Corbett moved on his stool. He had interrogated many men, some consummate liars, and on such occasions he rejected logic and reason and trusted his own feelings. He instinctively felt that Father Matthew was telling the truth.
‘So that book will never be translated?’
‘Never!’ Father Matthew agreed. ‘And the more it is copied, the more it is added to so the more difficult it will become.’
‘And Friar Roger’s wealth?’ Ranulf asked. ‘He talked about spending two thousand pounds. Did he discover the Philosopher’s Stone? Unravel the secrets of alchemy?’
Father Matthew threw his head back and laughed.
‘He had hidden wealth,’ he replied, and sat chuckling to himself.
‘Hidden wealth?’ Ranulf insisted.
The priest gestured with his hand. ‘Go back to Corfe Castle, Red-hair, and gaze upon its battlements. Men lived on that spot before the Romans ever came. It’s been a royal residence, a place of power. Tell me, what do people do in times of danger? How do they protect their wealth?’
‘They bury it.’
‘That’s one thing Friar Roger learnt from Peter de Marincourt. How to find hidden wealth. Speak to the country people, Sir Hugh, men of Dorset and Somerset. They will tell you how, with a mere stick, they can divine underground streams or wells. According to Friar Roger, Peter de Marincourt discovered a way of finding hidden treasure. Don’t doubt me, Sir Hugh; even without such knowledge, tell me, how often is treasure trove found in London, gold, coins, silver from some forgotten age? That was the source of Friar Roger’s wealth. He wasn’t greedy for money; he just saw it as a means to an end.’
‘Do you know that method?’ Ranulf asked.
Father Matthew shook his head.
‘I suspect it is one of the secrets he locked away in the Secretus Secretorum, which,’ he spread his hands, ‘to me, like you, is an impenetrable wall.’
‘Yet you were Friar Roger’s favourite pupil; he described you as a great scholar.’
‘He also loved me dearly as a brother. He said the time was not ripe for such knowledge, that if he revealed his most secret thoughts it would only place me in deadly danger.’ Father Matthew slumped in the chair, weaving his fingers together. ‘What more can I say?’
Corbett stared up at that sombre nave. A slight mist had crawled under the door and through the gaps in the shutters, so it looked like a hall of ghosts. The altar at the far end was bare and gaunt, dominated by a stark crucifix.
‘Are you happy here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, I am. I come from these parts. I think I do something useful. I truly care for these people.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I have a little wealth hidden away, I have my books. It is an ideal place for a scholar to remain hidden and pursue his studies.’
‘I shall tell you what I will do.’ Corbett got up, scraping back his stool. ‘In the spring I shall invite you to London and present you to the Bishop of London; he is a friend of mine, he will be only too happy to ordain you a priest and issue letters from his chancery. As for your friendship with Friar Roger,’ Corbett rehung his cloak about him, ‘why not leave that as one secret hidden amongst so many?’
‘I have your word?’ Father Matthew asked, the relief apparent in his face.
‘You have my word, Father.’
‘Then I shall tell you something.’ The priest pushed himself up. ‘You’ve a kind heart, clerk, and a good voice. When I was in the castle I became agitated. I met someone who, I thought, might recognise me.’
‘One of the Frenchmen? De Craon?’
‘No, the one who struts like a cheerful sparrow. Monsieur Pierre Sanson. But, Deo Gratias, it has been many years since he last spoke to me. About twelve years ago,’ the priest continued, ‘Pierre Sanson was part of a French delegation which came to Oxford. They stayed at the King’s palace at Woodstock. You may recall the occasion? The marriage of the King’s daughter Margaret to the Duke of Brabant? Naturally, scholars visit each other. Sanson claimed he was deeply interested in Friar Roger’s work and came to ask him about his secrets. My master was old and frail. He never was sweet-tempered,’ he added quickly, ‘and gave Sanson short shrift. When the Frenchman asked him about his secrets, Friar Roger replied that he would conceal them in a document and make copies of it, and if the world could unearth these secrets then it was welcome to them.’ Father Matthew blessed himself quickly. ‘What I am saying, Sir Hugh, is that from the very start the French knew the Secretus Secretorum could never be deciphered.’
Corbett extended his hand and the priest grasped it warmly.
