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

Bolingbroke breathing behind him. The alleyway below was empty.
    ‘Down the steps quickly,’ Bolingbroke urged. ‘Separate. If I am caught I’ll destroy that manuscript. Remember, the Madelene Quayside, the boatman in the scarlet hood – he’ll take you downriver to The Glory of Westminster , an English cog. Its captain’s name is Chandler.’
    Ufford nodded and raced down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he turned left and ran up a runnel, blind walls on either side. He didn’t know which way Bolingbroke had gone but his companion was forever wandering off by himself and knew the city like the back of his hand, even better than Ufford did. Ufford ran like the wind. He was aware of beggars, with their white, pinched faces, crouching in doorways, of dogs snarling and slinking away as he lashed out with his boot. He passed a small church, its steps crumbling; he glimpsed the face of a gargoyle and thought it was Magister Thibault laughing at him. He kept to the poor quarter, ill-lit and reeking with offensive smells, slums rarely patrolled by the watch or city guards. One thing he kept in mind: the map he had memorized. He reached the Street of the Capuchins and stopped to catch his breath, to ease the stabbing pain in his side. He resheathed his dagger, squatted down and, fumbling in his pocket, found a piece of cheese. He tried to chew on this but his mouth was dry so he spat it out.
    Ufford tried to make sense of what was happening. They had stolen that damnable manuscript, Bolingbroke had it, and now they were only hours away from safety. Once aboard that cog, de Craon and his Hounds could bay like the dogs of Hell, but they would be safe. Yet how had it happened? Ufford breathed in deeply, his ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Had he made a mistake or were the Hounds chasing poor Bolingbroke? He tried to soothe his humours by recalling Edelina’s face, but it was Lucienne’s that came to mind, that pretty mouth opening, the blood spurting out. Ufford half dozed. He recalled his question to Bolingbroke. What was so precious about that manuscript? London and Paris were full of magicians! Friar Roger had made remarkable prophesies, but surely they were just vague imaginings? The pain in his side eased and Ufford tried to concentrate on his own predicament. It was Bolingbroke who had discovered where the manuscript was, liaising with this mysterious traitor, but what then? Was it that traitor who’d betrayed them? Was it a trap? Was the manuscript Bolingbroke carried genuine or a forgery?
    Ufford peered down the Street of the Capuchins. From where he squatted he could see glimpses of the river and caught the glow of the quayside torches fixed on their poles. Perhaps the boatman would come early. He got to his feet and walked slowly down the street. From a casement window a child cried, a strident sound piercing the night. A dog howled and Ufford started at the swift swirl of bats in the air above him. From a garden further down an owl hooted, and he recalled old wives’ tales about an owl being the harbinger of death. He was halfway along the Street of the Capuchins when he heard the clink of metal behind him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he turned. A line of mailed men, heads cowled, had emerged from an alleyway. They stood silently, like a legion of ghouls spat out from Hell.
    ‘Oh no!’ Ufford gasped.
    ‘Monsieur,’ a voice called. ‘Put down your arms, and return that manuscript.’
    Ufford peered through the gloom. He could make out the livery, the silver fleur-de-lis on a blue background: the Hounds of the King! He drew his sword and dagger and turned to run. He was finished. A second line of men had appeared, blocking any escape to the quayside. Again the voice, loud and clear: ‘Monsieur, put down your arms, we wish to talk to you about what you have stolen.’
    Ufford recalled the gibbet of Montfaucon, black and stark, the rumbling of the execution cart, the whirl of the