by Paul Doherty
'Qu'est ce que?'
'Je suis Anglais,' Corbett replied. 'Je cherche…' 'I speak English,' the woman interrupted. 'I am Devon born, my late husband was a wine merchant from Bordeaux. When he died, I turned part of this house into lodgings for English visitors to Paris. I know,' she continued breathlessly, 'you must be here about Master Fauvel, am I right?'
Corbett smiled. 'Of course, Madame, О would appreciate some information about his death.' He thought the woman might invite them in but she leaned against the door and shrugged.
There's little 1 can tell you,' she replied and pointed to the muddy street. 'He was found there, stabbed in the throat!'
'Nothing else?'
'No,' she said and stared first at Corbett and then at Ranulf who was leering at her. The woman blushed at his frank, admiring smile and looked lost for words.
'There was nothing,' she stammered, 'except the coins.'
'What coins?'
The woman pointed down at the dirt. 'There, a few sous, nothing much, just lying in the dirt.'
They had fallen out of his purse?'
'No, out of his hand, almost as if he was going to give them to someone.'
'Whom?'
'I don't know,' came the tart reply, 'perhaps some beggar?'
'Ah,' Corbett let out a long sigh. It was possible, he thought, just possible. He may not know why Fauvel and Poer died or who gave the order but he guessed how and by whom. Corbett turned away muttering his thanks when the woman called out.
'Monsieur, if you need lodgings?' Corbett smiled and shook his head. He would not return to this house but, judging by the look on Ranulf's face, his servant surely would.
Corbett returned to the English envoys certain in his knowledge of what had happened to Poer and Fauvel though this was only a surmise, a calculated guess and, even if it was correct, there was little he could do with the information except wait, so he decided to turn his attention to his companions. Lancaster and Richmond he tended to leave alone, Eastry was a cold fish and spent most of the time in his own small chamber, so he concentrated on Waterton. The latter had proved himself a brilliant clerk, the document he drew up summarising the meeting with Philip reflected an ordered, logical mind. As a courtesy, the English and French had exchanged memoranda of the meeting at the Louvre and Philip IV had been so impressed by the English scribe's work as to send him a purse of money as a gift.
Nonetheless, Waterton puzzled Corbett: he was secretive and withdrawn, using every opportunity to leave his colleagues to wander out in the streets and, unless his services as a scribe were needed, he would not return until the early hours the following morning. Corbett did not regard this as too suspicious for Paris and its fleshpots were an enduring attraction but, as the days passed, Waterton became even more secretive. Corbett also noticed that when French officials or messengers visited the lodgings, they always made a point of asking if Monsieur Waterton was in attendance, sometimes they brought gifts and, on one occasion Corbett thought he saw one of the French slip Waterton a piece of parchment.
Corbett finally asked Ranulf to follow Waterton on one of his nightly expeditions but his servant returned to announce he had been unsuccessful. 'I followed him for a while,' Ranulf wearily commented, 'but then a group of drunkards surrounded me and, when they found out I was English, they began to taunt and jostle me. By the time I was free of them, Waterton was gone.' Corbett his suspicions now aroused, decided to question Waterton.
He chose his moment carefully: one Sunday after Mass he found Waterton alone in his small, windowless chamber. The English scribe was seated at a table busily drafting a letter, surrounded by rolls of parchment, pumice stones, pens and inkhorns. Corbett, apologising for the intrusion, began a desultory conversation about the weather, the recent meeting with the French and the possible date of their return to England. Waterton was polite but cautious, his long narrow face showing nothing except signs of fatigue and tension. As he talked, Corbett noted his companion's very costly dress, the soft leather boots, the pure woollen cloak, hose and doublet with a frothy cambric lace showing at the neck. He wore a silver link chain round his neck and an amethyst ring on the little finger of his left hand. Quite the lady's man, Corbett thought.
'You find me interesting, Master Corbett?' Waterton suddenly asked.
