by Paul Doherty
‘The secrets?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah, I thought you would ask about that. I heard about the meeting at Corfe. I wondered if I should flee, but that would have provoked suspicion. Who would care about an ignorant parish priest?’
‘Would the King know?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is that why he chose Corfe?’
‘Possibly,’ Father Matthew conceded. ‘Perhaps he thought such a meeting might provoke the interest of Friar Roger’s hidden disciples. The truth is, Sir Hugh, there’s only one, and you are looking at him. When I met you,’ he sighed, ‘I did wonder. You are sharp of eye, keen of wit.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want my house ransacked, I don’t want my books burnt, I don’t want to be dragged before some archdeacon’s court or local justice. Sir Hugh, I have done no harm, I have done no ill.’
‘I’m not going to pass sentence, Father Matthew, but I asked you a question. The secrets?’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d say I was lying. Friar Roger’s secrets are described in his manuscripts. He talked of things, Sir Hugh, of men he had met in France, of mysterious documents, of marvellous machines beyond our comprehension.’
‘The Secretus Secretorum?’
‘Ah, that.’ Father Matthew closed his eyes and breathed in. ‘Friar Roger was very careful,’ he began. ‘Many people regarded him as a magician.’
‘Was that true?’
The priest opened his eyes. ‘Yes and no, Sir Hugh. Friar Roger was a member of a secret circle of scholars. In his letter On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature he attacks magic as trickery.’
‘So what was he frightened of?’
‘That things which could be regarded as magic are really the creation of the human mind, of a newly found wisdom. Friar Roger often talked about the great scholar Peter de Marincourt, with whom he worked in Paris. Peter taught him great secrets, for example, how a glass could be built so that the most distant objects appear near at hand, and vice versa. Sir Hugh, how can you explain such a thing to an ignorant bishop or inquisitor? Friar Roger became frightened. He was also deeply resentful at the way he was imprisoned and silenced, so he wrote the Secretus Secretorum, his handbook of secrets. It’s a mixture of the sources of his knowledge and future predictions, as well as how certain experiments can be conducted. He wrote it in a secret cipher, and before you ask, Sir Hugh, there is no translation. On his deathbed Friar Roger whispered to me that the key to that book was his own mind and that when he died that key would disappear. Now, Sir Hugh, you may drag me to London, have me tortured, threatened, I would say no different. The Secretus Secretorum,’ Father Matthew raised his voice so it echoed round that sombre church, ‘is Friar Roger’s treasury of secrets. It is also his revenge on those who rejected him. He could have said so much but no one wants to die screaming, lashed to a pole with the flames roaring around you.’
Corbett moved on his stool. He had interrogated many men, some consummate liars, and on such occasions he rejected logic and reason and trusted his own feelings. He instinctively felt that Father Matthew was telling the truth.
‘So that book will never be translated?’
‘Never!’ Father Matthew agreed. ‘And the more it is copied, the more it is added to so the more difficult it will become.’
‘And Friar Roger’s wealth?’ Ranulf asked. ‘He talked about spending two thousand pounds. Did he discover the Philosopher’s Stone? Unravel the secrets of alchemy?’
Father Matthew threw his head back and laughed.
‘He had hidden wealth,’ he replied, and sat chuckling to himself.
‘Hidden wealth?’ Ranulf insisted.
The priest gestured with his hand. ‘Go back to Corfe Castle, Red-hair, and gaze upon its battlements. Men lived on that spot before the Romans ever came. It’s been a royal residence, a place of power. Tell me, what do people do in times of danger? How do they protect their wealth?’
‘They bury it.’
‘That’s one thing Friar Roger learnt from Peter de Marincourt. How to find hidden wealth. Speak to the country people, Sir Hugh, men of Dorset and Somerset. They will tell you how, with a mere stick, they can divine underground streams or wells. According to Friar Roger, Peter de Marincourt discovered a way of finding hidden treasure. Don’t doubt me, Sir Hugh; even without such knowledge, tell me, how often is treasure trove found in London, gold, coins, silver from some forgotten age? That was the source of Friar Roger’s wealth. He wasn’t greedy for money; he just saw it as a means to an end.’
