Free Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death by Paul Doherty Page B

what.’
    ‘So what do you propose?’ Sir Edmund asked.
    ‘The French are to be given good secure chambers.’
    ‘They won’t want guards, they never do,’ the Constable retorted. ‘They will only accuse us of eavesdropping or treating them like prisoners.’
    ‘Make sure they are given the keys to their chambers,’ Corbett tapped the table top, ‘and that they eat together in the hall. As for the castle, let them go wherever they wish.’ He pushed back his chair, a sign the meeting was over. ‘But if they leave the castle they must have an escort.’
    Sir Edmund rose to his feet, bowed and left. Bolingbroke asked if there was anything further. Corbett shook his head. The clerk departed saying he needed to change, wash and sleep.
    ‘What now?’ Ranulf asked.
    He lounged in his chair, playing with the dagger sheath on his war belt. He placed this on the table before him and peered up at Corbett.
    ‘You really do expect mischief, don’t you?’
    Corbett walked to the door which Bolingbroke had left half open. The gust of cold air was welcoming, but as he pulled the door shut, he noticed the first snowflakes fall.
    ‘I don’t know what to expect, Ranulf. You know Edward of England; he rejoices in the title of the Great English Justinian, he has a passion for knowledge. Once he becomes absorbed in something he becomes obsessed. He has been through Bacon’s writings time and time again, like some theologian poring over the scriptures. He has insisted that I do the same. I have his copies of Friar Roger’s works in that coffer.’
    ‘Was the friar a magician?’ Ranulf asked.
    Corbett drew the trancher of bread towards him, cut a piece, dabbed it in the butter jar and put it in his mouth. ‘Ranulf. Again it’s logic. Have you ever lain in the grass,’ he grinned, ‘by yourself, stared up at the sky and watched a bird hover? Have you ever wondered what it must be like to fly, to be a bird? Or leaned over the side of a ship and wondered what really happens beneath the waves?’
    ‘Of course,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Your mind wanders.’
    ‘People like Roger Bacon go one step further. Is it possible? Can it be done? They speculate,’ Corbett continued, ‘they become intrigued, and so the experiments begin.’
    ‘Do you believe in this secret knowledge?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’ Corbett swirled the ale round his jug. ‘I believe in logic and deduction. If something is possible, does it become probable? What is the relationship between an idea and a fact? If we build a machine such as a catapult, to hurl rocks at a castle wall, is it possible to construct another machine to throw them even further and harder? Go down to the castle yard, Ranulf, study those Welsh bowmen. They don’t use an arbalest but a bow made of yew which can loose a yard-long shaft. In Wales I watched a master bowman fire six such arrows in the space of a few heartbeats whilst a crossbowman was still winching back the cord of his own weapon.’
    ‘When the French come . . .’ Ranulf decided to change the subject. He knew from past experience how Corbett’s military service in Wales always brought about a change in mood. Sir Hugh still suffered night-mares about those narrow twisting valleys and the cruelties both sides perpetrated on each other. ‘When the French come,’ he repeated, ‘will de Craon accuse Bolingbroke of theft and murder?’
    ‘Great suspicion but little proof.’ Corbett laughed drily. ‘Oh, he’ll know and he’ll know that I know, which will make us both very knowledgeable, but de Craon is too cunning to accuse anybody. He may make references to it, but no outright allegation. He might talk about a housebreaker called Ufford, a scholar and an Englishman, being killed, but that is as far as he will go. The dead do not concern de Craon. Like a fox which has killed a pullet, it has only whetted its appetite for—’
    Corbett started at the shouting from outside.
    ‘Woe unto you who has done this! Limb of Satan,