by Paul Doherty
‘Sir Hugh!’
‘Sir Edmund!’
They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Corbett went to show his commission from the King, but Launge waved it away with his fingers, demanding to be introduced to the rest of his party. Corbett did so. Pleasantries were exchanged. Questions were asked about Corbett’s wife, the Lady Maeve, and his two children, Edward and Eleanor, named after the King and his late lamented Queen. Corbett enjoyed the introductions, eager to view Ranulf’s reaction.
Sir Edmund was small and thick-set, grey hair straggling down either side of a square face burnt dark by the sun. A sombre-eyed man, his beard and moustache neatly clipped, Sir Edmund was dressed in a green and gold cotehardie with a black leather belt around his waist. Corbett knew the Constable of old as a born soldier, a skilled jouster and one of the old King’s comrades, entrusted with the care of this important fortress. Lady Catherine Launge was buxom and plump, her red-cheeked face and grey hair almost hidden by a voluminous old-fashioned wimple. Dressed in her dark blue gown with a silver girdle, she stood on tiptoe to greet Corbett before introducing what Corbett knew would be the source of Ranulf’s astonishment, her truly beautiful daughter. Constance was tall and willowy, her glorious auburn hair plaited under a bejewelled net. She wore a pelisse across her shoulders, and her dark tawny dress ringed a swan-like neck. But it was her face which Corbett found so beautiful; oval, with pale ivory skin, perfect features made all the more exquisite by calm sea-grey eyes. Corbett winked at Ranulf, who now realised why his master had told him he would be surprised, and so to be careful to observe all the courtly etiquette at Corfe.
Once protocol had been observed, Sir Edward insisted on taking Corbett and his party on a swift tour of the keep and inner ward, introducing them to officers of the garrison. Ranulf, reluctantly bidding the Lady Constance farewell, had no choice but to follow. Corbett became aware of how truly powerful the castle really was, with its mailed force of knights, men-at-arms and archers, as well as a company of Welsh longbowmen trained to deliver massed volleys of their goose-quilled yard-long shafts. He became breathless as they climbed the keep and the towers of the inner bailey. He and his party were to be lodged in the Salt Tower, which lay to the east of the keep, a collection of rather shabby chambers furnished with the bare necessities. Launge apologised, saying he had done what he could. Corbett’s chamber was on the second floor of the tower, while his three companions would share a chamber above. He brushed aside Sir Edward’s apologies and pronounced himself satisfied; his room was circular, its walls lime-washed, the wooden floor covered in rugs. A four-poster bed stood in the centre of the chamber, warmed and protected by dyed woollen drapes. There was a table, chairs, stools and a chest for his belongings, as well as a sufficiency of candles and lanterns as the window was a simple square, closed by a wooden board. He realised Launge had tried to make it as comfortable as possible; at least the chamber had a hearth built against the outside wall, with small-wheeled braziers either side.
‘I have reserved the best chamber above the long hall for the Seigneur de Craon.’ Sir Edmund raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Though personally I would like to throw him into the moat.’
Corbett laughed and stood aside as Chanson, helped by castle servants, brought in his belongings, along with his precious chancery coffer, which Corbett insisted on immediately placing in the iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.
‘It’s the stoutest in the castle,’ Launge explained. ‘Your chancery coffer arrived yesterday escorted by a troop of lancers, and spent the night in my strongroom. That chest is just as safe.’
‘It’s just what I want.’ Corbett patted the Constable affectionately on the shoulder and went up the spiral staircase to inspect his companions’ quarters.
Afterwards, Corbett, Ranulf and Bolingbroke met with the constable in the council chamber, a long, low-ceilinged room on the ground floor of the keep. It was so ill lit by the narrow loopholes and arrow slits that the air was thick with the smoke from candles and torches. Sir Edmund ordered the doors to be closed, waving Corbett to one end of the heavy oaken table. He served them some ale, bread and cheese, then sat on Corbett’s right, facing Ranulf and Bolingbroke. He asked about the King, and Corbett replied tactfully. He didn’t think it was appropriate to inform Sir Edmund about the King’s sudden rages at being trapped in a peace treaty with Philip of France.
