Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Say after me, Chanson, Opus Tertium .’

Chanson repeated the words.

‘Now,’ Corbett ordered, ‘go and give my compliments to Monsieur Crotoy. Ask him may I borrow their copy of Friar Roger’s work of the same name.’

‘But you already have a copy,’ Chanson protested, pointing to the calfskin-covered book. ‘And it’s cold out . . .’

‘Do as you are told, groom of the stable,’ Ranulf snapped, eager to retaliate for Chanson’s teasing about the Lady Constance. ‘Oh, never mind.’ He pushed back the stool and put on his boots and cloak. ‘I’ll fetch it myself.’

‘Ah, and that’s the last we will see of you before midnight.’ Chanson ducked as Ranulf went to cuff his ear.

Corbett swung off the bed. He followed Ranulf out on to the stairway, flinching at the blast of cold air.

‘There’s no hurry,’ he whispered, ‘but even if you do meet the Lady Constance, don’t forget what I’ve asked.’

Ranulf grinned and, whistling under his breath, padded down the steps. Corbett returned to the chamber, washed his face and hands, and chattered to Bolingbroke for a while about the secret manuscript. A servant brought up some bread, cheese and a pot of slightly rancid butter. Corbett asked him of any news of the castle.

‘Not very good,’ the servant replied. ‘The girl Alusia has not been found.’ He went to the door and looked back, ‘You seem to have missed the excitement, sir. You heard the clamour?’

‘I did.’ Bolingbroke cleared the table of dice. ‘I heard shouting from below, though I didn’t hear the tocsin ring.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t much.’ The servant lifted the latch. ‘One of the guards on the curtain wall saw a fire at the edge of the forest.’

‘A fire?’ Corbett asked. ‘In the snow, in the depth of winter?’

‘Sometimes it happens,’ the servant replied. ‘There are outlaws in the forest, travellers and tinkers, wanderers who do not like to come under the eyes of the Constable. They collect dry bracken and light a fire; sometimes it gets out of hand. Two winters ago they nearly burnt the death house at St Peter’s, but now Father Matthew keeps them out of the cemetery at night – he’s very strict about that. Anyway,’ the servant opened the door, ‘Sir Edmund sent a rider out; the fire was nothing.’

When he had left, Corbett shared out the food and drink.

‘If Alusia is still missing,’ Bolingbroke spoke up, ‘it must be serious. No wench would go wandering in the darkness on a freezing winter night. Sir Edmund will have to wait until the morning before he can send out a search party.’

Corbett stared at Bolingbroke’s long, rather lugubrious face and mop of sandy hair. The pouches under his eyes gave him a sleepy look, belied by the laughing mouth. A good swordsman, Corbett reflected, Bolingbroke had been Ufford’s constant companion in the Halls of Oxford and entered the Secret Chancery as a clerk.

‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, William.’

‘What for?’

‘Ufford, you must mourn him.’

‘I’ve had Masses sung for him in the Chapels Royal at Westminster and Windsor.’ Bolingbroke looked away, leaning against one hand on the mantle, staring down at the floor. ‘Ten years in all.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I met Walter in a tavern near Carfax. Like Ranulf, he was cheating at dice. I had to rescue him.’

Chanson, mending the leather on the floor, stopped. He liked nothing better than to listen to the stories of the clerks. He always hoped Sir Hugh would send him to the school in the transept of the manor church at Leighton.

‘Did he leave any family?’ Corbett asked.

‘A young woman in London. I gave her the news myself that Walter would not be coming home.’

Corbett sipped at his tankard. Sometimes he deeply regretted what he was doing. Both Ufford and Bolingbroke had come to his attention because of their skill, their knowledge of tongues, particularly Norman French and the patois of the countryside. They had both served in the King’s wars in Scotland, and such a background made them ideal students for the Sorbonne.

‘Do you resent de Craon being so close?’

‘No,’ Bolingbroke sighed. ‘There are clerks in the Chancery offices whose fathers fought mine in Wales. It’s like a game of hazard, Sir Hugh; if you lose, what’s the point of cursing the victor? One day,’ he lifted his own tankard in toast, ‘I shall return to the table and pay Monsieur de Craon back in similar coin.’

‘Tell me once more,’ Corbett sat down on the great chest at the foot of the bed, ‘how this magister at the Sorbonne provided the information.’

‘I’ve told you, he left letters at our lodgings.’

‘Did you trust this King of Keys?’

Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘He was a thief from the alleyway; despite his pompous title, he was a housebreaker. He would not have become involved if he hadn’t been paid so well. In the end he died with Magister Thibault.’

‘And both you and Ufford knew about the coffer in the strongroom?’

Bolingbroke nodded.

‘And who hired the King of Keys?’

‘Walter and I did that.’

‘And the girl?’ Corbett asked. ‘The one with Magister Thibault?’

‘I’m not too sure,’ Bolingbroke scratched his neck, ‘but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say our traitor hired her. We waited in the gallery upstairs until Thibault was, well . . .’ he shrugged, ‘otherwise engaged with her, then we went down. We must have been there an hour before the old fool appeared.’ He chewed on some bread. ‘We were trapped,’ he declared slowly, ‘and I still am.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I often wondered why the trap wasn’t sprung at Magister Thibault’s home, but now Destaples has died, I realise we were meant to kill Thibault. The same is true of my escape.’ He glanced sharply at Corbett. ‘Don’t you see, I was meant to escape, allowed to return to England with that manuscript. If I hadn’t, there would have been no meeting at Corfe.’ Bolingbroke snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! As I approached the Madelene Quayside, I’m sure I was being followed. A beggarman told me the Hounds of the King were in that quarter. After a while, all signs of any pursuit disappeared. I got safely out of Paris, on to the road north, but I was meant to. I was simply a piece on de Craon’s chessboard,’ he added bitterly. ‘So God knows what that bastard is plotting. My only comfort is that we might do some good here. I mean,’ Bolingbroke nodded towards the door, ‘about these poor wenches.’

Corbett got up from the chest and walked around the side of the bed. ‘And what do you think about these killings, William? What does logic tell you?’

‘First,’ the clerk replied, ‘the victims trusted their killer, which is why he was allowed to approach so close. Secondly, therefore, it must be someone who lives in the castle or close by. Thirdly, the assassin must be someone skilled in the use of an arbalest and . . .’ He paused.

‘And what?’ Chanson asked.

‘Someone,’ Bolingbroke pretended to glower at Chanson, ‘who is not afraid. He is prepared to kill for no other reason than the killing itself. Have you seen a fox raid a hen run, Chanson? There may be sixty, and he will take only one, yet he will kill until no bird is left alive.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett concluded, ‘the assassin is killing not for profit or sexual pleasure but out of sheer hatred or revenge.’

Corbett reflected on the number of men he had hanged for the assault and rape of women. They had all been different, criminals who had taken secret pleasure from their sin, but the killer at Corfe . . .?

‘Chanson?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Of your kindness, go down into the castle yard. If you see Ranulf, remind him why I sent him, but search out a young red-haired woman called Marissa, and tell her that the King’s man who asked about her cloak would like to meet her. Once you’ve done this, ask Marissa about a man-at-arms friendly with Alusia and any of the other girls who have been killed. Tell her she will be rewarded for her pains. If she names someone, bring that person to me. Oh, and you know where the laundry-women have their vats?’ Chanson nodded. ‘Seek out Mistress Feyner, say I want fresh words with her.’