Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Why?’ Bolingbroke asked.

‘Why not?’ Ufford gasped for breath. ‘It will create what the French would call a divertissement . Come, let’s go.’

They walked quickly, but did not hurry. The watch were out, groups of halberdiers dressed in the city livery, but the clerks carried passes and were allowed to go unmolested. They avoided the main thoroughfares where the chains had been drawn across, or the open squares lit by torches and candles placed around the statues of the local patron saints. In the shadows stood crossbowmen, city bailiffs, ready to apprehend any law-breaker. Ufford took a deep breath. He regretted the deaths, but what could he do? The King of Keys would have died anyway. And as for Magister Thibault? Ufford’s lip curled. The Magister was a stupid old man who should have fallen to his prayers. It was Lucienne’s face he could not forget: those lovely eyes, her pretty mouth gaping, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her soft warm body. In a way she had reminded him of Edelina Magorian, the merchant’s daughter in London who sent him such sweet letters and was so eager for his return.

They were now approaching the Porte St Denis and the great gallows of Montfaucon. The long-pillared, soaring gallows standing on its fifteen-foot mound, the execution ground, the slaughteryard of Paris, with its hanging noose and ladders stark against the starlit sky and, in the centre, a deep pit to receive the corpses. Ufford shivered and looked away. He would make sure he would not be taken alive, thrown into the execution cart, battered and bruised and forced to dance in the air for the delight of the mob. He gripped the leather sack more tightly. They would never come back to Paris and he was glad. There would be other assignments, though Corbett would not be pleased that such deaths lay at his door.

‘Walter?’

Ufford started and realised they had reached the mouth of the narrow alleyway leading to the Street of the Carmelites. Bolingbroke pulled him deep into the shadows of an overhanging house. ‘For God’s sake, man, keep your eyes sharp!’

Ufford swallowed hard. He could feel the night cold as he peered down that alleyway, the crumbling houses jutting out above their neighbours, almost blocking out the sky. Here and there a lonely candle burned in a casement window. A river mist hung thin in the air, blurring the light of the lantern horns slung on hooks outside some of the tenements. He narrowed his eyes. The street was the same; that stinking sewer down the centre. He could see the corner of a runnel, the place where footpads lurked, but this appeared deserted.

‘I can see nothing wrong.’

Keeping to the line of the houses, they edged down towards the small tavern known as the Martel de Fer, the Sign of the Blacksmith, above which they had their room. The tavern was closed and shuttered for the night, as was the small apothecary opposite. Ufford stared across at this, looking for any chink of light, but all was cloaked in darkness. They went up the outside stairs into their narrow, shabby chamber with the paint peeling off the walls and the air rancid with the smell of cheap tallow candles. Even as Bolingbroke struck a tinder to light these, Ufford could hear the scampering mice. Yes, he would be glad to leave this place. The candles glowed, and Ufford stared around at the hard cot beds, the battered chests, the rickety table and stools. On the wall, just near the arrow slit window boarded up against the night, hung a crucifix on which the gaunt white figure of Christ writhed in mortal agony. Ufford looked away. He could not forget Lucienne.

He placed the leather sack under the bed, built up the brazier and began to destroy sheaves of paper from the secret compartment hidden beneath one of the chests: letters and memoranda they had received from England. Bolingbroke was doing the same. Then they took down leather panniers from hooks on the wall and filled these with their pathetic possessions, sharing out the gold and silver the English Ambassador had given them when he’d met them amongst the tombstones at St Jean. They washed their hands and faces, and divided their remaining food – a loaf of bread, some cheese and a small roll of cooked ham – whilst they finished the jug of claret purchased from the tavern below. At last all was ready.

‘We should go now.’ Ufford picked up the leather sack. ‘Who shall carry this?’

Bolingbroke drew the dice from his wallet.

‘Three throws?’

‘No, just one.’

Bolingbroke grinned, leaned down and shook the dice on to the floor. ‘Two sixes.’

Ufford picked up the dice.

‘Do you wish to throw?’ Bolingbroke asked.

Ufford shook his head and handed the leather sack over. Bolingbroke drew out the manuscript and began to leaf through the pages.

‘It’s in cipher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What does it contain, Walter? It has cost the lives of three people and could send us to our deaths. Oh, I know.’ He raised his hand. ‘I’m a scholar like you. I’ve read Friar Roger’s On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature .’ He smiled. ‘Or, as Magister Thibault would have said, De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae .’

‘You know what it says, William?’

‘I can suspect,’ Bolingbroke replied. He closed his eyes to remember the quotation. ‘“It is possible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be made which can be guided by one man and will move with greater swiftness than if they were full of oarsmen.”’ He opened his eyes.

‘What did he mean by that?’ Ufford asked

Bolingbroke pulled a face, closed the book, fastened the clasp and placed it carefully back in the leather sack.

‘We should go,’ Ufford repeated.

‘We are not to be at the Madelene Quayside until the bells of Prime are being rung.’ Bolingbroke cocked his head at the faint sounds of clanging bells. ‘The alarm has been raised, the fire at Magister Thibault’s must have spread. But no, Walter, we will stay, at least for a while.’

Ufford lay down on the bed, eyes watching the door, aware of the shifting shadows as the candle flame fluttered at the draughts which seeped through the room. He thought about being back in London, of sitting in the tiled solar at Edelina’s house, a warm fire glowing, the air fragrant with the smell of herbs and spices; of cleaning his mouth with a snow-white napkin as he bit into tender beef or drank the rich claret her father imported.

Ufford’s eyes grew heavy but he started awake, alarmed by a sound from the street below. He leapt from the bed and, hurrying across to the arrow slit, carefully removed the plank which boarded it and stared out. The cold night air hit him even as a stab of fear sent his heart racing. Dark shapes shifted in the street below and a light glowed from the apothecary’s shop. He was sure he heard a clink of steel from the alleyway, the muffled neigh of a horse. He felt his legs tense as if encased in steel. There were people below; he saw a movement and caught the glint of armour. He whirled round.

‘They’re here!’ he gasped, aware of the sweat breaking out on his face, his hands clammy.

‘Nonsense!’

‘They’re here,’ Ufford repeated. ‘The Hounds of the King, de Craon and company.’ He picked up his war belt and strapped it round his waist. Then, snatching his cloak and saddlebags, he opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. He was aware of Bolingbroke breathing behind him. The alleyway below was empty.

‘Down the steps quickly,’ Bolingbroke urged. ‘Separate. If I am caught I’ll destroy that manuscript. Remember, the Madelene Quayside, the boatman in the scarlet hood – he’ll take you downriver to The Glory of Westminster , an English cog. Its captain’s name is Chandler.’