Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Louis, Louis, can I have words with you?’

Crotoy, muffled in his black coat, turned and smiled. ‘Good morrow, Sir Hugh.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand.

‘That’s right, Louis.’ Corbett kept his smile fixed. ‘Just exchange pleasantries,’ he whispered. ‘Now, about these manuscripts?’ He raised his voice and chatted about ciphers and vellum until de Craon and the rest were out of earshot. ‘Well, Louis.’ He took the Frenchman by the elbow, gently steering him across the bailey towards the Hall of Angels. ‘One of your comrades is dead.’

‘He wasn’t a comrade,’ Crotoy declared. ‘I disliked Destaples intensely; he was of narrow mind and sour soul. He once wrote a commentary on the first chapter of John’s Gospel. By the time I had finished reading it I couldn’t decide if Destaples thought of himself as St John come again, or even Christ. He seemed to have a natural knowledge about the divine, much deeper than us common mortals.’

Corbett laughed out loud. He had forgotten the intense rivalries which set these professors at each other’s throats.

‘I’ll tell you two other things,’ Crotoy continued. ‘De Craon and his royal master disliked Destaples. He knew enough scripture to challenge Philip’s authority. Do you remember the line, “Do not be like the pagans whose rulers like to make their authority felt”? Destaples constantly reminded Philip of it.’

‘And the second thing?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, Sir Hugh, weak heart or not, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure. Somehow or other he was murdered.’

‘What?’ Corbett stepped back. ‘You, a friend of de Craon?’

‘I’m no friend,’ Crotoy intervened, ‘neither to him or his royal master.’

They paused as a cart trundled by, standing back so they weren’t splashed by the icy mud.

‘Let’s go into the Hall of Angels,’ Crotoy continued. ‘Let’s talk as if we are still exchanging pleasantries. How many years have I known you, Hugh, twenty, twenty-two?’ He nudged Corbett. ‘Do you think, because I’m French, I’m not your friend? Do you think because we are from different kingdoms we are not of one mind, of one soul?’

They entered the Hall of Angels, where servants were clearing away all the signs of revelry from the previous evening. They walked over to the fireplace, taking two stools, and sat basking in the warmth. Crotoy positioned himself so that he could watch the main door, whilst he quietly instructed Corbett to guard the entrance leading from the solar.

‘If anyone comes,’ he murmured, stretching out his hands, ‘we are discussing the relative merits of Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. Now, to your real question. Hugh, I don’t know why I’m here. Yes, I’m an expert on ciphers. I have studied the writings of Roger Bacon but I judge him to be a boaster and meddler. Oh, a true scholar, but one full of mischief. His writings abound with his own pride and pre-eminence. I understand the attraction of finding the true worth of the Secretus Secretorum , but now I’m confused.’ He leaned forward, using his fingers to emphasise the points he was about to make. ‘Why are we here, Hugh? The real reason. To share knowledge?’ He shook his head. ‘Our royal masters despise each other. Secondly, why here at Corfe?’

‘Because Philip asked for a castle near the coast and agreed you should come to us as a gesture of friendship.’

Crotoy made a rude sound with his lips. ‘Thirdly,’ he continued, ‘why were I and the others selected?’

‘Because of your scholarship?’

Crotoy shook his head. ‘We have one thing in common, Sir Hugh. We are members of the Sorbonne, well known for our opposition to the more strident demands and claims of Philip of France.’

‘And fourthly?’ Corbett asked.

‘Etienne Destaples.’ Crotoy sighed deeply. ‘Did you notice last night, Sir Hugh, how Destaples ate very little at the banquet?’

‘He didn’t trust his host?’

‘No, Hugh, he doesn’t trust his own kind. Destaples was very suspicious, as I am, about why he was brought here. You do realise, Hugh, none of us are friends of de Craon, and we do not enjoy the friendship of Philip of France. The same applied to Magister Thibault.’

Corbett stared into the flames. He recalled the banquet last night. In fact Destaples had had more to say to Bolingbroke than anyone else, whilst afterwards he had approached Ranulf to introduce himself.

‘So why did you come here in the depth of winter?’

‘We had no choice,’ Crotoy murmured. ‘We are servants of the King. If we displease him it is remarkable how swiftly, like Lucifer falling from Heaven, we can be dismissed from our posts. Look,’ Crotoy edged closer, staring around the Hall of Angels to make sure they were not being watched, ‘why are you here, Sir Hugh Corbett? Wouldn’t you like to be closeted with the Lady Maeve, or playing with your children? You serve your King loyally, but do you trust him? Do you approve of everything he does?’

Corbett recalled Edward at the most recent council meeting, his iron-grey hair swept back, face flushed with anger, spittle-edged lips curled in a snarl; or meeting Scottish envoys in a church, garbed in black armour, seated on his great war horse Bayard, drawing his sword and shouting that its blade was the only justice the Scots would receive from him.

‘There’s a difference,’ he mused. ‘My Lord the King is a difficult man but he likes me, he trusts me; sometimes I can temper his rages.’

‘Philip is different. His power grows from year to year. He does not listen to our “Parlements” but to his brothers, Louis and Charles, and a small coterie of lawyers. The only opposition to our King are the universities, their philosophers and the lawyers, and nowhere more so than in Paris. To cut to the chase, Hugh,’ the Frenchman’s face was now pale, and sweat beaded his temples, ‘I truly think we have all been brought here to be murdered, well away from our homes. We are an inconvenience, to be shed like the skin of some fruit, as well as a warning to others back in Paris.’ Crotoy paused as a servant came up to serve them ale laced with nutmeg. ‘No wonder Philip agreed for us to journey to England. Take poor Etienne; by the time his corpse is prepared, packed with spices and ointments, it will be too late for any physician to make a rigorous scrutiny of his body.’

‘But the Secretus Secretorum ?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t your master want it translated, the cipher broken?’

Crotoy sipped from his ale. ‘What are we really looking at, Hugh? True learning, or a farrago of nonsense, a fardel, a basket of stupidity fixed on our backs, a cunning device, a subtle ploy, arranged for very many different reasons? Oh,’ he waved his hand, ‘Philip likes his secrets, be they those of Friar Roger or the Templars. He knows about the black powder that can turn into fire. True, Friar Roger can describe wonderful things, but so can a child.’

Corbett grasped his tankard and sniffed at its warm tang, which brought back memories of a flower-filled garden with its heavy spices and fragrant aroma. If Philip was plotting mischief, he wondered – and that was more than a possibility – why was Edward of England involved? What was behind all this?

‘Last night,’ he said abruptly, ‘after the banquet, Destaples and his comrades returned to their chambers. According to the evidence, Destaples changed for bed, drank his mint water and suffered a seizure. He did have a malady of the heart. What other explanation can there be?’ He smiled at Crotoy. ‘Your thoughts are too dark, Louis. If Destaples was suspicious he wouldn’t let de Craon into his chamber, and he would rigorously check anything he was offered to eat or drink.’ Corbett paused. ‘I must ask you this, would Destaples let you into his chamber?’