Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death Read online

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ufford whispered.

  ‘I . . .’ Lucienne’s eyes rolled in her head, she gave a cough and a sigh. Ufford lowered her corpse to the floor.

  ‘We’ll hang!’ The King of Keys gazed in horror at the two corpses. Blood was snaking out, pools forming and running down the lines between the paving stones.

  Ufford couldn’t stop trembling.

  ‘I had no choice,’ he gasped. ‘If I didn’t we would have hanged. Finish what you’re doing,’ he snarled at the King of Keys, and running over, he pulled across the bolts securing the door.

  The lock-breaker returned to his task. Ufford paced up and down, while Bolingbroke simply slumped by the wall, staring at the stiffening corpses. Ufford started as Thibault’s corpse twitched and a gasp of air escaped from his stomach. The King of Keys, sweat-soaked, concentrated on the last lock. He gave a cry of triumph at the click, threw back the lid and plunged his hand inside, only to give the most hideous scream. Ufford spun round. Bolingbroke moaned quietly, like a man caught in the toils. The King of Keys turned, and Ufford stared in horror. Little caltrops, balls, their spikes as sharp as razors and as long as daggers, had pierced the hand and wrist of the King of Keys. He staggered towards Ufford, arm out, staring beseechingly, blood pumping from his wrist like water from a drain.

  ‘My hand,’ the King of Keys moaned, ‘my hand. I shall never . . .’ His face was a liverish white at the shock of what had happened. ‘God damn you!’ he whispered.

  The sudden horror of this hidden device had made him unaware of the seriousness of his wound, but Ufford knew enough about medicine to realise that a large vein had been cut.

  ‘Help me!’ the injured man pleaded. ‘For God’s sake!’

  He slumped to his knees and tugged at the spike in his wrist, but the pain sent him writhing to the floor. Ufford ran across and, helped by Bolingbroke, tried to extract the caltrop, but it was embedded too deep. The King of Keys was shaking, the blood gushing from the wound so fast Ufford knew he couldn’t staunch it.

  ‘Help me, please!’ the King of Keys repeated.

  ‘Of course, of course. We need to cut some cloth.’

  Ufford drew his dagger, one hand going to cover the King of Keys’ eyes, the other slicing the blade deeply across the man’s throat.

  ‘We can do no more.’ He stared at Bolingbroke grasping the King of Keys’ sack, who now asserted himself as if waking from a dream.

  ‘True, he was dead already.’

  They went across to the casket and, grabbing it by the lid, tipped the contents on to the floor. They fell with a crash, more of those deadly caltrops bouncing across the paving like some dangerous vermin escaping from a hole. Bolingbroke, however, sighed in relief at the leather bag tied at the neck which also fell out. He picked this up, undid the knot and slid out a bound book. He took it beneath the sconce torch, undid the leather clasp and quickly leafed through the pages.

  ‘Do we have it?’ Ufford demanded.

  ‘We have it!’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘The Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon!’

  They fled the strongroom taking their weapons and the leather sack with them. Ufford stopped at the wine cellar, fingers to his lips, staring at the small casks and vats above the wine barrels. Climbing up, he took one down, prised the bung hole loose with his dagger and shook the oil on to the floor as he and Bolingbroke made their way back to the steps. When it was emptied, he threw it down and raced up the cellar steps. At the top, grasping the torch, he stared down at the glistening oil, then tossed the torch in and slammed the door shut.

  They raced through the kitchen, past sleepy-eyed scullions. In the yard two revellers were being sick over the horse trough. Bolingbroke and Ufford pushed them aside and hastened to the gate and out into the shadowy side streets of Paris. As they reached the end of the alleyway, the faint sounds of clamour rose behind them. Looking back, Ufford saw a glow against the sky. The fire he had started was now raging.

  ‘Why?’ Bolingbroke asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Ufford gasped for breath. ‘It will create what the French would call a divertissement. Come, let’s go.’

  They walked quickly, but did not hurry. The watch were out, groups of halberdiers dressed in the city livery, but the clerks carried passes and were allowed to go unmolested. They avoided the main thoroughfares where the chains had been drawn across, or the open squares lit by torches and candles placed around the statues of the local patron saints. In the shadows stood crossbowmen, city bailiffs, ready to apprehend any law-breaker. Ufford took a deep breath. He regretted the deaths, but what could he do? The King of Keys would have died anyway. And as for Magister Thibault? Ufford’s lip curled. The Magister was a stupid old man who should have fallen to his prayers. It was Lucienne’s face he could not forget: those lovely eyes, her pretty mouth gaping, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her soft warm body. In a way she had reminded him of Edelina Magorian, the merchant’s daughter in London who sent him such sweet letters and was so eager for his return.

  They were now approaching the Porte St Denis and the great gallows of Montfaucon. The long-pillared, soaring gallows standing on its fifteen-foot mound, the execution ground, the slaughteryard of Paris, with its hanging noose and ladders stark against the starlit sky and, in the centre, a deep pit to receive the corpses. Ufford shivered and looked away. He would make sure he would not be taken alive, thrown into the execution cart, battered and bruised and forced to dance in the air for the delight of the mob. He gripped the leather sack more tightly. They would never come back to Paris and he was glad. There would be other assignments, though Corbett would not be pleased that such deaths lay at his door.

