Paul Doherty - The Magician

Corbett had lain awake in bed before summoning up enough courage to face the cold. He’d heard the tolling of the chapel bell and decided to go to Mass before doing what he planned. He finished dressing, pushing his feet into fur-lined boots, wrapping his military cloak securely about him and putting on a pair of thick mittens which Lady Maeve had bought from a chapman who traded between Leighton and Colchester. Leaving his chamber unlocked he went down the steps, standing aside for servants bringing up buckets of scalding water as well as sacks of logs and charcoal for his chamber. He assured them they were not too late, saying he would return after he had attended Mass.

The small castle chapel seemed gloomier than the night before. Father Andrew was already vested in the purple and gold of Advent. Corbett knelt with the other early risers, mostly men-at-arms and servants, as they huddled together in the small sanctuary. Father Andrew intoned the Mass, all its readings and antiphons foretelling the birth of Christ and God’s great promise of salvation. Corbett took the Sacrament and, once Mass was finished, lit a taper before the Lady Altar and waited, stamping his feet, until the priest left the sacristy.

‘Father, I am sorry to trouble you, but the girl who was brought in yesterday . . .’

‘I am saying her requiem at noon today,’ Father Andrew answered.

‘Has the corpse been coffined?’

The old priest paused. Sniffing and coughing, he gazed watery-eyed at Corbett. ‘No, it’s still in the death house. The leech has prepared her.’

‘Can I see her, Father? I would like to scrutinise the corpse once more.’

The old priest shrugged, led him out of the church and around the side into a small barn-like building built against the castle wall. It housed two corpses. Father Andrew explained that one was a beggar man, found on the edge of the road, who had died suddenly the day before Corbett had arrived. The beggar was already shrouded in a thick canvas cloth, only the face-piece pulled away to reveal a thin, cadaverous face, sharp nose and hollow eyes. Next to him, also on trestles, was an arrow chest, so long and thin it looked as if Rebecca’s corpse had been squeezed in. Corbett pulled back the shroud. She was now dressed in a white shift, her black hair falling down either side of her face. With the priest muttering under his breath about the stench, Sir Hugh carefully scrutinised the corpse. He tried to hide the deep sadness at such a waste, as well as a grumbling anger at the soulless violence. The quarrel had been removed, the wound filled with spices and covered with a herbal poultice.

‘In life she must have been comely,’ he whispered, lifting the shift to examine the girl’s rounded thighs and flat stomach. As he pressed his hand down against the cold, hard flesh, he caught the faint smell of herbs.

‘Sir Hugh, what are you looking for? This is unseemly.’

‘Death is unseemly, murder is unseemly. I made a vow. I will see the person who killed this young woman hang.’

Corbett noticed the purple patches on the arm; they looked like bruises. He noticed also how the skin was scraped, and when he turned the corpse over, similar marks could be seen on the shoulders and the back of the neck. He heard voices outside, so he repositioned the corpse, pulling down the shift and covering it with the shroud cloth.

‘What I am searching for, Father, is a solution to this mystery. How a young woman comes to be found on a lonely trackway with a crossbow bolt in her chest.’ He tapped the makeshift coffin. ‘When the corpse was brought in yesterday, you were there. How was she garbed?’

‘A dark green gown, boots on her feet. I accompanied the leech back here. Beneath the gown she wore a kirtle, thin and patched; she was dressed like any other girl in the castle.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Corbett mused, walking to the door. He went out into the castle yard. Although it was still snowing, people were busy about their tasks. Small bonfires had been lit, water was being drawn from the well, stables opened, children and dogs chasing around. The blacksmith was firing his forge, shouting at his apprentices to bring more charcoal. A horse, more skittish than the rest, and glad to be free of its stables, whinnied, its hooves pawing the air. Bakehouses and ovens were lit, barrel-loads of food, slabs of salted meat and baskets of not-so-fresh bread being wheeled down to the tables, boards laid across trestles, where the garrison would muster to break its fast.

Corbett walked around, watching the people at their work, now and then returning a greeting. A young woman came tripping along the cobbles, a heavy basket in her hand. Corbett stopped her, took the basket from her and, looking down, realized they were greasy pots and pans from the kitchen being taken to be scrubbed in vats of boiling salted water. The girl was pretty, her thin white face shrouded by reddish hair.

‘Why, sir, thank you.’ Her accent was thick, rather musical, the words clipped, running breathlessly into each other.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Why, Master, Marissa.’

‘Tell me, Marissa . . .’ Corbett carried the basket across the yard, and the other women stood back, gaping at this powerful King’s man helping one of their own. He placed it down on the cobblestones, as far away from the fire as possible so that it would not be scorched. ‘Tell me, Marissa,’ he took a coin out and, grasping the girl’s chapped hand, made her take it, ‘do you have a cloak?’

‘Oh no, Master.’ She must have glimpsed the disappointment in Corbett’s face. ‘But I can always borrow one.’

‘And if you were to leave the castle?’

‘Then I wouldn’t ask for one,’ she grinned, ‘otherwise people would know that I was leaving.’

Corbett turned away in disappointment, as he realised why Rebecca wasn’t wearing a cloak.

‘Sir Hugh.’

He looked round. Bolingbroke, nursing his sore head, came trudging through the snow.

‘I drank too much,’ he confessed. ‘I had to go straight to bed. Now the cold is sobering me up.’ He squinted at Corbett, who saw the cut marks on his cheek where the clerk had tried to shave himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m prying.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I should say trying to discover something about that murder yesterday morning.’ He gestured round at the inner ward, now busy as any marketplace. ‘There’s nothing, and de Craon has insisted on an early start.’

Corbett led Bolingbroke across to the hall to break their fast. Ranulf was already there, keen and sharp as a knife, trying to persuade Chanson, who looked much the worse for wear, to eat some bread and take a sip of watered ale. De Craon and his entourage entered, and pleasantries were exchanged before they adjourned to the solar, which was reached by going down the passageway which ran under the minstrels’ gallery. A warm, comfortable chamber, sure protection against the freezing cold, its walls were cloaked in heavy woollen drapes of dark muted colours. The polished wooden floor was covered by turkey carpets and the fire in the great hearth was already merry and full, its flames roaring up. A long walnut table dominated the centre of the chamber, a high-backed quilted chair at each end, with similar chairs arranged along both sides. On the table lay writing trays containing ink horns, sharpened quills, pumice stones and a small jar of fine sand. At either end stood a hardened leather drum, its cap thrown back to reveal cream-coloured rolls of vellum and parchment. The Catherine wheel of candles had been lowered from the black-beamed ceiling. Each container held a costly beeswax taper, so as to provide good light for those at the table, and three sets of brass candelabra had also been lit for good measure.