Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘At least another quarter to spring,’ Skullcap moaned. ‘Milkwort wonders if any of us will be alive by Lady Day.’

Horehound sprang to his feet and hurried away. Skullcap, in surprise, followed him.

‘What’s the matter?’

But Horehound, shoulders hunched, ran on, deeper and deeper into the forest. Skullcap paused to catch his breath. They weren’t going back to the camp, but towards that glade ringed by ancient oaks, and with that horror hanging from one of the outstretched branches. Horehound was going to break his own rule, and Skullcap had no choice but to follow.

They reached the glade, but this time Horehound didn’t stop. Ignoring Skullcap’s cries, he raced across and halted directly beneath the corpse for the first time ever, staring up at that hideous face, made all the more gruesome by the passing of time and the pecking bites of birds and animals. The eyes had gone, leaving only black staring sockets, and the neck was all twisted, head to one side. Horehound wrinkled his nose at the smell of death. Although hideous in aspect, the corpse had now lost its horror. It was only the pathetic remains of a young woman, who had climbed up the oak, draped part of her long fustian skirt over the branch and fashioned a noose. Horehound could see how easy that would be; even the ancient ones could climb a tree like that. She must have moved along the sturdy branch, knotted one end around her throat and one end around the bough and simply let herself drop. Horehound walked around the corpse. Or had she killed herself? Had someone else brought her here and murdered her in this macabre way? He stared at the hands, the pared nails, then at the twisted cloth strong as rope. It would take some time before it rotted and allowed the body to fall.

Horehound drew his knife and scrambled up the trunk of the oak. Using the gnarled knots for steps, he edged along the branch and, positioning himself carefully, sawed through the cloth until it ripped and the corpse plunged to the forest floor. The sheer effort and tension had exhausted Horehound. He put the knife between his teeth and dropped lightly to the ground. Using the frozen, sodden leaf meal, the outlaw covered the corpse, trying not to look at that face, praying quietly to himself, begging Christ’s good mother to help him.

‘Who is it?’ Skullcap drew closer.

‘Just another girl. The flesh is beginning to decompose.’ Horehound went to a nearby rivulet to wash his hands. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, not yet, not until they find her.’

Horehound picked up his cudgel, took one last look at that forlorn heap, and found the pathway which would lead him back to the hidden cave where the rest of his band sheltered. He was almost there when he caught the first smell of wood smoke and the delicious tang of roasting meat. He stopped so abruptly Skullcap collided with him.

‘Do you remember Fleawort?’ he muttered. ‘And the fantasies he saw? I can smell roasting meat.’

‘So can I,’ Skullcap retorted.

They ran through the tangled undergrowth, desperate to seek the source of the smell. Horehound couldn’t believe his eyes when he reached the glade. The outlaws had left their cave and built up a great fire, and were roasting strips of meat and drinking greedily from the small cask being handed around. Horehound drew his dagger, then smiled as one figure emerged from the rest, pushing back a tattered cowl. It was Hemlock! Horehound hurried across to hug this comrade who had left shortly before the eve of All Souls, saying he would try his luck further to the east.

‘What brought you back?’ Horehound demanded.

Hemlock pushed aside his strange hair, thick and black with white streaks like the fur of a badger. He was a tall, sinewy man, the bottom half of his face hidden by a moustache and bushy beard. Horehound noticed the scar just under his comrade’s left eye. The wound was still fresh.

‘I have my own men now.’ Hemlock jabbed a finger towards the fire. ‘I brought two of them with me, just in case. They fetched the meat and the cask of ale.’

‘Where from?’ Horehound demanded.

‘Ah!’ Hemlock smiled and put a finger to his lips. ‘I must tell you what I have seen and then you must see what I have witnessed.’ He shook his head and laughed at Horehound’s protest. ‘Come,’ Hemlock gestured, ‘fill your belly, then I’ll solve the riddle . . .’

Corbett sat on his bed, leaning back against the bolsters, body slightly crooked as he bent over to take full advantage of the candle glow from the nearby table. The fire had been built up, the braziers crackled. Corbett was pleased to be out of the freezing cold. At the foot of the bed, his back to the great chest, Chanson was busy repairing a strap, while across the chamber Ranulf was teaching Bolingbroke how to cheat at hazard, showing him how to switch good dice for cogged ones. Ranulf moved so quickly, so expertly that Bolingbroke protested, so Ranulf demonstrated the sleight of hand more slowly.

‘You must be fast,’ he warned. ‘If you are caught, knives will be drawn.’

Bolingbroke took his own dice out and cast a few winning throws, causing loud laughter as Ranulf realised the other man was, perhaps, as adept at cheating as he.

Corbett went back to studying the King’s own copy of Roger Bacon’s Opus Tertium . He quietly mouthed the words the friar had used to describe his life of study: ‘“During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom. I abandoned the usual methods.’” Corbett glanced up. The usual methods, he reflected, what were they? Disputation? Argument? The exchange of ideas with other scholars? ‘I have spent more than twenty pounds,’ Friar Roger had written, ‘on secret books and various experiments, not to mention languages, instruments and mathematical tables.’ Corbett pulled himself up, resting the heavy tome in his lap, keeping the place with his finger. What, he wondered, were these secret books? What experiments? Had Friar Roger really discovered or stumbled on secret knowledge? He opened the book and read again, following the words with his finger, translating the Latin as he read. He moved the manuscript to study more closely the phrase ‘twenty pounds’. He noticed the manuscript was marked, the ink rather blotched, as if someone had tried to scratch the words out, blurring the letters.

Corbett, exasperated, closed the book and put it on the table beside him. For a while he watched the two gamblers, marvelling at Ranulf’s persistence. He had learnt from Chanson how, as soon as they had returned to the castle, Ranulf had done some studying of his own, searching out the Lady Constance; they’d sat, heads together, in front of the great hearth in the Hall of Angels.

‘They talked, Master. Oh, how they talked!’ Chanson had reported. ‘And the Lady Constance, she laughs a great deal.’

Ranulf looked across, caught Corbett’s stare, smiled and raised a hand. You always make the ladies laugh, Corbett thought, that’s one of your talents. Ranulf, sharp of wit and tart of tongue.

Bolingbroke had reported back how he and Chanson had compared the two manuscripts, which were identical in every aspect.

‘Like peas in the same pod,’ he concluded, ‘but as for understanding it, the French have retired to their own quarters to study the mystery.’ Corbett too had decided to go once more through Friar Roger’s writings to find a clue, some key to the mysteries.

Chanson scrambled to his feet, still clutching his stirrup leather.

‘What hour is it?’ Corbett asked.

The groom went into the far corner and took the hour candle from its lantern holder.

‘Somewhere between six and seven in the evening. It’s dark outside. Master, I am hungry.’

Corbett picked up the manuscript he had been reading.