‘Do you know that method?’ Ranulf asked.
Father Matthew shook his head.
‘I suspect it is one of the secrets he locked away in the Secretus Secretorum, which,’ he spread his hands, ‘to me, like you, is an impenetrable wall.’
‘Yet you were Friar Roger’s favourite pupil; he described you as a great scholar.’
‘He also loved me dearly as a brother. He said the time was not ripe for such knowledge, that if he revealed his most secret thoughts it would only place me in deadly danger.’ Father Matthew slumped in the chair, weaving his fingers together. ‘What more can I say?’
Corbett stared up at that sombre nave. A slight mist had crawled under the door and through the gaps in the shutters, so it looked like a hall of ghosts. The altar at the far end was bare and gaunt, dominated by a stark crucifix.
‘Are you happy here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I am. I come from these parts. I think I do something useful. I truly care for these people.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I have a little wealth hidden away, I have my books. It is an ideal place for a scholar to remain hidden and pursue his studies.’
‘I shall tell you what I will do.’ Corbett got up, scraping back his stool. ‘In the spring I shall invite you to London and present you to the Bishop of London; he is a friend of mine, he will be only too happy to ordain you a priest and issue letters from his chancery. As for your friendship with Friar Roger,’ Corbett rehung his cloak about him, ‘why not leave that as one secret hidden amongst so many?’
‘I have your word?’ Father Matthew asked, the relief apparent in his face.
‘You have my word, Father.’
‘Then I shall tell you something.’ The priest pushed himself up. ‘You’ve a kind heart, clerk, and a good voice. When I was in the castle I became agitated. I met someone who, I thought, might recognise me.’
‘One of the Frenchmen? De Craon?’
‘No, the one who struts like a cheerful sparrow. Monsieur Pierre Sanson. But, Deo Gratias, it has been many years since he last spoke to me. About twelve years ago,’ the priest continued, ‘Pierre Sanson was part of a French delegation which came to Oxford. They stayed at the King’s palace at Woodstock. You may recall the occasion? The marriage of the King’s daughter Margaret to the Duke of Brabant? Naturally, scholars visit each other. Sanson claimed he was deeply interested in Friar Roger’s work and came to ask him about his secrets. My master was old and frail. He never was sweet-tempered,’ he added quickly, ‘and gave Sanson short shrift. When the Frenchman asked him about his secrets, Friar Roger replied that he would conceal them in a document and make copies of it, and if the world could unearth these secrets then it was welcome to them.’ Father Matthew blessed himself quickly. ‘What I am saying, Sir Hugh, is that from the very start the French knew the Secretus Secretorum could never be deciphered.’
Corbett extended his hand and the priest grasped it warmly.
‘I’ll see you in the spring, Father. I’ll send an escort to accompany you.’
Corbett and Ranulf made their farewells and returned quickly to Corfe. They tried not to look at the row of corpses clustered together like flies hanging from the battlements but thundered across the drawbridge and up into the inner bailey, where Sir Edmund’s retainers were still busy removing all sign of the recent conflict. Corbett was lost in his thoughts, ruthlessly determined on his course of action. When Sir Edmund came to greet them, Corbett enquired about de Craon, only to find that the French
man was sulking in his chamber. He took the Constable out of earshot, even from Ranulf, and whispered urgently to him. Sir Edmund made to object, but Corbett insisted and the Constable agreed. Ranulf was keen to seek out the Lady Constance, but his plea died on his lips at Corbett’s dark look.
‘Ranulf, I need you.’ He gave that lopsided smile. ‘The mills of God are beginning to turn.’
They went up to the chamber, Corbett preparing the room, dragging chairs and stools in front of the fire which Chanson was building up. The groom had slept through most of the battle; consequently he had to suffer Ranulf’s constant teasing and was only too pleased to escape to the kitchens to bring back ale, bread and cheese and strips of smoked ham. Bolingbroke joined them and Corbett ushered him to one of the stools in front of the fire.
