‘And our King wishes to escape it.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘He would love to tell Philip to tear the treaty up, leave Gascony alone, stop meddling in Scotland and allow the Prince of Wales to marry whom he wishes. In truth, Edward is trapped. If he breaks the treaty he will be excommunicated, cursed by bell, book and candle, an outcast in Europe. He would love to go to war, but the barons of the Exchequer say the treasury is empty.’
Corbett paused for effect. Everything he said the Constable knew. Both he and Corbett had fought in Scotland, where the Scottish princes refused to bow to Edward. More and more armies were being sent north, more treasure drained away.
‘And so we come to Friar Roger Bacon. He was born in the last years of King John, our present King’s grandfather, at Ilchester in Somerset. He proved to be an outstanding scholar, studying at Oxford and Paris. While in Paris he came under the influence of Pierre de Marincourt. People claim that Marincourt was a magician who had discovered secret knowledge.’
Corbett glanced at his two companions; Ranulf was listening intently, as he did to anything on education or knowledge. Bolingbroke had roused himself, eager to discover the true reasons for his flight from Paris, and Ufford’s hideous death.
‘Bacon became a Franciscan,’ Corbett continued. ‘He wrote a number of books,
Opus Maius
,
Opus Minus
and
Opus Tertium
. He also disseminated a number of treatises, such as
The Art of the Marvellous
and
How to Prevent the Onset of Old Age
. At first Friar Roger was supported by the Papacy, but eventually he fell under the suspicion of heresy, and until shortly before his death in 1292, some eleven years ago, he was kept in prison. His writings were frowned upon, and they say that when he died, his brothers at the Franciscan priory in Oxford nailed his manuscripts to the wall and left them to rot. Friar Roger’s disciples dispersed. We know of one, a scholar called John whom Bacon often sent to the Holy See. After Friar Roger died, these followers disappeared like puffs of smoke on a summer’s day.’
‘This secret knowledge?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I have studied Friar Roger’s works,’ Corbett replied, ‘as has Master William here. His theories are truly startling. He talks of being able to construct a series of mirrors or glasses which will make places miles away appear so close you could touch them. He claims that Caesar built such a device before his invasion of Britain.’ Corbett warmed to his theme. ‘He talks of carts which can travel without being pulled by oxen, of machines which can go to the bottom of the sea, of ships which don’t need rowers, even of machines that can fly through the air. He also talks of a black powder which can create a thunder-like explosion, a mixture of saltpetre and other substances.’
‘But these have been talked of before.’ Bolingbroke spoke up. ‘Even the great Aristotle claims it is possible to build a machine to go along the bottom of the sea.’
‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded, ‘but Friar Roger is different. His Grace the King and I have been through his papers. Bacon actually insists that he has seen some of these experiments work.’ Corbett sat back in his chair, gazing around this stark whitewashed chamber, so simple and bare, nothing but a crucifix and a few coffers and a side table for jugs and goblets, such a contrast to what he was describing.
‘Impossible!’ Sir Edmund breathed. ‘This is witch-craft, magic, the ravings of a warlock.’
‘Is it?’ Ranulf retorted. ‘In the Tower, the King’s engineers are working on bombards which can throw a stone harder and faster against a castle wall than a catapult. The Flemings are building a ship with sails different from ours which make their cogs faster yet sturdier.’
‘I know, I know.’ Sir Edmund sipped from his tankard. ‘But why should his Grace the King be interested in all of this? The schools are full of new wonders; new manuscripts are being discovered; even I, an old soldier, know this. As you do, Sir Hugh. You have debated in the Halls of Oxford and listened to the schoolmen.’
‘I would agree.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ve heard the whispers about a magical bronze head which can speak all manner of wisdom, whilst they claim the Templar order have discovered the secrets of Solomon, but it is,’ Corbett grinned, ‘as if someone claims to be able to call Satan up from Hell. He may be able to, but will Satan come?’ His words created laughter, which lessened the tension. ‘Friar Roger, however, is different. During his captivity he wrote another book, the
Secretus Secretorum
, or
Secret of Secrets
, in which he revealed, in great detail, all his secret knowledge. He wrote the book then copied it out again. The original went to Paris, whilst the copy stayed in England.’
‘That’s why Ufford died?’ Bolingbroke interrupted.
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied more sharply than he intended.
‘We stole the original?’
‘No,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘you only stole a second copy; that’s what you brought back to Westminster. The original is still kept by King Philip himself in his treasure house.’
