by Paul Doherty
'The same.'
'My name is Hugh Corbett, chief clerk to the Chancery. I am on the King's special business.'
'What special business?'
'Investigating the recent dйbвcle in Gascony.' Corbett watched the knight's eyes narrow in anger.
'Do you have a warrant, licence to do this?' he asked.
'No,' Corbett replied. 'Why, do you want one? I can, we can, go to the King and see him.'
Tuberville smiled, his face becoming almost boyish.
'Here,' he waved Corbett to one of the stools and crossed to a rather battered up-turned barrel bearing a tray of pewter cups and a flagon. He filled two with wine and crossed to rejoin Corbett. 'Look,' he said. 'I am sorry П was abrupt.'
Corbett took the wine. 'It was nothing,' he replied, 'Perhaps a sign of the times?' Tuberville shrugged, sat and sipped from the cup.
'Your questions, Master Corbett?'
'You were with the Earl of Brittany in last year's expedition to Gascony?'
'Yes,' Tuberville replied, 'We sailed, a fleet of ships from Southampton and landed at Bordeaux. Richmond assembled the column of march and we advanced inland to occupy the castle and town of La Reole. You may remember,' Tuberville continued bitterly, 'the damned French had already occupied a number of border fortresses and their troops were moving inland. Richmond just sat and waited: he did not try to draw the French into battle but stayed in the town.' Tuberville shrugged. 'It was inevitable. The French found the countryside deserted and their troops poured across the duchy.' Tuberville paused, staring into the cup. 'Richmond did not move, but froze like a frightened rabbit. The French encircled the town with ditches and traps to block the roads. War machines were brought up, I remember one huge bastard the French nicknamed "Le Loup du Guerre", "The Warwolf". These pounded the town with fire balls and huge rocks. We could not break out, the King was unable to send any relief so Richmond decided to surrender.'
'Was there no attempt at a sortie?' Corbett asked.
Tuberville pursed his lips. 'Yes,' he smiled 'I disobeyed orders. During the negotiations between Richmond and the French, I led a sortie, a phalanx of about sixty men-at-arms and mounted archers.'
'What happened?'
'We were driven back, the French were furious and so was Richmond. The Earl threatened me with a traitor's death for violating negotiations. I pointed out that the negotiations themselves were traitorous so Richmond ordered me to be put under arrest.' Tuberville got up and refilled his cup. Corbett watching him closely.
'What happened during the surrender?' he asked.
Tuberville stared at the wine he was swilling round his cup.
'The French, God damn them, insisted that we leave La Reole, and we did, our banners and pennants trailing in the mud, the French lined the roads and let us go with the mockery of horn, pipe and drumbeat.'
Corbett shifted in his seat. 'But you came back to a great honour, captain of the King's guard and responsible for protecting the King and his council?'
'Ah!' Tuberville smiled. 'When we returned to England, Edward read the results of the campaign and, ignoring Richmond's protests, gave me this post.'
Tuberville turned and looked through the narrow arrow-slit window. 'I must be going, I have to check the guard and ensure no threat exists to our sovereign lord.' Corbett caught the gentle sarcasm of the remark and smiled back. He liked the man, the typical professional soldier, hard, sardonic but strangely vulnerable.
'Oh,' Corbett asked, 'before you go, what terms did the French demand when they let you evacuate La Reole?'
'Hostages!' Corbett looked at the white fury in the knight's face.
'Hostages?' Tuberville nodded.
'Yes,' he explained, 'Richmond, myself and other officers had to agree to send to Paris members of our family as guarantors that, while the present troubles last, we will not fight in Gascony against the French King.'
'Whom did you send?'
'My two sons.' The reply was short, bitter and Corbett saw the hatred flare like a flame in Tuberville's eyes.
'And Richmond?'
'Oh, he sent his daughter.'
'You write to your sons?'
'Yes, letters are sent in Chancery pouches. Richmond does the same, a copy is kept in the Muniment Chamber.'
'Do you like Richmond?' Tuberville glared at Corbett. 'If I had my way,' he replied, 'I would have had that incompetent lord, court-martialled as a traitor.' He rose, touched Corbett on the shoulder and stalked from the room.
