The door opened. The chamber inside was no more than a whitewashed box, the ceiling, with its heavy black beams, only inches above their heads. Around the room were ranged chests, coffers and caskets: Magister Thibault’s treasures. Bolingbroke ignored these, leading them across to a heavy iron-bound coffer, dark blue in colour and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis. The coffer had three locks at the front and one on either side. The King of Keys pulled it closer and stared at it curiously.
‘What does it contain? A king’s ransom?’
‘The Secretus Secretorum,’ Ufford replied.
‘The what?’
‘The Voice of God,’ Ufford retorted.
The King of Keys stepped away. ‘This is not black magic, is it? It does not contain some malignant root or book of spells? Messieurs, I am frightened of magic.’
‘It is not magic,’ Ufford soothed, ‘but knowledge. It contains a manuscript of the secret writings of Friar Roger Bacon, once a scholar at the Sorbonne.’
‘What?’ the King of Keys laughed. ‘You have hired me, the Master of the Locks, the King of Keys, to steal the manuscript of a Franciscan?’
Ufford’s hand fell to his dagger. ‘You have been well paid, Monsieur, whoever you are. One gold piece to be hired, two for opening that coffer and two more when we part. Now upstairs Magister Thibault rides his young filly while his guests acquaint themselves with all the sins of the flesh. You must hurry.’
The King of Keys returned to the coffer. Bolingbroke went back to close the doors and make sure all was well. Ufford crouched against the wall, willing his stomach to quieten itself and his sweat to cool, all the time watching the King of Keys, his hands now free of those leather mittens, fondling the locks as he would a lover’s hair, chuckling quietly to himself.
‘Monsieur, this is the work of craftsmen,’ he declared, walking over to Ufford.
‘Domine miserere!’ Ufford whispered. ‘They always come back for more.’ He glowered at the King of Keys, noticing how thin and spindly his legs were in their dark woollen hose, how his feet seemed to swim in those flat-heeled boots.
‘Two more gold pieces.’ The Master of the Locks held out his hands.
Ufford glanced at Bolingbroke, who opened his purse and handed the coins across. Ufford lifted up his arbalest, pulled back the cap to the quiver, took out one of the barbs and placed it in the polished slot. The King of Keys, however, just pocketed the gold, winked and returned to his task.
‘I hope you open it,’ Ufford called out. ‘Either you do and we leave with that manuscript, or . . .’
‘Don’t threaten me,’ the King of Keys hissed back, now busy with another lock.
Ufford fell silent. Cradling the arbalest, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He would be glad when this evening was over. It would be good to return to England and receive the praise and rewards of Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets! He smiled to himself. He liked Corbett, a man of few words, a good master with no illusions about the great Edward of England. He recalled the last time he and Bolingbroke had met Corbett. When was it? Eight weeks ago, around the Feast of Corpus Christi? Corbett had come to Paris on the pretext of some diplomatic incident and had met his two secret clerks, as he called them, at a small auberge beyond the city walls, on the road to Fontainebleau. He had not told them much; he didn’t need to, for both Ufford and Bolingbroke were scholars of the natural sciences as well as the Quadrivium and Trivium, the logic, metaphysics, philosophy and ethics of the Masters. They had been in Paris for three years now, collecting information on behalf of the English Crown. Now their task had changed . . .
Corbett had hired a chamber at the auberge, and had seated them close around a table whilst his henchman, Ranulf of Newgate, dressed in black leather, guarded the door. Ufford was constantly surprised at the contrast between Corbett and Ranulf. Sir Hugh was dark-faced with deep-set eyes, his clean-shaven face and regular features always composed. ‘A man of clean heart and clean hands,’ as Ufford secretly called him. Ranulf was different, red-haired, those slanted green eyes and pale face always watchful, a fighting man, expert with the sword, dagger and garrotte. Ufford had listened to the rumours, how Ranulf had once been a riffler, a roaring boy, from London’s stinking alleyways, rescued by Corbett from the gallows. Ranulf had educated himself, unlike Corbett, who had studied at the Halls of Oxford. A man of bounding ambition with the talent to match, Ranulf was now Principal Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.
‘There, I have it!’ the King of Keys exclaimed.
Ufford broke from his reverie at the sound of a click. The King of Keys had opened the two side locks and was working busily on the three at the front.
‘Hurry up,’ urged Bolingbroke, leaning against the door.
Ufford stared at his companion. Bolingbroke was usually a serene man, composed and rather elegant in his ways, fastidious in his habits, but tonight he was clearly agitated. Ufford knew the reason. One of the magistri upstairs was a traitor. Neither Bolingbroke nor he knew which one, but after all their searches they’d been informed how the University of the Sorbonne did possess a copy of the Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon, and how its scholars were busy studying its cipher. The mysterious traitor had offered to sell the Secretus to the English Crown. At first Bolingbroke and Ufford had been cautious; they were being watched, suspected of being Secret Clerks. But, there again, it was a question of much suspected and nothing proved. Now it had all changed. Somebody had learnt about their secret meeting with Corbett. How the Keeper of the King’s Seal had urged them to find that manuscript, or a copy, steal it and bring it immediately to England . . .
Ufford lifted his hand in the sign of peace, Bolingbroke smiled thinly back and stared down at the King of Keys busy on the coffer. Neither Bolingbroke nor Ufford knew the source of their information; letters were simply left at their lodgings in the Street of the Carmelites, above the Martel de Fer tavern, describing how the Secretus Secretorum had been handed to Magister Thibault, who kept it in a coffer in the strong room in his house.
‘D’accord!’ Another click. The King of Keys turned and ceremoniously lifted the clasp.
‘For God’s sake,’ Ufford whispered hoarsely, and gestured at the other two locks. The hour was passing, the revellers upstairs might want some more wine and they must not be disturbed. If they were arrested . . . Ufford closed his eyes; he could not bear the thought.
During the last few days, whilst they had planned the robbery, both he and Bolingbroke had been aware of dark figures standing at the mouths of alleyways watching their lodgings. Corbett had warned them to be careful of Seigneur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the Secrets of his Most Royal Highness Philip IV of France. He was Corbett’s mortal enemy, dedicated to frustrating the designs of the English Crown, and he had a legion of spies and informers at his disposal, nicknamed the ‘Hounds of the King’. Ufford and Bolingbroke had discussed the danger but they had no choice. Yet if they were caught? Ufford grasped the arbalest tighter. They would be taken to the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber beneath the Louvre of Paris, questioned by the Inquisitor, strapped to the wheel of Montfaucon and spun while the hangman smashed their limbs with mallets, before they choked on one of the soaring gibbets near the gates of St Denis. Ufford closed his eyes and prayed. He had visited Notre Dame this morning, lit three tapers in the Lady’s Chapel and knelt on the hard stone floor, reciting one Ave Maria after another.
To break the tension, Ufford got to his feet and walked across to his companion.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why is the manuscript so valuable?’