The snow had turned to ice, and on either side of the track Corbett saw signs of the recent attack, wet patches of blood, a shattered club, a buckle or button. He paused as Ranulf pushed his mount towards a thick clump of gorse where the corpse of another pirate lay, sprawled crookedly in death, one hand turned as if trying to pluck the yard-long shaft embedded deeply in his back. They entered the line of trees; here again were more scenes of the bloody pursuit: a corpse half hidden by the snow overlooked by Sir Edmund’s men, and more and more of those dark bloody patches.
When they reached the tavern, its cobbled yard was deserted. Corbett dismounted, told Ranulf to wait and walked into the tap room. He was met by the chief ostler, who informed him that Sir Edmund had given the tavern to his care for the time being. ‘We are still looking for those who fled.’ His sad eyes held Corbett’s. ‘Young boys and maids out in the freezing forest. We’ve been out there and seen some terrible sights. Corpses, throats slit from ear to ear, tinkers and travellers, God’s poor men, only looking for a warm fire.’
‘The Castilians?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir, we thought they were what they claimed to be. They would leave now and again; I always thought they were going to the castle. Then the others came, silently, just before dark, terrible men, Sir. They kept careful watch on the road. Some of the maids were cruelly abused.’
‘Well they are either dead,’ Corbett replied, ‘or about to meet their final judgement.’ He told the ostler to keep careful watch lest pirates who had survived the fight were hiding out amongst the trees.
‘Is it going to end like that?’ Ranulf asked as Corbett remounted. ‘Bodies dangling from the wall? Who, Sir Hugh, will answer for the hideous murders in the castle? Your good friend Louis—’
Corbett held up a hand. ‘I’m tired, Ranulf, of secret books and hidden ciphers, de Craon’s treachery and his lust for my blood. There’s still work to do.’ He smiled. ‘We have a priest to see. Always remember, the mills of God’s justice may grind infinitely slowly, but they do grind infinitely small.’
The trackway outside the church and the churchyard itself bore witness to the recent conflict. Some of the crosses and headstones had been overturned whilst a pile of bloody rags lay heaped against the cemetery wall. Father Matthew was standing on the church steps, busy sprinkling water in all directions.
‘I’m hallowing this place,’ he explained, as Corbett and Ranulf dismounted. ‘Well,’ he held up the holy water stoup and the small asperges rod, ‘it’s the least I can do.’ He sprinkled a little water in Corbett’s direction. ‘Sir Edmund told me about Mistress Feyner. You did well, clerk; another devil in our midst, though.’ Father Matthew sighed. ‘God rest the poor woman.’
Corbett stared at this kindly priest with his heavy peasant face, now unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, and realised how shrewd a man he was; just a glance, a movement of the lips proved the old proverb that still waters run very, very deep. Corbett rested one foot on the bottom step of the church.
‘I came to thank you, Father.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘And to congratulate you on your return to good health. When I came here last you were warning us, weren’t you? You could smell the odour of cooking and so could I. And what poor priest would throw a beautiful bronze bowl out amongst the rubbish near the rear door?’
‘I hoped you would see that.’ Father Matthew kept his head down. ‘God have mercy on me, Sir Hugh, I had no choice. They were in every chamber in the house and they held the hostages in the church; they were as fearsome as Hell. I thought I would never meet devils incarnate! Hell must have been empty, for all its demons came to Corfe.’
‘You escaped?’
‘A long story.’ Father Matthew smiled. Corbett noticed how clean and even his teeth were, whilst the ragged black mittens on his hands couldn’t hide the elegance of his long fingers. ‘The pirates were leaving, eager for more mischief. I simply escaped into the church and barred the Corpse Door. Thanks be to God, if I hadn’t I’m sure they would have slit my throat and those of the other people they brought in.’
‘Where have they gone?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, back to their homes. I gave them what I could.’ Father Matthew made to turn away.
‘John?’
Father Matthew whirled round, and if he hadn’t been holding the water stoup so carefully he would have dropped it. He gaped towards Corbett.
‘I, I don’t . . .’
‘You’re not a priest,’ Corbett replied quietly. ‘You are a scholar pretending to be a priest. Your real name is John. Many years ago, in a different world, you were the disciple, the close friend, the personal messenger of the Franciscan brother Roger Bacon, scholar of Oxford and Paris.’
‘I, I don’t know.’ Father Matthew had turned so pale Corbett strode up the steps and grasped him by the arm.
‘I think you had best come into the church where you have hidden for so long.’
The priest didn’t resist as Corbett led him into the dark, smelly nave which still bore signs of occupation by the pirates. Stools and benches were overturned; near the baptismal font was a pile of horse manure. The floor was stained and two shattered pots lay directly beneath the oriel window, catching the poor light pouring through.
Ranulf pulled back his cowl and absentmindedly blessed himself. Corbett’s declaration had taken him by surprise. He found it difficult to accept that a great scholar of Oxford should be hiding in such a shabby church. Yes, old Master Longface had his own ways; if the King wouldn’t let his right hand know what his left was doing, Corbett was even worse. The priest was deeply shocked, trembling so much Ranulf had to prise the water stoup from his grip and urge him to sit on the small high-backed chair just under the window. Corbett sat on the stool opposite.
