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

the arrow slit window boarded up against the night, hung a crucifix on which the gaunt white figure of Christ writhed in mortal agony. Ufford looked away. He could not forget Lucienne.
    He placed the leather sack under the bed, built up the brazier and began to destroy sheaves of paper from the secret compartment hidden beneath one of the chests: letters and memoranda they had received from England. Bolingbroke was doing the same. Then they took down leather panniers from hooks on the wall and filled these with their pathetic possessions, sharing out the gold and silver the English Ambassador had given them when he’d met them amongst the tombstones at St Jean. They washed their hands and faces, and divided their remaining food – a loaf of bread, some cheese and a small roll of cooked ham – whilst they finished the jug of claret purchased from the tavern below. At last all was ready.
    ‘We should go now.’ Ufford picked up the leather sack. ‘Who shall carry this?’
    Bolingbroke drew the dice from his wallet.
    ‘Three throws?’
    ‘No, just one.’
    Bolingbroke grinned, leaned down and shook the dice on to the floor. ‘Two sixes.’
    Ufford picked up the dice.
    ‘Do you wish to throw?’ Bolingbroke asked.
    Ufford shook his head and handed the leather sack over. Bolingbroke drew out the manuscript and began to leaf through the pages.
    ‘It’s in cipher!’ he exclaimed. ‘What does it contain, Walter? It has cost the lives of three people and could send us to our deaths. Oh, I know.’ He raised his hand. ‘I’m a scholar like you. I’ve read Friar Roger’s On the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature .’ He smiled. ‘Or, as Magister Thibault would have said, De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae .’
    ‘You know what it says, William?’
    ‘I can suspect,’ Bolingbroke replied. He closed his eyes to remember the quotation. ‘“It is possible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be made which can be guided by one man and will move with greater swiftness than if they were full of oarsmen.”’ He opened his eyes.
    ‘What did he mean by that?’ Ufford asked
    Bolingbroke pulled a face, closed the book, fastened the clasp and placed it carefully back in the leather sack.
    ‘We should go,’ Ufford repeated.
    ‘We are not to be at the Madelene Quayside until the bells of Prime are being rung.’ Bolingbroke cocked his head at the faint sounds of clanging bells. ‘The alarm has been raised, the fire at Magister Thibault’s must have spread. But no, Walter, we will stay, at least for a while.’
    Ufford lay down on the bed, eyes watching the door, aware of the shifting shadows as the candle flame fluttered at the draughts which seeped through the room. He thought about being back in London, of sitting in the tiled solar at Edelina’s house, a warm fire glowing, the air fragrant with the smell of herbs and spices; of cleaning his mouth with a snow-white napkin as he bit into tender beef or drank the rich claret her father imported.
    Ufford’s eyes grew heavy but he started awake, alarmed by a sound from the street below. He leapt from the bed and, hurrying across to the arrow slit, carefully removed the plank which boarded it and stared out. The cold night air hit him even as a stab of fear sent his heart racing. Dark shapes shifted in the street below and a light glowed from the apothecary’s shop. He was sure he heard a clink of steel from the alleyway, the muffled neigh of a horse. He felt his legs tense as if encased in steel. There were people below; he saw a movement and caught the glint of armour. He whirled round.
    ‘They’re here!’ he gasped, aware of the sweat breaking out on his face, his hands clammy.
    ‘Nonsense!’
    ‘They’re here,’ Ufford repeated. ‘The Hounds of the King, de Craon and company.’ He picked up his war belt and strapped it round his waist. Then, snatching his cloak and saddlebags, he opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. He was aware of