Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘You studied in Paris sir?’

‘Why, yes, my Lord.’ Bolingbroke deliberately answered in English. ‘But I had to discontinue my studies because of certain matters.’

‘If you ever come again,’ de Craon’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand, ‘I must entertain you. There’s a very fine cookshop near the Quai de Madelene.’ Swift as a snake in the grass, he turned immediately back to Corbett. ‘Sir Edmund has been telling me about your singing. I, too, have sung in the Chapel Royal at St Denis.’ De Craon’s hand went to his chest and he bowed. ‘My master has congratulated me on my fine voice, and there is nothing better my daughter Jehanne likes than to join me in that beautiful song ‘ Companhon, farai un vers desconvenent ’. You know it, Sir Hugh? It was composed by William, Duke of Aquitaine, when Gascony was part of the domain of France.’

Corbett couldn’t help laughing at the sheer insolence of de Craon’s remark. De Craon decided to act surprised.

‘You mock me, sir?’ Corbett teased.

‘Would I mock you, Sir Hugh? Don’t you believe that I have a fine voice, or an equally fine daughter? When you are next in Paris, I must entertain you at my house.’ De Craon’s smile widened. ‘It is far, far away from the Quai de Madelene, I assure you.’

Corbett hid his own surprise. He had always considered de Craon a villain steeped in subtlety and cunning, without family or interests. He could tell from Ranulf’s grin that perhaps he and his French opponent had more in common than he might concede.

‘And your companions?’ Corbett asked.

De Craon hastened to introduce the four professors: Etienne Destaples, a tall, gaunt professor of divinity; Jean Vervins, lanky and thin, with the lugubrious face of a man who reflected a great deal but spoke very little. He was, like Destaples, dry of skin and dry of tone, a man with tired eyes who kept fidgeting, whispering to Destaples and glancing around in disdain. Pierre Sanson, professor of metaphysics, was more convivial, his small, plump face wreathed in a perpetual smile. He, like the rest, was dressed in dark garb with a thick fur-rimmed robe around his shoulders. Louis Crotoy was introduced last, a small, aristocratic-looking man with rather elongated sharp blue eyes, his hair pure white. Unlike the others, he grasped Corbett’s hand and drew him close, exchanging the kiss of peace. Corbett smelt that perfume with which Crotoy always anointed himself, a fragrance which took him back down the years to those sombre, dusty school rooms in the Halls of Oxford.

‘It’s good to see you, Sir Hugh, a little older but only just a little.’

He stepped away as de Craon came between the two. ‘I understand you know each other of old?’

‘A great honour on my part,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Louis is once heard never forgotten. He lectured on logic in the schools of Oxford.’

‘Sir Hugh was my favourite pupil,’ Crotoy answered. ‘Not because of his logic; I have just never met a man who takes things so seriously.’ His remark provoked laughter. ‘And now,’ Crotoy continued, ‘such seriousness is needed.’ He spoke quickly in Norman French, and by the look in his eyes, Corbett realised that this old friend, this master of the sharp thought and the shrewd word, wished to talk with him in secret.

Sir Edmund clapped his hands, summoning the servants to replenish cups and serve soft, spiced slices of bread. The conversation turned to the weather, the horrors of the sea voyage and the history of the castle itself. Corbett tried to draw Crotoy into conversation, but whenever the Frenchman drew closer, de Craon or one of the others appeared at their side. Corbett plucked at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered about the seating arrangement; the Constable nodded, promising he would do what he could.

When a trumpet sounded from the minstrels’ gallery announcing that the first course was to be served, Corbett found himself on Sir Edmund’s left, with de Craon on the Constable’s right, but more importantly, Louis Crotoy was seated between himself and Ranulf. The wine goblets were filled, toasts made and the first course was served: roasted salmon in an onion wine sauce, followed by spiced capon and chicken mixed with cumin and cream. The wine circulated, faces becoming flushed, voices raised. De Craon’s retinue relaxed as the leader of the French envoys quietly conceded that he could do little to interfere between Sir Hugh and his old teacher.

‘Do they trust you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course,’ Louis replied. ‘They are just curious.’ He patted Corbett gently on the hand. ‘De Craon attended the Halls of Cambridge, Destaples has lectured in this kingdom as well as at universities in Lombardy. Knowledge has no frontiers, Sir Hugh. You are well?’

For a while the conversation turned to personal matters; eventually Corbett pushed away his silver platter.

‘Friar Roger Bacon?’

‘I’m not too sure, Sir Hugh, whether he was a buffoon or a genius.’

‘Have you translated the Secret of Secrets ?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course not,’ Crotoy whispered, ‘but there are rumours that Magister Thibault had begun to.’ He kept his face impassive. ‘You heard the news, Sir Hugh? Magister Thibault organised a great feast, an evening of revelry, but a dreadful accident occurred. They claim housebreakers tried to rob his cellar and, either by accident or design, began a fire which swept through the house. All the guests escaped safely, including myself, but the King’s men who were sent down to investigate maintained that in the cellar they found three corpses, or what was left of them: the mortal remains of Magister Thibault, a young woman he was dallying with, and someone else, a stranger. A tumultuous evening! They say one of the housebreakers was English, a clerk called Walter Ufford. I saw him at the revelry that night, along with a man who looked very much like your companion Bolingbroke.’

Corbett glanced down the table at William Bolingbroke, deep in conversation with Destaples. He could hear the loud debate over the logic of the famous theologian Abelard, who had used his book Sic et Non to poke fun at other theologians and their misuse of scripture.

‘I doubt if William was there,’ Corbett turned his head, ‘but if he was, and proof was offered, I would investigate more thoroughly.’

Crotoy laughed. ‘And perhaps you should ask him if Magister Thibault’s prize possession, his copy of the Secret of Secrets , came into his possession. Our royal master was furious.’

‘What at?’ Corbett asked. ‘Magister Thibault’s death or the theft of the manuscript?’

‘His Grace,’ Crotoy’s voice was barely above a whisper, ‘is angry at many things, Sir Hugh. He is angry at me and others of the university. He has surrounded himself with flatterers, men like Pierre Dubois, sycophants who recall the old adage of the Roman jurists, “How the will of the Prince has force of law”. As he grows older Philip does not take kindly to opposition.’

‘And his interest in Friar Roger’s theories?’

‘If your King is interested, so is mine. There is no doubt that our learned friar was a treasure house of secret knowledge, but whether it is worth a sou is for us to decide.’

‘Had Thibault broken the cipher?’ Corbett asked. ‘When we meet we have to share such knowledge.’

‘I think he had, or at least had begun to. Now I and my companions must earn the good grace of our master by finishing the task. I have spent many years on ciphers, Sir Hugh, the writings of Polybius and other ancients, but the device Bacon used to hide his knowledge is the most difficult I have ever encountered.’

‘And Magister Thibault,’ Corbett continued, ‘the night he died, why should he be found in the cellar?’