  ‘Walter?’

  Ufford started and realised they had reached the mouth of the narrow alleyway leading to the Street of the Carmelites. Bolingbroke pulled him deep into the shadows of an overhanging house. ‘For God’s sake, man, keep your eyes sharp!’

  Ufford swallowed hard. He could feel the night cold as he peered down that alleyway, the crumbling houses jutting out above their neighbours, almost blocking out the sky. Here and there a lonely candle burned in a casement window. A river mist hung thin in the air, blurring the light of the lantern horns slung on hooks outside some of the tenements. He narrowed his eyes. The street was the same; that stinking sewer down the centre. He could see the corner of a runnel, the place where footpads lurked, but this appeared deserted.

  ‘I can see nothing wrong.’

  Keeping to the line of the houses, they edged down towards the small tavern known as the Martel de Fer, the Sign of the Blacksmith, above which they had their room. The tavern was closed and shuttered for the night, as was the small apothecary opposite. Ufford stared across at this, looking for any chink of light, but all was cloaked in darkness. They went up the outside stairs into their narrow, shabby chamber with the paint peeling off the walls and the air rancid with the smell of cheap tallow candles. Even as Bolingbroke struck a tinder to light these, Ufford could hear the scampering mice. Yes, he would be glad to leave this place. The candles glowed, and Ufford stared around at the hard cot beds, the battered chests, the rickety table and stools. On the wall, just near the arrow slit window boarded up against the night, hung a crucifix on which the gaunt white figure of Christ writhed in mortal agony. Ufford looked away. He could not forget Lucienne.

  He placed the leather sack under the bed, built up the brazier and began to destroy sheaves of paper from the secret compartment hidden beneath one of the chests: letters and memoranda they had received from England. Bolingbroke was doing the same. Then they took down leather panniers from hooks on the wall and filled these with their pathetic possessions, sharing out the gold and silver the English Ambassador had given them when he’d met them amongst the tombstones at St Jean. They washed their hands and faces, and divided their remaining food – a loaf of bread, some cheese and a small roll of cooked ham – whilst they finished the jug of claret purchased from the tavern below. At last all was
ready.

  ‘We should go now.’ Ufford picked up the leather sack. ‘Who shall carry this?’

  Bolingbroke drew the dice from his wallet.

  ‘Three throws?’

  ‘No, just one.’

  Bolingbroke grinned, leaned down and shook the dice on to the floor. ‘Two sixes.’

  Ufford picked up the dice.

  ‘Do you wish to throw?’ Bolingbroke asked.

  Ufford shook his head and handed the leather sack over. Bolingbroke drew out the manuscript and began to leaf through the pages.

  ‘It’s in cipher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What does it contain, Walter? It has cost the lives of three people and could send us to our deaths. Oh, I know.’ He raised his hand. ‘I’m a scholar like you. I’ve read Friar Roger’s On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature.’ He smiled. ‘Or, as Magister Thibault would have said, De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae.’

  ‘You know what it says, William?’

  ‘I can suspect,’ Bolingbroke replied. He closed his eyes to remember the quotation. ‘“It is possible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be made which can be guided by one man and will move with greater swiftness than if they were full of oarsmen.”’ He opened his eyes.

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ Ufford asked

  Bolingbroke pulled a face, closed the book, fastened the clasp and placed it carefully back in the leather sack.

  ‘We should go,’ Ufford repeated.

  ‘We are not to be at the Madelene Quayside until the bells of Prime are being rung.’ Bolingbroke cocked his head at the faint sounds of clanging bells. ‘The alarm has been raised, the fire at Magister Thibault’s must have spread. But no, Walter, we will stay, at least for a while.’

  Ufford lay down on the bed, eyes watching the door, aware of the shifting shadows as the candle flame fluttered at the draughts which seeped through the room. He thought about being back in London, of sitting in the tiled solar at Edelina’s house, a warm fire glowing, the air fragrant with the smell of herbs and spices; of cleaning his mouth with a snow-white napkin as he bit into tender beef or drank the rich claret her father imported.

  Ufford’s eyes grew heavy but he started awake, alarmed by a sound from the street below. He leapt from the bed and, hurrying across to the arrow slit, carefully removed the plank which boarded it and stared out. The cold night air hit him even as a stab of fear sent his heart racing. Dark shapes shifted in the street below and a light glowed from the apothecary’s shop. He was sure he heard a clink of steel from the alleyway, the muffled neigh of a horse. He felt his legs tense as if encased in steel. There were people below; he saw a movement and caught the glint of armour. He whirled round.

  ‘They’re here!’ he gasped, aware of the sweat breaking out on his face, his hands clammy.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘They’re here,’ Ufford repeated. ‘The Hounds of the King, de Craon and company.’ He picked up his war belt and strapped it round his waist. Then, snatching his cloak and saddlebags, he opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. He was aware of Bolingbroke breathing behind him. The alleyway below was empty.

  ‘Down the steps quickly,’ Bolingbroke urged. ‘Separate. If I am caught I’ll destroy that manuscript. Remember, the Madelene Quayside, the boatman in the scarlet hood – he’ll take you downriver to The Glory of Westminster, an English cog. Its captain’s name is Chandler.’

  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.