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

blood frothing between his lips. Ufford simply pushed him to one side and raced towards Lucienne, who stood, hands still to her mouth, staring as if it were all a dream. Ufford felt a pang of pity at that beautiful face, the lovely lips, the pale ivory skin. He clutched the young woman by the neck and drove his dagger deep beneath the heart, drawing her closer on to the blade, watching the life-light die in those exquisite eyes.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Ufford whispered.
    ‘I . . .’ Lucienne’s eyes rolled in her head, she gave a cough and a sigh. Ufford lowered her corpse to the floor.
    ‘We’ll hang!’ The King of Keys gazed in horror at the two corpses. Blood was snaking out, pools forming and running down the lines between the paving stones.
    Ufford couldn’t stop trembling.
    ‘I had no choice,’ he gasped. ‘If I didn’t we would have hanged. Finish what you’re doing,’ he snarled at the King of Keys, and running over, he pulled across the bolts securing the door.
    The lock-breaker returned to his task. Ufford paced up and down, while Bolingbroke simply slumped by the wall, staring at the stiffening corpses. Ufford started as Thibault’s corpse twitched and a gasp of air escaped from his stomach. The King of Keys, sweat-soaked, concentrated on the last lock. He gave a cry of triumph at the click, threw back the lid and plunged his hand inside, only to give the most hideous scream. Ufford spun round. Bolingbroke moaned quietly, like a man caught in the toils. The King of Keys turned, and Ufford stared in horror. Little caltrops, balls, their spikes as sharp as razors and as long as daggers, had pierced the hand and wrist of the King of Keys. He staggered towards Ufford, arm out, staring beseechingly, blood pumping from his wrist like water from a drain.
    ‘My hand,’ the King of Keys moaned, ‘my hand. I shall never . . .’ His face was a liverish white at the shock of what had happened. ‘God damn you!’ he whispered.
    The sudden horror of this hidden device had made him unaware of the seriousness of his wound, but Ufford knew enough about medicine to realise that a large vein had been cut.
    ‘Help me!’ the injured man pleaded. ‘For God’s sake!’
    He slumped to his knees and tugged at the spike in his wrist, but the pain sent him writhing to the floor. Ufford ran across and, helped by Bolingbroke, tried to extract the caltrop, but it was embedded too deep. The King of Keys was shaking, the blood gushing from the wound so fast Ufford knew he couldn’t staunch it.
    ‘Help me, please!’ the King of Keys repeated.
    ‘Of course, of course. We need to cut some cloth.’
    Ufford drew his dagger, one hand going to cover the King of Keys’ eyes, the other slicing the blade deeply across the man’s throat.
    ‘We can do no more.’ He stared at Bolingbroke grasping the King of Keys’ sack, who now asserted himself as if waking from a dream.
    ‘True, he was dead already.’
    They went across to the casket and, grabbing it by the lid, tipped the contents on to the floor. They fell with a crash, more of those deadly caltrops bouncing across the paving like some dangerous vermin escaping from a hole. Bolingbroke, however, sighed in relief at the leather bag tied at the neck which also fell out. He picked this up, undid the knot and slid out a bound book. He took it beneath the sconce torch, undid the leather clasp and quickly leafed through the pages.
    ‘Do we have it?’ Ufford demanded.
    ‘We have it!’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘The Secretus Secretorum of Friar Roger Bacon!’
    They fled the strongroom taking their weapons and the leather sack with them. Ufford stopped at the wine cellar, fingers to his lips, staring at the small casks and vats above the wine barrels. Climbing up, he took one down, prised the bung hole loose with his dagger and shook the oil on to the floor as he and Bolingbroke made their way back to the steps. When it was emptied, he threw it down and raced up the cellar steps. At