Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (10 page)

Corbett allowed others to speak, and as he did so stared at their lined, grimed faces, the anger and desperation in their sad eyes, the way they raised their chapped hands, sometimes joined as if in prayer, looking expectantly down at him, the King’s Man, ready to dispense justice. He felt as if he had gone back in time, gazing at the faces of his own mother, father, aunts and uncles. Men and women tied to the soil, ‘earthworms’ as his mother described them.

Despite Ranulf’s muttering and a tap on his ankle, Corbett publicly promised what he quietly prayed he could carry out: to hunt down the assassin of their daughters and see him hang. The group slowly began to take their leave. Father Matthew assured Corbett he was always welcome in his church, and left. Sir Edmund shook his head and quietly whispered how he hoped Corbett would keep his promise but that he too could not stay any longer as he expected the French to arrive before nightfall.

‘Can you do that?’ Ranulf asked as he followed Corbett across the castle bailey, head slightly turned against the sharp breeze, the snow now falling heavily, coating everything in a sheet of white. Corbett cursed as he slipped on the cobbles but then steadied himself.

‘I have to, Ranulf. Could you not feel the sea of misery in there?’

They entered the Salt Tower and went up to Corbett’s chamber.

‘You’ll rest now?’ Ranulf asked, alarmed to see his master slip on his war belt and lift up his thick grey cloak.

‘The French will be here soon and the snow is falling.’ Corbett patted Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘We might become prisoners of Corfe and I want to look where we are. There’s no need for you to come.’ And before Ranulf could reply, Sir Hugh, spurs jingling, was halfway down the stairs.

Ranulf closed his eyes. For a few short heartbeats he cursed Corbett. Old Master Longface expected Ranulf to follow; that was why he hadn’t locked the room. Ranulf stared at the ironbound coffer at the foot of the bed. It looked secure enough to hold what Corbett called his treasures of the Chancery, his bible of secrets and manuscripts of symbols. These contained the ciphers and hidden writing the Keeper of the Secret Seal used to communicate with his spies, from Berwick on Tweed in Scotland to the far-flung outposts of the Teutonic knights far to the east of the River Rhine. Corbett had brought these, and other books of secrets, with him as he always did, to continue the day-to-day business of the Chancery as well as a possible means to translate Friar Roger’s enigmatic puzzle.

‘As I can bear witness!’ Ranulf whispered. He had been with Corbett, burning the candles low in the Chancery rooms at Westminster, the Tower and even Leighton Manor. Corbett had neglected the Lady Maeve and his children, totally immersed in his task, only to grow increasingly frustrated.

Ranulf went across to the coffer and, crouching down, examined the three stout locks, the work of a craftsman. Then he blew out the candle glowing under its cap and, removing the key, locked the door from the outside and raced up the steps to his own chamber. He would have preferred to go wandering around the castle until, by accident of course, he met the Lady Constance. Perhaps he could persuade her to sit with him in a window seat? His mind was busy with all sort of chivalric notions, snatches of poetry, fitting similes and those subtle compliments a gentleman should pay to a lady. But now, there was more pressing business. Ranulf could not forget that last meeting of the Secret Council at Westminster. Edward of England, roaring like a bully boy, kicking over chairs and stools, pounding the table like a spoilt child as Corbett explained how Friar Roger’s cipher could not be broken and that they might learn more after meeting with de Craon. Once the meeting had ended, the King had taken Ranulf aside, as he was growing more accustomed to do, and pressed him against the wall, his elbow digging into the clerk’s chest as he whispered in his ear. The warning had been simple: the King loved Corbett as a brother but de Craon was a most venomous viper in the grass. Edward had made Ranulf swear an oath on life and limb that if de Craon threatened Corbett, or worse, did him injury, Ranulf was to take the Frenchman’s head.

‘But he is an envoy!’ Ranulf gasped, fearful yet flattered by the King’s attention.

‘Then he is a dead envoy.’ The King smiled drily. ‘I am not asking you to take his head literally. I will be content that de Craon dies of some mishap. You do understand, Master Ranulf, what a mishap is?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Good.’ The King had smiled and dug his elbow deeper. ‘Because if you fail, some mishap might occur to you.’

