Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

  They entered the glade where Waldus the charcoal burner’s wattle and daub hut stood protected behind its weathered picket fence. Horehound paused. Usually the smell of wood smoke would be strong and there would be a glint of light between the shutters, but all lay silent, cold and black. Horehound climbed over the fence, treading carefully across the sparse vegetable patch. The door hung loose with no one inside. Horehound grew afraid; he wanted to be away from here. Waldus was gone. Horehound felt a shiver of unease. If the charcoal burner went into the forest, surely his flaxen-haired wife would stay?

  They continued on past the charcoal burner’s pit. On the edge of the glade something hung tangled from a bramble bush. Horehound picked this up. It was a rabbit skin, so fresh the blood was still glistening. It had been thrown there like a piece of rubbish. Now who would do that? Rabbits were scarce and precious enough. Who was skilled enough to trap this animal and throw away its skin? Horehound crouched down; he washed the skin in the snow, folded it neatly and put it in his bag. The rest watched carefully.

  ‘Why throw away a good rabbit skin?’ Hemlock asked. ‘Even Sir Edmund would use it, and he is a travelled man. I was a soldier once in the castle.’ Hemlock couldn’t resist the opportunity to boast. ‘Lady Catherine said that when she was in Paris, I don’t know where that is, but it’s a great city, even ladies’ robes are fringed with rabbit fur.’

  ‘Never mind that!’ Ratsbayne, a small, furtive-faced man, thrust himself forward. ‘I smell wood smoke.’ Ratsbayne sniffed at the breeze with his pointed nose. ‘Food!’ he moaned in pleasure.

  ‘It must be Waldus.’ Horehound trusted Ratsbayne’s acute sense of smell. They hurried along the narrow lane which snaked through the trees. Horehound glimpsed a glow of fire in the distance. Keeping to the line of trees, he approached the edge of the clearing and stared across the snow-covered glade. A fire crackled in the centre just where the ground rose before falling away the other side. He glimpsed the hunched figure of Waldus, but where was his woman, the flaxen-haired one? Why was he just sitting there? Milkwort pushed his way forward.

  ‘I’m afeared,’ he hissed. ‘Ratsbayne believes we are being followed but he’s always nervous. What’s wrong with Waldus?’

  Horehound strode across, kicking up flurries of snow. Waldus sat slumped, and when Horehound touched his shoulder he toppled on to his side, revealing dead eyes, gaping mouth and that awful cut to his throat from which the blood had slopped out to drench his legs and jerkin. Horehound looked down the rise. More blood stained the snow. He glimpsed some bracken tied up in a bundle. A hand was sticking out of it, and Horehound, terrified, recognised a wisp of flaxen hair. Gibbering with fear, he stared around, the dying light on the snow confusing him. The rest of the group hurried up. Horehound instinctively knew this was a mistake. A movement between the trees, the crackle of bracken, alerted the rest. Dark shapes were emerging. What new horror was this?

  Horehound drew his knife, whilst trying to loop off his arbalest, but he was shaking, his fingers sweat soaked. All around the glade echoed those ominous sounds, harsh clicks and the twang of bows. Horehound was hit just above the chest; he dropped like a stone as the rest of his followers died around him.

  Corbett felt disgruntled when he awoke. The fire had burnt down and Ranulf and Bolingbroke had not returned. He crossed to the lavarium and splashed water over his face, and for a while leaned against the mantle drying himself. He thought about Lady Maeve and his children; he wondered what they would be doing and quietly wished he was with them. Corbett recognised his own dark mood, so he opened the straps of his saddle bag, took out a small psalter of hymns and songs which he had copied down, and for a while stood in front of the fire singing softly the ‘Felte viri’, a lament on the death of William the Conqueror, followed by three verses of ‘Iam dulcis amica’. He felt better afterwards but then recalled singing that second carol with Louis Crotoy in the porch of St Mary’s church in Oxford. He thought of his old friend’s cold, stiffening corpse, and this provoked him into action. He wanted to go back to the Jerusalem Tower; there was something about that death which puzzled him. He picked up his cloak, swung it about him and paused.

