Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I’m sure it is here.’ The outlaw known as Skullcap nudged his leader.

  ‘I’m not getting too close,’ Horehound snapped. ‘If there is something here to show me, what is it?’

  Skullcap edged forward, forcing aside the brambles and the thick hardy bushes. Horehound glanced quickly around. They were not far from the Tavern in the Forest, close to the trackway leading to the castle. He had to be careful. Sir Edmund’s verderers were not unknown to go on patrol even in this weather.

  ‘Come on,’ he snarled.

  Skullcap, eager to prove his case, was now crawling forward. He reached the snow-encrusted reeds and pulled these aside.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed.

  Horehound edged nearer and moaned quietly at the sight of the corpse bobbing in the shadows. Skullcap, stretching out his cudgel, forced the corpse to turn. Horehound glimpsed a mud-encrusted face with long hair; the dried blood ringing the mouth had mixed with the slime. He stepped back and stared around; whoever had killed that woman, and it must be a young woman, had brought her down here, murdered her and thrown her corpse into the marsh. He padded back, searching the ground for any sign, yet he could find no trace of a horse or a wheel in the frozen snow. Here and there a disturbance, but Horehound’s own footprints, as well as those of Skullcap, would be difficult to distinguish from those of an assassin.

  ‘What do you think?’ Skullcap crawled close, crouching beside his companion, his thin spotty face flushed with excitement, eyes gleaming, the tip of his nose as red as a cinder glowing in a fire. On any other occasion Horehound would have made a joke of it and stretched out his fingers to what he always called this fiery ember. ‘I saw it this morning, it wasn’t there last night,’ Skullcap hissed. ‘Or I don’t think it was.’

  Horehound made his way back to the marsh to take a second look; this time he was bolder, allowing his boots to sink into the icy mud. He took his own cudgel and tipped the corpse. Yes, it was a woman, a young woman, probably from the castle. Her features were hard to distinguish, but he glimpsed the dried blood round that awful wound high in her chest. He retreated hastily, aware of the sombre silence. There was no birdsong, none of that flurrying in the thicket, the sounds of the forest which always reassured him. It seemed as if the winter snow had smothered all life. Horehound curbed his panic. He ran back, grasped Skullcap by the shoulder, and hastened with him into the trees.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Skullcap demanded. ‘Now we have another horror. You know what they’ll say.’ Horehound tried not to flinch at his companion’s sour breath. ‘They’ll say she was going for a walk down to the church or tavern and one of us killed her.’

  Horehound didn’t disagree. If this continued Sir Edmund would be forced to go hunting. He would summon up the levies and they’d enter the forest and see the horror hanging from that oak; it would only fan the fire of their anger. Horehound and the rest of his gang would be tracked by verderers and huntsmen; they would bring hunting dogs and not rest until they had cornered them in some glade. Justice would be quick. They would be either hanged there and then, or taken back to swing from the castle walls.

  Horehound looked up through the bare black branches, the melting snow dripping down, splashing his face. A sudden sound made him start, and a rabbit sped from one bush to another, but Horehound was so frightened, so cowed, he couldn’t even think about hunting fresh quarry.

  ‘I wonder how long?’ he muttered.

  ‘And we are hungry,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘The meat we are eating is rotten. What can we do?’

  Horehound crouched, assuming what he thought was his wise look. What could he do? Master Reginald’s generosity had been stretched far enough. And Father Matthew? Horehound recalled that fire leaping up and shuddered. The villagers? He breathed in. They had little enough to share, and once they heard about that girl’s corpse, every peasant’s hand would be set against them. So who was responsible? How could a young woman’s body, a crossbow bolt embedded in her chest, be floating in that marsh so near to the tavern? Was Master Reginald responsible? Had the wench gone down there? The taverner could be a brutal man, well known for his liking of the ladies. What about Father Matthew? Was the priest a warlock? Why should he be sprinkling powders on his own at the dead of night in his church?

  ‘At least another quarter to spring,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘Milkwort wonders if any of us will be alive by Lady Day.’

  Horehound sprang to his feet and hurried away. Skullcap, in surprise, followed him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  But Horehound, shoulders hunched, ran on, deeper and deeper into the forest. Skullcap paused to catch his breath. They weren’t going back to the camp, but towards that glade ringed by ancient oaks, and with that horror hanging from one of the outstretched branches. Horehound was going to break his own rule, and Skullcap had no choice but to follow.

