by Paul Doherty
Spy in Chancery
( Hugh Corbett - 3 )
Paul Doherty
Paul Doherty
Spy in Chancery
ONE
The ship was in no danger despite the storm which raged out of the north to raise the waves and batter the craft. The master, John Ewell, a Southampton burgess and long-time mariner, knew these seas and sensed the temper of the storm. The ship was sturdy enough, two raised poops at either end to allow the archers protection when they fired, the mast was steep but sturdy and a look-out was posted high above the billowing sail just beneath the white red-crossed pennant of England. Ewell had every confidence in his deep-bellied ship and able crew, they were the least of his worries. He paced the deck, ice-blue eyes turned keenly seawards with the odd, sudden glance up to ensure his look-outs were equally attentive, constantly scanning the wind-blasted seas for pursuit.
Ewell congratulated himself. He had been successful, he had managed to slip his ship in and out of the Gascon port without hindrance. A short stay but long enough to pick up the small rolls of parchment sealed in their leather pouch and locked in the iron-bound chest in his narrow cabin. Edward of England would pay well for such reports: gold, special licences, even a knighthood. Despite the icy winds, Ewell hugged his own warmth and desperately wished for the calmer waters of the channel where his ship, the Saint Christopher, would find refuge.
Ewell felt exhilarated by what he had achieved. The goddam French may have overrun the English duchy of Gascony, seizing its cities, forts, castles and broken the wine trade between England and Bordeaux but, soon, the tables would be turned. Philip IV of France would kneel in the dust and beg forgiveness of Edward of England. Ewell stopped his pacing and stared into the middle distance, perhaps he would be there when it happened, Edward's captain, a burgess of Southampton, a knight with lands and titles bestowed by a grateful King. Ewell's dreams were suddenly shattered by a cry from the look-out high on the mast.
'Sail! I see sail to the south-east! One, no, two cogs.' Ewell steeled himself and rushed to the rail but could see nothing through the driving rain.
'Where? Where?' he shouted back.
'To the south-east, two cogs, full armaments!'
'What designs do they show?' Ewell yelled back, his throat sore at competing with the wind.
'No colours. Two pennants from the masts!' came the reply.
Ewell hoped they were English. Oh, sweet Christ, he did! No longer the thoughts of land and knighthood but his pleasant-faced wife, young daughters and his beloved ship which strained under the wind. He knew, at the bottom of his heart, that the ships were French, sent in pursuit like greyhounds after a startled hare. Ewell stared around in disbelief, every inch of sail had been loosed to catch the wind, two men on the stern manned the huge tiller, the rest were either below or in the rigging awaiting orders. He turned and saw the white, anxious face of his bo'sun and steward, Stephen Appleby. Ewell checked the panic which clutched his own heart and stomach and tried to put a brave face on it.
'Rouse the men, Stephen,' he said quiedy. 'Give them helmets, sallets, cloaks, crossbows and a quiver of quarrels.' Stephen grimaced, nodded and went below, his shouts faint in the roaring wind.
In a while the men stumbled on deck, tired, drawn, white-faced as they fastened their leather jerkins, put on helmets, wrist-guards and desperately tried to keep the cords of their crossbows dry against the cutting rain. Ewell ordered them to their posts on the fighting castles at either end of the ship, as well as into the rigging which ran like snakes up the great central mast. He issued a further spate of orders and two young boys brought sand and salt to strew the slippery docks while another tried to light and heat a small, capped charcoal brazier beneath the mast. Ewell turned back to the rail and peered hopefully through the rain. He saw nothing but, straining his eyes, he suddenly glimpsed dull shapes. The French were upon him. Ewell cursed trying to conceal his panic. Perhaps he could out-run them. But it was early morning and a full day had to elapse before the darkness fell. The English captain knew, at the bottom of his heart, that his ship could not make it. He had no illusions about the French. They had little love for English sailors and the rules of chivalry did not apply to war at sea.
