Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death

by Paul Doherty

  He returned to the inner ward just as the coffins bearing the dead Frenchmen were blessed with incense by Father Andrew, before being loaded on to a cart to be taken on their long journey to Dover and across to France. Corbett couldn’t tell which coffin was Crotoy’s, but as he watched the cart leave, he crossed himself, quoted the psalm of the dead and quietly promised he would seek vengeance for his old friend’s murder.

  Ranulf was waiting for him on the steps to his chamber.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you have been wandering this castle like a ghost. Sir Edmund is insistent that we show de Craon every courtesy.’

  ‘Is he, now?’

  Corbett took out the key and unlocked his chamber. Ranulf followed him inside. He helped Corbett shave, then laid out the red, blue and gold cotehardie, the white cambric shirt and the dark blue hose Corbett always wore on such formal occasions. Ranulf could see old Master Longface was distracted, even forgetting to put on his chain of office or take the Chancery rings from the small casket on the table. Even when they reached the Hall of Angels, Corbett remained silent and withdrawn, almost unaware of the lavish preparations Sir Edmund had made for the banquet: the fire roaring in the hearth, the dais covered in snow-white cloths glittering with silver and gold flagons, goblets, tranchers and knives. The air was rich with savoury smells from the nearby kitchens, soft music floated down from the minstrels’ gallery and even the chill corners of the hall were warmed by fiery braziers.

  Sir Edmund and his family were sumptuously dressed, Lady Constance looking truly beautiful in a gown of dark blue, a gold cord round her slim waist and an exquisite white veil covering her lustrous hair. Corbett greeted them distractedly, and, when de Craon invited them into the circle around the great fire, he just nodded and went and stood beside Father Andrew.

  ‘I did what I could,’ the old priest whispered. ‘I know one of the Frenchmen was your friend, Sir Hugh, but in Dover their corpses will be embalmed again. I’m glad you were able to attend the Mass. I intend to say Mass again for them tomorrow, the Feast of St Damasus.’

  ‘St Damasus?’ Corbett queried.

  ‘One of the early popes,’ the priest replied. ‘I think he was a martyr who died for the faith. Sir Hugh, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Damsons,’ Corbett replied enigmatically. ‘Damsons,’ he whispered, ‘which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn mass.’

  Devices could be constructed to emit poisonous and infectious emanations wherever a man may wish.

  Roger Bacon, Concerning the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature

  Chapter 12

  Corbett tried to remain calm as he sat at the high table. He pretended to eat and drink but his mind was a blizzard of ideas, notions, excitement and fear. The anxiety which had gripped him crumbled in a release of emotion. At any other time he would have gone for a vigorous walk, saddled his horse for a ride, or even taken his song sheets out to chant some carol or psalm. The conversation at high table swirled round him like a breeze. What did it matter? It was all pretence. De Craon could sit there, stuffing his maw with the delicacies from the kitchen, preening himself and listening ever so graciously to Lady Catherine’s chatter. You’re an assassin, Corbett thought, steeped in wickedness. He almost exclaimed with relief when the banquet ended. Sir Edmund rose and volubly thanked de Craon, who gave some simpering reply. Corbett winked at Ranulf and pretended he was in his cups, lounging in his chair, legs sprawled as if half asleep. Once the rest were gone, however, he insisted that he, Ranulf and Sir Edmund meet in the Constable’s private chambers. Corbett offered Lady Catherine his most profuse apologies.

  ‘No, no,’ she murmured, picking up a small bejewelled psalter from the table. ‘I was watching you during the meal, Sir Hugh; there is something very wrong, isn’t there?’

  Ranulf, picking at a spot on his jerkin, looked up quickly. He had been so immersed in Lady Constance he had hardly given Sir Hugh a second glance, but now he could see the Keeper of the Secret Seal was not drunk or tired but tense with excitement.

  ‘What is it?’ the Constable asked, closing the door behind his wife.

  ‘Sir Edmund, Corfe Castle is about to be attacked!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the Constable scoffed. ‘It would need a siege train, battering rams, scaling ladders—’

  ‘I don’t mean that way.’ Corbett sat down on a quilted stool. ‘It’s to be taken by treachery.’ He turned to Ranulf. ‘For days we have talked about secret signs, ciphers and codes. Ranulf, remember the one I taught you? I told you to pick a coin from a pile on the table and concentrate hard. Which king was on the coin? I asked you to reflect carefully.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Ranulf smiled, ‘and we astonished everyone because I always picked up a coin you could name.’

