Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (11 page)

The chapel of St John was a long, whitewashed barn-like structure, though the walls had been covered by paintings and the raised floor of the sanctuary was tiled with beautiful stone. The altar, of Purbeck marble, seemed to glow from the light of the candles placed either side. Father Matthew, assisted by Father Andrew, was busy organising members of the garrison into a choir to rehearse the hymns of Advent.

‘Why, Sir Hugh.’ Father Matthew beckoned them forward. ‘You heard the chanting?’

‘Angels’ teeth,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Of course he did.’

Corbett immediately became involved in the singing, and for a while stood and listened as the choir, under Father Matthew’s direction, sang the ‘
Puer Natus Nobis
’, ‘A Child is Born For Us’. The choir was composed of young boys and old men, but the real chanting was provided by the Welsh archers, whose voices Corbett particularly admired. He stood tapping his foot, gently moving his fingers as if he could catch the very essence of the hymn. Ranulf quietly conceded that the choir, the archers in particular, had beautiful carrying voices. In his manor at Leighton Sir Hugh had organised his own choir, composed of servants and manor tenants, and once the hymn was over Corbett was drawn into a passionate argument with the two priests over what they termed the ‘arrangement of voices’. Sir Edmund and his officers drifted in and stood fascinated as the sombre Keeper of the Secret Seal argued vehemently about who should stand where, and whether the choirs should alternate or sing together. Ranulf’s heart skipped a beat as the Lady Constance, with her damsels-in-waiting, also entered the little chapel now thronged with people and ablaze with light as Father Matthew lit more candles and tapers.

At last the priests were persuaded and the choir regathered, under Corbett’s direction, to sing the
Introit
, the entry antiphon to the dawn Mass for Christmas Day: ‘
Dominus dixit ad me, hodie genu tei
’ – ‘The Lord said to me this day I have begotten you’. First the choir had to be taught to memorise the words. Corbett translated the Latin – a lengthy exercise, but, as at Leighton Manor, the rhythmic chant of the music helped them remember it. After a great deal of shuffling, they stood in three rows to reflect the varying tones, with Ranulf in the middle line feeling rather embarrassed as the Lady Constance watched him intently. Once finished, everyone judged it a great success and they turned to something more popular, one of the great ‘O’ antiphons of Advent. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Ranulf glimpsed Corbett, eyes closed, passionately singing the words. At the end Sir Edmund, and the congregation which had gathered, applauded loudly. Corbett became involved in yet another heated discussion whilst Ranulf edged towards the Lady Constance. She, however, as if sensing precisely his intentions, strode directly towards him, standing in front of him like the Lady Maeve would, head slightly forward, face stern, her beautiful eyes bright with mocking laughter.

‘Master Ranulf,’ she whispered, ‘what are you trying to do? Do you want to play cat’s cradle with me? If you want to talk, then talk! Or do you wish something else? To take me aside and whisper the sweet words of a troubadour?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Or will you appear beneath my window tonight with rebec and flute and chant how my skin glows like soft satin and my eyes, well . . .’ She waved her hand. Ranulf blushed and quietly thanked God that Chanson wasn’t nearby.

‘My Lady,’ he stammered, glimpsing Corbett moving towards the door. ‘My Lady, certain tasks await me.’ Face burning, he hastened after his master.

‘Ranulf!’ He turned.

‘I wish you had,’ Lady Constance whispered. ‘I wish you would.’

Ranulf could take no more, but fled into the icy night, quietly whispering the
Deo gratias
.

Corbett was still full of the singing. ‘You see, Ranulf, when you have more in the middle group, where the voice is not so deep as the line behind or the row in front . . .’ He continued his lecture as they crossed the snow-filled bailey, torches spluttering against the falling snow sent sparks flying like miniature beams of light to sizzle on the icy cobbles. The bailey was full of noise as carts and barrows were pushed away, horses stabled and the castle folk sheltered and hastened their preparations against the encroaching icy darkness. Ranulf made his hasty farewells and Corbett, still full of the choir music, returned to his own chamber, where he closed the door, refilled his wine goblet and stretched out before the fire. De Craon, he realised, would soon be here. He thought of the choir at Leighton; perhaps it should be divided in two and arranged in stalls? His mind drifted to that snow-bound church, those hooded, masked figures in the cemetery. What did their leader mean by
the horror hanging in the woods
. . .

