Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

Ufford hurried to obey, though he didn’t like the thing. It was supposed to be a fox. He had caught a reflection of himself in a shiny brass jug and considered the mask too life-like. The same went for Bolingbroke’s, an evil animal mask with slanted eyes, fierce snout and horns curling out on either side.

  ‘It’s so hot,’ Ufford muttered. ‘I am sweating like a bitch on heat.’

  Bolingbroke grasped him by the elbow and took him further down the gallery to the small seat under the window casement. He climbed up, opened the latch door and took off his mask, inviting Ufford to do the same. For a moment they both stood revelling in the cool night air.

  ‘Will he come?’

  ‘He had better do.’ Bolingbroke turned his face away from the window. He looked pale and drawn, the deep-set eyes ringed in shadow, a sheen of sweat on the broad forehead beneath his close-cropped sandy hair.

  Ufford felt a spasm of fear and clutched his stomach. He shouldn’t have drunk so much wine but, as Bolingbroke had said, they had to enter into the spirit of the evening. The masters of the school had organised a party to celebrate the beginning of term, to eat, drink and enjoy themselves before they returned to the rigorous discipline of their studies.

  ‘Are you sure all is well?’ Ufford whispered.

  ‘They are as drunk as sots downstairs. Magister Thibault is lost in his pleasures and the rest couldn’t distinguish Alpha from Omega.’

  Ufford smiled quietly to himself. Bolingbroke the scholar, always ready to show his learning at the most inappropriate occasions.

  ‘We had best go.’

  Ufford heard the sign, the clanging of the bells from a nearby church marking the hour of Compline. He put on his mask and followed Bolingbroke down the gallery. They paused at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Take care!’ Bolingbroke urged.

  They went down the wooden staircase, on to the second gallery, past various chambers, from where the noises of love echoed loud and clear, down a second side staircase, along a stone-paved passageway, dark but sweet-smelling of spilt wine, and into Master Thibault’s so-called Great Hall. This long wooden-panelled chamber had been transformed for the night’s rejoicing. The trestle tables on either side were littered with fragments of food, splashes of wine, ale and beer. Cups, goblets, beakers and platters lay strewn about, catching the glow of the many candles and torches which lit the room yet also provided shadows deep enough for those who wished to continue their pleasures in private. The benches had been pushed aside. Magister Thibault’s guests stood in a ring, watching three young olive-skinned women, hair black as a raven’s wing, garbed in a motley collection of garish rags, dance and whirl to the click of castanets and the tinkling of little silver bells. The moon women moved to the blood-stirring tune of the musicians, who took their beat from the small boy holding a tambour, almost as big as him, which cut through the rhythm and quickened the pace. Most of the spectators were drunk; even as Bolingbroke and Ufford entered, one broke away to stagger off into the shadows to be sick, kicking aside the great hounds which roamed the halls and jumped on to the tables looking for scraps.

  Bolingbroke and Ufford pushed their way through the throng. Ufford felt as if he was in one of the circles of Hell, surrounded by men and women in gaudy robes, the air reeking of their cheap perfume, their faces hidden behind the masks of dogs, badgers, hawks, griffins and dragons. Eyes glittered, fingers snatched at his clothing; he was pushed and knocked by those eager to watch the dance and join the rest as they edged closer and closer to the twirling Salomes. When the dance stopped, who ever had won the women’s favour enjoyed their bodies.

  Ufford felt slightly sick, and tried to curb the panic seething within him. These were doctors of the law, masters of logic, professors of divinity, now giving themselves up on a fool’s night to every whim of taste and passion. He was sure he recognised Destaples and Vervins, who were easy to distinguish by their height. Across the hall, as if to distance himself from the orgy, sat Louis Crotoy, whilst fat Pierre Sanson plucked at Bolingbroke’s sleeve only to be pushed away. At last they were through, going under the minstrels’ gallery and into the kitchens. Revellers had slunk here to satisfy their thirst and see what extra wine they could filch from the servants and scullions. Elsewhere the servants were busy either washing down the blood-soaked fleshing tables or helping themselves to the remainders of the feast. No one paid Ufford and Bolingbroke much heed as they went out into the cobbled yard, a dark, dank place, rich with the stench from the stable. Bolingbroke slipped across the yard with Ufford following closely in the shadows, opened a postern gate in the high curtain wall and whistled softly into the darkness. The whistle was returned. Ufford, peering through the gloom, saw a shape move, and the Le Roi des Clefs, the King of Keys, stepped in close. Bolingbroke rebolted the gate and all three men crouched in the shadows.