  ‘What’s the point of this?’ Sir Edmund loosened the cords of his shirt. He had scoffed at Corbett’s declaration but he knew this dark-faced clerk was both a soldier and a shrewd plotter.

  ‘Sir Edmund, you remember that piece of parchment you found on Mistress Feyner about bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons for a Pope to eat before his dawn Mass? De Craon has confessed that he wrote it. It’s a secret cipher. When I taught Ranulf our trick I would use a certain word to denote a certain king. When I asked him to reflect, he would reply, “Yes, I’ve considered,” or “Yes, I’ve reflected,” or “Yes, I’ve remembered.” Each word stood for a certain king. “Reflected” could be Henry, “remembered” could be Edward, “considered” could be Richard. It’s a cheap fairground trick, but one which can be made more complicated. Now, de Craon knows that we are suspicious. We should never have found that message. At first he denied it until he realised that, by admitting to it, he can continue with his plot.’

  ‘Which is?’ Sir Edmund asked testily.

  ‘To storm this castle by stealth. The message gives the time, the place and the method. Consider his message carefully. Bread to fill any belly; the word for belly in French is ventre; it can also mean, used loosely, the entrance to a castle. They aim to seize the gates.’

  ‘When?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Ah, now we come to the damsons. De Craon is out of season; true, there may be some wizened plums, damsons preserved since autumn. However, he is not alluding to this. Damson means Damasus. He was one of the early popes. Tomorrow we celebrate his feast, and the reference to the dawn Mass names the time, before daybreak, when Father Andrew usually summons us to the first Mass of the day.’

  Sir Edmund sat down in a chair and absentmindedly sipped from his goblet.

  ‘But how?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Whom can de Craon use? Has he hired the outlaws?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Suborned the garrison?’

  ‘Impossible,’ Sir Edmund declared.

  ‘The Flemish pirates,’ Corbett put in. ‘Sir Edmund, we have good intelligence that Flemish pirates have been seen in the Narrow Seas, cruising close to our southern shore.’

  ‘True, true, and they do land, though it’s villages they sack.’

  ‘This time it is different,’ Corbett declared. ‘They have the weather on their side. Corfe stands on the Island of Purbeck; to the south there is the sea, to the east the estuary. These Flemings are the most accomplished sailors; they have charts, maps and information they have collected. They can beach their ships in a lonely inlet or cove, assemble and move inland.’

  ‘But they would be seen.’

  ‘No, Sir Edmund, it’s the dead of winter. When was the last time you left this castle? They would enter the forest, and God help anyone they met. I would wager a bag of gold that corpses now litter the woods: charcoal burners, chapmen, peddlers, tinkers.’

  ‘The outlaws!’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘Poorly armed, weak, they wouldn’t stand a chance against such ferocious fighters.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Corbett conceded, ‘which is why our outlaws did not meet us as agreed. God help the poor souls, they must be dead. In fact, Ranulf, we are most fortunate for I’m sure we almost met the Flemings ourselves.
’

  ‘Where?’ Ranulf couldn’t believe his ears. He often confessed to Chanson how old Master Longface could surprise him, but now he was truly astonished.

  ‘We’re talking about two to three hundred men,’ Corbett closed his eyes, ‘and they have approached the castle as close as they can.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘I don’t think Father Matthew is ill at all. On the day we visited him the church was locked and barred. If we had forced the doors we would have seen a sight which would have terrified us just before the air became thick with arrows.’

  ‘You’re saying they were there, in the house and church?’

  ‘Yes, Ranulf, and even closer, perhaps in the tavern itself. They are going to use Master Reginald’s cart, as they probably plotted to use Mistress Feyner’s. When de Craon visited the tavern I’m sure he went to leave that same message which you, Sir Edmund, found on that woman’s corpse.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It could be done so easily, a piece of parchment dropped to the floor.’

  ‘But the priest would have told us.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘So would Master Reginald.’

