Paul Doherty - The Magician

Magister Jean Vervins wrapped his cloak about him and leaned against the parapet of Corfe Castle, oblivious to the bitter cold and the freezing wind tugging at his cowl. The walkway was slippery underfoot but Vervins wasn’t frightened. In his youth he had served on a cog of war and had trod dangerous slippery decks which moved and twisted on heavy seas. He turned to his right; he was safe enough up here. Ten paces away a sentry crouched against the crenellated wall, warming his hands over the small brazier. He caught Vervins’ gaze and lifted his hand; the Frenchman replied and turned to stare out across the mist-shrouded countryside. Vervins had climbed the steps leading up to the parapet walk resting on his cane, quite determined to escape the cloying atmosphere of Monsieur de Craon. He did not like the royal clerk; he resented his arrogance and above all was deeply opposed to this farrago of nonsense. He wanted to be back in Paris, to be closeted in his own warm chamber at the back of his spacious house on the Rue St-Sulpice. He wanted to return to his books and ledgers, to walk the narrow streets and meet his friends in the cookshops and taverns, or be back disputing terms of law in the cavernous schools of the Sorbonne.

Vervins had studied Friar Roger and dismissed the dead Franciscan as a dreamer and a boaster. He recalled Friar Roger’s statement from the Opus Minus : ‘there is no pestilence to equal the opinion of the vulgar. The vulgar are blind and wicked, they are the obstacle and enemy of all progress.’ How could a follower of St Francis, a self proclaimed scholar, be so dismissive of others? Why all this secrecy? He recalled how Friar Roger had expressly said he had not seen a machine that could fly, yet added, ‘but I know the wise man who has invented such a procedure’. How could he say that? What did it mean? Vervins leaned against the stonework, absentmindedly picking at the lichen and moss growing there. He liked nothing better than to visit the small squares of Paris where troops of travelling mummers and storytellers would set up their makeshift stages and recount legends and stories to astonish the crowd. Was that the case with Friar Roger? A man who hinted at wondrous things but never produced the truth? The English clerks were just as baffled as he over the cipher of the Secretus Secretorum . Was that just mummery cloaked in scholarship? Was there a cipher, or was it a cruel trick by Friar Roger? A way of taunting and teasing other scholars, cleverly hinting that this manuscript contained revelations which would explain the wonders described in his other writings?

Vervins stared along the parapet walk. He was tempted to take off the thick wool-lined gauntlets and warm his fingers over that fire, yet he desperately wanted to be alone. The Secretus Secretorum was one thing, but there were more pressing, dangerous problems; the deaths of his two colleagues had reduced him to a state of constant agitation. Of course, he had to accept the evidence of his own eyes. Destaples had died of a seizure, the door to his bedchamber locked and bolted, whilst Magister Crotoy had slipped down steep steps and broken his neck. How else could it be explained? There was no trickery there, surely? But why had they been brought here, plucked from their beloved studies, forced to endure a sickening sea voyage and the rigours of an English winter in a lonely castle?

Vervins returned to staring out at the countryside. The fields and hedges slept under their carpet of snow, and now and again the mist would shift to reveal the distant trees. From below he heard the sounds of the castle, and beyond the walls the distant cawing of ravens and rooks. He came up here to be alone; everywhere he turned there was smirking de Craon, or the French clerk’s silent and grim-faced bodyguard Bogo de Baiocis.

‘Are you well, sir?’

‘I am well,’ Vervins answered the guard, ‘though freezing cold.’

He closed his eyes. Perhaps they would leave soon, and when they returned to Paris he would keep his silent vow. He would immerse himself in his studies and not be drawn, like the rest, into debates of political theory, or be party to veiled criticism of the power of the Crown, the real reason for his presence here. Vervins was certain that he and the others were being punished for what seemed to be disloyalty to the outrageous claims of Philip of France. They were being taught a cruel lesson to accept that axiom of Roman law, voluntas principis habet vigorem legis – ‘the will of the prince is force of law’.

A particularly stiffening buffet made Vervins flinch. In Paris he loved to climb the towers of Notre Dame and stare out over the city; this was not the same. He walked carefully along the parapet ledge to the door of the tower.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the guard called out. ‘It’s locked, it always is.’

Vervins lifted the iron ring but it wouldn’t turn. He sighed in exasperation and walked gingerly towards the guard, who rose from his crouched position to allow the Frenchman past to the approaches of the outside steps. Vervins was careful. He paused by the brazier and, taking off one gauntlet, spread his fingers over the spluttering coals. The guard, smiling at him, pulled the brazier closer to the wall to ensure the Frenchman had safe passage. As Vervins went to thank him he felt a sickening blow to the back of his head. He staggered, dropping the cane, and slipped over the edge, his body hurtling down to smash against the cobbles.

The sound of the tocsin alarmed Corbett and brought him and his two companions sprinting into the yard. A small crowd already ringed the fallen Frenchman, who lay sprawled, his head smashed like an egg against the sharp icy cobbles. Sir Edmund and his officers came hurrying up, followed by Father Andrew, his metal-tipped cane clattering against the ground. Soon after, Magister Sanson forced his way through, took one look at his comrade and immediately fell into a dead faint. De Craon arrived, shouting at Sir Edmund that Sanson should immediately be removed to the infirmary as he turned over the still, bruised corpse of Vervins.

Corbett did not interfere. A witness breathlessly informed him how he had seen the Frenchman on the parapet walk staring out over the countryside. He had begun to walk back to go down the outside stairs when he had apparently slipped and fallen. Simon the leech had the corpse placed on a makeshift stretcher and turned the dead man’s head between his hands to the left and right, his fingers searching for cuts.

‘The skull is fractured.’ The leech looked up at Sir Edmund. ‘It’s like a piece of pottery, cracked and splintered. He must have hit the cobbles, and the force of the fall made him spin like a top. His head bounced like a ball hitting the ground.’

Corbett stared up at the parapet walk high above him. The brazier still glowed there. He recalled de Craon’s remark about Vervins’ liking to stand there. Had that most sinister of men already decided how another of his retinue should die?

‘Where is the sentry, Sir Edmund?’

The Constable beckoned forward a thin, gap-toothed young man, all anxious-eyed and pale-faced, who kept wiping his sweaty hands on a stained jerkin. Corbett took him by the shoulder and led him away from the crowd whilst de Craon and Sir Edmund debated what should be done with the corpse.

‘It wasn’t my fault, sir.’ The soldier broke free of Corbett’s strong grip, staring fearfully at Bolingbroke and Ranulf, who had brought their war belts down and were strapping them on. ‘I didn’t push him, I was half asleep.’ He gestured up to the soaring parapet. ‘I’m on the dusk walk; I sit and warm my hands over the coals, out comes the Frenchman. I tell him to be careful. I couldn’t understand much of his reply but he said he had served on cogs and would often climb the steps of No’dam.’