Ranulf shook his master awake. ‘The French have arrived, we must prepare.’

Corbett struggled up. Ranulf had already changed into a cotehardie of Lincoln green edged with silver, over a white linen shirt and dark brown leggings; his face was shaven, his hair oiled, his fingers beringed, and round his waist was a narrow leather belt with a sheath for a stabbing dirk.

‘The Lady Constance will think you are quite parfait,’ Corbett teased, but Ranulf was already striding to the door; he did not wish to discuss that matter any further!

Servants came into the room struggling with buckets of boiling water for the lavarium bowls. Once they had gone, Corbett stripped, washed and shaved, donning a clean linen vest, drawers and cambric shirt. Humming the Offertory canticle from the second Sunday of Advent, he took from his travelling chest a cotehardie displaying the red, blue and gold of the royal household. He donned black hose, pushing his feet into soft leather boots and placing the silver filigree chain of office around his neck and the signet ring of the Secret Chancery on the middle finger of his left hand. As he was brushing his hair, Ranulf and Chanson came into the room.

‘I’ve done the best I can.’ Ranulf pointed at Chanson, resplendent in a new woollen jerkin, his hair looking even more spiked than ever. The teasing continued as Bolingbroke entered and described de Craon’s arrival.

‘I’ve been round this castle.’ Bolingbroke sat down on the coffer at the end of the bed. ‘It’s a veritable rabbit warren, with more gaps and alleyways than any ward in London.’ He looked at Corbett. ‘There’s talk about the promise you made . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded. ‘It’s a promise I shouldn’t have made.’ He paused as the castle bell chimed, the signal that the feasting would soon begin.

Corbett led his retinue down through the bitter cold and across to the Hall of Angels. The long chamber now blazed with light and colour. Fresh greenery had been arranged, logs piled high in the hearth and the flames roared up into the stack. Braziers glowed and incense-holders from the church gave off their own spiced fragrance. Musicians in the gallery practised the flute and plucked the strings of a harp. The great table on the dais was covered in white damask and bright with gleaming jugs, goblets and flagons.

De Craon and his entourage were standing in front of the hearth, sipping cups of spiced wine. Corbett, a false smile on his face, but eager to observe etiquette and protocol, strode across. He embraced the russet-haired, dark-faced Frenchman who, he knew, wanted to kill him, and exchanged the
oscuum pacis
, the kiss of peace, with lips which had cursed him and clasped hands, eager to be stained with his blood. De Craon, too, observed the niceties. He stepped back, hands spread out, greeting Corbett in Norman French, conveying to him the good wishes of his most gracious master. Corbett’s rival was also dressed in the livery of another royal household, a cotehardie of blue and white, emblazoned with silver fleur-de-lis. They stood exchanging pleasantries, toasting their respective masters, de Craon obviously smirking, making no attempt to hide the rancour in his eyes. Further introductions were made. Ranulf gave the sketchiest of nods to de Craon’s black-haired henchman, Bogo de Baiocis. Corbett icily introduced Bolingbroke; de Craon clasped the clerk’s hand, gripping it tight.

‘You studied in Paris sir?’

‘Why, yes, my Lord.’ Bolingbroke deliberately answered in English. ‘But I had to discontinue my studies because of certain matters.’

‘If you ever come again,’ de Craon’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand, ‘I must entertain you. There’s a very fine cookshop near the Quai de Madelene.’ Swift as a snake in the grass, he turned immediately back to Corbett. ‘Sir Edmund has been telling me about your singing. I, too, have sung in the Chapel Royal at St Denis.’ De Craon’s hand went to his chest and he bowed. ‘My master has congratulated me on my fine voice, and there is nothing better my daughter Jehanne likes than to join me in that beautiful song ‘
Companhon, farai un vers desconvenent
’. You know it, Sir Hugh? It was composed by William, Duke of Aquitaine, when Gascony was part of the domain of France.’

Corbett couldn’t help laughing at the sheer insolence of de Craon’s remark. De Craon decided to act surprised.

‘You mock me, sir?’ Corbett teased.

‘Would I mock you, Sir Hugh? Don’t you believe that I have a fine voice, or an equally fine daughter? When you are next in Paris, I must entertain you at my house.’ De Craon’s smile widened. ‘It is far, far away from the Quai de Madelene, I assure you.’