The clerk sighed and rose to follow, he would dearly love to question Richmond but the Earl was a cousin to the King, and, if things went wrong? Corbett chewed his lip and decided it would have to wait. Nevertheless he was deeply suspicious of Richmond, something nagging at him like an old wound and he would not be satisfied till he had resolved it. He remembered Tuberville's reference to letters and decided one way to check on Richmond would be to read the copies of any he sent to his daughter.
Corbett wandered about the palace buildings and stepped into a courtyard: the royal stables took up most of the space with out-buildings, forges, piles of manure and huge bins containing oats, barley and straw. Horses, great war destriers, sumpter ponies, mules and the occasional dray horse milled in the open space before being led back to or taken from the stables. Grooms, ostlers and smiths shouted and cursed to be heard over the din of the anvil and the raucous neighing of the horses. Corbett warily crossed, keeping a sharp eye on the plunging hooves of a backing horse. He entered a small side door and went down a cold, whitewashed passage way until he reached the back of the palace and a row of chambers which housed the royal records.
Corbett knocked on the iron-studded door and was admitted by an arrogant-looking clerk. 'What do you want?'
'I am Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.'
'Burneli's protйgй?'
'If you say so, and who are you?'
'Goronody Ap Rees, chief clerk of the records.' Corbett groaned to himself. There was, he thought, nothing so officious or trying as these pompous clerks who wielded their power like petty tyrants. 'Nigel Couville?' Corbett asked hopefully.
'I am here,' a deep grating voice answered and Couville shuffled out behind the pompous clerk.
'Why, Corbett,' the old man's lined face crinkled into a welcoming smile, his thin, cold, vein-streaked hands clasped Corbett by the shoulders. 'You should come more often,' he said softly. 'It is good for an old man to see his former students.' He turned so Ap Rees could hear him. 'Especially one of my most brilliant. Come!' He led Corbett into the small room, brushing past the furious Ap Rees.
Inside, the small chamber was packed with chests, coffers and great leather bags while shelves stretching from the stone floor to the black-timbered ceiling were full of neatly rolled scrolls, each tagged to show the month and regnal year of issue. In the centre of the room was a great oak table with benches down each side. Corbett recognised and loved the smell of red wax, ageing vellum, pumice stone and dried ink.
'What is it you want?' Ap Rees almost squeaked with annoyance.
'Certain letters,' Corbett replied, 'despatched by the Earl of Richmond to his daughter, a hostage to the court of Philip le Bel in Paris.'
'You have no right!' Ap Rees snapped back.
'I have every right,' Corbett wearily replied. He turned to Nigel Couville. 'Tell this pompous fool,' he continued, 'that if I do not have the letters written by Richmond and others to relatives held as hostage at the French court, I shall return with His Grace, the King, to continue this conversation.'
'Master Ap Rees' Nigel replied, 'is from Glamorgan, he is always telling me that things are done differndy there.' Corbett turned and looked at the narrow, pinched face of the Welshman.
'So you know the Lord Morgan?'
'I know him,' Ap Rees replied caustically, 'But 1 am the King's man. I have proved that in my years of service to the crown/
"Then prove it now, Master Ap Rees, the letters please!' Ap Rees looked askance at Corbett
and was about to refuse but thought better of it, shrugged and walked over to a large, leather chancery bag. He unloosed the gold-fringed, red cord, spilled the contents out onto the table and searched amongst the different scrolls and scraps of parchment. Finally, he picked one up, examined its tag, grunted and beckoned to Corbett. 'Here it is, you cannot take it away, but stay and read it here.' Corbett winked at Couville and, taking the scroll, sat at the great oak table to study it.
The manuscript consisted of small sheets of vellum stitched together, all transcribed in mauve ink by the same clerkly hand. Corbett could guess how it was done: each individual would write, or have written, his own tetter before submitting it to the Chancery who would examine them to ensure they gave away no information prejudicial to the crown. The royal clerk would then transcribe the letters, making a fair copy before despatching the letters to France, sealed in a red, Spanish leather Chancery pouch while the copies were stitiched together with twine and stored away.