‘What problems do you have here, Sir Edmund? The fortress is well manned; you have many soldiers.’
‘Drawn in from outlying garrisons,’ the Constable replied.
‘And the reason?’
‘Flemish pirates, a swarm of them, have been seen off the foreland; they are packed in herring ships guarded by cogs of war. According to rumour they have been raiding coastal villages in Cornwall, Devon and Dorset.’
Corbett drank his ale and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. Pirates, sheltering in the ports of the Low Countries, were a constant threat, but why had these appeared now? Did it have anything to do with his meeting de Craon at Corfe Castle? Corbett had many spies in Hainault, Flanders and Brabant, port officials and sailors who provided him with information about these pirates. They were financed by merchants, powerful men in cities like Dordrecht who secured letters patent from their rulers to harass other countries’ shipping in the Narrow Seas. They could also be hired by foreign princes, as Edward of England had often done in his wars against France, Scotland and Wales. Had they been employed now by Philip of France, or was this just the normal pirate activity which plagued the southern coast of England?
‘You are worried, Sir Hugh?’
‘Of course I am. Have they been seen off Corfe?’
Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘This castle is too powerful. Why throw yourself against the rocks when you can gather a richer harvest in the fishing villages to the west?’
‘And what else?’ Corbett insisted. ‘I heard rumours about young maids being brutally murdered.’
Sir Edmund put his face in his hands. ‘If God be known, I wish they were rumours. Five corpses in all, killed at close range by a crossbow bolt.’ He removed his hands and took a deep breath. ‘Three of the corpses were found in midden heaps in the castle wards; two were found outside, one near the moat, the other in the approaches leading to the eastern postern gate.’
‘When did these murders begin?’
‘About two months ago . . . yes, it must be.’ Sir Edmund chewed the corner of his lip. ‘The first was found after Michaelmas, a castle girl who served at the nearby inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’
‘Three corpses found in the castle?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Two outside? The murderer must be someone who lives here.’
Sir Edmund glared at this red-haired clerk. ‘I have reached the same conclusion myself, sir.’
‘No offence.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to placate the father of the beautiful woman he had just met and couldn’t forget.
‘My officers and I have investigated.’ Sir Edmund took a deep breath. ‘All five girls were from the castle. You know how it is. Corfe is a small village in itself; we have a leech, who also acts as an apothecary, we have a small market, a chapel served by old Father Andrew. People come and go: traders, tinkers, pedlars, the moon people and the road folk, the wanderers, the tinkers.’
Corbett held his hands up, fingers splayed. ‘But five corpses?’ The Constable was unable to hold his gaze. ‘Five corpses in what, the space of two months? This bloody work can’t be laid at the door of some itinerant. The assassin must live somewhere close, perhaps only a short walk from this room.’
Corbett pressed against the table, pushed back his chair and went across to one of the loopholes, standing on a ledge to peer out. He felt tired and sweaty; the fug in the room was thick. He had slept badly the night before, whilst the journey had been cold and hard. He did not relish his meeting with de Craon and was alarmed at the reports Bolingbroke had brought from Paris. And now this! Corbett thought of similar murders he had encountered
in Suffolk and elsewhere, evil men hunting down young girls, slaughtering them like a weasel would birds in a farmyard, falling on them like a hawk would a dove. There had been murders like this in London; even the Royal Council . . .
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘I was thinking.’ Corbett returned to the table, patting Ranulf on the shoulder and glancing at Bolingbroke, who was half asleep in his chair. ‘I was thinking,’ Corbett repeated, sitting down, ‘of similar murders. They have been discussed even at Westminster. Young women being slaughtered, often abused, their bodies thrown into a river, sometimes even buried beneath a screed of soil in one of the city cemeteries.’
‘There have been murders since the days of Cain,’ Launge pointed out, ‘and maids have been ravished since time immemorial.’