‘I would have gone with you, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke sat down and picked up the small platter on which Chanson had served the food. ‘This is like the castle of the damned; virtually the entire curtain wall is festooned with hanged men.’ He bit on a piece of cheese.
‘We shall be gone soon.’ Corbett sat in the chair and wetted his lips with ale. ‘And what will you do then, William?’
‘Oh, I shall journey back to London. I may ask for some leave from the business of the Chancery. You will find me another post, Sir Hugh?’
‘I shall find you nothing!’ Corbett replied. Bolingbroke dropped the cheese he held.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Do you pray for his soul, William? Your good friend and companion? Your brother-in-arms Walter Ufford?’
Ranulf stiffened; even Chanson, sitting almost in the inglenook, forgot his food.
‘You’re a traitor, William,’ Corbett continued, ‘and I shall show you how. Two things in particular. First, let’s go back to Magister Thibault’s house in Paris. You remember it well: the Roi des Clefs who could open any door, chest or coffer?’
‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Of course you do, you were there. The King of Keys was wounded, his hand and wrist spiked by a caltrop, pumping out blood, screaming until Ufford had to cut his throat. Do you remember what the King of Keys carried? A pouch of strange instruments, master keys, cunning devices to turn a lock or force a clasp. What happened to these?’
Bolingbroke’s face grew pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the panic obvious in his eyes.
‘They were left there.’ He made to rise. Ranulf, sitting beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back down.
‘You took them,’ Corbett continued. ‘You picked them up. Who would notice? The King of Keys was dead, Ufford all a-panic. You used those keys on two occasions, the first when you murdered Crotoy and the second when you murdered Vervins.’
‘I was with you when Vervins died.’
‘Of course you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But you had given the keys to de Craon so that he or his henchman could creep up those tower steps. As the Gospel of St John says, “In the beginning was the Word”,’ Corbett sipped at his ale, ‘“and the Word was with God”. That is where all this began, Bolingbroke, with the pursuit of knowledge, used by de Craon and his sinister master to trap our King. Philip of France crows like a cock; he has Edward of England trapped by the Treaty of Paris, the Prince of Wales is to marry Philip’s only daughter Isabella. But there is a fly in the ointment: me and my spies in France and elsewhere. Philip would like to sweep the board. He knows about Friar Roger’s secret writings but he also knows that those writings can never be deciphered, whatever Magister Thibault claimed. Philip of France studies Edward of England most carefully, as he has for the last twenty years. The English Exchequer is bankrupt, Edward has wars in Scotland and he must defend the Duchy of Gascony. Earlier this year, our fat little Sanson inveigled Edward into studying Friar Roger’s manuscripts, a secret letter addressed only to our King. Perhaps it wasn’t Sanson but Philip himself whetting his appetite. Anyway, Edward loves a mystery, particularly when he learns that Philip of France is also studying those same manuscripts. Edward’s rivalry with Philip is legendary.’
‘I know nothing of this,’ Bolingbroke bleated.
‘Don’t you, William? I think you may have helped Sanson. Who knows? Perhaps you sent messages yourself through Ufford. Ah well, Edward of England prides himself on being a scholar. He reads Friar Roger’s work and stumbles on, or is allowed to stumble on, a great secret: Friar Roger’s bold assertion that he had spent over two thousand pounds, a veritable fortune, on his studies. Our King wonders, where and how could a poor friar, of common stock, draw on such wealth? He must have some great secret. And so the hunt begins.’
Corbett sipped from his ale, and before Bolingbroke could stop him, leaned across and plucked the dagger from its sheath on the clerk’s belt.
‘Oh, by the way, William,’ he patted Bolingbroke gently on the arm, ‘the Constable’s men are now going through your possessions. They are looking for the King of Keys’ tools; I’m sure they’ll find them. So,’ Corbett cleared his throat, ‘let us go back to our own King, the prince to whom we both swore fealty. He tries to hide Friar Roger’s reference to the treasure spent in the pursuit of knowledge. The King is also worried about his copy of the Secretus Secretorum being accurate. Perhaps Monsieur Sanson helped in this? Anyway, Edward of England wants to steal the French copy, so he instructs me to contact our clerks in Paris to move Heaven and Earth to obtain it. Of course, what we don’t know is that Walter Ufford has been baited, teased into a trap, and this is where you come in, William. You are a scholar at the Sorbonne, you have already been under suspicion as a spy, a clerk of the Secret Chancery in England. De Craon or Sanson approached you. Did they threaten you with the horrors of Montfaucon, or offer you gold and silver, a sinecure in France?’