  They reached the glade, but this time Horehound didn’t stop. Ignoring Skullcap’s cries, he raced across and halted directly beneath the corpse for the first time ever, staring up at that hideous face, made all the more gruesome by the passing of time and the pecking bites of birds and animals. The eyes had gone, leaving only black staring sockets, and the neck was all twisted, head to one side. Horehound wrinkled his nose at the smell of death. Although hideous in aspect, the corpse had now lost its horror. It was only the pathetic remains of a young woman, who had climbed up the oak, draped part of her long fustian skirt over the branch and fashioned a noose. Horehound could see how easy that would be; even the ancient ones could climb a tree like that. She must have moved along the sturdy branch, knotted one end around her throat and one end around the bough and simply let herself drop. Horehound walked around the corpse. Or had she killed herself? Had someone else brought her here and murdered her in this macabre way? He stared at the hands, the pared nails, then at the twisted cloth strong as rope. It would take some time before it rotted and allowed the body to fall.

  Horehound drew his knife and scrambled up the trunk of the oak. Using the gnarled knots for steps, he edged along the branch and, positioning himself carefully, sawed through the cloth until it ripped and the corpse plunged to the forest floor. The sheer effort and tension had exhausted Horehound. He put the knife between his teeth and dropped lightly to the ground. Using the frozen, sodden leaf meal, the outlaw covered the corpse, trying not to look at that face, praying quietly to himself, begging Christ’s good mother to help him.

  ‘Who is it?’ Skullcap drew closer.

  ‘Just another girl. The flesh is beginning to decompose.’ Horehound went to a nearby rivulet to wash his hands. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, not yet, not until they find her.’

  Horehound picked up his cudgel, took one last look at that forlorn heap, and found the pathway which would lead him back to the hidden cave where the rest of his band sheltered. He was almost there when he caught the first smell of wood smoke and the delicious tang of roasting meat. He stopped so abruptly Skullcap collided with him.

  ‘Do you remember Fleawort?’ he muttered. ‘And the fantasies he saw? I can smell roasting meat.’

  ‘So can I,’ Skullcap retorted.

  They ran through the tangled undergrowth, desperate to seek the source of the smell. Horehound couldn’t believe his eyes when he reached the glade. The outlaws had left their cave and built up a great fire, and were roasting strips of meat and drinking greedily from the small cask being handed around. Horehound drew his dagger, then smiled as one figure emerged from the rest, pushing back a tattered cowl. It was Hemlock! Horehound hurried across to hug this comrade who had left shortly before the eve of All Souls, saying he would try his luck further to the east.

  ‘What brought you back?’ Horehound demanded.

  Hemlock pushed aside his strange hair, thick and black with white streaks like the fur of a badger. He was a tall, sinewy man, the bottom half of his face hidden by a moustache and bushy beard. Horehound noticed the scar just under his comrade’s left eye. The wound wa
s still fresh.

  ‘I have my own men now.’ Hemlock jabbed a finger towards the fire. ‘I brought two of them with me, just in case. They fetched the meat and the cask of ale.’

  ‘Where from?’ Horehound demanded.

  ‘Ah!’ Hemlock smiled and put a finger to his lips. ‘I must tell you what I have seen and then you must see what I have witnessed.’ He shook his head and laughed at Horehound’s protest. ‘Come,’ Hemlock gestured, ‘fill your belly, then I’ll solve the riddle . . .’

  Corbett sat on his bed, leaning back against the bolsters, body slightly crooked as he bent over to take full advantage of the candle glow from the nearby table. The fire had been built up, the braziers crackled. Corbett was pleased to be out of the freezing cold. At the foot of the bed, his back to the great chest, Chanson was busy repairing a strap, while across the chamber Ranulf was teaching Bolingbroke how to cheat at hazard, showing him how to switch good dice for cogged ones. Ranulf moved so quickly, so expertly that Bolingbroke protested, so Ranulf demonstrated the sleight of hand more slowly.

  ‘You must be fast,’ he warned. ‘If you are caught, knives will be drawn.’