‘No, this is different.’ Corbett raised his tankard against his cheek, relishing its coolness. ‘Sir Edmund, you have heard how the Commons and the Lords have approved measures, statute law, to clear the highways and make the roads safer. Do you know the reason for that? They say that the countryside is changing. There’s no longer any need to plough the land or sow a crop.’
‘Just grass it over,’ Sir Edmund declared, ‘and let the sheep graze. It’s happening all through Dorset and Devon. God forgive me, in my own manor I have done the same.’
‘The foreign merchants can’t get enough of our wool,’ Corbett continued, ‘and King Edward sells it to the Frescobaldi bankers in return for treasure to finance his wars. They say it takes twelve people to plough, sow and harvest a field, but one man to guard a hundred sheep. Villages are dying, the poor are becoming poorer and they flock to the cities, London, Bristol, York, Carlisle, or to the great castles like Corfe, young maids looking for employment, sometimes without kith or kin or a place to lay their head. In Southwark alone there are five thousand whores, easy prey for the foxes, the hawks and the weasels, those with killer souls.’ Corbett paused, half listening to the sounds of the castle carrying faintly through the thick walls of the keep. For a few moments he felt a deep pang of home-sickness and wondered what the Lady Maeve would be doing. ‘What hour is it?’ He turned to Sir Edmund.
‘It must be about nine.’ The Constable apologised for the hour candle not being lit.
‘If we can,’ Corbett sighed, ‘we shall help trap this murderer. Do you suspect anyone?’
Launge shook his head.
‘The hour hurries on.’ Corbett drew himself up. ‘We must come to the business in hand. When do the French arrive?’
‘They should be here late this afternoon. They landed at Dover three days ago. Seigneur de Craon, four professors from the Sorbonne, de Craon’s bodyguard and a few royal archers. Why this meeting?’ Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘And why here?’
‘Seven months ago,’ Corbett replied, ‘Edward of England sealed the peace treaty of Paris with his beloved cousin Philip of France. They promised to settle all differences over shipping in the Narrow Seas, as well as Philip of France’s claim over certain territories in dispute in the English Duchy of Gascony. Our King was forced to agree to a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Isabella, Philip’s only daughter. The French King is beside himself with glee; he sees himself as a new Charlemagne – the king before whom all other kings and princes will bow. He looks forward to the day when one of his grandsons sits on the throne at Westminster whilst another is made Duke of Gascony. He hopes this will weaken English control over south-western France and make it easier to absorb Gascony into the Capetian patrimony. Philip sees himself as the glorious descendant of St Louis. He claims that his family, the Capets, are of sacred blood. He is helped in all this by the Papacy, who, as you know, because of family feuds in Rome, have moved to Avignon in southern France.’ Corbett placed his thumb against the table top. ‘The French have the Pope there.’ He pressed his thumb even harder. ‘The Treaty of Paris is protected by the most solemn penalties imposed by the Pope.’
‘And our King wishes to escape it.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He would love to tell Philip to tear the treaty up, leave Gascony alone, stop meddling in Scotland and allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he wishes. In truth, Edward is trapped. If he breaks the treaty he will be excommunicated, cursed by bell, book and candle, an outcast in Europe. He would love to go to war, but the barons of the Exchequer say the treasury is empty.’
Corbett paused for effect. Everything he said the Constable knew. Both he and Corbett had fought in Scotland, where the Scottish princes refused to bow to Edward. More and more armies were being sent north, more treasure drained away.
‘And so we come to Friar Roger Bacon. He was born in the last years of King John, our present King’s grandfather, at Ilchester in Somerset. He proved to be an outstanding scholar, studying at Oxford and Paris. While in Paris he came under the influence of Pierre de Marincourt. People claim that Marincourt was a magician who had discovered secret knowledge.’
Corbett glanced at his two companions; Ranulf was listening intently, as he did to anything on education or knowledge. Bolingbroke had roused himself, eager to discover the true reasons for his flight from Paris, and Ufford’s hideous death.
