Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘It wasn’t just murder, was it?’ Corbett continued. ‘But also my destruction and that of Ranulf. On the morning of the attack I locked my chamber. You opened it. You hoped that the pirates would storm the Salt Tower, force that great coffer behind me-’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in.’

Sir Edmund stepped through the door. Chanson, who had gone to answer, was handed a small leather sack.

‘I found it, Sir Hugh, not in his chamber but in a crevice further up the steps. Keys, instruments you would use to pick a lock.’ Sir Edmund’s face was wary. ‘Sir Hugh, what is going on here? I’ve tried one of the devices myself, it can turn a lock as quickly as any key.’

‘If you could wait outside, Sir Edmund? I do apologise, I will tell you in due course.’ The Constable made to refuse. ‘Please, Sir Edmund.’ The Constable sighed, shrugged and went out, slamming the door behind him.

‘The attackers were after the Chancery box, weren’t they?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, they were. Can you imagine, Ranulf, what a great prize that would have been? The death of the Keeper of the Secret Seal whilst his ciphers, the ones we use to communicate with our spies abroad, the different codes, the variety of symbols, the tables and the keys, all falling into de Craon’s hands. What a great achievement! The secret doings of the English Chancery would be ruined for months, even years. De Craon would be given access to every agent and spy from Marseilles to beyond the Rhine. He knew that I would bring them with me, not to a meeting in France but to a place in England. Of course, Bolingbroke would confirm this, especially as I was attending a meeting about secret ciphers and codes. They may have picked something up from my dialogue with Sanson, but that would be nothing to compare to the looting of this chamber and the removal of our own secret books and manuscripts. Philip would truly become the master. Edward of England, already bound by the Treaty of Paris, would have all his secrets laid bare. Philip and de Craon would act the innocent, publicly bewailing what had happened but privately rejoicing at their great triumph. It was never,’ Corbett concluded, ‘a matter of Friar Roger, just a continuation of the old game of who wields power in Europe. But why you, William?’

Bolingbroke’s lips moved.

‘Do you want to deny it?’ Corbett asked. ‘I can go and see de Craon, tell him what I know. I will wager that he will act the Judas and betray you for less than thirty pieces. Or I can have you bound and sent under guard to Westminster. You can stand trial before King’s Bench; the charges will be high treason and homicide. The evidence against you is pressing, William. You will be lodged in the Tower and dragged from there on a hurdle to Smithfield, where they will hang you. Just before you choke to death they will cut you down for the disembowelling. Once you are dead your head will be severed, your body quartered and placed on spikes along London Bridge.’

‘Gold.’ Bolingbroke’s hand went to the weal on his face. He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Gold and silver.’ He stretched out his fingers to the fire. ‘Last summer, just after the Feast of the Baptist, Sanson asked to meet me in his chambers. De Craon was there. They said they had evidence that I was a spy. They could arrest me and hang me at Montfaucon. They promised me life, wealth and honour in France. I was tired, Sir Hugh, tired of the rotten food, of the rat-infested garrets, of acting the poor scholar. It was so simple, so easily done. I was trapped.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘In the twinkling of an eye.’ He talked as if speaking to himself. ‘And once trapped? Well, it was like when I was a child running down a hill; once you begin your descent you can’t stop. I thought, what did it really matter, serve this king or serve that king?’

‘Would you point the finger at de Craon?’ Corbett asked.

Bolingbroke snorted with laughter.

‘What proof do I have? You can’t play that game, Sir Hugh. You would have to confess that Ufford was a spy and de Craon would simply listen and laugh. The only proof you have is the evidence you laid against me. Not enough to hang him.’ He shrugged. ‘But certainly enough to hang me. I do not want to take that journey to Smithfield.’

‘Do you confess?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In this chamber I confess. In your presence I admit to the truth. I have innocent blood on my hands, and of all the deaths it’s Walter’s I feel most bitter about. De Craon promised he would be taken prisoner, perhaps exchanged for one in England.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘But what’s the use? You have the power of a justice, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke pleaded with his eyes. ‘A swift death, a chance to be shriven by Father Andrew? Let it finish here.’

Corbett gestured at Ranulf. ‘Take him outside, inform Sir Edmund of what we have learnt, let Bolingbroke admit his guilt. He is to be taken under guard to the chapel. Father Andrew can hear his confession, and whilst he whispers the absolution ask Sir Edmund to have the executioner prepared. Make it swift, a log and an axe. William, I do not wish to see you again.’

Ranulf seized Bolingbroke by his arm and pulled him to his feet. The clerk was unresisting; he even loosened his own belt, throwing it to the floor. He then took off his Chancery ring and let it fall at Corbett’s feet. Chanson made to accompany Ranulf but Corbett pulled him back.

‘No, no,’ he whispered when they had left. ‘You stand by the door, Chanson.’

Corbett took out his Ave beads and began to thread them through his fingers. He tried to concentrate on the words but let his mind drift, willing the time to pass as swiftly as possible. He heard shouts and cries from outside, the sound of running feet and the bell of the castle chapel tolling long and mournful.

‘Chanson.’ Corbett called the groom over. ‘Go and tell Monsieur de Craon,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘that William Bolingbroke, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been executed for treason and murder. Tell him that one day our noble King will explain to the Holy Father in great detail what happened here. Oh, and Chanson, do tell de Craon that it is not the end of the matter; for me it’s just another beginning.’