‘What!’ Bolingbroke would have sprung to his feet, but Ranulf gripped him by the wrist, forcing him to stay seated. Bolingbroke knocked the tankard off the table. ‘A copy? Is that why Walter died? We failed!’
‘You didn’t fail.’ Corbett’s voice remained calm. ‘Edward of England wanted to know if his copy and the copy kept in Paris were the same. I am pleased to say they are.’
‘What does it say?’ Sir Edmund ignored Bolingbroke’s outburst.
‘That’s the problem.’ Corbett got to his feet and went to retrieve the tankard. He refilled it and placed it in front of his clerk, patting him gently on the shoulder before resuming his seat. ‘The
Secretus Secretorum
is written in a cipher no one understands. Whoever breaks that cipher will enter a treasure house of knowledge. For months, the clerks of the Secret Chancery have tried this cipher or that in a search to find a key. We know de Craon’s clerks have been doing the same, to no result. Edward knows Philip has the
Secret of Secrets
; the French know Edward has a fair and accurate copy.’
‘Ah,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Now I see. Philip has invoked the peace treaty, the clauses stipulating how he and Edward are to work together.’
‘Precisely.’ Corbett steepled his fingers. ‘Philip has demanded, especially since the theft of the copy from Paris, that both kingdoms share their knowledge. He knows I am responsible for the secret ciphers of the Chancery, so he called for this meeting.’
‘Why here?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Philip is being diplomatic. He wants to reassure Edward. He simply asked that the meeting place be in some castle on the south coast, not Dover or one of the Cinque Ports, well away from the hustle and bustle of the cities. Edward proposed Corfe, and Philip agreed. De Craon will bring with him four professors from the university, experts in the study of Bacon’s manuscripts, men skilled in breaking ciphers. They will meet myself, Bolingbroke and Master Ranulf here.’
‘Who are they?’ Bolingbroke asked. ‘What are their names?’
‘Etienne Destaples, Jean Vervins, Pierre Sanson and Louis Crotoy.’
Bolingbroke whistled under his breath. ‘They are all professors of law as well as theology, leading scholars at the Sorbonne.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I know one of them, Louis Crotoy; he lectured in the schools of Oxford, a formidable scholar, with a brain as sharp as a knife.’
‘I don’t believe this.’
‘You don’t believe what?’ Ranulf smiled.
Bolingbroke just shook his head. He took off his cloak and threw it over the table, fingers going for his dagger in its leather sheath. ‘Philip means mischief; there is treachery here.’
‘Which is why we are meeting here,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Tell me again, William, why Ufford killed Magister Thibault.’
‘He had to.’ Bolingbroke sat down and rubbed his face. ‘We were in the cellar trying to open that damnable coffer.’
‘But why?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why should Thibault, whom Ufford last saw cavorting with a buxom wench, leave his bed sport, his warm, comfortable chamber, and, on a night of revelry, take that woman down to a cold cellar? What was he going to show her? A precious manuscript she couldn’t understand?’
‘Perhaps he was boasting,’ Ranulf said. ‘He wanted to impress her?’
‘But why then?’ Corbett insisted. ‘At that specific moment on that particular night?’
‘I don’t know.’ Bolingbroke shook his head. ‘But yes, I’ve thought the same. You’ve asked me often enough, Sir Hugh; now Thibault’s colleagues are coming, you ask again. I truly don’t know.’ He sighed in exasperation. ‘I have also wondered how Ufford was trapped and caught.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure the manuscript we stole was genuine? Or has Philip simply put fools’ caps on all of us?’
The wise have always been divided from the multitude.
Roger Bacon,
Opus Maius
Everyone ought to know languages and needs to study them and understand their silence.
Roger Bacon,
Opus Tertium
Chapter 3
Alusia, the butterymaid, daughter of Gilbert, under-steward of the pantry at Corfe Castle, moved amongst the gravestones and crosses in the large cemetery of St Peter’s in the Wood. Alusia, small and plump, with curly black hair and dancing eyes, was very pleased with herself. The arrival of the King’s men at the castle had caused a great deal of excitement. People pretended to go about their normal business but, as her father remarked, ‘a stranger is a stranger’, and everyone stared at these powerful men from the distant city of London. Alusia had been frightened by the sombre-faced clerk with the black hair and silver-hilted sword, but already the girls were talking about the red-haired one, just the way he swaggered, those green eyes darting about ready for mischief.