‘Bacon became a Franciscan,’ Corbett continued. ‘He wrote a number of books, Opus Maius, Opus Minus and Opus Tertium. He also disseminated a number of treatises, such as The Art of the Marvellous and How to Prevent the Onset of Old Age. At first Friar Roger was supported by the Papacy, but eventually he fell under the suspicion of heresy, and until shortly before his death in 1292, some eleven years ago, he was kept in prison. His writings were frowned upon, and they say that when he died, his brothers at the Franciscan priory in Oxford nailed his manuscripts to the wall and left them to rot. Friar Roger’s disciples dispersed. We know of one, a scholar called John whom Bacon often sent to the Holy See. After Friar Roger died, these followers disappeared like puffs of smoke on a summer’s day.’
‘This secret knowledge?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I have studied Friar Roger’s works,’ Corbett replied, ‘as has Master William here. His theories are truly startling. He talks of being able to construct a series of mirrors or glasses which will make places miles away appear so close you could touch them. He claims that Caesar built such a device before his invasion of Britain.’ Corbett warmed to his theme. ‘He talks of carts which can travel without being pulled by oxen, of machines which can go to the bottom of the sea, of ships which don’t need rowers, even of machines that can fly through the air. He also talks of a black powder which can create a thunder-like explosion, a mixture of saltpetre and other substances.’
‘But these have been talked of before.’ Bolingbroke spoke up. ‘Even the great Aristotle claims it is possible to build a machine to go along the bottom of the sea.’
‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded, ‘but Friar Roger is different. His Grace the King and I have been through his papers. Bacon actually insists that he has seen some of these experiments work.’ Corbett sat back in his chair, gazing around this stark whitewashed chamber, so simple and bare, nothing but a crucifix and a few coffers and a side table for jugs and goblets, such a contrast to what he was describing.
‘Impossible!’ Sir Edmund breathed. ‘This is witch-craft, magic, the ravings of a warlock.’
‘Is it?’ Ranulf retorted. ‘In the Tower, the King’s engineers are working on bombards which can throw a stone harder and faster against a castle wall than a catapult. The Flemings are building a ship with sails different from ours which make their cogs faster yet sturdier.’
‘I know, I know.’ Sir Edmund sipped from his tankard. ‘But why should his Grace the King be interested in all of this? The schools are full of new wonders; new manuscripts are being discovered; even I, an old soldier, know this. As you do, Sir Hugh. You have debated in the Halls of Oxford and listened to the schoolmen.’
‘I would agree.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ve heard the whispers about a magical bronze head which can speak all manner of wisdom, whilst they claim the Tem
plar order have discovered the secrets of Solomon, but it is,’ Corbett grinned, ‘as if someone claims to be able to call Satan up from Hell. He may be able to, but will Satan come?’ His words created laughter, which lessened the tension. ‘Friar Roger, however, is different. During his captivity he wrote another book, the Secretus Secretorum, or Secret of Secrets, in which he revealed, in great detail, all his secret knowledge. He wrote the book then copied it out again. The original went to Paris, whilst the copy stayed in England.’
‘That’s why Ufford died?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied more sharply than he intended.
‘We stole the original?’
‘No,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘you only stole a second copy; that’s what you brought back to Westminster. The original is still kept by King Philip himself in his treasure house.’
‘What!’ Bolingbroke would have sprung to his feet, but Ranulf gripped him by the wrist, forcing him to stay seated. Bolingbroke knocked the tankard off the table. ‘A copy? Is that why Walter died? We failed!’
‘You didn’t fail.’ Corbett’s voice remained calm. ‘Edward of England wanted to know if his copy and the copy kept in Paris were the same. I am pleased to say they are.’
‘What does it say?’ Sir Edmund ignored Bolingbroke’s outburst.
‘That’s the problem.’ Corbett got to his feet and went to retrieve the tankard. He refilled it and placed it in front of his clerk, patting him gently on the shoulder before resuming his seat. ‘The Secretus Secretorum is written in a cipher no one understands. Whoever breaks that cipher will enter a treasure house of knowledge. For months, the clerks of the Secret Chancery have tried this cipher or that in a search to find a key. We know de Craon’s clerks have been doing the same, to no result. Edward knows Philip has the Secret of Secrets; the French know Edward has a fair and accurate copy.’
