by Paul Doherty
What else indeed, Corbett thought. He felt like laughing aloud at the mock-serious look on Morgan's face and the strained concern on that of his steward. Two traitors and splendid liars. Corbett cleared his throat and was about to continue the diplomatic farce when a sound at the far end of the hall made him turn. A small door on the side of the dais was opened and a splendid figure walked down the hall. Corbett rose and almost stifled a gasp: she had long blonde hair parted in the middle which fell like a gauze veil down to her shoulders. Her skin was alive, fair-complexioned but clear like that of a precious stone: the face was almost heart-shaped, the nose small but the eyes held his, wide, blue and full of mischief.
Corbett had never seen such loveliness: he unashamedly looked her up and down, noting how the dark green gown emphasised the contours of her waist and breasts. She wore a brooch clasp at her throat, a silver filigree chain round her slender waist with jewelled-studded bracelets on each fine wrist. The girl stared back at Corbett with feigned shock, slightly lifting the hem of her dress.
'I am wearing calfskin boots,' she said loudly, 'and dark blue hose. Or have you seen enough?'
'I am sorry,' Corbett stuttered. 'Er, I did not expect to, I,' he rose to his feet.
'What did you expect?' the voice was a mocking sing-song.
'Nothing,' Corbett snapped, angry at himself. 'I expected nothing, I was surprised. I did not expect to see a woman here.'
'You mean in men's business, the art of war, of killing each other for the best possible motive and, when you take a rest, call it diplomacy, negotiations.'
'Maeve!' Morgan rose in pretended anger but Corbett could see he was secretly delighted to see him put abruptly in his place. 'This is my niece, Maeve,' he said, half-turning to Corbett, 'she has a fierce tongue.'
'No Uncle, I have not,' she replied tardy, 'Just the English seem discourteous, unused to greeting women,' and before Corbett could think of some fitting reply, she swept on by him. Corbett turned as he heard Ranulf, who was standing behind him, choke on his own giggles. Corbett glared at him, hiding his complete bewilderment at allowing a woman he had only met for a few fleeting seconds to so effectively silence him.
Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to stay at Neath. Lord Morgan showed them to their quarters, a whitewashed chamber on the fourth floor of the keep containing two truckle beds, a battered trunk and a stained table with benches down each side. Corbett bitterly complained about the cold and lack of warmth so Morgan grudgingly had wooden shutters fitted to the arrow-slit windows and moved a rusting brazier as well as an iron candelabra into the room. Corbett and Ranulf could not decide whether they were invited envoys or prisoners, they were allowed the freedom of the castle and the surrounding countryside but their real home was the keep.
The great keep or donjon had three floors above ground level which housed storerooms, buttery and kitchens. The first floor was the Great Hall where Corbett had met Morgan and the second housed the solar, chapel and private chambers while the third had a collection of small, cold, stale chambers, a grandiose word for places about as comfortable as a prison.
Corbett and Ranulf lived here, at the top of a narrow, winding, mildewed staircase as did Owen, the captain of Morgan's guard, whom Corbett studiously ignored. He disliked the man with his straggly, curly black hair, sallow face and constant smile. He felt the man was truly evil; Corbett had met his type before, a killer, a man who loved death and carried its rotten stink with him.
The rest of Morgan's household lived in the basement, the outhouses of the bailey or in outlying villages. Corbett sensed that Morgan, a petty tyrant, had the undying loyalty of his feudal tenants and retainers. The Welsh lord was undoubtedly rich, the Vale of Neath and the surrounding fertile fields ensured a steady revenue. Morgan also owned the fishing rights along the rocky, sea-swept coast and emphasised these by displaying a row of scaffolds, each bearing its rotting human carrion, stark and black against the blue summer sky. They served as a grim warning to poachers, thieves, wreckers and pirates.
Corbett often surveyed Morgan's domain from the top of the keep: it was a silent, majestic perch and Corbett loved to stand there feeling the sun and catching the salt-tinged sea breezes, a welcome relief from the stench of the garde-robes and latrines which spilled their muck into the moat. The clerk had tried to discover something about the death of David Talbot but all he drew were blank stares and polite smiles: if Corbett persisted, his listener would lapse into Welsh as if he did not understand what the Englishman was saying. The old fool Gareth always followed Corbett as soon as he appeared in the bailey, running alongside, imitating his walk to the general amusement of the crowd. Corbett usually ignored him.
