‘Did you see him die?’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘I was near the Madelene Quayside when I heard the clamour. A beggar told me how royal troops had been in that quarter since the early hours. I decided to leave Paris by another route. I joined a group of pilgrims journeying to Notre Dame in Boulogne.’ Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘It was easy enough. I pretended to be a French clerk. It was simply a matter of reaching the port and securing passage on an English cog.’
‘Who do you think this traitor was?’ Corbett asked.
‘It could have been de Craon himself, or one of the men he is bringing with him.’
‘And why do you think he is bringing them to England?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Two reasons,’ Bolingbroke replied, ‘and I have thought deeply about this. First, I am sure Philip of France would love to discover the secrets of Roger Bacon. He is genuinely interested and wants to see what progress, if any, we English have made.’
‘And secondly?’
‘Secondly, Sir Hugh, what if . . .’ Bolingbroke paused, running his finger round the rim of his tankard. ‘What if we turn the game on its head? What if Philip of France has broken Friar Roger’s secret cipher and has discovered the hidden knowledge? How to make a glass which can see something miles away, or turn base metal into gold.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘What if de Craon is bringing the periti, the savants of Paris, to discover if we have done the same? And if we haven’t, to confuse us further, hinder and block our progress?’
‘There’s another reason, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh. Philip of France does not like the University of the Sorbonne. Oh, if it agrees with what he says he is all charm and welcoming, but if it doesn’t, Philip’s rage blazes out like a fire. I wonder if he has already broken the secret cipher, and is sending these men to England so that they can be killed, murdered, and the blame laid at our door.’
‘Nonsense!’ Launge shook his empty tankard as if it was a sword.
‘No, no.’ Corbett raised a hand. ‘I follow your logic, William.’ He smiled. ‘What if Philip has broken the secret cipher, and what if he wants to rid himself of the periti, men who have also discovered that knowledge? The last thing Philip would want is one of these professors claiming the knowledge for himself and writing his own book, eager for fame amongst the universities and schools of Europe. We all know our doctors of divinity and theology, how they love fame as much as gold; indeed, the two often go together.’ He paused. ‘More seriously, Philip is looking for a crisis. He has bound our King by treaty, he wishes to depict Edward of England as the oath-breaker, the wily serpent. He knows that Edward’s motto is “Keep Troth”, yet he realises Edward would storm the gates of Hell if it meant escaping from the Treaty of Paris. Let’s say, for sake of argument, something happens during this French embassy to England. Philip will turn and scream for the protection of the Pope, who will bind our King even closer with heavier penalties and dire warnings.’
‘But you must have considered this before you accepted the French embassy?’ Bolingbroke asked.
‘Of course I did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have shared similar thoughts with the King, though not as detailed and sharp. As God is my witness, both Philip and Edward richly deserve each other, two cunning swords-men circling each other in the dark, each looking for the advantage.’ He laughed drily. ‘Do you know, gentlemen, isn’t it ridiculous – or as they would say in the schools of Oxford, mirabile dictu, marvellous to say – that the one thing which unites Edward of England, Philip of France, Amaury de Craon and myself is the belief that something will happen during de Craon’s stay here at Corfe. Only the good Lord knows what.’
‘So what do you propose?’ Sir Edmund asked.
‘The French are to be given good secure chambers.’
‘They won’t want guards, they never do,’ the Constable retorted. ‘They will only accuse us of eavesdropping or treating them like prisoners.’
‘Make sure they are given the keys to their chambers,’ Corbett tapped the table top, ‘and that they eat together in the hall. As for the castle, let them go wherever they wish.’ He pushed back his chair, a sign the meeting was over. ‘But if they leave the castle they must have an escort.’
Sir Edmund rose to his feet, bowed and left. Bolingbroke asked if there was anything further. Corbett shook his head. The clerk departed saying he needed to change, wash and sleep.
‘What now?’ Ranulf asked.
He lounged in his chair, playing with the dagger sheath on his war belt. He placed this on the table before him and peered up at Corbett.
‘You really do expect mischief, don’t you?’
Corbett walked to the door which Bolingbroke had left half open. The gust of cold air was welcoming, but as he pulled the door shut, he noticed the first snowflakes fall.
‘I don’t know what to expect, Ranulf. You know Edward of England; he rejoices in the title of the Great English Justinian, he has a passion for knowledge. Once he becomes absorbed in something he becomes obsessed. He has been through Bacon’s writings time and time again, like some theologian poring over the scriptures. He has insisted that I do the same. I have his copies of Friar Roger’s works in that coffer.’
‘Was the friar a magician?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett drew the trancher of bread towards him, cut a piece, dabbed it in the butter jar and put it in his mouth. ‘Ranulf. Again it’s logic. Have you ever lain in the grass,’ he grinned, ‘by yourself, stared up at the sky and watched a bird hover? Have you ever wondered what it must be like to fly, to be a bird? Or leaned over the side of a ship and wondered what really happens beneath the waves?’
‘Of course,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Your mind wanders.’
‘People like Roger Bacon go one step further. Is it possible? Can it be done? They speculate,’ Corbett continued, ‘they become intrigued, and so the experiments begin.’
‘Do you believe in this secret knowledge?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Corbett swirled the ale round his jug. ‘I believe in logic and deduction. If something is possible, does it become probable? What is the relationship between an idea and a fact? If we build a machine such as a catapult, to hurl rocks at a castle wall, is it possible to construct another machine to throw them even further and harder? Go down to the castle yard, Ranulf, study those Welsh bowmen. They don’t use an arbalest but a bow made of yew which can loose a yard-long shaft. In Wales I watched a master bowman fire six such arrows in the space of a few heartbeats whilst a crossbowman was still winching back the cord of his own weapon.’
‘When the French come . . .’ Ranulf decided to change the subject. He knew from past experience how Corbett’s military service in Wales always brought about a change in mood. Sir Hugh still suffered night-mares about those narrow twisting valleys and the cruelties both sides perpetrated on each other. ‘When the French come,’ he repeated, ‘will de Craon accuse Bolingbroke of theft and murder?’
‘Great suspicion but little proof.’ Corbett laughed drily. ‘Oh, he’ll know and he’ll know that I know, which will make us both very knowledgeable, but de Craon is too cunning to accuse anybody. He may make references to it, but no outright allegation. He might talk about a housebreaker called Ufford, a scholar and an Englishman, being killed, but that is as far as he will go. The dead do not concern de Craon. Like a fox which has killed a pullet, it has only whetted its appetite for-’