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

danger but they had no choice. Yet if they were caught? Ufford grasped the arbalest tighter. They would be taken to the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber beneath the Louvre of Paris, questioned by the Inquisitor, strapped to the wheel of Montfaucon and spun while the hangman smashed their limbs with mallets, before they choked on one of the soaring gibbets near the gates of St Denis. Ufford closed his eyes and prayed. He had visited Notre Dame this morning, lit three tapers in the Lady’s Chapel and knelt on the hard stone floor, reciting one Ave Maria after another.
    To break the tension, Ufford got to his feet and walked across to his companion.
    ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why is the manuscript so valuable?’
    Bolingbroke shifted his gaze and put a finger to his lips.
    ‘Bacon was a magician,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘He discovered secrets, the hidden knowledge of the Ancients. He said . . .’ He paused as the King of Keys freed another lock and moved to the last one. ‘You know the rivalry between Philip of France and Edward of England; either will do anything to frustrate the other.’
    ‘But Roger Bacon was a friar,’ Ufford pointed out. ‘They are always hinting at secrets.’
    ‘Did you know—’ Bolingbroke broke off, moving away from the door. Ufford had heard it too, the sound of footsteps. At the far end of the strongroom the King of Keys also recognised the danger. Ufford winched back the cord of his arbalest. Bolingbroke, grasping the torch, quickly went round the chamber dousing the candles, hissing at his companions to join him in the corner. Ufford, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat, stood beside his companions, the pool of light from the torch dancing around them. He prayed it was only a reveller coming down for more wine or ale. Then the footsteps drew nearer, a woman laughed, and to Ufford’s horror the door at the far end opened in a pool of light and a man and woman entered the chamber. Both had drunk deeply. Ufford heard a strident voice, speaking quickly in French, wondering why the strongroom door was open. Heart thumping, Ufford realised what had happened. Magister Thibault, together with the fair Lucienne, had come down to inspect the treasure room. The old goat was showing off, eager to impress this beautiful courtesan, but he was too drunk to fully realise what had happened, and instead of retreating, he closed the door behind him and staggered across the room, lifting the tallow candle he carried.
    ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ What is this? He swayed in the pool of light, cursing sharply as a piece of hot wax dropped on to his hand.
    ‘Kill him,’ Bolingbroke whispered. ‘Kill him now!’
    Magister Thibault walked towards them.
    ‘Who’s there?’ he screeched.
    Ufford stepped into the pool of light, the arbalest still hidden beneath his cloak.
    ‘Magister Thibault, good evening. My friends and I became lost and found ourselves down here.’
    Thibault, full of wine and hot from the pleasures of the bed, blinked his watery eyes.
    ‘Why, it’s Ufford the Englishman, who is always asking me questions about Albert the Great.’
    Ufford took a step closer. The Magister studied him quickly from head to toe. Thibault’s mood was changing.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ Thibault stepped back in alarm. The woman, leaning against the wall, was falling asleep. She seemed unaware of any danger, thumb in her mouth, laughing softly as if savouring a secret joke.
    ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Thibault stepped back further. Ufford brought up the arbalest and released the bolt, which thudded deep into Thibault’s chest, sending him staggering back. The candle dropped from his hands as he went to clutch the feathered barb embedded deep in his chest. At first, unaware of the pain or the blood pumping out, he opened his mouth to scream, but Ufford leapt forward and struck him on the side of the head with the arbalest. The Magister slumped to his knees, groaning in pain, coughing on the