  ‘Old friend,’ he whispered, ‘are you still teaching me?’ That was it! He recalled Crotoy’s corpse, the heavy cloak which may have made him trip. ‘Nonsense!’ he whispered at the candle flame. Louis was old and cold and the weather outside was freezing.

  Corbett rubbed his hands together and absentmindedly put on his war belt. He recalled the times he had seen Louis around the castle, that heavy cloak around his shoulders; he wouldn’t have carried it, he would have put it on! Why wait until you are in the freezing cold, especially if you are leaving a warm chamber?

  Corbett blessed himself, whispering the Requiem for Louis’ soul, and hurried down into the yard. He carefully crossed the cobbles, took a sconce torch from its holder, reached the Jerusalem Tower and climbed the steps into the cold antechamber. The door still hung open. Corbett went up carefully into the musty darkness. He found what he had expected: all of Louis’ books and manuscripts had been cleared away, de Craon would have seen to that, but his old friend’s personal possessions were piled neatly on the bed. Corbett sifted through these, picked up the dead man’s boot and felt inside. He smiled as he gripped the loose heel and pulled it out. Taking it over to the far side of the chamber, where he’d placed the sconce torch in a bracket, he examined both heel and boot carefully. Hiding them beneath his cloak, he went back into the yard and stopped a servant.

  ‘You have a shoemaker here, a cobbler?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, Master Luke, and a very good one too!’ the man chatted back. ‘Sir Edmund persuaded him to come from Dover—’

  ‘Good,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Then seek him out and tell him to come to my chamber in the Lantern Tower, I need his skill.’ He thrust a coin into the man’s hand.

  A short while later, as he placed a log on the fire, there was a rap on the door. A thin, wiry man came in, almost hidden by the leather apron he wore, face all shaven, head as bald as a pigeon’s egg.

  ‘Ah! Master Luke.’ Corbett wiped his hands on his jerkin and ushered the man to a stool. ‘I want you to look at this.’

  He handed him the boot and loose heel. The shoemaker asked for a candle to be brought across whilst he studied both of these, muttering under his breath, running his finger along the edge of the heel.

  ‘Anything strange, Master Luke?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ The man blinked, his eyes watering from the cold. ‘Oh dear, yes! You see, sir, this is a good Spanish boot, genuine red leather, Cordova, with a fur lining within, work of a craftsman it is, though not English.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked, holding up a silver coin between his fingers.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why, sir,’ the man laughed nervously, ‘this heel is attached to the boot by a very powerful glue, as powerful as any stitching.’

  ‘So it wouldn’t work loose easily?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, that’s why I was examining the edge. You see, sir?’ The shoesmith held up the heel, pointing to the rim. Corbett looked mystified, so Master Luke picked up the boot, returned the heel to its original position and thrust it in front of Corbett’s eyes. ‘Now can you see it?’

  Corbett held the heel fast; now he could see that there was a small dent between heel and boot.

  ‘It didn’t break off,’ he murmured. ‘It was prised off, wasn’t it? Someone thrust a dagger between heel and boot to force it loose.’

  ‘Very good, sir. A foul trick. There’s other signs, sir. You can see where the blade cut through the gum, and the outer edge of the heel is slightly hacked.’

  Corbett examined this and could only agree. He gave Master Luke the coin and thanked him. Once the shoesmith had left, he sat and stared down at the boot.

  ‘So what do we have here, eh, old friend?’ Corbett talked as if Crotoy occupied the stool opposite. ‘You didn’t leave your chamber and trip. Someone broke your n
eck, threw your body down those steep steps, draped the cloak over your arm to make it look like you tripped and then loosened the heel on your boot. But how?’ He closed his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards. Someone could have been with Louis in his chamber, but he was certain that, when the corpse was found, the key to the outer door was still in the dead man’s wallet. How could that be?

  Corbett rose, capped the candles, put the metal grille in front of the fire, locked his chamber and went back to the yard. He returned Crotoy’s boots to the chamber in the tower and went across to the servants’ quarters, where he asked to see Master Simon the leech. He found him in one of the stables, sitting on a stool cradling a blackjack of ale and deep in fierce argument with one of the stable boys over a sick horse. Corbett crouched beside him. The leech had apparently drunk deep and well; he gazed bleary-eyed at the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal.