The weather did not break and by noon the French were closing in on them. Two huge cogs, merchantmen converted to war, their great sails had lent them speed, even time to separate so they came in on either side of the English ship. Ewell saw the blue flags adorned with the silver lilies and, more foreboding, beneath them, the Oriflamme pennant which indicated that the French were not taking prisoners. The huge poops of the French were crowded with archers, the decks glistened with massed armour and Ewell saw the faint plume of black smoke which showed that the French had catapults. Ewell looked around in desperation, there was little he could do, surrender was out of the question for, at sea, prisoners were rarely taken. He breathed deeply, prayed to St. Anne and put on his rust-stained breastplate and battered steel helmet. The French closed in on either side, their catapults sending huge, glowing balls of fiery pitch up into the dull grey skies. The first one missed but soon they found their range and a rain of fire fell on the Saint Christopher.
The pitch caught the sail, the rigging and woodwork and the tongue of flame licked greedily and grew. The crew made frantic attempts to douse the flames with sand and water but to no avail. Other missiles, huge fiery black clumps caught the sails, turning them into curtains of fire, while the look-outs, trapped in the rigging, screamed and fell in flames to the deck. Ewell shouted at his archers to loose and turned just in time to see one of the French ships crash alongside, its soldiers pouring like a river over its side. The English archers accounted for a few who screamed and twirled as the ugly, jagged crossbow quarrels ripped the flesh of chest and neck, but the French were too many. The second ship also closed, disgorging its troops.
Ewell turned, he would reach his cabin, deny the French that leather, wax-sealed pouch but an arrow caught him full in his exposed throat and he crashed to the deck. He thought he could still move but the blood pumped through his mouth, he saw the blurred faces of his wife, his eldest child and the darkness came crashing down about him. Within an hour the Saint Christopher was blazing from the prow to stern. The French ships stood off, their crews watching the bowsprit dip into the waves, its grim burden, the body of the bo'sun, still jerking and twisting. Stephen Appleby died slowly. The noose around his neck strangling off his breath but, just before he died, even in his death agonies, he wondered,
once again, how the French had known and found his ship.
In the rue Barbette in Paris, Nicholas Poer hunched over his bowl of rancid meat, leeks and onions, slurping from the horn spoon he always carried with him. He stared round the dirty tavern, slyly studying the other customers sitting on up-turned barrels of broken stools. The place was poorly lighted by thick tallow candles which gave off a putrid smell. Poer did not like it, he heard a rat rustle the dirty straw which covered the earth-packed floor and turned back to his food, wondering what he was really eating. He raised the battered pewter tankard and drained its contents, the raw beer stinging the sores in his mouth. He felt frightened, almost shaking with panic though he tried to conceal it, drawing comfort from the long dagger he clutched under his cloak.
Of Gascon parents, Poer spoke fluent French and knew Paris well. He had always been confident in his disguise, no one would suspect that this greasy-haired, shabby, unshaven individual was a trained clerk of the Royal Exchequer of England, Edward I's highly trained spy sent to Paris to collect and send back information. Poer had moved easily around the city, crossing skilfuUy from the underworld on the left bank of the Seine to the slovenly splendour of the royal household in the Louvre.
Poer had, in recent weeks, been excited by what he had discovered. The French king, together with his brothers, Charles and Louis, was planning another move against Edward of England. Something breathtaking, a Grand Design, so an usher of the court had assured him when deep in his cups: Poer believed he had to discover what it was yet recently he had become afraid.
He was certain he was being watched, trailed as he made his way down the alleys and runnels of Paris. Earlier in the day he had been in the great square before the Cathedral of Notre Dame, watching a mountebank eat fire while his sons juggled with coloured baubles and there, Poer experienced the same feeling of dread which had assailed him a few days earlier. Someone was following him and though he had turned and twisted, never once did he catch a glimpse of the malicious watching eyes. This evening, as he made his way back to his lodgings in the garret of a mercer's house, Poer's disquiet had grown; the gentle slither of leather over wet cobbles, shadows deep in doorways, the soft clip-clop of a trained war-horse but, when he looked, there was nothing.
