Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘But there are no strangers in the area.’

‘There’s the outlaws,’ Mistress Feyner shouted. ‘Horehound and his coven.’

She was immediately contradicted by the others, and Corbett sensed she was not popular amongst the others.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ a man who introduced himself as Oswald retorted. ‘Horehound is a poacher, a petty thief, one of us but fallen on hard times. Why should he slay our daughters?’

‘It must be someone we know,’ a voice shouted. ‘Here in the castle.’

Corbett glanced down the table at the old woman, dressed in dusty black, her long white hair falling to her shoulders, Corbett detected a slight accent and commented on it.

‘You’ve got sharp ears, clerk. I’m not from these parts, I’m from Gascony.’

‘And your name?’

‘To you and everyone here, Juliana, Mistress Juliana they call me, clerk. My granddaughter was killed near the castle moat but the others were placed near midden heaps. How can it be Horehound? He never comes into this castle.’

Corbett allowed others to speak, and as he did so stared at their lined, grimed faces, the anger and desperation in their sad eyes, the way they raised their chapped hands, sometimes joined as if in prayer, looking expectantly down at him, the King’s Man, ready to dispense justice. He felt as if he had gone back in time, gazing at the faces of his own mother, father, aunts and uncles. Men and women tied to the soil, ‘earthworms’ as his mother described them.

Despite Ranulf’s muttering and a tap on his ankle, Corbett publicly promised what he quietly prayed he could carry out: to hunt down the assassin of their daughters and see him hang. The group slowly began to take their leave. Father Matthew assured Corbett he was always welcome in his church, and left. Sir Edmund shook his head and quietly whispered how he hoped Corbett would keep his promise but that he too could not stay any longer as he expected the French to arrive before nightfall.

‘Can you do that?’ Ranulf asked as he followed Corbett across the castle bailey, head slightly turned against the sharp breeze, the snow now falling heavily, coating everything in a sheet of white. Corbett cursed as he slipped on the cobbles but then steadied himself.

‘I have to, Ranulf. Could you not feel the sea of misery in there?’

They entered the Salt Tower and went up to Corbett’s chamber.

‘You’ll rest now?’ Ranulf asked, alarmed to see his master slip on his war belt and lift up his thick grey cloak.

‘The French will be here soon and the snow is falling.’ Corbett patted Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘We might become prisoners of Corfe and I want to look where we are. There’s no need for you to come.’ And before Ranulf could reply, Sir Hugh, spurs jingling, was halfway down the stairs.

Ranulf closed his eyes. For a few short heartbeats he cursed Corbett. Old Master Longface expected Ranulf to follow; that was why he hadn’t locked the room. Ranulf stared at the ironbound coffer at the foot of the bed. It looked secure enough to hold what Corbett called his treasures of the Chancery, his bible of secrets and manuscripts of symbols. These contained the ciphers and hidden writing the Keeper of the Secret Seal used to communicate with his spies, from Berwick on Tweed in Scotland to the far-flung outposts of the Teutonic knights far to the east of the River Rhine. Corbett had brought these, and other books of secrets, with him as he always did, to continue the day-to-day business of the Chancery as well as a possible means to translate Friar Roger’s enigmatic puzzle.

‘As I can bear witness!’ Ranulf whispered. He had been with Corbett, burning the candles low in the Chancery rooms at Westminster, the Tower and even Leighton Manor. Corbett had neglected the Lady Maeve and his children, totally immersed in his task, only to grow increasingly frustrated.

Ranulf went across to the coffer and, crouching down, examined the three stout locks, the work of a craftsman. Then he blew out the candle glowing under its cap and, removing the key, locked the door from the outside and raced up the steps to his own chamber. He would have preferred to go wandering around the castle until, by accident of course, he met the Lady Constance. Perhaps he could persuade her to sit with him in a window seat? His mind was busy with all sort of chivalric notions, snatches of poetry, fitting similes and those subtle compliments a gentleman should pay to a lady. But now, there was more pressing business. Ranulf could not forget that last meeting of the Secret Council at Westminster. Edward of England, roaring like a bully boy, kicking over chairs and stools, pounding the table like a spoilt child as Corbett explained how Friar Roger’s cipher could not be broken and that they might learn more after meeting with de Craon. Once the meeting had ended, the King had taken Ranulf aside, as he was growing more accustomed to do, and pressed him against the wall, his elbow digging into the clerk’s chest as he whispered in his ear. The warning had been simple: the King loved Corbett as a brother but de Craon was a most venomous viper in the grass. Edward had made Ranulf swear an oath on life and limb that if de Craon threatened Corbett, or worse, did him injury, Ranulf was to take the Frenchman’s head.

‘But he is an envoy!’ Ranulf gasped, fearful yet flattered by the King’s attention.

‘Then he is a dead envoy.’ The King smiled drily. ‘I am not asking you to take his head literally. I will be content that de Craon dies of some mishap. You do understand, Master Ranulf, what a mishap is?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Good.’ The King had smiled and dug his elbow deeper. ‘Because if you fail, some mishap might occur to you.’

The bell of the castle chapel was tolling mournfully as Corbett, accompanied by Ranulf and Chanson, clattered under the yawning gate, across the drawbridge, disappearing into the whirling storm of snow which was now beginning to cover the grassland and shrubs around the castle. Ranulf had kicked Chanson awake, screaming at him to put his boots on and get down to the stables as quickly as possible. Of course Chanson took an age to wake. Ranulf had to put the groom’s boots on for him, even if it meant the left on the right foot, then, dragging him by the scruff of the neck down the stairs, bundled him across the yard, ignoring Chanson’s wails of protest and the strange looks they drew from passers-by. Corbett had been waiting in the stables, cloak fastened, his head and face hidden by the deep cowl of his cloak.

‘I thought I’d better wait,’ he murmured.

Ranulf muttered something obscene under his breath and helped Chanson saddle the horses. Now they were out in the open countryside, Ranulf felt the panic seething within him. He pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘Sir Hugh, why are we out here?’

‘I told you.’ Corbett’s voice sounded hollow from the cowl. ‘We will soon be prisoners enough. I want to know where we are.’

Ranulf’s panic was replaced by a chill of unease.

‘What do you fear, Sir Hugh?’

‘I’m concerned.’ Corbett reined in his horse, clicking his tongue as it shook its head. ‘Why are Flemish pirates patrolling in the dead of winter? True, there are easy pickings, but . . .’

They rode on silently for a while, then Corbett turned his horse and stared back at the black mass of the castle. ‘We have,’ he stretched out his left hand, ‘about six miles to the north-east the fairly large town of Wareham. The French envoys probably lodged there last night. All around us, shaped like a crescent, spreads thick forest; to the south of Corfe, about another seven or eight miles, lies the sea. To the east there’s an estuary, and to the west an even smaller one, which makes this part of the shire almost an island. They call it Purbeck Island.’ Corbett wiped the snowflakes from his face. ‘For the rest, let’s see for ourselves.’