Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death Read Free Page A

Bolingbroke to hold the torch closer as he emptied his sack of small rods and key-like instruments. For a while he just knelt, crouching, whispering to himself, cursing in the patois so common in the slums of St Antoine.
    ‘Can you do it?’ Bolingbroke whispered.
    The King of Keys paused in his fiddling and gave a cracked-toothed grin.
    ‘Be it the Tabernacle of St Denis, or the treasure house of King Philip, there is not a lock in Paris I cannot break.’ He held up one of the devices. ‘No lock can withstand these; it’s only the poor light which hinders me.’ As if to prove his point, he inserted the small rod and Ufford sighed in relief at the satisfying click.
    The door opened. The chamber inside was no more than a whitewashed box, the ceiling, with its heavy black beams, only inches above their heads. Around the room were ranged chests, coffers and caskets: Magister Thibault’s treasures. Bolingbroke ignored these, leading them across to a heavy iron-bound coffer, dark blue in colour and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis. The coffer had three locks at the front and one on either side. The King of Keys pulled it closer and stared at it curiously.
    ‘What does it contain? A king’s ransom?’
    ‘The Secretus Secretorum ,’ Ufford replied.
    ‘The what?’
    ‘The Voice of God,’ Ufford retorted.
    The King of Keys stepped away. ‘This is not black magic, is it? It does not contain some malignant root or book of spells? Messieurs, I am frightened of magic.’
    ‘It is not magic,’ Ufford soothed, ‘but knowledge. It contains a manuscript of the secret writings of Friar Roger Bacon, once a scholar at the Sorbonne.’
    ‘What?’ the King of Keys laughed. ‘You have hired me, the Master of the Locks, the King of Keys, to steal the manuscript of a Franciscan?’
    Ufford’s hand fell to his dagger. ‘You have been well paid, Monsieur, whoever you are. One gold piece to be hired, two for opening that coffer and two more when we part. Now upstairs Magister Thibault rides his young filly while his guests acquaint themselves with all the sins of the flesh. You must hurry.’
    The King of Keys returned to the coffer. Bolingbroke went back to close the doors and make sure all was well. Ufford crouched against the wall, willing his stomach to quieten itself and his sweat to cool, all the time watching the King of Keys, his hands now free of those leather mittens, fondling the locks as he would a lover’s hair, chuckling quietly to himself.
    ‘Monsieur, this is the work of craftsmen,’ he declared, walking over to Ufford.
    ‘ Domine miserere !’ Ufford whispered. ‘They always come back for more.’ He glowered at the King of Keys, noticing how thin and spindly his legs were in their dark woollen hose, how his feet seemed to swim in those flat-heeled boots.
    ‘Two more gold pieces.’ The Master of the Locks held out his hands.
    Ufford glanced at Bolingbroke, who opened his purse and handed the coins across. Ufford lifted up his arbalest, pulled back the cap to the quiver, took out one of the barbs and placed it in the polished slot. The King of Keys, however, just pocketed the gold, winked and returned to his task.
    ‘I hope you open it,’ Ufford called out. ‘Either you do and we leave with that manuscript, or . . .’
    ‘Don’t threaten me,’ the King of Keys hissed back, now busy with another lock.
    Ufford fell silent. Cradling the arbalest, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He would be glad when this evening was over. It would be good to return to England and receive the praise and rewards of Sir Hugh Corbett, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets! He smiled to himself. He liked Corbett, a man of few words, a good master with no illusions about the great Edward of England. He recalled the last time he and Bolingbroke had met Corbett. When was it? Eight weeks ago, around the Feast of Corpus Christi? Corbett had come to Paris on the pretext of some diplomatic incident and had met his two secret