  ‘Another death?’ he mumbled.

  ‘No, an old death.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The Frenchman, Destaples?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He had a weak heart.’

  ‘That’s true, no wonder he had a seizure.’

  ‘Is it possible,’ Corbett asked, ‘to give such a man a potion, a herb, let’s say at the ninth hour, the effect of which would only become apparent at the eleventh?’

  The leech pulled a face. ‘Of course it is. I can’t tell you how, but mixed with wine, which already quickens the blood and excites the humours, such an effect is possible.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Corbett tapped the blackjack, ‘and be careful what you drink!’

  Next he went to the kitchens, where he begged the cooks for a bowl of hot broth, some fresh bread and a tankard of ale. He could hear the laughter and talk in the hall beyond but decided not to go there. His mind was all awhirl, images came and went; it was like leafing through a psalter where the small illuminated pictures catch your eye. He thought of Louis swinging his cloak about him, the French scholars’ contempt for de Craon, Destaples eating so carefully at the banquet, Vervins falling like a stricken bird from the soaring walls of the castle.

  Corbett returned to his own chamber, where he stripped, put on his nightshift and, for a while, knelt by his bed trying to clear his mind. Chanson came lumbering up, almost falling through the door.

  ‘I’ve drunk far too much,’ he confessed. Corbett stayed kneeling.

  ‘Do you want to join me in prayer, Chanson?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘No, no, Ranulf is showing everyone how to cheat. I bring messages from the Frenchman; he says time is passing, tomorrow they wish to start early. He says he is ready to leave.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he is.’ Corbett crossed himself. ‘Tell Monsieur de Craon I will meet him in the solar just after dawn. Oh, and tell Ranulf and William I want them clear-headed.’

  The groom left and Corbett climbed into bed. For a while he lay humming in the darkness, the tune of the scholar song, ‘Mache, bene, venies’. He tried to recall all the words to soothe his mind, and slipped into sleep.

  When he awoke, the fire had burnt down and the capped candle was gutted. Corbett was reluctant to leave the warmth but eventually braved the icy cold, wrapping a cloak around him and going down into the yard to beg for some hot water so he could shave and wash. A servant came up to build the fire and the brazier. Corbett dressed in the royal colours, blue, red and gold, carefully putting on the Chancery rings as he wondered what the day would bring. He was not surprised to find de Craon and Sanson waiting for him in the solar, fresh and alert, though Ranulf and Bolingbroke, who joined them later, looked rather haggard and heavy-eyed. They sat at a small side table eating bowls of hot oatmeal in which honey and nutmeg had been mixed.

  De Craon was polite but distant. Now and again he would turn to whisper something to his sombre-faced man-at-arms. Corbett, however, watched Sanson. The French scholar appeared more relaxed, seemingly untroubled by the death of his comrades, and although they hid it well, Corbett could see that Sanson was de Craon’s man, body and soul. I wonder, he thought, smiling across at Sanson, if you were the spy who gave that information to Ufford then lured him to his death. Well, we shall see, we shall see.

  They gathered around the great polished walnut table. Corbett sent Ranulf back to retrieve certain manuscripts, whilst Bolingbroke laid out the writing trays with their ink horns, quills, pumice stones and small rolls of vellum.

  ‘I think I may have a solution,’ Corbett declared.

  De Craon, on the other side of the table, raised his eyebrows in surprise, then turned to Sir Edmund, asking if the Catherine wheel of candles could be lowered to provide more light. Corbett described his theory of how Friar Roger must have used what he termed dog or pig Latin to hide his secrets, and when he had finished de Craon sat, fingers to his mouth, staring hard-eyed back.

  ‘Well, Pierre.’ He turned to Sanson. ‘What would your reply to that be?’

  ‘Sir Hugh is correct.’ Sanson cleared his throat, his high-pitched voice cutting through the silence. ‘I too,’ he smiled smugly, his fat oily face creasing into a smile, ‘reached a similar conclusion.’

