Paul Doherty - The Magician

Ufford nodded and raced down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he turned left and ran up a runnel, blind walls on either side. He didn’t know which way Bolingbroke had gone but his companion was forever wandering off by himself and knew the city like the back of his hand, even better than Ufford did. Ufford ran like the wind. He was aware of beggars, with their white, pinched faces, crouching in doorways, of dogs snarling and slinking away as he lashed out with his boot. He passed a small church, its steps crumbling; he glimpsed the face of a gargoyle and thought it was Magister Thibault laughing at him. He kept to the poor quarter, ill-lit and reeking with offensive smells, slums rarely patrolled by the watch or city guards. One thing he kept in mind: the map he had memorized. He reached the Street of the Capuchins and stopped to catch his breath, to ease the stabbing pain in his side. He resheathed his dagger, squatted down and, fumbling in his pocket, found a piece of cheese. He tried to chew on this but his mouth was dry so he spat it out.

Ufford tried to make sense of what was happening. They had stolen that damnable manuscript, Bolingbroke had it, and now they were only hours away from safety. Once aboard that cog, de Craon and his Hounds could bay like the dogs of Hell, but they would be safe. Yet how had it happened? Ufford breathed in deeply, his ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Had he made a mistake or were the Hounds chasing poor Bolingbroke? He tried to soothe his humours by recalling Edelina’s face, but it was Lucienne’s that came to mind, that pretty mouth opening, the blood spurting out. Ufford half dozed. He recalled his question to Bolingbroke. What was so precious about that manuscript? London and Paris were full of magicians! Friar Roger had made remarkable prophesies, but surely they were just vague imaginings? The pain in his side eased and Ufford tried to concentrate on his own predicament. It was Bolingbroke who had discovered where the manuscript was, liaising with this mysterious traitor, but what then? Was it that traitor who’d betrayed them? Was it a trap? Was the manuscript Bolingbroke carried genuine or a forgery?

Ufford peered down the Street of the Capuchins. From where he squatted he could see glimpses of the river and caught the glow of the quayside torches fixed on their poles. Perhaps the boatman would come early. He got to his feet and walked slowly down the street. From a casement window a child cried, a strident sound piercing the night. A dog howled and Ufford started at the swift swirl of bats in the air above him. From a garden further down an owl hooted, and he recalled old wives’ tales about an owl being the harbinger of death. He was halfway along the Street of the Capuchins when he heard the clink of metal behind him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he turned. A line of mailed men, heads cowled, had emerged from an alleyway. They stood silently, like a legion of ghouls spat out from Hell.

‘Oh no!’ Ufford gasped.

‘Monsieur,’ a voice called. ‘Put down your arms, and return that manuscript.’

Ufford peered through the gloom. He could make out the livery, the silver fleur-de-lis on a blue background: the Hounds of the King! He drew his sword and dagger and turned to run. He was finished. A second line of men had appeared, blocking any escape to the quayside. Again the voice, loud and clear: ‘Monsieur, put down your arms, we wish to talk to you about what you have stolen.’

Ufford recalled the gibbet of Montfaucon, black and stark, the rumbling of the execution cart, the whirl of the wheel as the torturers broke legs and arms with their mallets.

‘I cannot lay down my arms, I have no manuscript.’ He spread his hands. ‘I demand safe passage.’

The line of men facing him, dressed like the others, began to walk towards him, ominous figures of death. Ufford murmured an act of contrition and crouched, sword and dagger out, and the silence of the street was shattered by the clash of arms and the hideous screams of the Englishman as he died.

In a narrow, reeking runnel scarcely a mile away, William Bolingbroke crouched in a filth-strewn corner, his leather bag between his feet. At the mouth of the alleyway squatted a beggar who’d told him that the Hounds of the King were swarming along the riverside. So what should he do now? The waiting cog was out of the question. He tried not to think of Ufford, but reflected instead on their master, Sir Hugh Corbett. What would he expect Bolingbroke to do? What was the logic of the situation? This was his best protection, his sure defence against any danger, now or in the future. Bolingbroke chewed on his lip and carefully plotted his way through the maze confronting him.

Corfe: October 1303

The ancient ones believed that Corfe Castle in the shire of Dorset was the work of giants, a grim mass of masonry which stretched up to the sky. Towers, battlements, crenellated walls and soaring gateways dominated the fields, meadows and thick dark forests which stretched down to the coast. On that freezing night, the Feast of Saints Simon and Jude, the castle was shrouded in darkness broken occasionally by the glint of light from the flaring torches and crackling braziers ranged along the battlements to provide light and warmth for the sentries.

The outlaw known as Horehound, however, was glad of the freezing cold. No parties would leave the castle, so its constable would not be hunting him and his companions. The outlaw hid deep in the shadows of a great oak tree. A more pressing problem was hunger. The roe deer had been too fleet, whilst such a hunt would always provoke suspicion. Consequently Horehound had laid his rabbit traps and, with his leather sack over his shoulder, intended to see what the early-evening harvest had brought in. He grasped his crossbow and sought reassurance by touching the knife thrust through the leather belt around his waist. He felt comfortable in the clothes he had stolen from a merchant taking wine to the castle, a foolish knave who thought he could sit on his cart and rattle along the trackways of the forest without surrendering the usual toll, a skinflint who hadn’t bothered to pay out for an escort. Horehound had taken his clothes and his wallet but let him keep his wine, cart and horse. The outlaw appreciatively rubbed his woollen jerkin and pulled the heavy black cloak closer. He listened to the darkness for any sound. Sometimes the constable sent out his verderers and huntsmen, but Horehound could hear nothing in the dark of the night.

Horehound picked himself up and decided to move on. He knew the paths and could use the castle like a sailor would a star on an unknown sea. He moved easily; he knew there would be no one in the forest tonight. No danger lurked there. He loped like some hunting dog taking its time, certain of its quarry. The real danger was out in the open, in the meadows or pasturelands, or the great expanse before the castle. The track snaked before him. Now and again Horehound paused to crouch and sniff the air before continuing. He reached where he had set his traps, only to be bitterly disappointed: the rabbits caught had already been devoured by the vermin of the forest, some fox, weasel or stoat pack. Nothing was left but the remains caught in the wire or the tarred wooden rope. Horehound cursed under his breath. He had what? Eighteen or twenty souls to feed, three of them old, five women, two children.

He continued on, reaching the broad track which would lead down to the main castle gate. He looked to his left and right. The forest path, bathed in faint moonlight, was empty; no danger there. Horehound kept to the verge, ready to slip back into the trees should danger threaten. The further he went, the more he picked up new smells, not of wet wood or leaf meal, but wood smoke and the delicious odour of burning meat. He was now approaching the Tavern in the Forest, a favourite meeting place for the surrounding villagers and all those doing business with the castle, but that was usually in fairer weather, not when winter swept in cold and hard. Horehound slipped back into the forest, approaching the tavern from the rear. He was wary of its owner, mine host Master Reginald, with his fierce dogs. The outlaw gave the tavern a wide berth and passed by its rear wall. The smells from its kitchen drifted rich and tantalising, and Horehound looked longingly at the distant gleam from its windows and the smoke billowing up from its fires. Sometimes Master Reginald would tolerate him and a few of his companions, to sit in the inglenook and warm themselves, gobble a bowl of rabbit stew in return for whatever they had caught in the forest.