'You are a very skilful clerk,' Corbett replied. 'Yet, so secretive. I know little about you.'
'Why should you?'
Corbett shrugged, 'We are all locked up here together,' he replied. 'We face a common danger, yet you wander around Paris, even after the curfew. It is unsafe.' Waterton picked up a slender, wicked-looking paper knife and began to cut a piece of vellum, drawing carefully along the ruled line and rubbing the parchment with the grey pumice stone until its surface glowed like soft silk. He stopped and looked up.
'What are you implying, Corbett?'
'Nothing. I am implying nothing, I just asked you a question.'
Waterton pursed his lips in annoyance and threw down the pumice stone. 'Look, Corbett,' he snapped. 'My business is my own. You scrutinise me like some village gossip. My father was a well-to-do merchant, hence my relative wealth. My mother was French so I am both fluent in the language and not afraid of walking about a French city. Satisfied?'
Corbett nodded. 'I am sorry,' he replied, not feeling the least contrite. 'I was only asking.'
Waterton scowled at him and returned to scraping the parchment, so Corbett left, bitterly regretting the meeting had achieved nothing except alerting Waterton and putting him on his guard.
Corbett did not share his suspicions with Lancaster who had studiously avoided him since their last meeting, moreover, the Earl had announced a date for their return to England and was busy organising the preparations. The Earl had not forgotten the attack on the Beauvais road and demanded safe conducts and an increased military escort to the coast. Philip, of course, demurred saying Lancaster did not seem to trust him so the Earl was drawn into further complex negotiations, his temper not improved by the sly innuendos and subtle taunting of the French court.
Corbett waited. The French envoys and officials visited the house and, on one such occasion, Corbett definitely saw Waterton receive a piece of parchment. He felt tempted to challenge his colleague on the spot but realised he would look a complete fool if it proved to be nothing. That same evening, however, Corbett wrapped in a heavy soldier's cloak, sword and dagger fastened to his waist, followed Waterton from their lodgings. He pursued him through a veritable maze of streets and alleyways, crossing squares past darkened houses. Corbett moved slowly ensuring he kept his quarry barely in view in case there were others, silent protectors of this night-wandering English clerk.
At last Waterton entered a tavern, Corbett stayed outside, watching the lighted doorway and square shuttered windows. The streets were deserted, except for the occasional drunken beggar or the crashing and clink of chainmail as foot soldiers, the night watch of that quarter, did their rounds. Corbett, hidden in the shadows, watched them pass in a pool of light thrown by the flickering cresset torch carried by their leader. Apart from the faint singing and clatter from the tavern, the silence was oppressive: a faint chilling rain began to fall, Corbett jumped as a rat rising among the rubbish in a corner, squealed and thrashed about as a large cat caught it silently in its killing jaws and hurried off.
The houses on the other side of the street rose, a huge dark mass above him, the night sky was clouding over, the full spring moon suddenly covered by dark rain clouds. Corbett shivered and huddled deeper into his cloak. He concentrated on the sliver of light marking the tavern door, wondering when Waterton would leave. Was he there for a night's roistering? Or was the person he was meeting already with him? Corbett cursed his stupidity, he should have at least tried to resolve that problem when Waterton first entered the tavern, now he dare not approach the door.
Corbett's anxieties were suddenly resolved by the clatter of boots on the cobbled streets. Two hooded figures stepped out of t
he darkness, the first entered the tavern but the second stopped in the pool of light by the door, pulled back his cowl and looked quickly around. Corbett stiffened with excitement, it was de Craon. The English clerk waited until the two had entered and, after a short while, walked across the street and peered through a crack in the shutter.
The place was ill-lit by oil cressets fixed in the wall. Corbett looked across the dirty room and saw Waterton joined by de Craon and his companion who pulled back her hood to reveal raven black hair and a face which Helen of Troy would have envied; alabaster skin, full red lips and large dark eyes. Despite the poor light, Waterton looked relaxed and pleased to see his visitors, he clasped the girl by the wrists and turning, called in a loud voice for the host to bring wine, the best he had. Corbett had seen enough and turned to go, almost screaming in fright at the dishevelled figure crouching behind him.