  He lifted his hands, snapped his fingers, and de Craon’s man-at-arms brought across his copy of the Secretus Secretorum whilst Bolingbroke placed the English version in front of Corbett. At first the niceties were observed, but Corbett was soon drawn into fierce debate about which secret cipher Friar Roger might have used. He studied the manuscript and began to write down certain phrases which the Franciscan might have used to disguise his true meaning. Sanson countered with alternative explanations. Corbett deliberately increased the pace, scribbling down notes and passing them across the table, eagerly waiting for Sanson’s reply. The hours passed. Outside the window day broke; the steward came in to say that the sky was clear, perhaps there would be no more snow, and did Sir Edmund’s guests require some food? Both parties refused. Corbett kept concentrating on the French. He was not so much concerned about Friar Roger’s cipher as Sanson’s handwriting, and as the day wore on that became more hasty, but Corbett was sure he recognised the same hand as in those mysterious memoranda sent to Ufford, copies of which Bolingbroke had brought back to England. In the early afternoon Sanson declared he was exhausted, sitting back in his chair and throwing his hands up.

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do, there’s nothing more we can do.’

  ‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ Corbett agreed.

  ‘Shall we eat, drink?’ de Craon asked. ‘Not to mention answer the calls of nature.’

  His words created a ripple of laughter and he pushed back his chair. ‘Sir Hugh, perhaps we can meet in two hours’ time? Will you join us in the hall?’

  ‘In a while, in a while,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, I too am exhausted. I must collect my thoughts.’

  The solar emptied. Corbett remained seated, whilst Raunulf, who had seen the secret sign his master had given, returned as if looking for something.

  ‘Not here,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Not here.’ He led Ranulf out of the solar through the kitchens and into the castle yard, then up across the inner ward and on to the wasteland bordering the castle warren.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what are you trying to do?’

  ‘Forget Friar Roger, Ranulf, I now know why our King is interested. Friar Roger’s cipher might take months, if not years, to break. We will make no sense of it. What I believe is that those three Frenchmen were murdered. No, no, listen. They were murdered and de Craon has come to Corfe Castle on some secret design of his own. Sanson is his creature. He simply sings the tune de Craon hums.’

  Corbett clapped his hands against the cold.

  ‘The mystery is beginning to unravel, Ranulf, but I’m not too sure which path to follow. I must keep things sub rosa. Whatever is decided,’ he continued, ignoring Ranulf’s look of puzzlement, ‘these proceedings are coming to an end. We have made as much progress as we can and de Craon knows that.’

  ‘I agree.’ Ranulf gestured back at the hall. ‘Last night de Craon was murmurin
g that time was passing. No wonder, if you’re correct, Sir Hugh, that he brought those three men here to die; then his task is done.’

  ‘Oh, there’s more to come,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, when are those outlaws to be admitted to the King’s peace?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, but I did promise to take them supplies before this evening, a basket of bread and meat to be left at the church.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’ Corbett hitched his cloak about him. ‘But for the rest, we’ll eat, drink and sleep and see which way our French viper curls.’

  They returned to the hall where Corbett, keeping his face impassive, chatted to de Craon and drew Sanson into discussion about the writings of Friar Roger. He was now certain that this French scholar was the one who had lured Ufford to his death, so he found it hard to talk, smile and practise the usual courtesies. Accordingly, he was highly relieved, when they reassembled in the solar, to hear de Craon’s declaration that he did not wish to prolong the discussions any further.

  ‘Sir Edmund,’ de Craon pushed himself to his feet, ‘we have trespassed on your kindness long enough. We have now reached certain conclusions regarding Friar Roger’s writings. I agree with Sir Hugh,’ he smiled blandly, ‘that our Franciscan scholar invented a new language and only the good Lord knows how it can be translated. Nevertheless, this meeting at Corfe, despite the unfortunate deaths which have occurred, marks a new development in the ties binding our two kingdoms together. Scholars of both realms have met and exchanged knowledge – a matter most pleasing to our Holy Father the Pope. Perhaps these meetings will become more frequent and encompass a wider range of matters in the years to come,’ De Craon was now beaming from ear to ear, as if announcing the most marvellous news, ‘when the son of our sovereign lord will sit on the throne at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. However, I have an admission to make. A document was found on the person of that poor unfortunate woman who, I understand, took the lives of young maids in this castle. I now declare the document was written by me.’ He raised his hand in a sign of peace. ‘I wished her to buy supplies from the local tavern and paid her well to do so.’