‘Would you like some wine, Father? I will call you Father, though you are not a priest. Oh, you tried to be, but you hold the Host the wrong way. Now and again you forget your duties, such as neglecting to administer the last rites to that poor maid found on the trackway outside.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Yes you do,’ Corbett continued evenly. ‘We could go across to that house, and sooner or later I will find a hidden compartment. I wonder what it will contain? An astrolabe, a calculus, a compass, maps of the heavens, charts of the seas, perhaps one or two books, and a jug of that fiery powder which the King uses to loose his bombards and hurl bricks at castle walls?’ He paused. ‘Why should a poor parish priest have such an expensive bronze bowl and use it so much it is caked with black powder? But there again, you know all there is to know, don’t you, about Friar Roger’s
ignis mirabilis
? You’ve read the formula, you know how to mix it.’ Corbett smiled. ‘You’ve committed no crime, Father Matthew, except one, I suppose. You will produce letters from some bishop which will declare you are a priest, yet I’m a royal clerk and even the best forgeries can be detected. I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for you, would it, to buy the finest vellum, a quill, a lump of wax, and forge your own seal? How many people can read such a document? And who really cares? After all,’ he waved around, ‘St Peter’s in the Wood, outside Corfe Castle, is not the richest benefice in God’s kingdom. What are its tithes and annual revenues, Father, a mere pittance?’
‘They’ll burn me!’ Father Matthew lifted his head. ‘You know that, Sir Hugh. They’ll ransack my house, take away the gold and silver I have hidden. They’ll burn my books like they did Friar Roger’s. For what? Because I’m a scholar? Because I want to probe the mysteries? What harm have I done anyone? True,’ he nodded, ignoring the tears spilling down his cheek, ‘I have no power to change the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. I have no authority to loose people from their sins, but if there is a God, He must be compassionate. He will understand.’
Corbett listened as this former scholar made his confession. How he had been born not far from Ilchester, orphaned young, and had travelled to Oxford, where Friar Roger had received him kindly. He explained how the friar had given him an education second to none, in the Quadrivium and Trivium, in mathematics, logic, astronomy and Scripture, as well as a variety of different tongues.
‘He was my Socrates.’ Father Matthew smiled. ‘And I sat at his feet and drank in his wisdom. But,’ he sighed, ‘Friar Roger clashed with his own order in the person of the Father-General, the great scholar Bonaventure. He lost the protection of the papacy and spent years in prison. After his release, he travelled back to Oxford a broken man. When he died, the good brothers nailed his manuscripts to the wall to rot.’ He shrugged. ‘Or so rumour had it; by then I had fled. Friar Roger told me to hide, to keep well away from both his order and the Halls of Learning. I travelled back to Ilchester but no one recognised or knew me. I heard that this parish had no priest.’ He forced a smile. ‘Well, you know the rest. You’re right, Sir Hugh, no one cared. The Bishop’s clerk was so ignorant he couldn’t even translate the Latin on the letter I had forged. But what could I do? I wanted to continue my studies.’ His voice faltered.
‘The secrets?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah, I thought you would ask about that. I heard about the meeting at Corfe. I wondered if I should flee, but that would have provoked suspicion. Who would care about an ignorant parish priest?’
‘Would the King know?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is that why he chose Corfe?’
‘Possibly,’ Father Matthew conceded. ‘Perhaps he thought such a meeting might provoke the interest of Friar Roger’s hidden disciples. The truth is, Sir Hugh, there’s only one, and you are looking at him. When I met you,’ he sighed, ‘I did wonder. You are sharp of eye, keen of wit.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want my house ransacked, I don’t want my books burnt, I don’t want to be dragged before some archdeacon’s court or local justice. Sir Hugh, I have done no harm, I have done no ill.’
‘I’m not going to pass sentence, Father Matthew, but I asked you a question. The secrets?’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d say I was lying. Friar Roger’s secrets are described in his manuscripts. He talked of things, Sir Hugh, of men he had met in France, of mysterious documents, of marvellous machines beyond our comprehension.’
‘The
Secretus Secretorum
?’
‘Ah, that.’ Father Matthew closed his eyes and breathed in. ‘Friar Roger was very careful,’ he began. ‘Many people regarded him as a magician.’
‘Was that true?’
The priest opened his eyes. ‘Yes and no, Sir Hugh. Friar Roger was a member of a secret circle of scholars. In his letter
On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature
he attacks magic as trickery.’
‘So what was he frightened of?’
‘That things which could be regarded as magic are really the creation of the human mind, of a newly found wisdom. Friar Roger often talked about the great scholar Peter de Marincourt, with whom he worked in Paris. Peter taught him great secrets, for example, how a glass could be built so that the most distant objects appear near at hand, and vice versa. Sir Hugh, how can you explain such a thing to an ignorant bishop or inquisitor? Friar Roger became frightened. He was also deeply resentful at the way he was imprisoned and silenced, so he wrote the
Secretus Secretorum
, his handbook of secrets. It’s a mixture of the sources of his knowledge and future predictions, as well as how certain experiments can be conducted. He wrote it in a secret cipher, and before you ask, Sir Hugh, there is no translation. On his deathbed Friar Roger whispered to me that the key to that book was his own mind and that when he died that key would disappear. Now, Sir Hugh, you may drag me to London, have me tortured, threatened, I would say no different. The
Secretus Secretorum
,’ Father Matthew raised his voice so it echoed round that sombre church, ‘is Friar Roger’s treasury of secrets. It is also his revenge on those who rejected him. He could have said so much but no one wants to die screaming, lashed to a pole with the flames roaring around you.’
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.’