Officially, Edward of England had no knowledge of such dark deeds, so the cloying letters between him and ‘his sweet cousin of France’ had continued apace. Philip had been most amenable to sending a delegation to England, suggesting that, with the hardship of winter, the meeting should be in some secure place on the south coast, away from the hustle and bustle of London, but close enough to Dover. Edward had rubbed his hands in glee and immediately sent instruction that Sir Edmund prepare Corfe Castle. Now they were here. The French hoped they would learn from the English, whilst Edward prayed that, during these discussions, Corbett would stumble on the cipher which would translate the Secretus Secretorum and, perhaps, reveal the true reason for Friar Roger’s wealth, not to mention other marvellous secrets. Ranulf had kept his own counsel but Bolingbroke had also advised both the King and Corbett that Philip had other designs. The French King was resented by many of the professors and scholars of the Sorbonne University, who were alarmed at the growing power of the French Crown and the outrageous theories of royal lawyers like Pierre Dubois. Bolingbroke had been proved right. Corbett had no proof, but he strongly believed that all three deaths which had occurred here were highly suspicious. Philip was not only getting rid of opponents but cruelly warning others at the University that they faced a similar fate. Like Pilate he could wash his hands, claim the deaths were accidental and, if suspicions were aroused, blame the insidious English.
What else was there? Corbett tried to ignore the bloody work of Mistress Feyner. He wondered what other news the outlaws had to tell him. He recalled Sir Edmund’s worries about the fleet of Flemish pirates so active in the Narrow Seas. What was the loose thread here? Corbett recalled Destaples sprawled on his bed; poor Louis lying in a puddle of his own blood, neck all twisted; Vervins, dropping like a stone from the parapet wall. Were they all accidents? Corbett closed his eyes. He returned to the problem of the three deaths of intelligent, astute men who had no illusions about their royal master and took every precaution to keep themselves safe. They would keep well away from de Craon and yet, if it was murder, they had been killed by someone who could go through locked doors to commit such dreadful acts.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett opened his eyes; the castle bell was tolling loudly. ‘Sir Hugh, it is growing dark.’ Ranulf leaned over him. ‘We are going to the Hall of Angels.’
‘To meet the Lady Constance?’ Corbett teased.
Ranulf turned away. Corbett heard them leave, closing the door behind them. He got up, walked across to the table and sifted through the scraps of parchment Bolingbroke and Ranulf had used. They had, apparently, been searching for the ciphers Friar Roger had employed in constructing his pig or dog Latin. Corbett picked up the Opus Tertium, leafing through the pages, then turned to the front of the book where Crotoy had written John, Chapter I, verse 6-7. He studied this curiously. What did Louis mean? Going across to his psalter, he leafed through its pages and found the first chapter of John’s Gospel, ‘In the beginning was the Word, the Word was with God and the Word was God.’ He then followed the verses down to 6 and 7: ‘A man came, sent by God, his name was John, he was not the Light but came as a witness to the light.’
Corbett closed the psalter and put it back on the table. Searching amongst the manuscripts, he found his copy of Friar Roger’s Opus Maius. He had read this closely before leaving Westminster and the name John pricked a memory. He found the reference in Chapter Ten. Bacon had dedicated this Opus Maius to Pope Clement IV and sent it to the supreme Pontiff with a young man whom the friar had taught for the previous five or six years. Corbett now read this reference carefully. John was apparently no more than twenty years old at the time. Friar Roger described him as a brilliant pupil, an outstanding scholar, to whom he had entrusted secret knowledge. He had written, ‘Any scholar might listen with profit to this boy. No one is so learned, in many ways this boy is indispensable.’ And the even more startling claim, ‘He excels even me, old man that I am.’
Corbett closed the book.
‘Louis, Louis,’ he whispered, ‘what did you mean by this?’
He stood by the fire, watching the white ash break and crumble under the heat. Crotoy had been a master of logic; he had taught Corbett how there were often different paths to the same conclusion. Had Crotoy realised that the cipher couldn’t be broken? But was there another way of resolving the mystery, of discovering who this scholar John was? Was he still alive, sheltering in England or France?
Corbett put on his boots and grabbed his cloak. He would join the rest in the Hall of Angels. As he doused the candles, he recalled that mysterious scrap of parchment found on Mistress Feyner. That was something he had forgotten, yet something he should probe. Why had she been carrying such a message? Who was it from? What did it mean? And enough bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn mass. What was the French for belly? Ventre? Corbett placed the grille in front of the fire. The message hadn’t been written by him or any of his retinue. It was a mystery to Sir Edmund, so it must have been written by de Craon. What further mayhem was he plotting?
I have spent more than ?2000 on secret books and various experiments and languages of instruments and mathematical tables.
Chapter 11
Horehound the outlaw was ready for the King’s peace. He was cold, hungry and wished to be free of the malevolent force of the forest. He had lived too long among the trees to be worried about sprites and elves. Father Matthew had once talked of mysterious beings, the ‘Lords of the Air’. Horehound truly believed in these beings he could not see but who crouched in the branches and stared maliciously down at him, who were responsible for the freezing darkness, the tripping undergrowth and the lack of any game to fill his belly and warm his blood. They hid behind that ominous wall of silence and peered out at him, rejoicing in his many hardships. Horehound was truly tired. He wanted to leave the cave and had convinced the rest of his coven to follow him. All were in agreement; even Hemlock had refused to go back and now hoped to be pardoned. Horehound had fixed the time with the red-haired King’s man. Within two days he would be warming his toes in front of the castle fire.
Horehound had cleared the caves, dug up his few paltry coins, placed crude wooden crosses over his dead and pieces of evergreen on poor Foxglove’s grave. He stood at the fire before the cave mouth and burnt their few pathetic belongings, items they would not need or could not take.
‘We shall leave soon,’ he called out over his shoulder. They planned to move to St Peter’s, where they would wait for the red-haired one to bring more food and provender. Perhaps they could shelter in the cemetery, take sanctuary in God’s Acre, perhaps even the church itself? Smoke from the fire billowed up as Horehound planned and plotted. He was still frightened of Father Matthew and his strange powders, but that was the priest’s business.