'A sou,' the beggar whined, 'For God's sake, a sou!'
Corbett stared at the dirty face and glittering eyes and edged away, he turned and ran like the wind down the dirty, dark street. He paused to listen for any pursuit and, though breathless, ran sobbing on, sometimes losing his way as he pounded up filthy alleys and muck-strewn runnels, slipping and gasping as he ploughed through heaps of dirt or missed his footing and splashed into the shit-strewn sewer which ran down the centre. Once he hid from the watch, on another occasion sent a poor beggar woman sprawling when she came out of the shadows pleading for charity. Corbett drew his dagger and, carrying it before him, ran on till, breathless and shaken, he reached his lodgings.
SIX
The next morning Corbett kept to his own chamber, pushing Ranulf out on some spurious errand. He was exhaused after the terrors of the previous evening. The thought of the silent horrors of those desolate streets and how close he had courted death made him feel nauseous. He dreaded the prospect of a possible return and stayed in his room for the rest of the day trying to make some sense of the chaotic information he had acquired. Waterton was half-French: he was a clerk of the royal council of England and therefore privy to King Edward's secret designs: Waterton acted suspiciously, he was courted by the French, met de Craon at night, cloaked all dealings in secrecy and seemed to have a limitless fund of money. But was he the traitor? Who was the girl? And how did Waterton pass on information to de Craon once he was back in England?
Dusk fell and Corbett got off his pallet bed. He had thought of asking Lancaster for help but he was too suspicious to confide in anyone yet he did make one request of the comptroller of Lancaster's household for certain items. The man looked startled but allowed Corbett to draw the supplies he needed. The clerk made his way down the narrow winding staircase to the hall, a low, black-beamed room with bare, whitewashed walls, a table with benches down each side, a few sconce lights and rusty charcoal braziers. The French, as Lancaster had mused loudly, had hardly bothered to make them welcome. The rooms were filthy and there was a constant wail from the buttery or the kitchen as the cooks discovered some fresh problem.
The evening meal was always a morose affair. Lancaster sat glowering at his food; Richmond, depending on his mood, was either silent or boastfully tedious as he recounted details from the Gascon campaign of 1295 which he had so badly led and so constantly justified. Eastry, after he had said the 'Benedictus', picked at his food, usually rancid beneath its sauce and spices, and kept his own counsel. Waterton ate quickly and made his excuses to leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Tonight was no different, Waterton nodded at Corbett, made the usual obeisance to Lancaster and left.
Corbett followed soon after, taking the same route as the previous evening. He soon caught sight of Waterton's purposeful walk, there was no difficulty for his quarry visited the same tavern, so the clerk hid in the shadows and began his vigil. This time Corbett not only kept the tavern door under scrutiny but occasionally stared around the gathering dusk, but there was nothing to see or hear. Only the light and faint sounds of the tavern broke the silent menace of the shadowed street.
De Craon and his companion eventually arrived, sweeping into the tavern without pausing or a backward glance. Corbett waited for a few seconds and walked quietly across the street and peered through the chink in the shutters. Waterton, de Craon and the lady sat huddled round the same table. Corbett watched but he was tense, his ears straining for any sound, his heart pounding. He wanted to run, flee from the danger he sensed was lurking in the shadows. A faint sound made Corbett turn. The beggar was there on all fours resting on wooden slats looking up at him. 'A sou, sir, just a sou.' Corbett dug into his purse and slowly handed a coin over. Later, Corbett could not truly describe what happened even though the scene became part of his nightmares. The beggar lifted his hand and suddenly iunged at Corbett's chest, showing the dagger he had concealed in his rags. Corbett moved sideways, even as the dagger dented the hauberk he wore beneath his cloak. Corbett struck back, the dagger he carried catching the beggar full in his exposed throat and, eyes wide at the blood spouting onto his chest, the man toppled over into the mud.