Corbett quickly scanned the sheets and felt a wave of compassion sweep through him; the letters invariably short, were filled with sorrow and tears as parents wrote to children, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. One of the longest was from Tuberville to his two sons. His anguish and hatred of the French were apparent, the letter, dated January, the Feast of Saint Hilary, 1295, regretted they had not spent Christmas together but he had bought them Saint Christopher medals, a wolfhound named Nicholas and, when they returned, he would hold a great feast in some local tavern. Corbett searched on until he found Richmond's letter, a stark contrast to Tuberville's, the Earl's relationship with his daughter was cold: the Earl was formal, distinct and, most interestingly, kept referring darkly to some 'secret matter'.
Corbett, satisfied, rolled the parchment up and handed it back to Ap Rees. 'Thank you,' he smiled at Couville and nodded. 'We'll meet again, take care.' The old man beamed a toothless smile, Corbett touched him gently on the cheek and walked out into the passageway. Corbett would have exchanged a month's fees to discover Richmond's 'dark secret' and was now determined to question the Earl; not caring whether he was a rather arrogant relation of the King.
When Corbett returned to Thames Street it was dark, lantern horns had been lit and hung outside certain houses, revellers, half drunk on cheap ale and their own pleasure, burst from a tavern shouting loudly in the street. Corbett felt the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt and gently eased his way past them. They hurled abuse but he was through and, with a sigh of relief, reached his own house and climbed the dark, twisting staircase. A decidedly dejected Ranulf was already lighting rushlights and long white beeswax candles. Corbett asked him how things were, but only received mumbled sentences in reply. Corbett quietly smiled, Ranulf's mood meant the evening meal of wine and cold meats would be a deadly silent one.
Corbett did not mind for once the table was cleared, he left Ranulf to his own devices while he took his writing tray from a large casket and began to jot down on a scrap of parchment his conclusions and suspicions.
Item: There was a traitor on Edward's council who gave secrets to the French and communicated with the King's enemies in Wales.
Item: Waterton, the clerk, was half-French, his father had been a supporter of Earl Simon de Montfort, an inveterate opponent of Edward. Despite de Montfort's cruel death some thirty years ago, his memory was still revered in many quarters, especially in London.
Item: Waterton seemed wealthy, he acted suspiciously in Paris, being favoured by Philip as well as secretly meeting the French King's spy-master, Amaury de Craon.
Item: Waterton had been recommended to the King by the Earl of Richmond, his former patron and employer. Richmond had disastrously lost the war in Gascony, he, too, was half-French and a member of the council.
Corbett reviewed the list and sighed. It was all very well, he thought, but important questions remained unanswered:
Item: Who was the traitor? Was it more than one person?
Item: How did the traitor communicate his informaton to the French?
Corbet studied his scrap of parchment while the candles burnt low. At last he threw it to one side, logic could not help when there was insufficient information, he snuffed the candles and lay down on his trestle bed. There was something else but it eluded him until, almost on the verge of sleep, Corbett suddenly remembered that the file of letters he had seen earlier in the day were written in a familiar hand: Corbett recalled his meeting with Waterton in the writing chamber in Paris and realised Waterton was the clerk responsible for transcribing the letters to the hostages.
NINE
The following day, Corbett sent a surly Ranulf to make enquiries around Westminster. It was almost dark when his servant returned, his temper greatly improved. 'The Earl of Richmond,' he boldly announced, 'was in the Midlands, he had been a member of a diplomatic mission to meet certain Scottish envoys for secret negotiations and would be back in Westminster by tomorrow evening.' Corbett, satisfied, spent the next two days on his own affairs: he needed certain clothes: an indenture was drawn up with the goldsmith who banked his monies and he took Ranulf to a bear-baiting in Southwark but left, sickened at the sight, and moved on to watch a miracle play, 'The Creation', staged on a huge raised platform, fashioned out of long planks thrown across a dozen carts.
Corbett felt bored by the story but admired the strange devices; the massive inflated pigskins filled with water for the great deluge, the ark moving across the stage, the flaps of metal waved to create thunder and the voice of God. Corbett stood and marvelled though he kept one hand on his purse and half an eye on the pickpockets and cutpurses who gathered like locusts on occasions such as these. The crowd was packed, students, clerks in russet gowns, the beaver hats of the merchants, the gauze veils of the ladies, the ermine-trimmed cloaks of the courtiers and gallants.