Roger Bacon,
Opus Maius

The bell of the castle chapel was tolling mournfully as Corbett, accompanied by Ranulf and Chanson, clattered under the yawning gate, across the drawbridge, disappearing into the whirling storm of snow which was now beginning to cover the grassland and shrubs around the castle. Ranulf had kicked Chanson awake, screaming at him to put his boots on and get down to the stables as quickly as possible. Of course Chanson took an age to wake. Ranulf had to put the groom’s boots on for him, even if it meant the left on the right foot, then, dragging him by the scruff of the neck down the stairs, bundled him across the yard, ignoring Chanson’s wails of protest and the strange looks they drew from passers-by. Corbett had been waiting in the stables, cloak fastened, his head and face hidden by the deep cowl of his cloak.

‘I thought I’d better wait,’ he murmured.

Ranulf muttered something obscene under his breath and helped Chanson saddle the horses. Now they were out in the open countryside, Ranulf felt the panic seething within him. He pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s.

‘Sir Hugh, why are we out here?’

‘I told you.’ Corbett’s voice sounded hollow from the cowl. ‘We will soon be prisoners enough. I want to know where we are.’

Ranulf’s panic was replaced by a chill of unease.

‘What do you fear, Sir Hugh?’

‘I’m concerned.’ Corbett reined in his horse, clicking his tongue as it shook its head. ‘Why are Flemish pirates patrolling in the dead of winter? True, there are easy pickings, but . . .’

They rode on silently for a while, then Corbett turned his horse and stared back at the black mass of the castle. ‘We have,’ he stretched out his left hand, ‘about six miles to the north-east the fairly large town of Wareham. The French envoys probably lodged there last night. All around us, shaped like a crescent, spreads thick forest; to the south of Corfe, about another seven or eight miles, lies the sea. To the east there’s an estuary, and to the west an even smaller one, which makes this part of the shire almost an island. They call it Purbeck Island.’ Corbett wiped the snowflakes from his face. ‘For the rest, let’s see for ourselves.’

They entered the trees, turning right, following the trackway, and passed a village slumbering under the snow. The cottages looked deserted; only the lonely cry of a child or the bark of a dog and the curling black wood smoke showed any sign of life. They rode on. Corbett, glimpsing the tower of St Peter’s church, realised they must be following the same path Rebecca used that morning. They dismounted at the lych gate, tethered their horses and walked up the cemetery path to the Galilee porch built on to the side of the church. The door was open and they entered the cold mustiness of the nave, a gloomy place, its paved floor lit by the occasional shaft of light piercing the high narrow windows. Nevertheless, it was a hallowed spot, an ancient chapel with squat pillars, narrow transepts and whitewashed walls. Baskets of herbs stood at the base of each pillar and successive priests had hired itinerant painters to cover the walls with deep glowing paintings, not very skilful, but their reds, browns and greens displayed a robust vigour in their depictions of harvest scenes or images of Christ and His Mother.

The sanctuary was small, cordoned off by a simple Eucharist rail rather than a rood screen. Beyond that, to the left, was an ancient Lady Chapel with a carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mother holding her child, and on the right a Chantry Chapel to St Peter, a statue of whom stood on a plinth, in one hand the keys of the Kingdom, in the other a net. The sanctuary itself was simple, niches and small alcoves to the right and left for the Offertory cruets and other sacred vessels. The high altar was built against the end wall with steep steps before it. On the right of the altar hung the silver pyx in its Corpus pouch, and beneath that a candle glowed under its red glass cap. Corbett genuflected towards this and crossed himself. He was fascinated. Most churches smelt of incense and wax, but this one was different. A sharp, acrid tang which he couldn’t place.

Corbett went through into the small sacristy, a bare limewashed chamber with a large aumbry, coffers and chests, and, beneath a black crucifix, the vesting table where the robes for Mass were laid out. He turned the key in the side door, drew back the bolts and looked out. This part of the church land was reserved for the priest. At the far end stood a simple grey-brick two-storey house, steps leading up to the main door, the windows on either side boarded up. The house looked old, but the slated roof was gleaming black in the patches not yet covered by snow. From the trellis fences and raised mounds of earth, Corbett deduced that Father Matthew was a keen gardener. He glimpsed a statue of a saint and wondered if it was one of the many holy men or women the church claimed as patron saints of gardens and herb plots.

‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett walked back to the sacristy and stood before the small gate in the Eucharist rail.

‘I’m thinking of those young women who have been murdered. The one thing which binds them together, apart from their age and sex, is that they all meet here. I wonder if their deaths . . .’

Corbett let his words hang in the air. He returned to the Galilee porch, made sure the door was secure, and walked down towards the main entrance, stopping to admire the font and the image of St Christopher holding the Christ Child painted on a nearby pillar. He opened the door and walked out into a flurry of snow. There was a sound like the rush of bird-wings and a crossbow bolt smacked into the stonework above him. Corbett stepped back hastily, slamming the door behind him. Ranulf, alarmed, drew his sword, Chanson his dagger. The groom was now fully alert but blinking and muttering to himself.

‘They know we have no bows. Whoever it is, they don’t mean to attack us! That crossbow bolt was meant as a warning.’

‘King’s man.’ The voice carried through the closed door. ‘King’s man, we intend no harm.’

Corbett lifted the latch, only to be pushed aside by Ranulf, who opened the door and stepped through before Corbett could stop him. He and Chanson went out on to the top step. A figure moved from behind a battered gravestone. He was hooded, snow covered his cowled head and shoulders. Corbett glimpsed ragged hose, though the boots were good, whilst there was no mistaking the arbalest he held. Other men appeared, at least half a dozen in number.

‘King’s man.’ The hooded one walked closer, lowering his crossbow. Ranulf, sword drawn, clattered down the steps. ‘No further,’ the man shouted harshly. He lifted his head; a ragged mask covered his face. ‘King’s man, whatever you hear in the castle, we are not responsible for the deaths of those maids, nor for what you might see in the forest.’

‘What might I see?’ Corbett shouted, joining Ranulf at the bottom of the steps.

‘The horror hanging in the woods,’ answered the man. ‘But we are poor people, truly dust of the earth; we only kill to eat, remember that.’ The cowled figure lifted his hand, and the outlaws turned and ran, scaling the cemetery wall and disappearing into the trees beyond.

The three companions stared into the falling snow for an instant, before gathering their horses and turning back towards the castle. The sombre greyness of the day deepened as the light faded. The snowstorm was subsiding, but it had turned the countryside into a silent white wasteland, emphasising the blackness of the trees and bushes above which solitary birds soared, whilst the gorse and undergrowth crackled as the snow dripped and slipped to the ground. They reached the path stretching across the open downs up to the main gate of the castle, where pitch torches and braziers glowed fiercely along the battlements.

‘It looks like a donjon from Hell,’ Ranulf muttered, yet he was eager enough to reach the gateway and escape from the chilling stillness of the countryside.

They clattered across the drawbridge where Corbett reined in. Leaning over to Ranulf and Chanson, he gave strict instructions not to tell anybody about the confrontation in the cemetery. Chanson took their horses, while Ranulf went to the buttery claiming he was still famished and Corbett returned to his chamber. A servant was waiting outside. Corbett unlocked the door and the man busied himself lighting the capped candles. He used a pair of bellows to fire the brazier and quickly strengthened the weak fire in the hearth, placing fresh logs over a bank of charcoal strewn with herbs which gave the chamber the smell of summer.

‘My Lord.’ The man sweated as he used the bellows, urging the flames to spurt up and fire the wood. ‘You’ll be as comfortable soon as a pig in its sty.’

Corbett grinned at the analogy. He helped the servant until he was satisfied, then gave him a coin and, when he had gone, locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and was about to settle before the fire when he heard a faint singing. Going to the window, he opened the shutter and listened intently. He recognised plainsong drifting up from the chapel of St John’s Within the Gates and all exhaustion forgotten, quickly thrust his boots back on, left the chamber and ran down the stairs. He met Ranulf just outside the tower, and grabbing his henchman by the arm, they hurried into the icy gloom, slipping and slithering as they made their way to the castle chapel. Ranulf made to protest but knew it was futile. As he had remarked to Chanson, ‘The one thing Master Longface loves is the opportunity to sing.’