  Bolingbroke took his own dice out and cast a few winning throws, causing loud laughter as Ranulf realised the other man was, perhaps, as adept at cheating as he.

  Corbett went back to studying the King’s own copy of Roger Bacon’s Opus Tertium. He quietly mouthed the words the friar had used to describe his life of study: ‘“During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom. I abandoned the usual methods.’” Corbett glanced up. The usual methods, he reflected, what were they? Disputation? Argument? The exchange of ideas with other scholars? ‘I have spent more than twenty pounds,’ Friar Roger had written, ‘on secret books and various experiments, not to mention languages, instruments and mathematical tables.’ Corbett pulled himself up, resting the heavy tome in his lap, keeping the place with his finger. What, he wondered, were these secret books? What experiments? Had Friar Roger really discovered or stumbled on secret knowledge? He opened the book and read again, following the words with his finger, translating the Latin as he read. He moved the manuscript to study more closely the phrase ‘twenty pounds’. He noticed the manuscript was marked, the ink rather blotched, as if someone had tried to scratch the words out, blurring the letters.

  Corbett, exasperated, closed the book and put it on the table beside him. For a while he watched the two gamblers, marvelling at Ranulf’s persistence. He had learnt from Chanson how, as soon as they had returned to the castle, Ranulf had done some studying of his own, searching out the Lady Constance; they’d sat, heads together, in front of the great hearth in the Hall of Angels.

  ‘They talked, Master. Oh, how they talked!’ Chanson had reported. ‘And the Lady Constance, she laughs a great deal.’

  Ranulf looked across, caught Corbett’s stare, smiled and raised a hand. You always make the ladies laugh, Corbett thought, that’s one of your talents. Ranulf, sharp of wit and tart of tongue.

  Bolingbroke had reported back how he and Chanson had compared the two manuscripts, which were identical in every aspect.

  ‘Like peas in the same pod,’ he concluded, ‘but as for understanding it, the French have retired to their own quarters to study the mystery.’ Corbett too had decided to go once more through Friar Roger’s writings to find a clue, some key to the mysteries.

  Chanson scrambled to his feet, still clutching his stirrup leather.

  ‘What hour is it?’ Corbett asked.

  The groom went into the far corner and took the hour candle from its lantern holder.

  ‘Somewhere between six and seven in the evening. It’s dark outside. Master, I am hungry.’

  Corbett picked up the manuscript he had been reading.

  ‘Say after me, Chanson, Opus Tertium.’

  Chanson repeated the words.

  ‘Now,’ Corbett ordered, ‘go and give my compliments to Monsieur Crotoy. Ask him may I borrow their copy of Friar Roger’s work of the same name.’

  ‘But you already have a copy,’ Chanson protested, pointing to the calfskin-covered book. ‘And it’s cold out . . .’

  ‘Do as you are told, groom of the stable,’ Ranulf snapped, eager to retaliate for Chanson’s teasing about the Lady Constance. ‘Oh, never mind.’ He pushed back the stool and put on his boots and cloak. ‘I’ll fetch it myself.’

  ‘Ah, and that’s the last we will see of you before midnight.’ Chanson ducked as Ranulf went to cuff his ear.

  Corbett swung off the bed. He followed Ranulf out on to the stairway, flinching at the blast of cold air.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ he whispered, ‘but even if you do meet the Lady Constance, don’t forget what I’ve asked.’

  Ranulf grinned and, whistling under his breath, padded down the steps. Corbett returned to the chamber, washed his face and hands, and chattered to Bolingbroke for a while about the secret manuscript. A servant brought up some bread, cheese and a pot of slightly rancid butter. Corbett asked him of any news of the castle.

  ‘Not very good,’ the servant replied. ‘The girl Alusia has not been found.’ He went to the door and looked back, ‘You seem to have missed the excitement, sir. You heard the clamour?’

  ‘I did.’ Bolingbroke cleared the table of dice. ‘I heard shouting from below, though I didn’t hear the tocsin ring.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t much.’ The servant lifted the latch. ‘One of the guards on the curtain wall saw a fire at the edge of the forest.’

  ‘A fire?’ Corbett asked. ‘In the snow, in the depth of winter?’