  Le Roi des Clefs was as thin as a wizard’s wand. His hair, prematurely white, parted down the middle, fell just below his ears. His peculiar face fascinated Ufford, so thin, the chin so pointed, it looked like the letter ‘V’; close-set eyes, a beaky nose above a small mouth. Ufford smelt the fragrance and recalled Bolingbroke’s observation that this master housebreaker hated hair on his own face as well as on the face of anyone he did business with. Naturally, early that evening, both he and Bolingbroke had shaved themselves well.

  ‘You are ready?’ Bolingbroke asked.

  Le Roi des Clefs peered around. ‘You are by yourself?’ His English was good, the soft voice emphasising every word.

  ‘Of course we are!’

  ‘One gold coin.’ The King of Keys stretched out a hand, the tips of his fingers visible in the dark leather mittens. Bolingbroke handed over the gold coin. The King of Keys held it between forefinger and thumb, bit it, pronounced himself satisfied, and went back to the gate. He returned with two leather sacks. The larger one he handed to Bolingbroke, whilst the other he tied to the belt strapped around his leather jerkin. Bolingbroke undid his own sack and took out two war belts, each carrying a sword and dagger. He and Ufford strapped them on, and digging into the sack again, Bolingbroke brought out two small arbalests and a stout leather quiver of bolts.

  ‘We are ready.’

  They slipped across the yard and into the kitchen, their cloaks hiding both the war belts and the arbalests. The servants were now fighting over a juicy piece of lamb, whilst in the far corner a greyhound stood staring at the place where he usually lay, which was now occupied by a reveller busy lifting the skirts of a kitchen slattern. No one noticed the three newcomers as they opened the cellar door and went down the ill-lit stone steps. At the bottom they stopped and grouped together. Bolingbroke took one of the torches from the sconces on the wall and led them further into the darkness. On either side stood barrels, vats and casks, most of them broached for the evening’s feasting so the ground was slippery underfoot. At the far end of the cellar they reached a stout wooden door reinforced with metal studs. The King of Keys crouched down, whispering to Bolingbroke to hold the torch closer as he emptied his sack of small rods and key-like instruments. For a while he just knelt, crouching, whispering to himself, cursing in the patois so common in the slums of St Antoine.

  ‘Can you do it?’ Bolingbroke whispered.

  The King of Keys paused in his fiddling and gave a cracked-toothed grin.

  ‘Be it the Tabernacle of St Denis, or the treasure house of King Philip, there is not a lock in Paris I cannot break.’ He held up one of the devices. ‘No lock can withstand these; it’s only the poor light which hinders me.’ As if to prove his point, he inserted the small rod and Ufford sighed in relief at the satisfying click.

  The door opened. The chamber inside was no more than a whitewashed box, the ceiling, with its heavy black beams, only inches above their heads. Around the room were ranged chests, coffers and caskets: Magister Thibault’s treasures. Bolingbroke ignored these, leading them across to a heavy iron-bound coffer, dark blue in colour and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis. The coffer had three lo
cks at the front and one on either side. The King of Keys pulled it closer and stared at it curiously.

  ‘What does it contain? A king’s ransom?’

  ‘The Secretus Secretorum,’ Ufford replied.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Voice of God,’ Ufford retorted.

  The King of Keys stepped away. ‘This is not black magic, is it? It does not contain some malignant root or book of spells? Messieurs, I am frightened of magic.’

  ‘It is not magic,’ Ufford soothed, ‘but knowledge. It contains a manuscript of the secret writings of Friar Roger Bacon, once a scholar at the Sorbonne.’

  ‘What?’ the King of Keys laughed. ‘You have hired me, the Master of the Locks, the King of Keys, to steal the manuscript of a Franciscan?’

  Ufford’s hand fell to his dagger. ‘You have been well paid, Monsieur, whoever you are. One gold piece to be hired, two for opening that coffer and two more when we part. Now upstairs Magister Thibault rides his young filly while his guests acquaint themselves with all the sins of the flesh. You must hurry.’