Corbett hid his own surprise. He had always considered de Craon a villain steeped in subtlety and cunning, without family or interests. He could tell from Ranulf’s grin that perhaps he and his French opponent had more in common than he might concede.

‘And your companions?’ Corbett asked.

De Craon hastened to introduce the four professors: Etienne Destaples, a tall, gaunt professor of divinity; Jean Vervins, lanky and thin, with the lugubrious face of a man who reflected a great deal but spoke very little. He was, like Destaples, dry of skin and dry of tone, a man with tired eyes who kept fidgeting, whispering to Destaples and glancing around in disdain. Pierre Sanson, professor of metaphysics, was more convivial, his small, plump face wreathed in a perpetual smile. He, like the rest, was dressed in dark garb with a thick fur-rimmed robe around his shoulders. Louis Crotoy was introduced last, a small, aristocratic-looking man with rather elongated sharp blue eyes, his hair pure white. Unlike the others, he grasped Corbett’s hand and drew him close, exchanging the kiss of peace. Corbett smelt that perfume with which Crotoy always anointed himself, a fragrance which took him back down the years to those sombre, dusty school rooms in the Halls of Oxford.

‘It’s good to see you, Sir Hugh, a little older but only just a little.’

He stepped away as de Craon came between the two. ‘I understand you know each other of old?’

‘A great honour on my part,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Louis is once heard never forgotten. He lectured on logic in the schools of Oxford.’

‘Sir Hugh was my favourite pupil,’ Crotoy answered. ‘Not because of his logic; I have just never met a man who takes things so seriously.’ His remark provoked laughter. ‘And now,’ Crotoy continued, ‘such seriousness is needed.’ He spoke quickly in Norman French, and by the look in his eyes, Corbett realised that this old friend, this master of the sharp thought and the shrewd word, wished to talk with him in secret.

Sir Edmund clapped his hands, summoning the servants to replenish cups and serve soft, spiced slices of bread. The conversation turned to the weather, the horrors of the sea voyage and the history of the castle itself. Corbett tried to draw Crotoy into conversation, but whenever the Frenchman drew closer, de Craon or one of the others appeared at their side. Corbett plucked at Sir Edmund’s sleeve and whispered about the seating arrangement; the Constable nodded, promising he would do what he could.

When a trumpet sounded from the minstrels’ gallery announcing that the first course was to be served, Corbett found himself on Sir Edmund’s left, with de Craon on the Constable’s right, but more importantly, Louis Crotoy was seated between himself and Ranulf. The wine goblets were filled, toasts made and the first course was served: roasted salmon in an onion wine sauce, followed by spiced capon and chicken mixed with cumin and cream. The wine circulated, faces becoming flushed, voices raised. De Craon’s retinue relaxed as the leader of the French envoys quietly conceded that he could do little to interfere between Sir Hugh and his old teacher.

‘Do they trust you?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course,’ Louis replied. ‘They are just curious.’ He patted Corbett gently on the hand. ‘De Craon attended the Halls of Cambridge, Destaples has lectured in this kingdom as well as at universities in Lombardy. Knowledge has no frontiers, Sir Hugh. You are well?’

For a while the conversation turned to personal matters; eventually Corbett pushed away his silver platter.

‘Friar Roger Bacon?’

‘I’m not too sure, Sir Hugh, whether he was a buffoon or a genius.’

‘Have you translated the
Secret of Secrets
?’ Corbett asked.

‘Of course not,’ Crotoy whispered, ‘but there are rumours that Magister Thibault had begun to.’ He kept his face impassive. ‘You heard the news, Sir Hugh? Magister Thibault organised a great feast, an evening of revelry, but a dreadful accident occurred. They claim housebreakers tried to rob his cellar and, either by accident or design, began a fire which swept through the house. All the guests escaped safely, including myself, but the King’s men who were sent down to investigate maintained that in the cellar they found three corpses, or what was left of them: the mortal remains of Magister Thibault, a young woman he was dallying with, and someone else, a stranger. A tumultuous evening! They say one of the housebreakers was English, a clerk called Walter Ufford. I saw him at the revelry that night, along with a man who looked very much like your companion Bolingbroke.’

Corbett glanced down the table at William Bolingbroke, deep in conversation with Destaples. He could hear the loud debate over the logic of the famous theologian Abelard, who had used his book
Sic et Non
to poke fun at other theologians and their misuse of scripture.