A short while later, as he placed a log on the fire, there was a rap on the door. A thin, wiry man came in, almost hidden by the leather apron he wore, face all shaven, head as bald as a pigeon’s egg.
‘Ah! Master Luke.’ Corbett wiped his hands on his jerkin and ushered the man to a stool. ‘I want you to look at this.’
He handed him the boot and loose heel. The shoemaker asked for a candle to be brought across whilst he studied both of these, muttering under his breath, running his finger along the edge of the heel.
‘Anything strange, Master Luke?’
‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ The man blinked, his eyes watering from the cold. ‘Oh dear, yes! You see, sir, this is a good Spanish boot, genuine red leather, Cordova, with a fur lining within, work of a craftsman it is, though not English.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked, holding up a silver coin between his fingers.
‘What’s wrong? Why, sir,’ the man laughed nervously, ‘this heel is attached to the boot by a very powerful glue, as powerful as any stitching.’
‘So it wouldn’t work loose easily?’
‘Oh no, sir, that’s why I was examining the edge. You see, sir?’ The shoesmith held up the heel, pointing to the rim. Corbett looked mystified, so Master Luke picked up the boot, returned the heel to its original position and thrust it in front of Corbett’s eyes. ‘Now can you see it?’
Corbett held the heel fast; now he could see that there was a small dent between heel and boot.
‘It didn’t break off,’ he murmured. ‘It was prised off, wasn’t it? Someone thrust a dagger between heel and boot to force it loose.’
‘Very good, sir. A foul trick. There’s other signs, sir. You can see where the blade cut through the gum, and the outer edge of the heel is slightly hacked.’
Corbett examined this and could only agree. He gave Master Luke the coin and thanked him. Once the shoesmith had left, he sat and stared down at the boot.
‘So what do we have here, eh, old friend?’ Corbett talked as if Crotoy occupied the stool opposite. ‘You didn’t leave your chamber and trip. Someone broke your neck, threw your body down those steep steps, draped the cloak over your arm to make it look like you tripped and then loosened the heel on your boot. But how?’ He closed his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards. Someone could have been with Louis in his chamber, but he was certain that, when the corpse was found, the key to the outer door was still in the dead man’s wallet. How could that be?
Corbett rose, capped the candles, put the metal grille in front of the fire, locked his chamber and went back to the yard. He returned Crotoy’s boots to the chamber in the tower and went across to the servants’ quarters, where he asked to see Master Simon the leech. He found him in one of the stables, sitting on a stool cradling a blackjack of ale and deep in fierce argument with one of the stable boys over a sick horse. Corbett crouched beside him. The leech had apparently drunk deep and well; he gazed bleary-eyed at the Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal.
‘Another death?’ he mumbled.
‘No, an old death.’ Corbett smiled. ‘The Frenchman, Destaples?’
‘What about him?’
‘He had a weak heart.’
‘That’s true, no wonder he had a seizure.’
‘Is it possible,’ Corbett asked, ‘to give such a man a potion, a herb, let’s say at the ninth hour, the effect of which would only become apparent at the eleventh?’
The leech pulled a face. ‘Of course it is. I can’t tell you how, but mixed with wine, which already quickens the blood and excites the humours, such an effect is possible.’
‘Thank you,’ Corbett tapped the blackjack, ‘and be careful what you drink!’
Next he went to the kitchens, where he begged the cooks for a bowl of hot broth, some fresh bread and a tankard of ale. He could hear the laughter and talk in the hall beyond but decided not to go there. His mind was all awhirl, images came and went; it was like leafing through a psalter where the small illuminated pictures catch your eye. He thought of Louis swinging his cloak about him, the French scholars’ contempt for de Craon, Destaples eating so carefully at the banquet, Vervins falling like a stricken bird from the soaring walls of the castle.
Corbett returned to his own chamber, where he stripped, put on his nightshift and, for a while, knelt by his bed trying to clear his mind. Chanson came lumbering up, almost falling through the door.
‘I’ve drunk far too much,’ he confessed. Corbett stayed kneeling.
‘Do you want to join me in prayer, Chanson?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, no, Ranulf is showing everyone how to cheat. I bring messages from the Frenchman; he says time is passing, tomorrow they wish to start early. He says he is ready to leave.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he is.’ Corbett crossed himself. ‘Tell Monsieur de Craon I will meet him in the solar just after dawn. Oh, and tell Ranulf and William I want them clear-headed.’
The groom left and Corbett climbed into bed. For a while he lay humming in the darkness, the tune of the scholar song, ‘Mache, bene, venies’. He tried to recall all the words to soothe his mind, and slipped into sleep.
When he awoke, the fire had burnt down and the capped candle was gutted. Corbett was reluctant to leave the warmth but eventually braved the icy cold, wrapping a cloak around him and going down into the yard to beg for some hot water so he could shave and wash. A servant came up to build the fire and the brazier. Corbett dressed in the royal colours, blue, red and gold, carefully putting on the Chancery rings as he wondered what the day would bring. He was not surprised to find de Craon and Sanson waiting for him in the solar, fresh and alert, though Ranulf and Bolingbroke, who joined them later, looked rather haggard and heavy-eyed. They sat at a small side table eating bowls of hot oatmeal in which honey and nutmeg had been mixed.
De Craon was polite but distant. Now and again he would turn to whisper something to his sombre-faced man-at-arms. Corbett, however, watched Sanson. The French scholar appeared more relaxed, seemingly untroubled by the death of his comrades, and although they hid it well, Corbett could see that Sanson was de Craon’s man, body and soul. I wonder, he thought, smiling across at Sanson, if you were the spy who gave that information to Ufford then lured him to his death. Well, we shall see, we shall see.
They gathered around the great polished walnut table. Corbett sent Ranulf back to retrieve certain manuscripts, whilst Bolingbroke laid out the writing trays with their ink horns, quills, pumice stones and small rolls of vellum.
‘I think I may have a solution,’ Corbett declared.
De Craon, on the other side of the table, raised his eyebrows in surprise, then turned to Sir Edmund, asking if the Catherine wheel of candles could be lowered to provide more light. Corbett described his theory of how Friar Roger must have used what he termed dog or pig Latin to hide his secrets, and when he had finished de Craon sat, fingers to his mouth, staring hard-eyed back.
‘Well, Pierre.’ He turned to Sanson. ‘What would your reply to that be?’
‘Sir Hugh is correct.’ Sanson cleared his throat, his high-pitched voice cutting through the silence. ‘I too,’ he smiled smugly, his fat oily face creasing into a smile, ‘reached a similar conclusion.’
He lifted his hands, snapped his fingers, and de Craon’s man-at-arms brought across his copy of the Secretus Secretorum whilst Bolingbroke placed the English version in front of Corbett. At first the niceties were observed, but Corbett was soon drawn into fierce debate about which secret cipher Friar Roger might have used. He studied the manuscript and began to write down certain phrases which the Franciscan might have used to disguise his true meaning. Sanson countered with alternative explanations. Corbett deliberately increased the pace, scribbling down notes and passing them across the table, eagerly waiting for Sanson’s reply. The hours passed. Outside the window day broke; the steward came in to say that the sky was clear, perhaps there would be no more snow, and did Sir Edmund’s guests require some food? Both parties refused. Corbett kept concentrating on the French. He was not so much concerned about Friar Roger’s cipher as Sanson’s handwriting, and as the day wore on that became more hasty, but Corbett was sure he recognised the same hand as in those mysterious memoranda sent to Ufford, copies of which Bolingbroke had brought back to England. In the early afternoon Sanson declared he was exhausted, sitting back in his chair and throwing his hands up.