  The King of Keys returned to the coffer. Bolingbroke went back to close the doors and make sure all was well. Ufford crouched against the wall, willing his stomach to quieten itself and his sweat to cool, all the time watching the King of Keys, his hands now free of those leather mittens, fondling the locks as he would a lover’s hair, chuckling quietly to himself.

  ‘Monsieur, this is the work of craftsmen,’ he declared, walking over to Ufford.

  ‘Domine miserere!’ Ufford whispered. ‘They always come back for more.’ He glowered at the King of Keys, noticing how thin and spindly his legs were in their dark woollen hose, how his feet seemed to swim in those flat-heeled boots.

  ‘Two more gold pieces.’ The Master of the Locks held out his hands.

  Ufford glanced at Bolingbroke, who opened his purse and handed the coins across. Ufford lifted up his arbalest, pulled back the cap to the quiver, took out one of the barbs and placed it in the polished slot. The King of Keys, however, just pocketed the gold, winked and returned to his task.

  ‘I hope you open it,’ Ufford called out. ‘Either you do and we leave with that manuscript, or . . .’

  ‘Don’t threaten me,’ the King of Keys hissed back, now busy with another lock.

  Ufford fell silent. Cradling the arbalest, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He would be glad when this evening was over. It would be good to return to England and receive the praise and rewards of Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets! He smiled to himself. He liked Corbett, a man of few words, a good master with no illusions about the great Edward of England. He recalled the last time he and Bolingbroke had met Corbett. When was it? Eight weeks ago, around the Feast of Corpus Christi? Corbett had come to Paris on the pretext of some diplomatic incident and had met his two secret clerks, as he called them, at a small auberge beyond the city walls, on the road to Fontainebleau. He had not told them much; he didn’t need to, for both Ufford and Bolingbroke were scholars of the natural sciences as well as the Quadrivium and Trivium, the logic, metaphysics, philosophy and ethics of the Masters. They had been in Paris for three years now, collecting information on behalf of the English Crown. Now their task had changed . . .

  Corbett had hired a chamber at the auberge, and had seated them close around a table whilst his henchman, Ranulf of Newgate, dressed in black leather, guarded the door. Ufford was constantly surprised at the contrast between Corbett and Ranulf. Sir Hugh was dark-faced with deep-set eyes, his clean-shaven face and regular features always composed. ‘A man of clean heart and clean hands,’ as Ufford secretly called him. Ranulf was different, red-haired, those slanted green eyes and pale face always watchful, a fighting man, expert with the sword, dagger and garrotte. Ufford had listened to the rumours, how Ranulf had once been a riffler, a roaring boy, from London’s stinking alleyways, rescued by Corbett from the gallows. Ranulf had educated himself, unlike Corbett, who had studied at the Halls of Oxford. A man of bounding ambition with the talent to match, Ranulf was now Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.

  ‘There, I have it!’ the King of Keys exclaimed.

  Ufford broke from his reverie at the sound of a click. The King of Keys had opened the two side locks and was working busily on the three at the front.

  ‘Hurry up,’ urged Bolingbroke, leaning against the door.

  Ufford stared at his companion. Bolingbroke was usually a serene man, composed and rather elegant in his ways, fastidious in his habits, but tonight he was clearly agitated. Ufford knew the reason. One of the magistri upstairs was a traitor. Neither Bolingbroke nor he knew which one, but after all their searches they’d been informed how the University of the Sorbonne did possess a copy of the Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon, and how its scholars were busy studying its cipher. The mysterious traitor had offered to sell the Secretus to the English Crown. At first Bolingbroke and Ufford had been cautious; they were being watched, suspected of being Secret Clerks. But, there again, it was a question of much suspected and nothing proved. Now it had all changed. Somebody had learnt about their secret meeting with Corbett. How the Keeper of the King’s Seal had urged them to find that manuscript, or a copy, steal it and bring it immediately to England . . .

  Ufford lifted his hand in the sign of peace, Bolingbroke smiled thinly back and stared down at the King of Keys busy on the coffer. Neither Bolingbroke nor Ufford knew the source of their information; letters were simply left at their lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, above the Martel de Fer tavern, describing how the Secretus Secretorum had been handed to Magister Thibault, who kept it in a coffer in the strong room in his house.

  ‘D’accord!’ Another click. The King of Keys turned and ceremoniously lifted the clasp.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Ufford whispered hoarsely, and gestured at the other two locks. The hour was passing, the revellers upstairs might want some more wine and they must not be disturbed. If they were arrested . . . Ufford closed his eyes; he could not bear the thought.