Poer finished his meal and slowly gazed round the dingy tavern room, he had sought sanctuary here, hoping his pursuers would show themselves, but he had been disappointed. Only an old beggar, his legs cut off at the knees, had hobbled in, the wooden slats fixed to his hands and the stumps of his legs clattering like drum-beats on the tavern floor. He watched the man eat like a dog lapping its bowl and scrabble out as Poer rose, wrapped his cloak about him and slipped out into the icy streets. Poer turned and made his way down the narrow alley, the timber and wattle houses stretching high above him, each tier jutting out above the other so the roofs of the houses closed in like conspirators locking out the frozen sky.
Poer stared up, the windows and doors were tightly shuttered, no sound except the moaning of the wind which rolled the mist and battered, almost with malicious glee, some loosened shutter. Poer drew his dagger and walked down the centre of the street, keeping clear of the dirt and ordure piled outside each door as well as the rank, fetid sewer which ran down the middle. He saw a shadow move in one of the doorways and a white, skeletal arm shot out, followed by the whine of a beggar.
'Ah, Monsieur, ayez pitiй, ayez pitiй.' Poer showed his long cruel dagger, the man disappeared and the beggar's voice faded.
Poer walked on cautiously. There was something wrong, something which had just happened but he could not place it. He was too tired, too anxious. He did not want to be arrested as a spy, to be dragged on a hurdle to the gallows at Montfauзon, strapped to a wheel and whirled naked whilst red-hooded executioners carefully broke each of his limbs with their wicked, jagged iron bars. Poer shivered and, holding his dagger before him, left the alleyway. He felt better now. He was at the crossroads, massive lighted braziers were placed here every evening by the civic authorities and a huge tallow candle fixed in the niche before the statue of the saint of that particular quarter, such light and heat drove off the icy mist and reassured Poer.
He whirled to his left as he heard the clack of wood on stone but only the old beggar from the tavern came out of the mist, whining and dragging himself across the cobbles in front of Poer. The spy ignored him and started to cross the square, the clatter increased in speed and Poer suddenly realised what was wrong, the old man had left a few seconds before him yet he had reached the top of the alleyway. Poer hesitated, turned but it was too late, the old man hurled into him, trapping his legs and Poer, stumbling over him, his hands caught in the folds of his cloak, fell, a sickening thud as his head hit the sharp cobbles.
The 'old beggar' pulled himself clear, his hands scrabbling behind him as he loosened the straps which pulled back his legs, the wooden slats were jerked from his knees and he straightened up. One glance at the fallen man showed there was no need to hurry, his victim was still unconscious. The beggar whistled quietly and was answered by the clip-clop of a great black war-horse which came out of the mist like some phantom from the gates of hell. Its rider, muffled in a dark cloak and hood, dismounted and walked over to the prostrate man, others joined him out of the darkness to form a threatening circle round the unconscious body.
'Is he dead?' the rider asked, his voice dry, devoid of any emotion.
'No,' the beggar muttered. 'Only unconscious. Is he to be questioned?' The leader shook his head and gathered the reins of his horse.
'No,' he replied. 'Sew him in a sack and throw him into the Seine!'
'It would be a mercy to cut his throat,' the beggar pointed out. The leader mounted and savagely jerked at the reins to turn his horse.
'Mercy!' he commented drily. 'If you had failed or lost him, I would have shown you such a mercy. He is a spy! He deserves none. Do as I say!' He turned, and soon both horse and rider were hidden by the cloying mist.
TWO
Edward, King of England and Duke of Aquitaine, was furious. In the council chamber near the royal chapel at Westminster, he was indulging in one of his passionate regal rages. Swathed in robes, his council sat and meekly witnessed the royal drama, some closely studied the red-gold tapestries covering the whitewashed walls, others scuffed their boots in the rush-strewn floor trying to rub the cold numbness from their legs and feet. It was cold, freezing, despite the large, iron charcoal braziers which had been wheeled into the room. The wind battered the shutters on the horn-glazed windows, piercing the cracks and blowing cold blasts of air to waft and fan the flames of the candles and the oil in their sconce stones. The clerks sat, pens poised above the thick, silk-smooth parchment, they realised the King did not want his curses transcribed so they patiently waited, hoping their fingers would not lose their feeling or the ink freeze in their metal pots.