  ‘Sometimes it happens,’ the servant replied. ‘There are outlaws in the forest, travellers and tinkers, wanderers who do not like to come under the eyes of the Constable. They collect dry bracken and light a fire; sometimes it gets out of hand. Two winters ago they nearly burnt the death house at St Peter’s, but now Father Matthew keeps them out of the cemetery at night – he’s very strict about that. Anyway,’ the servant opened the door, ‘Sir Edmund sent a rider out; the fire was nothing.’

  When he had left, Corbett shared out the food and drink.

  ‘If Alusia is still missing,’ Bolingbroke spoke up, ‘it must be serious. No wench would go wandering in the darkness on a freezing winter night. Sir Edmund will have to wait until the morning before he can send out a search party.’

  Corbett stared at Bolingbroke’s long, rather lugubrious face and mop of sandy hair. The pouches under his eyes gave him a sleepy look, belied by the laughing mouth. A good swordsman, Corbett reflected, Bolingbroke had been Ufford’s constant companion in the Halls of Oxford and entered the Secret Chancery as a clerk.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, William.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Ufford, you must mourn him.’

  ‘I’ve had Masses sung for him in the Chapels Royal at Westminster and Windsor.’ Bolingbroke looked away, leaning against one hand on the mantle, staring down at the floor. ‘Ten years in all.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I met Walter in a tavern near Carfax. Like Ranulf, he was cheating at dice. I had to rescue him.’

  Chanson, mending the leather on the floor, stopped. He liked nothing better than to listen to the stories of the clerks. He always hoped Sir Hugh would send him to the school in the transept of the manor church at Leighton.

  ‘Did he leave any family?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘A young woman in London. I gave her the news myself that Walter would not be coming home.’

  Corbett sipped at his tankard. Sometimes he deeply regretted what he was doing. Both Ufford and Bolingbroke had come to his attention because of their skill, their knowledge of tongues, particularly Norman French and the patois of the countryside. They had both served in the King’s wars in Scotland, and such a background made them ideal students for the Sorbonne.

  ‘Do you resent de Craon being so close?’

  ‘No,’ Bolingbroke sighed. ‘There are clerks in the Chancery offices whose
fathers fought mine in Wales. It’s like a game of hazard, Sir Hugh; if you lose, what’s the point of cursing the victor? One day,’ he lifted his own tankard in toast, ‘I shall return to the table and pay Monsieur de Craon back in similar coin.’

  ‘Tell me once more,’ Corbett sat down on the great chest at the foot of the bed, ‘how this magister at the Sorbonne provided the information.’

  ‘I’ve told you, he left letters at our lodgings.’

  ‘Did you trust this King of Keys?’

  Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘He was a thief from the alleyway; despite his pompous title, he was a housebreaker. He would not have become involved if he hadn’t been paid so well. In the end he died with Magister Thibault.’

  ‘And both you and Ufford knew about the coffer in the strongroom?’

  Bolingbroke nodded.

  ‘And who hired the King of Keys?’

  ‘Walter and I did that.’

  ‘And the girl?’ Corbett asked. ‘The one with Magister Thibault?’

  ‘I’m not too sure,’ Bolingbroke scratched his neck, ‘but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say our traitor hired her. We waited in the gallery upstairs until Thibault was, well . . .’ he shrugged, ‘otherwise engaged with her, then we went down. We must have been there an hour before the old fool appeared.’ He chewed on some bread. ‘We were trapped,’ he declared slowly, ‘and I still am.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I often wondered why the trap wasn’t sprung at Magister Thibault’s home, but now Destaples has died, I realise we were meant to kill Thibault. The same is true of my escape.’ He glanced sharply at Corbett. ‘Don’t you see, I was meant to escape, allowed to return to England with that manuscript. If I hadn’t, there would have been no meeting at Corfe.’ Bolingbroke snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! As I approached the Madelene Quayside, I’m sure I was being followed. A beggarman told me the Hounds of the King were in that quarter. After a while, all signs of any pursuit disappeared. I got safely out of Paris, on to the road north, but I was meant to. I was simply a piece on de Craon’s chessboard,’ he added bitterly. ‘So God knows what that bastard is plotting. My only comfort is that we might do some good here. I mean,’ Bolingbroke nodded towards the door, ‘about these poor wenches.’