‘I’ll see you in the spring, Father. I’ll send an escort to accompany you.’
Corbett and Ranulf made their farewells and returned quickly to Corfe. They tried not to look at the row of corpses clustered together like flies hanging from the battlements but thundered across the drawbridge and up into the inner bailey, where Sir Edmund’s retainers were still busy removing all sign of the recent conflict. Corbett was lost in his thoughts, ruthlessly determined on his course of action. When Sir Edmund came to greet them, Corbett enquired about de Craon, only to find that the Frenchman was sulking in his chamber. He took the Constable out of earshot, even from Ranulf, and whispered urgently to him. Sir Edmund made to object, but Corbett insisted and the Constable agreed. Ranulf was keen to seek out the Lady Constance, but his plea died on his lips at Corbett’s dark look.
‘Ranulf, I need you.’ He gave that lopsided smile. ‘The mills of God are beginning to turn.’
They went up to the chamber, Corbett preparing the room, dragging chairs and stools in front of the fire which Chanson was building up. The groom had slept through most of the battle; consequently he had to suffer Ranulf’s constant teasing and was only too pleased to escape to the kitchens to bring back ale, bread and cheese and strips of smoked ham. Bolingbroke joined them and Corbett ushered him to one of the stools in front of the fire.
‘I would have gone with you, Sir Hugh.’ Bolingbroke sat down and picked up the small platter on which Chanson had served the food. ‘This is like the castle of the damned; virtually the entire curtain wall is festooned with hanged men.’ He bit on a piece of cheese.
‘We shall be gone soon.’ Corbett sat in the chair and wetted his lips with ale. ‘And what will you do then, William?’
‘Oh, I shall journey back to London. I may ask for some leave from the business of the Chancery. You will find me another post, Sir Hugh?’
‘I shall find you nothing!’ Corbett replied. Bolingbroke dropped the cheese he held.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘Do you pray for his soul, William? Your good friend and companion? Your brother-in-arms Walter Ufford?’
Ranulf stiffened; even Chanson, sitting almost in the inglenook, forgot his food.
‘You’re a traitor, William,’ Corbett continued, ‘and I shall show you how. Two things in particular. First, let’s go back to Magister Thibault’s house in Paris. You remember it welclass="underline" the Roi des Clefs who could open any door, chest or coffer?’
‘Sir Hugh, I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Of course you do, you were there. The King of Keys was wounded, his hand and wrist spiked by a caltrop, pumping out blood, screaming until Ufford had to cut his throat. Do you remember what the King of Keys carried? A pouch of strange instruments, master keys, cunning devices to turn a lock or force a clasp. What happened to these?’
Bolingbroke’s face grew pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the panic obvious in his eyes.
‘They were left there.’ He made to rise. Ranulf, sitting beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back down.
‘You took them,’ Corbett continued. ‘You picked them up. Who would notice? The King of Keys was dead, Ufford all a-panic. You used those keys on two occasions, the first when you murdered Crotoy and the second when you murdered Vervins.’
‘I was with you when Vervins died.’
‘Of course you were,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But you had given the keys to de Craon so that he or his henchman could creep up those tower steps. As the Gospel of St John says, “In the beginning was the Word”,’ Corbett sipped at his ale, ‘“and the Word was with God”. That is where all this began, Bolingbroke, with the pursuit of knowledge, used by de Craon and his sinister master to trap our King. Philip of France crows like a cock; he has Edward of England trapped by the Treaty of Paris, the Prince of Wales is to marry Philip’s only daughter Isabella. But there is a fly in the ointment: me and my spies in France and elsewhere. Philip would like to sweep the board. He knows about Friar Roger’s secret writings but he also knows that those writings can never be deciphered, whatever Magister Thibault claimed. Philip of France studies Edward of England most carefully, as he has for the last twenty years. The English Exchequer is bankrupt, Edward has wars in Scotland and he must defend the Duchy of Gascony. Earlier this year, our fat little Sanson inveigled Edward into studying Friar Roger’s manuscripts, a secret letter addressed only to our King. Perhaps it wasn’t Sanson but Philip himself whetting his appetite. Anyway, Edward loves a mystery, particularly when he learns that Philip of France is also studying those same manuscripts. Edward’s rivalry with Philip is legendary.’