Edward had no such reservations, time and again, he brought his fists crashing down on the long wooden table.
'My Lords,' he bellowed. 'There is treason here, rank and foul as the contents of any sewer!'
'Your Grace,' Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, intervened quickly, hoping to calm the King. 'It would seem…'
'It would seem,' Edward harshly interrupted, 'My Lord of Canterbury, that the royal arse cannot fart without Philip IV of France knowing it!'
Winchelsea nodded, fully agreeing with the sentiment, though not with Edward's unique way of expressing it. The archbishop decided to remain silent, Edward's rages were becoming more frequent, the deaths of the beloved Queen Eleanor, his Chancellor and friend, Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells, had loosened dark forces in the King's soul. His blond hair and beard were streaked with white, that once bronzed skin now sallow and pulled in deep lines around the sharp blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth.
Winchelsea sipped from the cup of mulled wine and scowled, it had gone cold, the archbishop leaned back in his chair and heartily wished the King's anger would cool as quickly as his wine. At last the King quietened, he sat upright in his great, oak-carved chair at the top of the table, his be-ringed hands twisted into fists.
'My Lords,' he said slowly, drawing deep gulps of air. 'There is a traitor amongst us.' He jabbed at the table top. 'Here in Westminster, a traitor, a spy who tells the French everything, our secrets, our plans, our designs. The Saint Christopher has undoubtedly been caught and sunk and one of our most valuable spies, a man many of you know well, a high-ranking clerk in the Exchequer, Nicholas Poer, has been murdered in Paris.' Edward stopped and the council stirred itself, there were exclamations, groans, mutters and curses. 'Poer,' Edward continued, 'was taken out of the Seine. He had been stitched alive into a sack and drowned like an unwanted cat. Someone, someone here might have informed the French about him for Poer was too clever to let slip his disguise and be caught. The same is true of the Saint Christopher. Philip IV, God damn him, must have been informed of its mission to collect reports from our spies in Gascony. God only knows what has happened to them!'
Edward stared dully around the chamber, a pretence while he plotted his words and studied the faces of his councillors. One of them was a traitor. But who? Robert Winchelsea, his sainted Archbishop of Canterbu
ry? A prelate of the church? Edward did not trust the man, an upstart, a sanctimonious clerk, a shallow man who always supported noble causes. On the King's left, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Edward stared at his brother's thin white face framed by long, black hair. He felt a touch of compassion whenever he studied his brother. Edmund had always been sickly and looked permanently ill with his slightly withered arm and cruel, distorted right shoulder. An accident at birth, or so they said. Yet, Edward had heard the stories about Edmund really being the first born, Henry Ill's eldest son but overlooked because of his disabilities, the crown passing to his stronger, more acceptable brother? Lies! Edward knew the truth but often wondered if his brother did. Edmund had been in charge of Gascony yet he had quietly surrendered it to the French, tricked, outmanoeuvred, making his name and the crown of England a laughing-stock in Europe.
Edward's gaze passed on. Next to Edmund sat John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond. Another fool, Edward thought. Richmond held lands in France and was related, albeit tenuously, to Philip IV. Edward often wondered if Richmond had been bought for a price, a little higher than the usual thirty pieces of silver. Edward silently ground his teeth. He had trusted that florid-faced fool as a son. For what? Richmond had taken an expeditionary force to France, invaded Gascony and promptly surrendered. Edward looked around. There were others, Bohun, Earl of Hereford, and Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. God's teeth, a precious pair! Gascony, had demanded that the province be handed over to him for thirty days while the dispute was setded. Edward ground his teeth at what happened next. His own dear brother, Edmund, had agreed, later justifying his actions by all sorts of legal nonsense. The French had immediately occupied it and Philip IV, that white-faced, devious bastard, had refused to cede it back. His troops poured into the duchy like a river breaking a dam, and all was lost.
