitten.

  ‘We will have to go to the woods, Ranulf. We need to meet that outlaw band and find out what they mean about the horror in the forest.’

  Ranulf agreed. He stared across at the black wooden cross, the yellowing figure of Christ writhing there, and hid his fears. The King had often plucked him by the sleeve, taken him to one side and showed him what could be his; ambition burned fiercely within him. Sometimes he considered the Church as a path to advancement, but now he thought that the Lady Constance would be a good match, her father a friend of the King. He felt Corbett’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Be careful,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Remember, Ranulf, we are guests here.’

  Before Ranulf could answer, there was a knock on the door and Chanson led in Mistress Feyner. ‘I could not find Alusia,’ the groom announced breathlessly. ‘No one has seen her.’

  ‘Probably gone off with that Martin,’ Mistress Feyner sniffed, plumping herself down on a stool. ‘Well, sir.’ Mistress Feyner pulled off her woollen mittens. Corbett glanced at the chapped red hands. The cloak was patched and she pulled it closely around her whilst staring round the room. ‘My husband made some of the furniture here; he was a carpenter. What do you wish? I’m a busy woman, and tongues will clack.’

  ‘Let them clack.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Mistress, would you like some wine?’

  Mistress Feyner’s small black eyes creased into a smile. ‘Why, sir, that would be most welcome; heated with an iron would be better.’

  Corbett nodded at Chanson to do it. The groom took a pewter goblet, filled it with wine and, taking an ember from the fire, placed it in the cup before sprinkling in a little nutmeg and mace from the small spice box.

  ‘You are chief laundrywoman of the castle?’

  Mistress Feyner’s black eyes were cold and watchful, one thin hand combing her tangle of grey hair. She quickly grasped the pewter cup wrapped in a cloth, nursing it before taking a sip.

  ‘You know what I am, sir. What do you want?’

  ‘When did your daughter disappear?’

  ‘Just after the Feast of the Exaltation of the True Cross. It was Harvest Sunday, that’s right. Father Matthew had organised a special mass in which the Holy Rood would be taken in solemn procession around the cemetery. Phillipa was there.’ The black eyes blinked. ‘I thought she was with the other girls, but that afternoon she never came home. Sir Edmund was kind and organised a search, but nothing was found.’

  ‘Do you think she has run away?’

  ‘Run away, sir? Why should my daughter run away? She was the apple of my eye. A good girl, Sir Hugh, with fine skin and lovely eyes, gentle as a baby fawn she was. Father Matthew’s best scholar, or that’s how he used to tease her. She had many friends.’

  Mistress Feyner held the goblet in one hand and tapped her chest with the other. ‘I carried that girl for nine months. I would like to tell you, sir, that she ran away, that she is safe in some city or town, but a mother knows, sir, here, in the heart. Phillipa’s gone.’ Her voice broke. ‘If only I could have her body back for burial, sir.’

  ‘What do you suspect happened?’

  ‘Killed, like the rest,’ came the tired reply. ‘The forest is full of swamps, marshes and morasses, but I would like her back, just to hold her one more time.’

  Corbett opened his purse and drew out three silver coins. ‘Here,’ he urged, ‘take them for yourself and for a Mass offering.’

  Mistress Feyner nodded softly.

  ‘Now, the morning Rebecca’s corpse was found?’

  Mistress Feyner lowered her head, a formidable woman, determined not to let this man see her cry.

  ‘I apologise for my questions, Mistress,’ Corbett pulled his chair a little closer, ‘but the people of this castle want justice.’

  ‘Alusia and Rebecca planned to visit Marion’s grave. They wished to place greenery on it, they wanted a lift on the cart. Alusia arrived but Rebecca never did. I had to leave. I stopped outside the cemetery, on the trackway. Alusia climbed down, I continued. You see, sir, Master Reginald has a fierce temper and a sharp tongue. The linen from the tavern is brought to the castle to be washed and cleaned. Master Reginald pays well, he buys supplies from Sir Edmund and often sells goods to our Constable. There’s a good understanding between Corfe and Master Reginald. However, when the taverner wants his clean washing, he wants it immediately.’

  ‘Mistress?’

  She looked at Ranulf. Corbett she liked, felt comfortable with, with his soft dark eyes and smiling mouth, a man who could speak in honeyed tones, but this one, with the hair the colour of the devil and eyes like the castle cat, she would have to be wary of. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You went along the trackway that winds past the church. It was there that Rebecca’s body was found. Did you see anything?’

  ‘Well of course not, though her corpse may have been there. You must remember the snow was falling. I kept my eyes on the horse and the trackway ahead. Bitter cold it was. Alusia said the same, huddled in her cloak sitting beside me.’

  ‘So,’ Ranulf put his quill down, ‘Rebecca might have gone to the cemetery beforehand and met her killer?’

  ‘But why didn’t she wait for me? What I think happened,’ Mistress Feyner drank from the cup, ‘is that she must have left the castle after me and met her death.’ She glanced at Corbett. ‘I can tell you no more, sir. People blame the outlaws, but I do not.’ She drained her goblet and got to her feet. ‘I thank you for the money.’

  ‘Mistress Feyner?’ She lifted the latch and turned round. ‘If I put you on oath, if I formed a jury and asked you under the law to name a suspect . . .’ The laundrywoman dropped the latch and came back.

  ‘Why, sir, would you do that? If you did, you could not summons me; my daughter is one of the victims, I’m certain of that. But I shall tell you something, sir, and I think of it every time I visit that tavern. Mine host is a former soldier. Many of the girls have worked in his tap room, and Master
Reginald, well, his hands and his lips are always hungry. My Phillipa served there as a slattern in the kitchen. She called him as lecherous and hot as a sparrow.’

  ‘But he is not of the castle.’

  ‘Oh yes he is, Sir Hugh. He often brings his cart here; his purse is always jingling and his eye always bright.’

  ‘But none of the girls were ravished?’

  Mistress Feyner returned to the door. ‘Ask amongst the girls, Sir Hugh. Master Reginald, how can I put it, may be a cock in a small barnyard, but he’s a gelded one.’

  ‘You are repeating rumour,’ Ranulf mused.

  ‘No, sir, whoever you are.’ Mistress Feyner grinned over her shoulder. ‘Master Reginald has tried to finger my bodice and got nothing for his pains. He’s tumbled others; the soil has been fresh but the plough has been weak. Master Reginald secretly knows that, for all his crowing, he’s mocked by the very ones he pursues. You should go down to the tavern, Sir Hugh, and ask your questions. He does business with Horehound.’

  ‘Horehound?’

  ‘Oh, he and his coven take the name of herbs and plants, but they are not as fierce as they sound. Petty thieves and poachers,’ she sighed, ‘men and women trapped between the castle and the forest. So, if that’s all?’ and not waiting for an answer, she opened the door and left.

  Corbett began to put on his riding boots.

  ‘Oh no,’ Ranulf groaned. ‘Are we going hunting, Master?’

  ‘Let’s eat.’ Corbett got to his feet, strapping on his war belt. ‘We’ll visit the tavern and taste Master Reginald’s cooking, then we’ll visit the church. I understand Father Matthew celebrates Mass late in the day.’

  Ranulf and Chanson prepared hastily, and booted and spurred, they collected their horses from the stable. The snow had stopped falling but lay ankle deep. Corbett carefully led his horse across the slush-strewn cobbles, then mounted.