Alusia would have loved to have stayed and listened to the gossip, but Mistress Feyner had declared she would leave promptly at noon, and Mistress Feyner was to be obeyed. The castle girls called Mistress Feyner ‘the Old Owl’, because she never missed anything. Hard of face and hard of eye, strong of arm and sharp of wit, Mistress Feyner was chief washerwoman. She knew her status and her powers as much as any great lady in a hall. Indeed, matters had grown worse since Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, had disappeared on Harvest Sunday last. Gone like a leaf on the breeze, and no one knew where. Of course, none of the other girls really missed her. Phillipa, too, had been full of her own airs and graces, especially when Father Matthew gathered them in the nave on a Saturday afternoon to teach all the girls of the area the alphabet and the importance of numbers. A strange one, Father Matthew, so learned.
Alusia looked up at the leaden-grey sky. Was it going to snow? She hoped not, but if it did, at least she’d come here on Marion’s name day to honour her friend’s grave. Alusia blew on her frozen fingers and watched her hot breath disappear. Rebecca should have come with her, but Mistress Feyner had been most insistent that if she wanted a ride in the laundry cart down to the church, she’d have to leave immediately. Mistress Feyner had linen to deliver to Master Reginald at the Tavern in the Forest, and Rebecca would simply have to run to catch up. Alusia could not quarrel with that, but now, in this deserted graveyard, she thought that perhaps she should have waited. Oh where, she wondered, had Rebecca got to? When would she come?
Alusia paused next to her grandmother’s gravestone and stared up at the church, an old place of ancient stone. The nave was like a long barn, though Sir Edmund had recently retiled the roof and done what he could to dress the stone of the soaring square tower. From one of the narrow tower windows candlelight glowed. Father Matthew always lit that as a beacon when the sea mist swirled in and cloaked the countryside in its thick grey blanket. Only the glow of the candles, as well as torches from the castle, could guide people, for Corfe was a dangerous place. To the north, east and west lay a thick ancient forest, full of swamps, marshes and other treacherous places. The girls talked about the sprites and goblins who lived beneath the leaves or sheltered in the cracks of ancient oak trees, of strange sounds and sights, of will-o-the-wisps, really ghosts of the dead, which hovered over the marshes.
Alusia stared round the sombre churchyard; a mist was creeping in now, even so early in the day, its cold fingers stretching out from the sea. She hitched the cloak she had borrowed from her father close about her, a soldier’s cloak of pure wool and lined with flock, with a deep cowl to go over her head. She wondered whether Father Matthew was in the church, and if he would come out. She would pretend she was searching for herbs, but of course, the real herbs didn’t bloom until May, and spring seemed an eternity away.
Alusia was looking for a grave, Marion’s tumulus, that small mound of black earth which marked her close friend’s last resting place. Marion, bright of eye, always laughing, whose corpse had been found beneath the slime of the rubbish in the outer ward of the castle. She had been the first to be killed, a crossbow bolt, shot so close Alusia’s father said it almost pierced poor Marion’s entire body. The castle leech, together with Father Matthew and old Father Andrew, assisted by Mistress Feyner, had dressed the body for burial. Alusia and the rest of the girls were excluded, but she had stolen up that afternoon and slipped through the door. Now she wished she hadn’t. Marion’s face had been a gruesome white, dark rings around those staring eyes, from which the coins had slipped. Flecks of blood still marked her mouth, whilst so many cloths had been wrapped around the wound her chest appeared to have swollen.
Alusia found the grave, marked by a simple cross, with
Marion, Requiescat in Pace
burnt in by the castle smith. She knelt down and, from beneath her cloak, took a piece of holly she had cut, the leaves sparkling green, the berries bright. She placed this near the cross. She would have liked to have brought flowers, but it was the dead of winter. Didn’t Father Matthew say the holly represented Christ, the evergreen, ever-present Lord, whilst the berries represented his sacred blood? Alusia scratched her nose and tried to recall a prayer. Father Matthew had taught them the Our Father in Latin. She tried to say this. Latin was more powerful, it was God’s language. She stumbled over the words
Qui est in caelo
, ‘Who art in heaven’, and gave up, simply satisfying herself with the sign of the cross. Then she sat back on her heels. Why would someone kill poor Marion, and the others? One by one, in the same manner, a crossbow bolt through the heart, or in Sybil’s case through her throat, ripping the flesh on either side. Who was responsible? What had the victims been guilty of? The castle girls, in their innocence, were full of gossip about young men, eagerly looking forward to this feast or that holy day, be it Christmas when the huge Yule log crackled in the castle hearth, or May Day when the maypole was erected under the sheer blue skies of an early summer. Yet what crime in that?