Bolingbroke stared impassively back.
‘Well, you know the story better than I do,’ Corbett continued. ‘So, we come to the night of Magister Thibault’s revelry. You were invited to all that mummery. Magister Thibault is distracted by a nubile courtesan called Lucienne. Did you hire her? Was it de Craon? Or was it both? Anyway, she is under strict instructions to flatter the old fool, to persuade him to take her down to his treasure house to see the precious manuscript he is working on for the King of France.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ Bolingbroke stammered. ‘Magister Thibault came down by accident. He didn’t know when we would be there.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I suggest that when you went down to that cellar you passed Monsieur Sanson and gave him a sign. He would then hasten up the stairs to make sure Lucienne kept her part of the bargain. I agree, it would take some time to rouse that old goat from his bed, but Magister Thibault stumbled down into that cellar. As soon as he opened the door he was a dead man. Ufford cuts his throat and that of Lucienne. Walter was always a ruthless man. A short while later the King of Keys is wounded and later killed; you secretly seize his keys. Eventually you and Walter make your escape, two successful spies who have achieved the task assigned to them.’
‘Why didn’t they arrest us there and then?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.
‘That’s not such a good question,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They needed you, William, they wanted you to escape.’ He paused, rubbing his hands together. ‘You and Walter did what any spies would do; you separated, though not before you made sure that you escaped with the Secretus Secretorum.’
‘The dice!’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘You have cogged dice – that’s the way I’d decide anything. You’re as sharp as I am, Bolingbroke, you’d make sure you won.’
‘Yet that was only the beginning of the mischief,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Craon constructed a plot of many layers. The first was to remove certain opponents from the University of Paris, scholars opposed to the outrageous claims of his royal master; that’s the one thing Thibault, Destaples, Crotoy and Vervins had in common. Sanson was also one of these but, unbeknown to his colleagues, he was de Craon’s man, body and soul. Philip of Fr
ance later proposes this meeting. He wants a castle on the south coast, somewhere lonely for the next part of his plot. Edward of England rises to the bait and chooses Corfe, an indomitable fortress, not very far from where Friar Roger was born. Perhaps the meeting would arouse local interest and curiosity, particularly that of any disciples of Friar Roger hiding in the area. However, that part of Edward’s stratagem,’ Corbett winked quickly at Ranulf, ‘failed to come to fruition. Have you communicated with de Craon,’ he asked sharply, ‘since the attack by the Flemish pirates?’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘I wonder if he will betray you. If I offer him secret, safe and immediate passage back to France, he might sacrifice you. Why, William,’ Corbett leaned over, touching the clerk’s face, ‘you are beginning to sweat. Are you hot?’
‘Sir Hugh, you accuse me of treason and murder!’
‘Yes, yes, I do. Your hands are stained with the blood of an old friend. Oh, you acted the part so well, William. You even declared that de Craon might be bringing those scholars to England to have them murdered. You spoke the truth yet at the same time posed as a perceptive, loyal clerk of the English Crown who had doubts about de Craon from the very beginning. Yes, yes,’ Corbett blinked, ‘you knew the truth because you were party to those murders.’
‘I was asleep when Destaples died.’
‘Of course you were. You had already murdered him. The French magistri were no fools. Destaples was more suspicious of de Craon than anyone else. Why should he distrust an English clerk? You sat opposite him at the banquet on the night they arrived. You had been told he had a weak heart, and with the cups being filled and platters being brought it would have been so easy for you to pour a powder into his wine cup. What was it, William? Foxglove, to quicken the heart? Destaples could have died at table or returning to his chamber. Who could have been blamed? He was not a strong man, he had just completed a most vexatious journey, and he suffered a seizure.’