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.
‘There’s nothing more we can do, there’s nothing more we can do.’
‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ Corbett agreed.
‘Shall we eat, drink?’ de Craon asked. ‘Not to mention answer the calls of nature.’
His words created a ripple of laughter and he pushed back his chair. ‘Sir Hugh, perhaps we can meet in two hours’ time? Will you join us in the hall?’
‘In a while, in a while,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, I too am exhausted. I must collect my thoughts.’
The solar emptied. Corbett remained seated, whilst Raunulf, who had seen the secret sign his master had given, returned as if looking for something.
‘Not here,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Not here.’ He led Ranulf out of the solar through the kitchens and into the castle yard, then up across the inner ward and on to the wasteland bordering the castle warren.
‘Sir Hugh, what are you trying to do?’
‘Forget Friar Roger, Ranulf, I now know why our King is interested. Friar Roger’s cipher might take months, if not years, to break. We will make no sense of it. What I believe is that those three Frenchmen were murdered. No, no, listen. They were murdered and de Craon has come to Corfe Castle on some secret design of his own. Sanson is his creature. He simply sings the tune de Craon hums.’
Corbett clapped his hands against the cold.
‘The mystery is beginning to unravel, Ranulf, but I’m not too sure which path to follow. I must keep things sub rosa. Whatever is decided,’ he continued, ignoring Ranulf’s look of puzzlement, ‘these proceedings are coming to an end. We have made as much progress as we can and de Craon knows that.’
‘I agree.’ Ranulf gestured back at the hall. ‘Last night de Craon was murmuring that time was passing. No wonder, if you’re correct, Sir Hugh, that he brought those three men here to die; then his task is done.’
‘Oh, there’s more to come,’ Corbett replied. ‘Now, when are those outlaws to be admitted to the King’s peace?’
‘Tomorrow morning, but I did promise to take them supplies before this evening, a basket of bread and meat to be left at the church.’
‘I’ll go with you.’ Corbett hitched his cloak about him. ‘But for the rest, we’ll eat, drink and sleep and see which way our French viper curls.’
They returned to the hall where Corbett, keeping his face impassive, chatted to de Craon and drew Sanson into discussion about the writings of Friar Roger. He was now certain that this French scholar was the one who had lured Ufford to his death, so he found it hard to talk, smile and practise the usual courtesies. Accordingly, he was highly relieved, when they reassembled in the solar, to hear de Craon’s declaration that he did not wish to prolong the discussions any further.
‘Sir Edmund,’ de Craon pushed himself to his feet, ‘we have trespassed on your kindness long enough. We have now reached certain conclusions regarding Friar Roger’s writings. I agree with Sir Hugh,’ he smiled blandly, ‘that our Franciscan scholar invented a new language and only the good Lord knows how it can be translated. Nevertheless, this meeting at Corfe, despite the unfortunate deaths which have occurred, marks a new development in the ties binding our two kingdoms together. Scholars of both realms have met and exchanged knowledge – a matter most pleasing to our Holy Father the Pope. Perhaps these meetings will become more frequent and encompass a wider range of matters in the years to come,’ De Craon was now beaming from ear to ear, as if announcing the most marvellous news, ‘when the son of our sovereign lord will sit on the throne at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. However, I have an admission to make. A document was found on the person of that poor unfortunate woman who, I understand, took the lives of young maids in this castle. I now declare the document was written by me.’ He raised his hand in a sign of peace. ‘I wished her to buy supplies from the local tavern and paid her well to do so.’
‘Why?’ Sir Edmund broke in brusquely. ‘Our castle is well stocked.’
‘No, no, Sir Edmund, you have it wrong. Our meeting is drawing to an end, and although this is your castle, I insist that tomorrow night I be your host, that I buy the wines and food as a small thank you for your kindness and hospitality. However,’ de Craon sighed, ‘the best-laid plans of men can often go awry. Sir Edmund, I still insist that I host this banquet, that I pay your cooks and servants as well as for every delicacy served. You must,’ he added silkily, ‘accept the munificence of my master.’
Sir Edmund had no choice but to agree, even though he nudged Corbett under the table.
‘If Sir Hugh is in agreement,’ de Craon continued like a pompous priest from his pulpit, ‘we will bring these discussions to an end. Tomorrow I must see to certain matters, the collection of our manuscripts and the packing of our valuable belongings. Our horses and harnesses must be prepared and, of course,’ de Craon’s face assumed a false mournful look, ‘there is, Sir Edmund, the sad problem of conveyancing the corpses of my three dead comrades. Nevertheless, let us rejoice,’ he continued, ‘at our achievement. Finally,’ he lifted a finger, ‘Sir Edmund, I have stayed in your magnificent castle yet never once been beyond its walls. I would like to ride out with a suitable escort to visit this famous tavern so many of your servants talk about. I need to look at its wines, choose something special for tomorrow night.’