  ‘Both their lives are threatened,’ Corbett explained. ‘I’m sure that in the tavern, above stairs or in its cellars, lurk men with crossbows primed, or blades to the throats of Master Reginald’s servants, and the same in the church. In fact, the priest did try to warn us. Do you remember, Ranulf, Father Matthew claimed he hadn’t eaten, but we smelt the odour of cooking, and water had been drawn from the butt. Also there was that expensive brass bowl lying out in the garden. No poor priest would have thrown out something so costly.’

  ‘What bowl?’ Sir Edmund asked. ‘What is this, Sir Hugh? How do you know de Craon is behind this? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why, Sir Edmund, not yet, but the Flemings are mercenaries; they can be hired by the French King, or his brother, or a member of the royal council. Everything is done in secret. A sum of money is given to some banking house; more is promised when the deed is done. Do you remember that fire, Sir Edmund? Don’t you think it was strange that your guards glimpsed a fire on the edge of the forest? And within a short while a similar fire started in the castle. De Craon was receiving and sending messages; like a chess game, all the pieces were moving into place.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Sir Edmund whispered, shaking his head. ‘Sir Hugh, de Craon is an accredited envoy.’

  ‘Precisely, Sir Edmund. He’ll wash his hands of it, claim he knows nothing about it. If I’m wrong I will apologise to you and the King, but I would like the opportunity to apologise; I don’t fancy having my throat slashed, or a crossbow bolt in my chest.’

  Sir Edmund sat staring at the floor. ‘If they wanted to kill you, Sir Hugh, why didn’t they do it out in the forest, or in the tavern?’

  ‘Oh, that would alert you. But what you say is significant, Sir Edmund. They must be looking for something else. I know you are Constable of the castle, but I am the Keeper of the—’

  ‘And I have a wife and daughter,’ Sir Edmund snapped. ‘The solution is very simple, Sir Hugh, I’ll double the guards. I’ll secretly pass the word.’

  ‘Don’t let the French know the reason why.’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll order the outer drawbridge to be pulled up and the portcullis lowered.’

  ‘The inner ward as well?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No, no. If something should happen,’ Corbett explained, ‘and the attackers get into the outer ward, the defenders must be given the chance to flee across the second drawbridge. If it was raised, by the time it’s lowered again the attackers could follow the defenders deeper into the castle.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sir Edmund, I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. Keep our preparations as secret as possible.’

  ‘Why not send out horsemen?’ Ranulf demanded, only to shrug as he realised the futility of his remark. ‘Of course, in the dead of night, in the depth of winter . . .’

  Sir Edmund reluctantly agreed to all of Corbett’s requests. He had served with Corbett in Wales and along the Scottish march, and if Sir Hugh smelt danger, then danger there was.

  Corbett and Ranulf returned to Corbett’s chamber. The castle yards were now deserted; only the occasional servant hurried across, carrying a torch. The sky was cloud-free, the stars seemed like pricks of light. Corbett walked down to the entrance of the first ward. Officers of the garrison were already gathering around the main gateway, and even as he turned away, the rumble of chains echoed across. Corbett glimpsed some servants, the travelling tinkers and chapmen gathered around a fire. All seemed peaceful enough. As soon as he returned to his chamber he checked the great coffer and changed, putting on a stout leather jacket, testing his sword and dagger, drawing them in and out of their sheaths, whilst Ranulf took from their stores two crossbows and quivers of arrows.

  ‘I had best tell the others,’ Ranulf declared.

  ‘No, no,’ Corbett warned. ‘Don’t! I want you to stay with me. You can sleep on the bed if you want.’ He pushed his chair in front of the fire and sat, recalling everything he had said to the Constable. He truly believed that the danger was real and insidious; all those little things he had glimpsed and heard in the castle, and beyond, now made sense. Yet he cursed his own tiredness, for there was something he had missed! He and de Craon had clashed swords for how long now? It must be years. And if de Craon was playing chess with other people’s lives, he would have plotted secret moves and strategies to further his designs.

  ‘Causa disputandi, for sake of argument,’ Corbett whispered, ‘let us presume that de Craon knows that I know what mischief he is planning. The Flemish pirates may be resolute fighters but they are not an army. They have no siege equipment.’

  ‘They do have ladders.’ Ranulf spoke up, sitting on the bed behind him.

