‘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 Templar 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.’
‘Ah,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Now I see. Philip has invoked the peace treaty, the clauses stipulating how he and Edward are to work together.’
‘Precisely.’ Corbett steepled his fingers. ‘Philip has demanded, especially since the theft of the copy from Paris, that both kingdoms share their knowledge. He knows I am responsible for the secret ciphers of the Chancery, so he called for this meeting.’
‘Why here?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Philip is being diplomatic. He wants to reassure Edward. He simply asked that the meeting place be in some castle on the south coast, not Dover or one of the Cinque Ports, well away from the hustle and bustle of the cities. Edward proposed Corfe, and Philip agreed. De Craon will bring with him four professors from the university, experts in the study of Bacon’s manuscripts, men skilled in breaking ciphers. They will meet myself, Bolingbroke and Master Ranulf here.’
‘Who are they?’ Bolingbroke asked. ‘What are their names?’
‘Etienne Destaples, Jean Vervins, Pierre Sanson and Louis Crotoy.’
Bolingbroke whistled under his breath. ‘They are all professors of law as well as theology, leading scholars at the Sorbonne.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I know one of them, Louis Crotoy; he lectured in the schools of Oxford, a formidable scholar, with a brain as sharp as a knife.’
‘I don’t believe this.’
‘You don’t believe what?’ Ranulf smiled.
Bolingbroke just shook his head. He took off his cloak and threw it over the table, fingers going for his dagger in its leather sheath. ‘Philip means mischief; there is treachery here.’
‘Which is why we are meeting here,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Tell me again, William, why Ufford killed Magister Thibault.’
‘He had to.’ Bolingbroke sat down and rubbed his face. ‘We were in the cellar trying to open that damnable coffer.’
‘But why?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why should Thibault, whom Ufford last saw cavorting with a buxom wench, leave his bed sport, his warm, comfortable chamber, and, on a night of revelry, take that woman down to a cold cellar? What was he going to show her? A precious manuscript she couldn’t understand?’
‘Perhaps he was boasting,’ Ranulf said. ‘He wanted to impress her?’
‘But why then?’ Corbett insisted. ‘At that specific moment on that particular night?’
‘I don’t know.’ Bolingbroke shook his head. ‘But yes, I’ve thought the same. You’ve asked me often enough, Sir Hugh; now Thibault’s colleagues are coming, you ask again. I truly don’t know.’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘I have also wondered how Ufford was trapped and caught.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure the manuscript we stole was genuine? Or has Philip simply put fools’ caps on all of us?’
The wise have always been divided from the multitude.
Everyone ought to know languages and needs to study them and understand their silence.
Chapter 3
Alusia, the butterymaid, daughter of Gilbert, under-steward of the pantry at Corfe Castle, moved amongst the gravestones and crosses in the large cemetery of St Peter’s in the Wood. Alusia, small and plump, with curly black hair and dancing eyes, was very pleased with herself. The arrival of the King’s men at the castle had caused a great deal of excitement. People pretended to go about their normal business but, as her father remarked, ‘a stranger is a stranger’, and everyone stared at these powerful men from the distant city of London. Alusia had been frightened by the sombre-faced clerk with the black hair and silver-hilted sword, but already the girls were talking about the red-haired one, just the way he swaggered, those green eyes darting about ready for mischief.
Alusia would have loved to have stayed and listened to the gossip, but Mistress Feyner had declared she would leave promptly at noon, and Mistress Feyner was to be obeyed. The castle girls called Mistress Feyner ‘the Old Owl’, because she never missed anything. Hard of face and hard of eye, strong of arm and sharp of wit, Mistress Feyner was chief washerwoman. She knew her status and her powers as much as any great lady in a hall. Indeed, matters had grown worse since Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, had disappeared on Harvest Sunday last. Gone like a leaf on the breeze, and no one knew where. Of course, none of the other girls really missed her. Phillipa, too, had been full of her own airs and graces, especially when Father Matthew gathered them in the nave on a Saturday afternoon to teach all the girls of the area the alphabet and the importance of numbers. A strange one, Father Matthew, so learned.
Alusia looked up at the leaden-grey sky. Was it going to snow? She hoped not, but if it did, at least she’d come here on Marion’s name day to honour her friend’s grave. Alusia blew on her frozen fingers and watched her hot breath disappear. Rebecca should have come with her, but Mistress Feyner had been most insistent that if she wanted a ride in the laundry cart down to the church, she’d have to leave immediately. Mistress Feyner had linen to deliver to Master Reginald at the Tavern in the Forest, and Rebecca would simply have to run to catch up. Alusia could not quarrel with that, but now, in this deserted graveyard, she thought that perhaps she should have waited. Oh where, she wondered, had Rebecca got to? When would she come?