Corbett moved along, not too concerned that Ranulf had disappeared, he bought a hot pie from a baker and walked slowly through the crowd, enjoying its warmth and colour while the meaty spicy juices filled his mouth. He visited a few shops, stopped to hear a pedlar sell his wares which, to the surprise of his incredulous audience, contained the asp which bit Cleopatra of Egypt, Moses' foreskin, a strand of Samson's hair and a glossy rack which bore the image of the Archangel. Corbett always revelled in such foolery, the direct opposite of his own cold and logical life.
Darkness had fallen by the time he reached his lodgings and slowly made his way upstairs. He paused at the door, astonished by the cries and shrieks from within. He gently pushed the door ajar, stared in through the crack and saw Ranulf, naked as the day he was born,, cavorting with a young girl whose red hair covered her like a veil as she twisted and turned, her white body wrapped around Ranulf, her face filled with pleasure which closed her eyes and formed her mouth into an 'O' of constant pleasure.
Corbett withdrew, angry at himself as well as Ranulf. He quietly tiptoed downstairs and went out into the street and the warmth of a nearby tavern. He chose a table near the great pine log fire and tried to dismiss what he had just seen. He felt guilty, angry and strangely envious; he was frightened of women, he had loved two and both had gone. One taken by the fever, the other, the lovely Alice, a traitor to the King. He dug his face deeper into the tankard, hoping no one else would see the tears which scalded his eyes. God knew he missed both and mourned the gap they had left. Corbett, he thought, the cold, calculating clerk, like some device from a stage, efficient, capable but lacking in warmth.
He eventually returned to his lodgings slightly drunk on ale and self-pity. He looked suspiciously at Ranulf but was too embarrassed to mention what he had seen, instead he instructed his sleepy-eyed servant to take a message to the Earl of Richmond at Westminster, to await the Earl's pleasure and bring back any reply.
The following evening Corbett, at work in his small office at Westminster Palace, was disturbed by his servant who brought a verbal reply from Richmond. The Earl,' Ranulf announced with malicious glee, 'was usually too busy to talk to clerks, but
on this occasion he would make an exception. He would meet Corbett in the Great Hall of Wesminster just before the courts broke up. He stipulated an exact time and asked Corbett not to be late "as pressing affairs of the state" still awaited him.' Corbett immediately dismissed the still, smirking Ranulf, tidied his desk and wearily made his way along to the Great Hall. Beneath the great oaken ceiling, its timbers draped with the blue-gold standards of England, the different courts of Exchequer, King's Bench and Common Pleas, were still busy: Serjeants, plaintiffs, ermine-caped lawyers, soldiers, peasants and merchants thronged in the questionable pursuit of justice. Along the tapestry-draped walls were small alcoves for lawyers and clerks to meet and Corbett went straight to the one chosen by Richmond.
He was disconcerted to find the Earl waiting for him pacing up and down, his gorgeous fur-trimmed robe wrapped about him, fastened at the neck by a cluster of pearls, set in a golden brooch. Corbett had never liked Richmond with his blond hair, watery blue eyes, red-tipped nose and mouth turned down like a landed fish. In France, he had avoided him for the Earl seemed an arrogant, waspish man full of his own honour and neglectful of everybody else's. The interview did not improve matters: Richmond described his Gascon campaign as the result of a series of unfortunate incidents. 'There was nothing I could do,' he snapped peevishly. 'The French were all over Gascony. If I had marched out to meet them I would be defeated so I stayed in La Reole, hoping his Grace would send the necessary help. He did not. So I surrendered.'
'There was no chance of withstanding a prolonged siege?'
'None whatsoever.'
'Why?'
'I had a town full of citizens, men, women and children. I could scarcely feed my own men, never mind them.'
'You objected to Tuberville's sortie?'
'Of course, the man was a fool, he was captured by the French and was lucky not to be executed by them.'
'Why should they?'
'Because he attacked them during a sworn truce. He broke the rules of war.'