De Craon sat down, and Sir Edmund immediately rose to say what a great honour it had been to host this meeting, how he regretted the deaths of three of de Craon’s retinue and that, of course, he would place his kitchens, his servants, cooks and store rooms at Monsieur de Craon’s disposal. Corbett followed next, with what Ranulf later described to Chanson as a polite and pretty speech which echoed many of de Craon’s sentiments. How pleased he’d been to renew his acquaintance with a French envoy and how he looked forward, with even greater pleasure, to future meetings. He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice even though de Craon smirked throughout. At the end he added that he and his retinue would also be riding out on certain business and would de Craon accept his company and protection? The Frenchman quickly agreed.
A memorandum was drafted and transcribed by Bolingbroke in which de Craon, Sanson and Corbett briefly summarised their meeting regarding Friar Roger’s writings and the conclusions they had reached. Corbett and de Craon signed the document, Sir Edmund acting as witness, before it was confirmed with the seals of both kingdoms. Bowing and shaking hands, offering assurances of eternal friendship, the French and English envoys separated. Once de Craon had left, Corbett slumped in his chair, resting his face in his hands.
‘He is up to mischief,’ Sir Edmund growled. ‘You can tell that.’
‘Up to?’ Bolingbroke retorted. ‘I think he has achieved what he came for. He has discovered what we know about Friar Roger’s writings, which is the same as he now knows, that the
Secretus Secretorum
is written in a strange language, though God knows whether that will ever be translated. More importantly,’ Bolingbroke picked up his goblet and banged it on the table, ‘three
magistri
from the University of Paris have suffered unfortunate accidents. Philip has rid himself of critics and sent a warning to the rest. Sir Hugh,’ Bolingbroke got up from the chair, ‘I’m not too sure whether I want to eat his food and drink his wine.’
‘You will,’ Corbett smiled back, ‘simply because you have to.’
Bolingbroke sketched a sarcastic bow and walked out of the solar, leaving Corbett and Ranulf with Sir Edmund.
‘So there is no mystery about that document found on Mistress Feyner?’ Sir Edmund clicked his tongue. ‘It was just the courteous Monsieur de Craon planning a surprise for us.’
‘I still think he is planning a surprise.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘I wish to God I knew what it was. Sir Edmund, we will get our horses prepared; we must take advantage of the daylight.’
A short while later, Corbett, feeling very self-conscious, led his own retinue and de Craon’s across the drawbridge and out along the trackway leading down into the forest. The sun had grown stronger, the sky was a wispy white-blue, and although it was late afternoon, the countryside seemed bright under its canopy of white snow now melting and breaking up. De Craon chatted, saying he had studied Corfe and the surrounding countryside very closely before he had come to England, how it reminded him so much of Normandy, especially the fields, meadows and woods around Boulogne. Corbett half listened. Despite the break in the weather and the knowledge that his meeting with de Craon was drawing to an end, he felt a deep unease, a tension which stiffened the muscles of his back and thighs, like a jouster getting ready for the tourney, wondering what danger it might bring. He stopped at the edge of the forest, his gaze drawn by the blackened patch of burnt earth, the pile of charred branches and brushwood.
‘That comes from the fire the other night,’ Sir Edmund’s steward, who was accompanying them, remarked. ‘Travelling people. Often from the battlements you can see such fires glowing in the forest.’
As they entered the canopy of trees, de Craon continued his chattering, questioning the steward about hunting rights and the season for deer and did the forest hold wild boar? Corbett found the Frenchman’s constant talking a source of deep irritation, and was only too pleased when de Craon reined in and summoned forward his man-at-arms.
‘Go ahead of us,’ he ordered. ‘Sir Hugh, you talked of outlaws?’
‘They are no danger,’ Corbett reassured him.
‘Never mind, never mind.’ De Craon gestured. ‘It’s better to be safe than to be sorry. Follow the trackway,’ he ordered his man-at-arms, ‘but go no further than the tavern.’
The man answered reluctantly in French. De Craon’s voice became sharp. The man-at-arms turned his horse, dug in his spurs and cantered deeper into the trees. ‘As long as he keeps to the trackway,’ de Craon muttered, ‘he’ll be safe.’