  During the last few days, whilst they had planned the robbery, both he and Bolingbroke had been aware of dark figures standing at the mouths of alleyways watching their lodgings. Corbett had warned them to be careful of Seigneur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the Secrets of his Most Royal Highness Philip IV of France. He was Corbett’s mortal enemy, dedicated to frustrating the designs of the English Crown, and he had a legion of spies and informers at his disposal, nicknamed the ‘Hounds of the King’. Ufford and Bolingbroke had discussed the danger but they had no choice. Yet if they were caught? Ufford grasped the arbalest tighter. They would be taken to the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber beneath the Louvre of Paris, questioned by the Inquisitor, strapped to the wheel of Montfaucon and spun while the hangman smashed their limbs with mallets, before they choked on one of the soaring gibbets near the gates of St Denis. Ufford closed his eyes and prayed. He had visited Notre Dame this morning, lit three tapers in the Lady’s Chapel and knelt on the hard stone floor, reciting one Ave Maria after another.

  To break the tension, Ufford got to his feet and walked across to his companion.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why is the manuscript so valuable?’

  Bolingbroke shifted his gaze and put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Bacon was a magician,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘He discovered secrets, the hidden knowledge of the Ancients. He said . . .’ He paused as the King of Keys freed another lock and moved to the last one. ‘You know the rivalry between Philip of France and Edward of England; either will do anything to frustrate the other.’

  ‘But Roger Bacon was a friar,’ Ufford pointed out. ‘They are always hinting at secrets.’

  ‘Did you know—’ Bolingbroke broke off, moving away from the door. Ufford had heard it too, the sound of footsteps. At the far end of the strongroom the King of Keys also recognised the danger. Ufford winched back the cord of his arbalest. Bolingbroke, grasping the torch, quickly went round the chamber do
using the candles, hissing at his companions to join him in the corner. Ufford, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat, stood beside his companions, the pool of light from the torch dancing around them. He prayed it was only a reveller coming down for more wine or ale. Then the footsteps drew nearer, a woman laughed, and to Ufford’s horror the door at the far end opened in a pool of light and a man and woman entered the chamber. Both had drunk deeply. Ufford heard a strident voice, speaking quickly in French, wondering why the strongroom door was open. Heart thumping, Ufford realised what had happened. Magister Thibault, together with the fair Lucienne, had come down to inspect the treasure room. The old goat was showing off, eager to impress this beautiful courtesan, but he was too drunk to fully realise what had happened, and instead of retreating, he closed the door behind him and staggered across the room, lifting the tallow candle he carried.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ What is this? He swayed in the pool of light, cursing sharply as a piece of hot wax dropped on to his hand.

  ‘Kill him,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘Kill him now!’

  Magister Thibault walked towards them.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he screeched.

  Ufford stepped into the pool of light, the arbalest still hidden beneath his cloak.

  ‘Magister Thibault, good evening. My friends and I became lost and found ourselves down here.’

  Thibault, full of wine and hot from the pleasures of the bed, blinked his watery eyes.

  ‘Why, it’s Ufford the Englishman, who is always asking me questions about Albert the Great.’

  Ufford took a step closer. The Magister studied him quickly from head to toe. Thibault’s mood was changing.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Thibault stepped back in alarm. The woman, leaning against the wall, was falling asleep. She seemed unaware of any danger, thumb in her mouth, laughing softly as if savouring a secret joke.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Thibault stepped back further. Ufford brought up the arbalest and released the bolt, which thudded deep into Thibault’s chest, sending him staggering back. The candle dropped from his hands as he went to clutch the feathered barb embedded deep in his chest. At first, unaware of the pain or the blood pumping out, he opened his mouth to scream, but Ufford leapt forward and struck him on the side of the head with the arbalest. The Magister slumped to his knees, groaning in pain, coughing on the blood frothing between his lips. Ufford simply pushed him to one side and raced towards Lucienne, who stood, hands still to her mouth, staring as if it were all a dream. Ufford felt a pang of pity at that beautiful face, the lovely lips, the pale ivory skin. He clutched the young woman by the neck and drove his dagger deep beneath the heart, drawing her closer on to the blade, watching the life-light die in those exquisite eyes.