Corbett sat on his bed, leaning back against the bolsters, body slightly crooked as he bent over to take full advantage of the candle glow from the nearby table. The fire had been built up, the braziers crackled. Corbett was pleased to be out of the freezing cold. At the foot of the bed, his back to the great chest, Chanson was busy repairing a strap, while across the chamber Ranulf was teaching Bolingbroke how to cheat at hazard, showing him how to switch good dice for cogged ones. Ranulf moved so quickly, so expertly that Bolingbroke protested, so Ranulf demonstrated the sleight of hand more slowly.
‘You must be fast,’ he warned. ‘If you are caught, knives will be drawn.’
Bolingbroke took his own dice out and cast a few winning throws, causing loud laughter as Ranulf realised the other man was, perhaps, as adept at cheating as he.
Corbett went back to studying the King’s own copy of Roger Bacon’s Opus Tertium. He quietly mouthed the words the friar had used to describe his life of study: ‘“During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom. I abandoned the usual methods.’” Corbett glanced up. The usual methods, he reflected, what were they? Disputation? Argument? The exchange of ideas with other scholars? ‘I have spent more than twenty pounds,’ Friar Roger had written, ‘on secret books and various experiments, not to mention languages, instruments and mathematical tables.’ Corbett pulled himself up, resting the heavy tome in his lap, keeping the place with his finger. What, he wondered, were these secret books? What experiments? Had Friar Roger really discovered or stumbled on secret knowledge? He opened the book and read again, following the words with his finger, translating the Latin as he read. He moved the manuscript to study more closely the phrase ‘twenty pounds’. He noticed the manuscript was marked, the ink rather blotched, as if someone had tried to scratch the words out, blurring the letters.
Corbett, exasperated, closed the book and put it on the table beside him. For a while he watched the two gamblers, marvelling at Ranulf’s persistence. He had learnt from Chanson how, as soon as they had returned to the castle, Ranulf had done some studying of his own, searching out the Lady Constance; they’d sat, heads together, in front of the great hearth in the Hall of Angels.
‘They talked, Master. Oh, how they talked!’ Chanson had reported. ‘And the Lady Constance, she laughs a great deal.’
Ranulf looked across, caught Corbett’s stare, smiled and raised a hand. You always make the ladies laugh, Corbett thought, that’s one of your talents. Ranulf, sharp of wit and tart of tongue.
Bolingbroke had reported back how he and Chanson had compared the two manuscripts, which were identical in every aspect.
‘Like peas in the same pod,’ he concluded, ‘but as for understanding it, the French have retired to their own quarters to study the mystery.’ Corbett too had decided to go once more through Friar Roger’s writings to find a clue, some key to the mysteries.
Chanson scrambled to his feet, still clutching his stirrup leather.
‘What hour is it?’ Corbett asked.
The groom went into the far corner and took the hour candle from its lantern holder.
‘Somewhere between six and seven in the evening. It’s dark outside. Master, I am hungry.’
Corbett picked up the manuscript he had been reading.
‘Say after me, Chanson, Opus Tertium.’
Chanson repeated the words.
‘Now,’ Corbett ordered, ‘go and give my compliments to Monsieur Crotoy. Ask him may I borrow their copy of Friar Roger’s work of the same name.’
‘But you already have a copy,’ Chanson protested, pointing to the calfskin-covered book. ‘And it’s cold out . . .’
‘Do as you are told, groom of the stable,’ Ranulf snapped, eager to retaliate for Chanson’s teasing about the Lady Constance. ‘Oh, never mind.’ He pushed back the stool and put on his boots and cloak. ‘I’ll fetch it myself.’
‘Ah, and that’s the last we will see of you before midnight.’ Chanson ducked as Ranulf went to cuff his ear.
Corbett swung off the bed. He followed Ranulf out on to the stairway, flinching at the blast of cold air.
‘There’s no hurry,’ he whispered, ‘but even if you do meet the Lady Constance, don’t forget what I’ve asked.’
Ranulf grinned and, whistling under his breath, padded down the steps. Corbett returned to the chamber, washed his face and hands, and chattered to Bolingbroke for a while about the secret manuscript. A servant brought up some bread, cheese and a pot of slightly rancid butter. Corbett asked him of any news of the castle.
‘Not very good,’ the servant replied. ‘The girl Alusia has not been found.’ He went to the door and looked back, ‘You seem to have missed the excitement, sir. You heard the clamour?’
‘I did.’ Bolingbroke cleared the table of dice. ‘I heard shouting from below, though I didn’t hear the tocsin ring.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t much.’ The servant lifted the latch. ‘One of the guards on the curtain wall saw a fire at the edge of the forest.’
‘A fire?’ Corbett asked. ‘In the snow, in the depth of winter?’
‘Sometimes it happens,’ the servant replied. ‘There are outlaws in the forest, travellers and tinkers, wanderers who do not like to come under the eyes of the Constable. They collect dry bracken and light a fire; sometimes it gets out of hand. Two winters ago they nearly burnt the death house at St Peter’s, but now Father Matthew keeps them out of the cemetery at night – he’s very strict about that. Anyway,’ the servant opened the door, ‘Sir Edmund sent a rider out; the fire was nothing.’
When he had left, Corbett shared out the food and drink.
‘If Alusia is still missing,’ Bolingbroke spoke up, ‘it must be serious. No wench would go wandering in the darkness on a freezing winter night. Sir Edmund will have to wait until the morning before he can send out a search party.’
Corbett stared at Bolingbroke’s long, rather lugubrious face and mop of sandy hair. The pouches under his eyes gave him a sleepy look, belied by the laughing mouth. A good swordsman, Corbett reflected, Bolingbroke had been Ufford’s constant companion in the Halls of Oxford and entered the Secret Chancery as a clerk.
‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, William.’
‘What for?’
‘Ufford, you must mourn him.’
‘I’ve had Masses sung for him in the Chapels Royal at Westminster and Windsor.’ Bolingbroke looked away, leaning against one hand on the mantle, staring down at the floor. ‘Ten years in all.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I met Walter in a tavern near Carfax. Like Ranulf, he was cheating at dice. I had to rescue him.’
Chanson, mending the leather on the floor, stopped. He liked nothing better than to listen to the stories of the clerks. He always hoped Sir Hugh would send him to the school in the transept of the manor church at Leighton.
‘Did he leave any family?’ Corbett asked.
‘A young woman in London. I gave her the news myself that Walter would not be coming home.’
Corbett sipped at his tankard. Sometimes he deeply regretted what he was doing. Both Ufford and Bolingbroke had come to his attention because of their skill, their knowledge of tongues, particularly Norman French and the patois of the countryside. They had both served in the King’s wars in Scotland, and such a background made them ideal students for the Sorbonne.
‘Do you resent de Craon being so close?’
‘No,’ Bolingbroke sighed. ‘There are clerks in the Chancery offices whose fathers fought mine in Wales. It’s like a game of hazard, Sir Hugh; if you lose, what’s the point of cursing the victor? One day,’ he lifted his own tankard in toast, ‘I shall return to the table and pay Monsieur de Craon back in similar coin.’
‘Tell me once more,’ Corbett sat down on the great chest at the foot of the bed, ‘how this magister at the Sorbonne provided the information.’
‘I’ve told you, he left letters at our lodgings.’
‘Did you trust this King of Keys?’
Bolingbroke pulled a face. ‘He was a thief from the alleyway; despite his pompous title, he was a housebreaker. He would not have become involved if he hadn’t been paid so well. In the end he died with Magister Thibault.’