Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Not to meet the man known as Goliard?’

Mistress Feyner threw a venomous glance at Marissa, and yet the way she moved her lips and blinked, Corbett could see she was on the verge of tears. She handed him her cup and got to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about Goliard,’ she whispered. ‘My poor Phillipa was lonely.’

‘But she claimed to meet him.’

‘Yes, yes, she did.’ Mistress Feyner rubbed her hands down her gown. ‘I can’t tell you sir, I truly can’t. My Phillipa has gone and so have the rest; now they are searching for poor Alusia.’

‘This trysting place,’ Corbett asked, ‘the passageway leading down to the old dungeons?’

‘That’s a favourite place.’ Mistress Feyner smiled. ‘We searched it for Phillipa as we have for Alusia; there is nothing there. There’s never anything there,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘I must visit it,’ Corbett declared. ‘Perhaps I will meet Ranulf! Mistress Feyner?’ He took her hand in his, letting her grasp the concealed coin. ‘I thank you for your pains.’

Once the three had left, Corbett put on his boots and took his heavy cloak from the peg, fastening the clasp under his chin.

‘I wish to walk this castle; I want to see what’s happening.’ He nodded to Bolingbroke and Chanson, then paused. ‘Chanson, for the love of God, go and find Ranulf. Tell him I want to speak to him before we meet the French, before we sup this evening.’

Corbett went down the freezing cold staircase and out into the bailey. Here and there sconce torches flickered bravely against the darkness. People ran across, moving hastily from one shelter to another, eager to escape from the chilling wind. Corbett pulled the hood over his head and walked around the keep. On one occasion he stopped, staring up at the masonry soaring into the skies, a forbidding, massive rectangle of stone. At various levels torches and candles glowed from the arrow slit windows. He walked along the side of the keep, passing through the small village where the castle folk lived in their wattle-and-daub cottages built against the walls and towers. A busy place, children still ran screaming about, dancing around the bonfires and makeshift braziers. The air was full of cooking aromas, the smell of tanned leather, the stench of horse manure and the sweet fragrance of hay from the barns. Now and again someone called out a greeting and Corbett lifted his hand in reply. He paused to talk to some of the men-at-arms and asked where the passageway was. They pointed deeper into the darkness.

Corbett was now on the other side of the keep. He climbed the brow of the hill which gave the keep its dominating aspect and walked through what must be the gardens of the castle, hidden under their cover of snow, down more steps, stumbling and slipping as he crossed what seemed to be a wasteland of snow and gorse only to realise it must be the castle warren. There were few buildings here: outhouses with empty windows and a few makeshift bothies. Nearby stood the engines of war, two catapults and a large mangonel. Above him on the parapet Corbett could see the sentries, only a few here, standing beneath torches lashed to poles. On the breeze he caught the faint strains of a song a soldier was singing to amuse himself. At last he reached the curtain wall and, going along the wasteland, found the crumbling passageway leading down to what must have been old cellars and dungeons carved out beneath the castle walls like a crypt in a church.

The steps were uneven, made more treacherous by the icy snow. Corbett held his breath as he went down, regretting that he had not brought a cresset torch. They were too steep. Corbett, cursing, clung to the wall and edged his way down. At the bottom the passageway ran on a little further. His hand felt the wall, and he sighed with relief as his fingers touched the thick tallow candle either left by the cellar man or, perhaps, brought by the lovers who met there. He took his own tinder from his pocket and, after a great deal of effort, lit the thick wick. Cupping the flame in his hand, he held the candle up. The walls of the narrow passageway stretched before him, shadows dancing in the candlelight, the beaten earth ending in a fall of masonry. Corbett walked forward, studying the ground carefully, but could find nothing. He returned to the steps and paused. The snow had turned into a muddy slush and he could tell that people had been here, probably looking for Alusia. He climbed the steps carefully. His search was futile, yet this was a lonely place. If a young woman had come here by herself and the killer had been waiting . . .

Corbett reached the top step and, cupping the candle, was about to walk through the ruined stone entrance when he missed his footing and slipped, just as the crossbow bolt smashed into the crumbling masonry above him.

Ranulf of Newgate, Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax, was very pleased and self-satisfied. He had, by mere chance as he told himself, met the Lady Constance and her maid when he returned to the solar to find something he had lost. Of course he never mentioned that he had paid a groom a silver coin to keep him apprised of where the Lady Constance was. Now, with her maid perched strategically on a stool near the door, Ranulf was attempting to show Lady Constance the wonders of the miraculous coin trick so beloved of the cunning men at Smithfield Fair.

‘Well, my Lady,’ Ranulf placed the three pewter cups taken from the waiting table, ‘which cup covers the coin?’

‘That one.’

Ranulf’s fingers brushed hers, heads drew together and he lifted the cup to show the coin had gone. Lady Constance’s eyes danced with mischief as she swiftly tried to find the coin beneath the other two cups.

‘You’re a cheat!’ she exclaimed.

Ranulf seized her wrist – he moved his chair so that the maid couldn’t see.

‘Sir,’ Lady Constance’s eyes widened, ‘release me.’

‘For a token,’ Ranulf whispered, ‘I’ll release you for a while.’

‘For words of love,’ she whispered.

‘ Vos, quarum est Gloria amor et lascivia atque delectatio Aprilis cum Maio .’

‘Which means?’

‘If you were April’s lady and I were Lord of May-’ abruptly the tocsin sounded, the castle bell tolling like the crack of doom. Ranulf released her wrist, bit back his curse, and hastily remembered where he was and what he should be doing. Lady Constance jumped to her feet. At the door the maid was already standing, hands fluttering.

Corbett, his sweat-soaked body turning icy cold, also heard the tocsin as he crouched in the ruined doorway, staring out into the blackness. He wondered what it could mean. He could hear shouts; perhaps his assailant had retreated? Corbett moved, and hastily ducked as another crossbow quarrel hurtled into the stonework behind him. His anxiety deepened. That was the fourth time he’d moved, and the mysterious archer showed little intention of giving up. The sentries on the parapet walk were few and would not know of the deadly cat-and-mouse game being played out beneath them. Corbett had shouted, but his cry had not been heard and now the guards were leaving. He glimpsed one hurrying with a flickering torch to investigate the source of the alarm. They’d be totally unaware of the assassin below.

Corbett realised the murderous archer was watching the entrance to the dungeon. Any movement against the light-coloured stone, the slither of Corbett’s foot on the gravel or the crackle of icy snow would alert him. Corbett was alone, unarmed, and he sensed that his attacker was drawing closer. The quarrels now smacked into the wall with greater force; he must be only a few yards away, probably crouched or kneeling down. Corbett shivered. The castle bell tolled again but then fell silent. His hand went to his belt but he wasn’t even carrying a dagger. His fingers brushed the wallet and he recalled the penny whistle he had picked up. He took this out and, with all his breath, blew a long, piercing blast. He heard a sound in the darkness and began to shout the usual cry of a man being ambushed: ‘ Au secours! Au secours! ’ He took a deep breath and blew on the penny whistle again. Corbett felt slightly ridiculous crouched here in the freezing darkness, his only weapon a child’s toy. He shouted once more, heard scuffling sounds and blew a fresh blast on the penny whistle.