  Corbett smiled over his shoulder. ‘Long enough to scale these walls, Ranulf?’ He went back to his musings. ‘The drawbridge is drawn up, the gates guarded. Oh God, I’ve forgotten something!’

  For a while he dozed, starting awake at any noise, even the faint cries of the sentries. He placed another log on the fire and went across to check the hour candle. It had been lit at noon the previous day and the flame was already eating down to the fifteenth circle.

  ‘If it comes,’ Corbett glanced at Ranulf on the bed, fast asleep, ‘if it comes, it will be soon.’

  He returned to his chair, trying to recall what it was he had missed. He was falling asleep when he heard a sound outside, the slither of a foot. He sprang to his feet, drew his sword and tiptoed towards the door. He drew back the bolts, which had been recently greased, and turned the key in the lock, then lifted the latch, opened the door a crack and stared out. Nothing but shadows dancing on the wall. The cresset torch was leaping vigorously and he could feel the draught from the icy wind. He looked down at the floor; in the murky light he could see the imprint of footsteps. Someone had come up here. The door to the tower was unlocked. Someone had climbed those steps and tried his door.

  Corbett, gripping his sword, went down the steps. As he rounded the corner to the bottom stairwell he heard the click of the latch as the outside door closed. Fear pricking the back of his neck, and fighting to calm his breath, he approached the door, lifted the latch and slipped through. The darkness was thinning; across the yard he could see the glow of a brazier, men lounging in the shadows wrapped in cloaks, fast asleep, nothing untoward or out of place. Corbett stepped back inside, drew across the bolt and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf was awake, already pulling his boots on.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Ranulf, go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about the Lady Constance. Sir Hugh, have you ever seen such a beautiful neck? I mean,’ Ranulf added hastily, ‘apart from the Lady Maeve’s?’

  ‘So you think Lady Maeve has a beautiful neck . . .’

  ‘I mean I would love to buy the Lady Constance a necklace to hang round it, perhaps a silver cross or a costly stone?’

  ‘Why not a
silver heart?’ Corbett replied. ‘But you won’t find anything like that in the castle. Perhaps when this danger has passed . . .’

  ‘There’s always the chapmen and tinkers,’ Ranulf replied.

  ‘Aye, there is.’ Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. He dozed for a while, thinking about the Lady Maeve and the silver collar he intended to buy for her as a New Year’s gift. He had seen something in Cheapside he had liked. That was the best place to go. Travelling tinkers . . . Corbett opened his eyes, his stomach lurched. Going over to the hour candle, he noticed it was close to the sixteenth ring. He heard a sound from outside like the cry of a bird. He stared at Ranulf and realised what he had forgotten.

  ‘Ranulf!’ His henchman started awake. Corbett was already putting on his war belt, picking up the arbalest. ‘Ranulf, do you have a horn, anything?’

  ‘What is it? I have something somewhere.’ Ranulf leapt off the bed. ‘It’s in my room. Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

  ‘Tinkers, travellers, chapmen. Ranulf, think! During the last few days a number of them have drifted into the castle.’

  ‘Oh, St Michael and all his Angels,’ Ranulf breathed, pulling on his boots and picking up his own weapons.

  Corbett pushed him through the door and down the steps. The bolt to the outer door was stuck and he caught his hand pulling it back. Once in the yard, Ranulf would have run across to his own chamber, but Corbett pulled him back.

  ‘It’s too late for that. Au secours!’ Corbett shouted, using the alarm signal for any military camp.

  ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ Ranulf echoed the shout. Slipping and slithering they raced across the yard.

  Men-at-arms and archers, faces heavy with sleep, struggled awake and came out of the small cottages built against the walls of the inner bailey. They tried to challenge Corbett but the clerk was already racing across the cobbles, down to the second drawbridge. As he thundered across that into the first ward, he realised it was too late. The main portcullis was raised, the drawbridge was going down, and a group of armed men clustered in the murky light. One or two held torches, and there was the scrape of steel even as the piteous cry came from the gatehouse. Men-at-arms on the parapet walks above him were alarmed, roused by the clatter of chains and the crash of the drawbridge as it fell. The sentries were caught by surprise; they didn’t know whether to face the danger in the yard below or the horsemen and carts which seemed to erupt from the darkness, thundering across the lower drawbridge. Corbett, Ranulf by his side, hurried across the cobbles.