Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘Ranulf, I need you.’ He gave that lopsided smile. ‘The mills of God are beginning to turn.’

They went up to the chamber, Corbett preparing the room, dragging chairs and stools in front of the fire which Chanson was building up. The groom had slept through most of the battle; consequently he had to suffer Ranulf’s constant teasing and was only too pleased to escape to the kitchens to bring back ale, bread and cheese and strips of smoked ham. Bolingbroke joined them and Corbett ushered him to one of the stools in front of the fire.

‘I would have gone with you, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke sat down and picked up the small platter on which Chanson had served the food. ‘This is like the castle of the damned; virtually the entire curtain wall is festooned with hanged men.’ He bit on a piece of cheese.

‘We shall be gone soon.’ Corbett sat in the chair and wetted his lips with ale. ‘And what will you do then, William?’

‘Oh, I shall journey back to London. I may ask for some leave from the business of the Chancery. You will find me another post, Sir Hugh?’

‘I shall find you nothing!’ Corbett replied. Bolingbroke dropped the cheese he held.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Do you pray for his soul, William? Your good friend and companion? Your brother-in-arms Walter Ufford?’

Ranulf stiffened; even Chanson, sitting almost in the inglenook, forgot his food.

‘You’re a traitor, William,’ Corbett continued, ‘and I shall show you how. Two things in particular. First, let’s go back to Magister Thibault’s house in Paris. You remember it well: the Roi des Clefs who could open any door, chest or coffer?’

‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Of course you do, you were there. The King of Keys was wounded, his hand and wrist spiked by a caltrop, pumping out blood, screaming until Ufford had to cut his throat. Do you remember what the King of Keys carried? A pouch of strange instruments, master keys, cunning devices to turn a lock or force a clasp. What happened to these?’

Bolingbroke’s face grew pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the panic obvious in his eyes.

‘They were left there.’ He made to rise. Ranulf, sitting beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back down.

‘You took them,’ Corbett continued. ‘You picked them up. Who would notice? The King of Keys was dead, Ufford all a-panic. You used those keys on two occasions, the first when you murdered Crotoy and the second when you murdered Vervins.’

‘I was with you when Vervins died.’

‘Of course you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But you had given the keys to de Craon so that he or his henchman could creep up those tower steps. As the Gospel of St John says, “In the beginning was the Word”,’ Corbett sipped at his ale, ‘“and the Word was with God”. That is where all this began, Bolingbroke, with the pursuit of knowledge, used by de Craon and his sinister master to trap our King. Philip of France crows like a cock; he has Edward of England trapped by the Treaty of Paris, the Prince of Wales is to marry Philip’s only daughter Isabella. But there is a fly in the ointment: me and my spies in France and elsewhere. Philip would like to sweep the board. He knows about Friar Roger’s secret writings but he also knows that those writings can never be deciphered, whatever Magister Thibault claimed. Philip of France studies Edward of England most carefully, as he has for the last twenty years. The English Exchequer is bankrupt, Edward has wars in Scotland and he must defend the Duchy of Gascony. Earlier this year, our fat little Sanson inveigled Edward into studying Friar Roger’s manuscripts, a secret letter addressed only to our King. Perhaps it wasn’t Sanson but Philip himself whetting his appetite. Anyway, Edward loves a mystery, particularly when he learns that Philip of France is also studying those same manuscripts. Edward’s rivalry with Philip is legendary.’

‘I know nothing of this,’ Bolingbroke bleated.

‘Don’t you, William? I think you may have helped Sanson. Who knows? Perhaps you sent messages yourself through Ufford. Ah well, Edward of England prides himself on being a scholar. He reads Friar Roger’s work and stumbles on, or is allowed to stumble on, a great secret: Friar Roger’s bold assertion that he had spent over two thousand pounds, a veritable fortune, on his studies. Our King wonders, where and how could a poor friar, of common stock, draw on such wealth? He must have some great secret. And so the hunt begins.’

Corbett sipped from his ale, and before Bolingbroke could stop him, leaned across and plucked the dagger from its sheath on the clerk’s belt.

‘Oh, by the way, William,’ he patted Bolingbroke gently on the arm, ‘the Constable’s men are now going through your possessions. They are looking for the King of Keys’ tools; I’m sure they’ll find them. So,’ Corbett cleared his throat, ‘let us go back to our own King, the prince to whom we both swore fealty. He tries to hide Friar Roger’s reference to the treasure spent in the pursuit of knowledge. The King is also worried about his copy of the Secretus Secretorum being accurate. Perhaps Monsieur Sanson helped in this? Anyway, Edward of England wants to steal the French copy, so he instructs me to contact our clerks in Paris to move Heaven and Earth to obtain it. Of course, what we don’t know is that Walter Ufford has been baited, teased into a trap, and this is where you come in, William. You are a scholar at the Sorbonne, you have already been under suspicion as a spy, a clerk of the Secret Chancery in England. De Craon or Sanson approached you. Did they threaten you with the horrors of Montfaucon, or offer you gold and silver, a sinecure in France?’

Bolingbroke stared impassively back.

‘Well, you know the story better than I do,’ Corbett continued. ‘So, we come to the night of Magister Thibault’s revelry. You were invited to all that mummery. Magister Thibault is distracted by a nubile courtesan called Lucienne. Did you hire her? Was it de Craon? Or was it both? Anyway, she is under strict instructions to flatter the old fool, to persuade him to take her down to his treasure house to see the precious manuscript he is working on for the King of France.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Bolingbroke stammered. ‘Magister Thibault came down by accident. He didn’t know when we would be there.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I suggest that when you went down to that cellar you passed Monsieur Sanson and gave him a sign. He would then hasten up the stairs to make sure Lucienne kept her part of the bargain. I agree, it would take some time to rouse that old goat from his bed, but Magister Thibault stumbled down into that cellar. As soon as he opened the door he was a dead man. Ufford cuts his throat and that of Lucienne. Walter was always a ruthless man. A short while later the King of Keys is wounded and later killed; you secretly seize his keys. Eventually you and Walter make your escape, two successful spies who have achieved the task assigned to them.’

‘Why didn’t they arrest us there and then?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.

‘That’s not such a good question,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They needed you, William, they wanted you to escape.’ He paused, rubbing his hands together. ‘You and Walter did what any spies would do; you separated, though not before you made sure that you escaped with the Secretus Secretorum .’

‘The dice!’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘You have cogged dice – that’s the way I’d decide anything. You’re as sharp as I am, Bolingbroke, you’d make sure you won.’

‘Yet that was only the beginning of the mischief,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Craon constructed a plot of many layers. The first was to remove certain opponents from the University of Paris, scholars opposed to the outrageous claims of his royal master; that’s the one thing Thibault, Destaples, Crotoy and Vervins had in common. Sanson was also one of these but, unbeknown to his colleagues, he was de Craon’s man, body and soul. Philip of France later proposes this meeting. He wants a castle on the south coast, somewhere lonely for the next part of his plot. Edward of England rises to the bait and chooses Corfe, an indomitable fortress, not very far from where Friar Roger was born. Perhaps the meeting would arouse local interest and curiosity, particularly that of any disciples of Friar Roger hiding in the area. However, that part of Edward’s stratagem,’ Corbett winked quickly at Ranulf, ‘failed to come to fruition. Have you communicated with de Craon,’ he asked sharply, ‘since the attack by the Flemish pirates?’