Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death Read Free

hidden behind the masks of dogs, badgers, hawks, griffins and dragons. Eyes glittered, fingers snatched at his clothing; he was pushed and knocked by those eager to watch the dance and join the rest as they edged closer and closer to the twirling Salomes. When the dance stopped, who ever had won the women’s favour enjoyed their bodies.
    Ufford felt slightly sick, and tried to curb the panic seething within him. These were doctors of the law, masters of logic, professors of divinity, now giving themselves up on a fool’s night to every whim of taste and passion. He was sure he recognised Destaples and Vervins, who were easy to distinguish by their height. Across the hall, as if to distance himself from the orgy, sat Louis Crotoy, whilst fat Pierre Sanson plucked at Bolingbroke’s sleeve only to be pushed away. At last they were through, going under the minstrels’ gallery and into the kitchens. Revellers had slunk here to satisfy their thirst and see what extra wine they could filch from the servants and scullions. Elsewhere the servants were busy either washing down the blood-soaked fleshing tables or helping themselves to the remainders of the feast. No one paid Ufford and Bolingbroke much heed as they went out into the cobbled yard, a dark, dank place, rich with the stench from the stable. Bolingbroke slipped across the yard with Ufford following closely in the shadows, opened a postern gate in the high curtain wall and whistled softly into the darkness. The whistle was returned. Ufford, peering through the gloom, saw a shape move, and the Le Roi des Clefs, the King of Keys, stepped in close. Bolingbroke rebolted the gate and all three men crouched in the shadows.
    Le Roi des Clefs was as thin as a wizard’s wand. His hair, prematurely white, parted down the middle, fell just below his ears. His peculiar face fascinated Ufford, so thin, the chin so pointed, it looked like the letter ‘V’; close-set eyes, a beaky nose above a small mouth. Ufford smelt the fragrance and recalled Bolingbroke’s observation that this master housebreaker hated hair on his own face as well as on the face of anyone he did business with. Naturally, early that evening, both he and Bolingbroke had shaved themselves well.
    ‘You are ready?’ Bolingbroke asked.
    Le Roi des Clefs peered around. ‘You are by yourself?’ His English was good, the soft voice emphasising every word.
    ‘Of course we are!’
    ‘One gold coin.’ The King of Keys stretched out a hand, the tips of his fingers visible in the dark leather mittens. Bolingbroke handed over the gold coin. The King of Keys held it between forefinger and thumb, bit it, pronounced himself satisfied, and went back to the gate. He returned with two leather sacks. The larger one he handed to Bolingbroke, whilst the other he tied to the belt strapped around his leather jerkin. Bolingbroke undid his own sack and took out two war belts, each carrying a sword and dagger. He and Ufford strapped them on, and digging into the sack again, Bolingbroke brought out two small arbalests and a stout leather quiver of bolts.
    ‘We are ready.’
    They slipped across the yard and into the kitchen, their cloaks hiding both the war belts and the arbalests. The servants were now fighting over a juicy piece of lamb, whilst in the far corner a greyhound stood staring at the place where he usually lay, which was now occupied by a reveller busy lifting the skirts of a kitchen slattern. No one noticed the three newcomers as they opened the cellar door and went down the ill-lit stone steps. At the bottom they stopped and grouped together. Bolingbroke took one of the torches from the sconces on the wall and led them further into the darkness. On either side stood barrels, vats and casks, most of them broached for the evening’s feasting so the ground was slippery underfoot. At the far end of the cellar they reached a stout wooden door reinforced with metal studs. The King of Keys crouched down, whispering to