Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward. ‘You heard the chanting?’

‘Angels’ teeth,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Of course he did.’

Corbett immediately became involved in the singing, and for a while stood and listened as the choir, under Father Matthew’s direction, sang the ‘ Puer Natus Nobis ’, ‘A Child is Born For Us’. The choir was composed of young boys and old men, but the real chanting was provided by the Welsh archers, whose voices Corbett particularly admired. He stood tapping his foot, gently moving his fingers as if he could catch the very essence of the hymn. Ranulf quietly conceded that the choir, the archers in particular, had beautiful carrying voices. In his manor at Leighton Sir Hugh had organised his own choir, composed of servants and manor tenants, and once the hymn was over Corbett was drawn into a passionate argument with the two priests over what they termed the ‘arrangement of voices’. Sir Edmund and his officers drifted in and stood fascinated as the sombre Keeper of the Secret Seal argued vehemently about who should stand where, and whether the choirs should alternate or sing together. Ranulf’s heart skipped a beat as the Lady Constance, with her damsels-in-waiting, also entered the little chapel now thronged with people and ablaze with light as Father Matthew lit more candles and tapers.

At last the priests were persuaded and the choir regathered, under Corbett’s direction, to sing the Introit , the entry antiphon to the dawn Mass for Christmas Day: ‘ Dominus dixit ad me, hodie genu tei ’ – ‘The Lord said to me this day I have begotten you’. First the choir had to be taught to memorise the words. Corbett translated the Latin – a lengthy exercise, but, as at Leighton Manor, the rhythmic chant of the music helped them remember it. After a great deal of shuffling, they stood in three rows to reflect the varying tones, with Ranulf in the middle line feeling rather embarrassed as the Lady Constance watched him intently. Once finished, everyone judged it a great success and they turned to something more popular, one of the great ‘O’ antiphons of Advent. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Ranulf glimpsed Corbett, eyes closed, passionately singing the words. At the end Sir Edmund, and the congregation which had gathered, applauded loudly. Corbett became involved in yet another heated discussion whilst Ranulf edged towards the Lady Constance. She, however, as if sensing precisely his intentions, strode directly towards him, standing in front of him like the Lady Maeve would, head slightly forward, face stern, her beautiful eyes bright with mocking laughter.

‘Master Ranulf,’ she whispered, ‘what are you trying to do? Do you want to play cat’s cradle with me? If you want to talk, then talk! Or do you wish something else? To take me aside and whisper the sweet words of a troubadour?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Or will you appear beneath my window tonight with rebec and flute and chant how my skin glows like soft satin and my eyes, well . . .’ She waved her hand. Ranulf blushed and quietly thanked God that Chanson wasn’t nearby.

‘My Lady,’ he stammered, glimpsing Corbett moving towards the door. ‘My Lady, certain tasks await me.’ Face burning, he hastened after his master.

‘Ranulf!’ He turned.

‘I wish you had,’ Lady Constance whispered. ‘I wish you would.’

Ranulf could take no more, but fled into the icy night, quietly whispering the Deo gratias .

Corbett was still full of the singing. ‘You see, Ranulf, when you have more in the middle group, where the voice is not so deep as the line behind or the row in front . . .’ He continued his lecture as they crossed the snow-filled bailey, torches spluttering against the falling snow sent sparks flying like miniature beams of light to sizzle on the icy cobbles. The bailey was full of noise as carts and barrows were pushed away, horses stabled and the castle folk sheltered and hastened their preparations against the encroaching icy darkness. Ranulf made his hasty farewells and Corbett, still full of the choir music, returned to his own chamber, where he closed the door, refilled his wine goblet and stretched out before the fire. De Craon, he realised, would soon be here. He thought of the choir at Leighton; perhaps it should be divided in two and arranged in stalls? His mind drifted to that snow-bound church, those hooded, masked figures in the cemetery. What did their leader mean by the horror hanging in the woods . . .

Ranulf shook his master awake. ‘The French have arrived, we must prepare.’

Corbett struggled up. Ranulf had already changed into a cotehardie of Lincoln green edged with silver, over a white linen shirt and dark brown leggings; his face was shaven, his hair oiled, his fingers beringed, and round his waist was a narrow leather belt with a sheath for a stabbing dirk.

‘The Lady Constance will think you are quite parfait,’ Corbett teased, but Ranulf was already striding to the door; he did not wish to discuss that matter any further!

Servants came into the room struggling with buckets of boiling water for the lavarium bowls. Once they had gone, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved, donning a clean linen vest, drawers and cambric shirt. Humming the Offertory canticle from the second Sunday of Advent, he took from his travelling chest a cotehardie displaying the red, blue and gold of the royal household. He donned black hose, pushing his feet into soft leather boots and placing the silver filigree chain of office around his neck and the signet ring of the Secret Chancery on the middle finger of his left hand. As he was brushing his hair, Ranulf and Chanson came into the room.

‘I’ve done the best I can.’ Ranulf pointed at Chanson, resplendent in a new woollen jerkin, his hair looking even more spiked than ever. The teasing continued as Bolingbroke entered and described de Craon’s arrival.

‘I’ve been round this castle.’ Bolingbroke sat down on the coffer at the end of the bed. ‘It’s a veritable rabbit warren, with more gaps and alleyways than any ward in London.’ He looked at Corbett. ‘There’s talk about the promise you made . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded. ‘It’s a promise I shouldn’t have made.’ He paused as the castle bell chimed, the signal that the feasting would soon begin.

Corbett led his retinue down through the bitter cold and across to the Hall of Angels. The long chamber now blazed with light and colour. Fresh greenery had been arranged, logs piled high in the hearth and the flames roared up into the stack. Braziers glowed and incense-holders from the church gave off their own spiced fragrance. Musicians in the gallery practised the flute and plucked the strings of a harp. The great table on the dais was covered in white damask and bright with gleaming jugs, goblets and flagons.

De Craon and his entourage were standing in front of the hearth, sipping cups of spiced wine. Corbett, a false smile on his face, but eager to observe etiquette and protocol, strode across. He embraced the russet-haired, dark-faced Frenchman who, he knew, wanted to kill him, and exchanged the oscuum pacis , the kiss of peace, with lips which had cursed him and clasped hands, eager to be stained with his blood. De Craon, too, observed the niceties. He stepped back, hands spread out, greeting Corbett in Norman French, conveying to him the good wishes of his most gracious master. Corbett’s rival was also dressed in the livery of another royal household, a cotehardie of blue and white, emblazoned with silver fleur-de-lis. They stood exchanging pleasantries, toasting their respective masters, de Craon obviously smirking, making no attempt to hide the rancour in his eyes. Further introductions were made. Ranulf gave the sketchiest of nods to de Craon’s black-haired henchman, Bogo de Baiocis. Corbett icily introduced Bolingbroke; de Craon clasped the clerk’s hand, gripping it tight.