Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘We must eat,’ Chanson grumbled. ‘My belly thinks my throat is cut.’

‘There speaks the last of the philosophers,’ Bolingbroke mocked. ‘We must go down.’

The evening meal, despite Sir Edmund’s best efforts, was a sombre event. The castle kitchens served a banquet of Brie tart, fried artichokes, sorrel soup with figs and dates, followed by farmstead chickens stuffed with lentils, cherries and cheese, fried loach with almonds and a pear tart. The musicians in the gallery played sweet hymns and popular minstrel songs, the high table was covered with a white samite cloth and the trancher and knives were of silver, with precious goblets for wine. Sir Edmund’s jester, a black-haired mannikin, could tumble, but the atmosphere remained dull. Corbett found it difficult even to look at de Craon. Ranulf sat embarrassed, this time rather wary of the Lady Constance, who gave up on her teasing and turned away to talk to Bolingbroke. Corbett, sitting on Sir Edmund’s left, apologised to the Constable’s wife for his apparent sullenness, claiming tiredness as well as a genuine sorrow for Crotoy’s unfortunate death. Sir Edmund left him alone and Corbett, listening to the minstrel music, let his mind drift. One of the tunes he recognised.

‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed.

‘What is it, Sir Hugh?’ the Constable asked.

‘This outlaw band,’ Corbett declared. ‘Their members take the names of herbs and wildflowers, but young Phillipa, the first to disappear, said she had a lover amongst the group called Goliard. That’s Provencal for a wandering minstrel, not the name of a herb or flower.’

He went back to his reflections, so immersed in his own thoughts he was almost unaware that the meal was ending and Father Andrew was making a hasty prayer of thanksgiving. Corbett excused himself and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, made his way back to the Jerusalem Tower. The door still hung askew and the guard inside told him that both the corpse and the dead man’s possessions had been moved.

‘His body is in the church, sir. The other Frenchman, the one who looks like a fox, had everything packed away.’

Corbett stared at the ground still stained with Crotoy’s blood, then climbed the steep steps. The upstairs door was open; he pushed this aside and glanced in, then turned to the ruined stairwell. The fallen masonry was as firm and strong as any wall, and nothing was left except a narrow shadow-filled alcove.

‘Can I help you, Sir Hugh?’

De Craon stood in the doorway to the tower.

‘No, no, de Craon, you can’t help me.’ Corbett went down the steps. ‘Did you visit Crotoy today?’

‘Yes, I did. I came by myself earlier. Louis was alive and well when I left him. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go up there myself.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve drunk rather deeply yet I must make sure everything has been taken.’ He brushed by Corbett and went up the steps.

‘I want to pay my last respects to Louis,’ Corbett declared, leaving the tower. He wished his companions goodnight and walked across the frozen castle yard. It had stopped snowing and, glancing up, he was pleased to see the clouds had broken and stars winked against the darkness. He spent some time in the narrow church, where three coffins now lay on trestles in front of the High Altar. He ignored the squeaking of mice, the cold which hung thick and heavy like a mist seeping through the very stones. He knelt, reciting the psalms of the dead, and started as he felt a brush on his shoulder. Father Andrew peered kindly down at him.

‘I thought I would find you down here, Sir Hugh. I’ve seen Sir Edmund and the Frenchman. We’ve agreed the Requiem Mass will be sung tomorrow. Rebecca will be buried in the churchyard. The corpses of the two Frenchmen are to be taken to Dover, embalmed and put aboard a French cog. Both I and Master Simon, the castle leech,’ he explained, ‘have done our best. At Dover there are more skilled practitioners. Anyway, Sir Edmund has said there’ll be no meeting tomorrow. The day will be given over to mourning.’

Corbett thanked him and left the church. He heard a sound deep in the shadows.

‘I thought you’d gone to bed, Ranulf. I can smell the soap you’ve washed yourself with. The Lady Constance must be pleased!’

‘I’ll retire when you do.’ Ranulf stepped into the pool of light thrown by the torches either side of the church door. ‘I thought it best to make sure you were safe.’

‘There’ll be no meeting tomorrow,’ Corbett declared, ‘and I must attend the Requiem Mass.’

‘I’m truly sorry, Master, about what happened earlier.’ Ranulf swayed slightly on his feet. He had drunk deep-bowled goblets of wine too fast during the evening meal.

‘Never mind.’ Corbett slapped him on his shoulder. ‘I’ve forgotten. Sleep well, Ranulf.’

Corbett returned to his own chamber. He knew Ranulf would follow him, at least to the entrance. He locked and bolted his door and made sure that the shutters were held firm against the window. Then he built up the fire and, taking his writing tray, sat for a while trying to make sense of the various problems which distracted him. He recalled the attack earlier in the evening, the crossbow bolts hurtling against the hard stone. How many people had seen him going there, how many people knew? But then he recalled striding across the castle yard. It would have been so easy for his attacker to see him, seize an arbalest and follow him through the darkness. Was that murderous bowman also responsible for the deaths of those young maids, or was the attack planned and plotted by de Craon? Was de Craon following orders, or was it simply that the Frenchman’s malice had got the better of him, unable to resist an opportunity to strike at his sworn foe? And the murders of these maids . . . had he learnt anything new? Nothing really, except the flirtation between the girls and that young man-at-arms, but that could be found in villages and castles up and down the kingdom. He wrote down the name ‘Phillipa’. She was different, a lonely and intelligent girl who spun fabulous tales about herself, about a landless knight, a fictitious outlaw called Goliard.

Had she gone into the forest and died? Was her corpse mouldering in some ditch, or had she run away? He recalled Mistress Feyner’s protestations. He rubbed his chin, wondering when the outlaw Horehound would meet him. Could he know anything? He glanced across at the pile of Friar Roger’s books and manuscripts, including the one from de Craon still lying on his bed. He placed the Secretus Secretorum back in the Chancery chest and returned to reflect on the deaths of those two Frenchmen, Destaples dying of a seizure in a locked chamber, Crotoy found dead between two locked doors, the keys to which he still had in his pouch. Accident or murder? Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. That would have to wait . . .

Ranulf of Newgate, Clerk of the Green Wax, was not as drunk as he pretended to be, and although his companions protested, he questioned both Chanson and Bolingbroke most closely about what had happened during his flirtation with the Lady Constance. Chanson, in particular, was only too ready to chatter. Ranulf was clearly furious, especially with himself.

‘I knew old Master Longface would go wandering off,’ he declared. ‘I should have been there. Now tell me again, exactly, what that red-haired wench said, and the man-at-arms and Mistress Feyner.’

Chanson described in great detail Corbett’s conversation with all three; he also referred to Corbett’s speculation on Father Matthew, a matter Ranulf already knew about. Bolingbroke filled in the gaps, and by the time he had finished his interrogation, Ranulf had decided upon his path.

‘What we must do,’ he declared to his sleepy-eyed companions, ‘is meet with this outlaw Horehound. Something has happened in the forest which he knows about. I suspect we’ll need his help over the murder of these maids.’