Corbett leaned against the tavern wall, trying to control his terrified sobbing and stared around but there was no further danger. He looked down at his would-be assassin and gingerly turned him over with his foot. He ignored the glazed eyes, the jagged slash in the throat and searched the man but there was nothing. Corbett rose and peered through the shutters but Waterton was still close with his visitors, oblivious to the grim, silent tragedy enacted outside.
The following morning Corbett ensured Waterton had returned to their lodgings before seeking an interview with Lancaster. He told the Earl of his suspicions and what had happened the previous evening, Lancaster scratched his still unshaven chin and peered at Corbett.
'How did you expect danger from a beggar?'
'Because someone like him,' Corbett replied, 'killed Poer and Fauvel.'
'How do you know that?'
'Well, the only peson mentioned by the innkeeper near Poer was a beggar.'
'And Fauvel?'
'He was stabbed outside his lodgings. His purse was taken to make it look like a robbery but his hand still held a few coins. I asked myself why a man should die outside his own house with coins in his hands. The only acceptable explanation was that he was about to distribute alms, a fistful of sous. Any man would be vulnerable to an assassin disguised as a beggar asking for alms.'
'But why didn't the beggar kill you the first evening?'
'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'Perhaps I did not give him the opportunity. I fled.' The Earl slumped into a chair and toyed with the gold tassle of his gown.
'And do you think Waterton's the traitor?' he asked.
'Perhaps, but meeting de Craon is not treason, we have no proof, not yet.'
'If we trap him then it must not be in France,' Lancaster replied. 'There will be fresh opportunities.' He looked up and smiled, 'We start for England the day after tomorrow.'
Corbett was pleased to be leaving France. It was too dangerous to stay. He had killed de Craon's professional assassin and the Frenchman would neither forgive nor forget that. As for Waterton, Corbett was half-convinced he was the traitor, responsible for the death of at least two men in Paris and the wholesale destruction of an English ship and its crew. In England Corbett would gather further evidence and send Waterton to the scaffold at the Elms.
On his part, Waterton continued to act as if everything was normal, though he accepted the friendly farewells of the French officials and a further purse of gold from Philip IV. Corbett had no further chance to keep him under scrutiny for he and Ranulf spent the next few days packing their belongings and assisting with the preparations for leaving. Lancaster drove them harshly, his abrupt declaration of departure meant to take the French off their guard and so prevent any planned treachery. Horses and ponies were saddled, trunks, cases and caskets, packed at the dead of night, were hurried down and slung across their backs. Lancaster ensured some documents were sealed in pouches and others burnt. All the arms were distributed
, helmets, swords, sallets, daggers and crossbows. Corbett kept the mail shirt he had drawn from the armoury and, after a meeting with Lancaster, obtained the Earl s permission to ride in the centre of the column.
The English embassy left Paris on the appointed day with banners and pennants unfurled, soldiers on the outside, clerks and officials in the centre. Outside Paris just a mile north of the gallows of Montfauзon, a French escort consisting of six knights and forty mounted men-at-arms with a scattering of mercenaries, joined them. Lancaster reluctantly accepted their offer of protection but, overriding the objections of the knights, insisted on allocating the French to their positions. Corbett watched the stooped, lank-haired Earl and privately concluded that, though he did not fully know who the traitor was, he felt Lancaster was not the man.
As it was, the Earl's precautions proved unnecessary, the English envoys had a bruising, nasty but uneventful journey back to the French coast. Corbett was tired, harassed and saddlesore when he reached Calais though relieved to be on the verge of leaving France. Waterton was just as secretive and withdrawn as ever but did nothing to provoke further suspicion. Ranulf was positively morose, Corbett thought it was just his servant's inherent laziness yet Ranulf had more subtle reasons; he had returned to the rue Nesle and the dead Fauvel's lodgings to pay court to that haughty lady and fully enjoyed the consequences.
