Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (2 page)

‘Your Grace asked to see me?’ De Craon did not like the harsh look on his master’s face.

‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Philip’s face broke into a smile, and striding across, he grasped de Craon’s face between his hands and squeezed tightly. ‘We have matters to discuss, Amaury.’ He led this red-haired, most secretive of councillors over to a small bench halfway down the chapel in a narrow enclave, where he usually met his confessor to whisper his sins and seek absolution. Philip didn’t really believe he needed absolution; after all, God was a king and he would understand. Nevertheless, this was an ideal place to meet and plot where no eavesdropper could lurk or spy take note.

‘Well, Amaury.’ Philip sat down, pulling his robes about him, gesturing for de Craon to sit next to him. ‘I read your memorandum.’ He played with the red tassels on the silken glove. ‘You have insisted,’ he whispered, ‘that I face two problems.’

‘The first, your Grace, is Sir Hugh Corbett.’

‘Is he a problem, Amaury, or the result of your hatred for him?’

‘Your Grace.’ De Craon bowed imperceptibly. ‘You are as astute as always. I hate Corbett for what he represents, for what he leads, that Secret Chancery with its legion of spies.’

‘True, true.’ Philip nodded.

‘And the University of the Sorbonne.’

De Craon kept his head down, but he knew from the long sigh from his master that he had hit a mark.

‘The lawyers,’ Philip hissed. ‘Those men from the gutter who believe my will does not have force of law.’

‘Your Grace, there are measures we can take.’

Philip leaned closer, like a priest listening to a penitent, as there, in that House of God, the French King and his Master of Spies spun their bloody tangled web to draw Edward of England deeper into the mire.

Walter Ufford was good at peering through keyholes. He claimed to have a natural talent for it, and on that Friday, the eve of the Feast of St Monica, the Mother of St Augustine, he was using his talents on behalf of his master, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England. Ufford was enjoying himself. In fact, when he visited the shriving pew to confess his sins at the beginning of Advent, he would confess to this. Walter Ufford was busy spying on Magister Thibault, Reader in Divinity and Master of the Schools at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. He glanced quickly up and down the gallery. It was deserted. Only the creak of floorboards and the scampering of vermin echoed along that gloomy passageway. Magister Thibault would not want any distraction; after all, it was his house, a soaring three-storey mansion in the Rue St Veuve, only a walk away from the stinking, turbulent Seine. Ufford strained his ears. From below he could hear the sounds of revelry, the music of the rebec, flute and tambour. The dancing had begun. Those dark-eyed moon girls would be cavorting like Salome, drawing lustful glances and rousing the hot passions of the spectators.

‘There’ll be little schooling done tonight,’ Ufford whispered to himself. He pressed his eye against the keyhole. He was so pleased that Magister Thibault had removed the key. The gap was large and provided Walter with a clear view of the old lecher’s bedchamber, a grand place with its polished floor and woollen rugs, the walls covered in costly drapes. A fire crackled merrily in the mantled hearth, whilst the candles placed around the chamber lit up the tableau taking place on the blue-draped four-poster bed. Magister Thibault, naked as the day he was born, was busy cavorting with Lucienne,
fille de joie
, one of the best the House of Joy could provide. Ufford groaned quietly to himself. Lucienne was a thing of beauty, with her lustrous red hair and snow-white skin. She had the figure of a Venus and the face of an Aphrodite. He watched in quiet surprise at the agility of this old master of the schools. He could hear his groans of pleasure and Lucienne’s cries of joy.

‘He is occupied?’

Walter whirled round, hand going for the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. Despite the scarlet robe and the gilt mask covering his face, he recognised his companion, William Bolingbroke, like Ufford an eternal student of the University of Paris, a man who immersed himself in the
scientia naturalis
.

‘He’s truly enjoying himself,’ Ufford whispered.

‘Put your mask on!’

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 locks 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.