Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘But the priest would have told us.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘So would Master Reginald.’

‘Both their lives are threatened,’ Corbett explained. ‘I’m sure that in the tavern, above stairs or in its cellars, lurk men with crossbows primed, or blades to the throats of Master Reginald’s servants, and the same in the church. In fact, the priest did try to warn us. Do you remember, Ranulf, Father Matthew claimed he hadn’t eaten, but we smelt the odour of cooking, and water had been drawn from the butt. Also there was that expensive brass bowl lying out in the garden. No poor priest would have thrown out something so costly.’

‘What bowl?’ Sir Edmund asked. ‘What is this, Sir Hugh? How do you know de Craon is behind this? Why?’

‘I don’t know why, Sir Edmund, not yet, but the Flemings are mercenaries; they can be hired by the French King, or his brother, or a member of the royal council. Everything is done in secret. A sum of money is given to some banking house; more is promised when the deed is done. Do you remember that fire, Sir Edmund? Don’t you think it was strange that your guards glimpsed a fire on the edge of the forest? And within a short while a similar fire started in the castle. De Craon was receiving and sending messages; like a chess game, all the pieces were moving into place.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Sir Edmund whispered, shaking his head. ‘Sir Hugh, de Craon is an accredited envoy.’

‘Precisely, Sir Edmund. He’ll wash his hands of it, claim he knows nothing about it. If I’m wrong I will apologise to you and the King, but I would like the opportunity to apologise; I don’t fancy having my throat slashed, or a crossbow bolt in my chest.’

Sir Edmund sat staring at the floor. ‘If they wanted to kill you, Sir Hugh, why didn’t they do it out in the forest, or in the tavern?’

‘Oh, that would alert you. But what you say is significant, Sir Edmund. They must be looking for something else. I know you are Constable of the castle, but I am the Keeper of the-’

‘And I have a wife and daughter,’ Sir Edmund snapped. ‘The solution is very simple, Sir Hugh, I’ll double the guards. I’ll secretly pass the word.’

‘Don’t let the French know the reason why.’

‘Of course not. I’ll order the outer drawbridge to be pulled up and the portcullis lowered.’

‘The inner ward as well?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, no. If something should happen,’ Corbett explained, ‘and the attackers get into the outer ward, the defenders must be given the chance to flee across the second drawbridge. If it was raised, by the time it’s lowered again the attackers could follow the defenders deeper into the castle.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sir Edmund, I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. Keep our preparations as secret as possible.’

‘Why not send out horsemen?’ Ranulf demanded, only to shrug as he realised the futility of his remark. ‘Of course, in the dead of night, in the depth of winter . . .’

Sir Edmund reluctantly agreed to all of Corbett’s requests. He had served with Corbett in Wales and along the Scottish march, and if Sir Hugh smelt danger, then danger there was.

Corbett and Ranulf returned to Corbett’s chamber. The castle yards were now deserted; only the occasional servant hurried across, carrying a torch. The sky was cloud-free, the stars seemed like pricks of light. Corbett walked down to the entrance of the first ward. Officers of the garrison were already gathering around the main gateway, and even as he turned away, the rumble of chains echoed across. Corbett glimpsed some servants, the travelling tinkers and chapmen gathered around a fire. All seemed peaceful enough. As soon as he returned to his chamber he checked the great coffer and changed, putting on a stout leather jacket, testing his sword and dagger, drawing them in and out of their sheaths, whilst Ranulf took from their stores two crossbows and quivers of arrows.

‘I had best tell the others,’ Ranulf declared.

‘No, no,’ Corbett warned. ‘Don’t! I want you to stay with me. You can sleep on the bed if you want.’ He pushed his chair in front of the fire and sat, recalling everything he had said to the Constable. He truly believed that the danger was real and insidious; all those little things he had glimpsed and heard in the castle, and beyond, now made sense. Yet he cursed his own tiredness, for there was something he had missed! He and de Craon had clashed swords for how long now? It must be years. And if de Craon was playing chess with other people’s lives, he would have plotted secret moves and strategies to further his designs.

‘ Causa disputandi , for sake of argument,’ Corbett whispered, ‘let us presume that de Craon knows that I know what mischief he is planning. The Flemish pirates may be resolute fighters but they are not an army. They have no siege equipment.’

‘They do have ladders.’ Ranulf spoke up, sitting on the bed behind him.

Corbett smiled over his shoulder. ‘Long enough to scale these walls, Ranulf?’ He went back to his musings. ‘The drawbridge is drawn up, the gates guarded. Oh God, I’ve forgotten something!’

For a while he dozed, starting awake at any noise, even the faint cries of the sentries. He placed another log on the fire and went across to check the hour candle. It had been lit at noon the previous day and the flame was already eating down to the fifteenth circle.

‘If it comes,’ Corbett glanced at Ranulf on the bed, fast asleep, ‘if it comes, it will be soon.’

He returned to his chair, trying to recall what it was he had missed. He was falling asleep when he heard a sound outside, the slither of a foot. He sprang to his feet, drew his sword and tiptoed towards the door. He drew back the bolts, which had been recently greased, and turned the key in the lock, then lifted the latch, opened the door a crack and stared out. Nothing but shadows dancing on the wall. The cresset torch was leaping vigorously and he could feel the draught from the icy wind. He looked down at the floor; in the murky light he could see the imprint of footsteps. Someone had come up here. The door to the tower was unlocked. Someone had climbed those steps and tried his door.

Corbett, gripping his sword, went down the steps. As he rounded the corner to the bottom stairwell he heard the click of the latch as the outside door closed. Fear pricking the back of his neck, and fighting to calm his breath, he approached the door, lifted the latch and slipped through. The darkness was thinning; across the yard he could see the glow of a brazier, men lounging in the shadows wrapped in cloaks, fast asleep, nothing untoward or out of place. Corbett stepped back inside, drew across the bolt and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf was awake, already pulling his boots on.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Ranulf, go back to sleep.’

‘I’ve been dreaming about the Lady Constance. Sir Hugh, have you ever seen such a beautiful neck? I mean,’ Ranulf added hastily, ‘apart from the Lady Maeve’s?’

‘So you think Lady Maeve has a beautiful neck . . .’

‘I mean I would love to buy the Lady Constance a necklace to hang round it, perhaps a silver cross or a costly stone?’

‘Why not a silver heart?’ Corbett replied. ‘But you won’t find anything like that in the castle. Perhaps when this danger has passed . . .’

‘There’s always the chapmen and tinkers,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Aye, there is.’ Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. He dozed for a while, thinking about the Lady Maeve and the silver collar he intended to buy for her as a New Year’s gift. He had seen something in Cheapside he had liked. That was the best place to go. Travelling tinkers . . . Corbett opened his eyes, his stomach lurched. Going over to the hour candle, he noticed it was close to the sixteenth ring. He heard a sound from outside like the cry of a bird. He stared at Ranulf and realised what he had forgotten.