Paul Doherty - The Magician

The seating arrangement was agreed upon: Corbett and de Craon at the ends, their clerks and advisers along either side. Father Andrew came to intone the Veni Creator Spiritus . Corbett pronounced himself satisfied and, leaving Chanson to sit with the other henchmen on either side of the mantled hearth, took Ranulf and Bolingbroke back to his own chamber. He felt in the toe of one of his riding boots, took out a ring of three keys and crossed to the iron-bound coffer at the foot of the bed.

‘This used to be the castle treasury,’ he explained, slipping two of the keys off the ring. ‘It’s the work of a craftsman, constructed specially in the Tower of London. You’ll not find its like anywhere. All three locks are distinctly separate; we shall each hold a key.’

He distributed the other two keys, the locks were turned, and Corbett pushed back the lid and, helped by Ranulf, lifted out the red quilted Chancery box. This, too, possessed two distinct locks, to which Ranulf always carried the other key. Corbett broke the red and green seals, and the locks were turned. Inside was a further lid which only Corbett could unlock in order to draw out the leather pouches containing the leather-bound copies of the Secretus Secretorum , and other manuscripts of Roger Bacon. Each pouch had been sealed by the King himself using his signet ring, pressing it into the blood-red wax.

‘The King was most insistent.’ Corbett smiled at his two companions. ‘He regarded these as he would any treasure in the Tower.’ He took out the Secretus Secretorum , with its dark red Spanish leather cover, its clasp containing a brilliant amethyst. ‘This is not,’ he winked at Bolingbroke, ‘the manuscript you stole from Paris, but the King’s very own.’

He put the pouches and what they contained on the floor.

‘I’ve also brought my own ciphers, as well as the various ones used in the Secret Chancery, not to mention those used by myself.’ He got to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees. ‘Not that they have done any good,’ he sighed. ‘Friar Roger’s cipher resists everything I know.’

Sir Hugh gave the manuscripts to Ranulf, telling him to put them back in their pouches and relock the coffers. They were about to leave when there was a pounding on the door, and one of Sir Edmund’s stewards burst into the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you best come, one of the Frenchmen,’ he fought for breath, ‘one of the Frenchmen has died from a seizure.’

Corbett shouted at Ranulf to guard the manuscripts with his life and, accompanied by Bolingbroke, hurried across the bailey to the Lantern Tower. The steward explained how three of the clerks were lodged there, with de Craon above the Hall of Angels, and Crotoy in the nearby Jerusalem Tower, so called because it once contained a small chapel. The door to the Lantern Tower thronged with men-at-arms. They stood aside as Corbett strode through, up the stone spiral staircase and into a stairwell which led into a chamber. The door, its leather hinges snapped, rested against the cracked lintel. The castle leech, with Father Andrew nearby, was bending over the corpse sprawled on the bed. De Craon and his three companions were standing near the ash-filled hearth, looking on anxiously.

Corbett stared at the corpse. Destaples had definitely died of a seizure. His narrow face was all mottled, eyes popping and staring, mouth open as if ready to scream. He felt the Frenchman’s hand; the flesh was cold, hard and stiff.

‘He’s been dead hours,’ the leech declared mournfully, wiping his hands on a napkin. ‘The fire’s gone out, the chamber is freezing; he must have died shortly after going to sleep.’

Corbett glanced quickly at the bedside table and the little coffer, lid open, full of miniature green leather pouches. He picked one of these up, undid the cord and sniffed, but detected nothing but crushed mint, and the same from the empty goblet nearby. He sprinkled the water dregs on his hand, then closed his eyes and thought of other chambers where men and women had died violent deaths, suicides who locked and bolted the door, victims who thought they were safe, not knowing that they were being as zealously hunted as any beast in the forest. How many corpses had he stood over? How many times had the questions been put?

‘Are you certain it was a seizure?’ Corbett asked.

‘If you are looking for poison,’ the leech replied, ‘this is not the case. A true seizure, Sir Hugh, a stopping of the heart, a closing of the throat, swift convulsions. Death would have been instantaneous.’ He gestured with his head towards the group of Frenchmen. ‘They say he had a weak heart.’

‘Oh, Sir Hugh.’ De Craon came forward. ‘I must admit my suspicions were roused.’ He beat his chest like a mock penitent. ‘I confess my evil thoughts, but Destaples was old, his heart was weak, the sea voyage wasn’t pleasant.’ De Craon gestured at the side table. ‘This excellent physician has already examined all these pouches and the goblet. They contain nothing but mint. Etienne enjoyed an infusion mixed with water just before he went to sleep.’

Corbett didn’t glance at Bolingbroke, even though he recalled the clerk’s earlier warnings about why the Frenchmen had been brought to England. He gazed down at the corpse. ‘Sir Edmund?’

The Constable, who had been standing near the window, arms crossed, deep in thought, walked out of the shadows.

‘Did anyone approach the bedside table?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, when the door was forced?’

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s voice was like a purr, ‘I know your mind.’

‘Do you?’ Corbett snapped.

‘You suspect foul deeds, but I assure you-’

‘Monseigneur is correct,’ Sir Edmund intervened. ‘We were gathered in the solar. I noticed,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘Monsieur Destaples was absent. I sent a steward to investigate. He reported back that he could not rouse him. I did not alarm anyone but came across myself. I eventually had the door forced and found what you see. I left a guard near the bed with strict instructions whilst I checked both the wine and water jugs. Sir Hugh,’ the Constable shrugged, ‘this man died of a seizure.’

Corbett gazed round the chamber, which was very similar to his own. Now the shock had passed, he noticed how cold it was, and yet everything was in its place, neat and tidy, more like a soldier’s room than a professor’s. He glimpsed the robes hanging from the wall. Destaples had changed into a linen nightshirt and must have been in bed when he had the seizure. A mass of white wax coated the candle pricket.

‘He didn’t even have time to douse the candle,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ De Craon, clapping his hands for warmth rather than attention, walked over to the bed. ‘Sir Edmund, I suggest we have a small respite and perhaps begin our meeting, shall we say,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘at ten o’clock.’

The Constable agreed. Corbett left the tower, sending Bolingbroke back to keep Ranulf company.

‘Do you think, Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke came back across the yard, fully distracted by his own thoughts, ‘do you think Destaples’ death was natural?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett rasped, watching his own breath hang heavy on the icy air. He was aware of the scenes in the bailey around him, how the noise of the people, the creaking of the carts, the neighing of the horses, seemed muffled on this sombre morning. According to all the evidence, Destaples had died in his sleep and there was nothing to be done. De Craon acted blunt and honest with not even a hint of accusation. And yet? He slapped Bolingbroke on the shoulder. ‘Tell Ranulf to stay in my chamber.’

Corbett walked across to the stables and stopped halfway at the well, using the cover of the people milling there to watch the entrance of the Lantern Tower. De Craon and the others came out, each going their separate ways. Corbett went striding back.