On one occasion, however, he did question Gareth about Talbot and was sure he saw a flicker of intelligence, of recognition in the old man's eyes but then Gareth blinked, smiled slyly and, wrapping his dirty gown round him, took Corbett by the hand and led him into one of the outhouses, a long dark room, made of wattles and daub with only the door and a hole in the roof letting in any light. It reeked of leather, sweat and horse dung. Corbett peered round and saw that saddles, reins, halters, stirrups and other harness were slung across wooden bars which ran the length of the room. He turned and looked at Gareth's dreamy eyes.
'Talbot? What has this got to do with Talbot's death?' he asked but Gareth gave a toothless grin and shuffled out.
Ranulf was no more successful in eliciting information and soon settled down to ogling the women or losing any monies he had in endless games of dice. Ranulf declared he was being cheated but the Welsh just grinned and invited him to find out how. The only suspicious thing Corbett did discover was the huge pyre of faggots and brushwood stored on the roof of the keep. He supposed they would serve as a beacon if the castle was attacked or be used to boil oil or fire brands if It was under siege. Nevertheless, on one of his journeys along the coast, Corbett found similar beacons, barrels full of brushwood stacked on top of each other and he wondered if Morgan feared, even invited invasion. Corbett also noted that he was usually allowed the freedom of both the castle and the surrounding countryside but, a week after his arrival, for two days in succession, Owen politely but firmly insisted they stay in their quarters.
Apart from this, Morgan pretended to be the courteous host. Corbett dined on the high table: Lent was over, so it was an end to stale salted meat and dried herrings and mackerel, instead there was capon and sturgeon from Morgan's' fish stews just outside the castle walls, the Welsh lord ignoring the rule which stipulated that sturgeon was a royal fish only to be served at a King's table. Morgan's kitchens also served venison spiced with cloves, mint, cinnamon and stuffed with almonds; fresh onions, leeks; fruit tarts and pies, junkets of sliced fruit and cream, all to be washed down with tankards of heady strong mead. Corbett noticed only one item out of place, jugs of fresh Bordeaux wine served by Morgan in his vanity to impress his guests. Corbett appreciated the wine for its taste as well as the way it clarified his faint suspicions about the beacons he had seen along the coast.
ELEVEN
During most days Corbett wandered around the castle, on occasions he attended the court held in the Great Hall. Morgan would sit on the great carved chair, beside him Father Thomas, the castle chaplain and secretary, crouched mouse-like on his stool, fearful of the things he would have to see and transcribe on the long roll of vellum before him. Most of the crimes were petty, land disputes or minor squabbles over possession. Now and again though, the authority of the Lord Morgan was challenged by a counterfeiter, poacher, outlaw or thief and punishment was always relentless, dread, cruel but, in its own way, upright and rigorous.
Corbett saw a poacher tried, sentenced and hustled from the hall: the poor malefactor was sent straight to the castle yard, his right arm extended over a block where the hissing slice of a sword took his hand off at the wrist. The man screamed in a half-faint as the executioners hurried him from the block to stick the amputated arm into a bowl of boiling pitch to cauterise a
nd heal the bleeding stump. A few even less fortunate were sentenced to hang: one was hustled up to the battlements, a noose put around his neck and he was hoisted over to a dangling, choking death while others were taken in a great two-wheeled cart to the scaffold on the headland above the raging sea.
There was an atmosphere of terror about Neath yet the mood could alternate, swinging from one extreme to the other. At dinner, minstrels were invited to recite poems and epic stories while long-haired bards sang mournful dirges of past glories and dead dreams. Corbett had to sit through them with an equally disgruntled Ranulf. Neither could understand the songs or the conversation because Morgan insisted, most of the time, on speaking Welsh. The English envoys just had to sit there, knowing by the grins on Morgan's and Owen's faces that they were often the brunt of some cruel joke. Corbett observed that Maeve joined in though, when she laughed, it was false, the smile never reached her eyes and there were times when he caught her looking at him sideways, a sad haunted look in her large blue eyes.
A few days after their arrival at Neath, Maeve decided to break the tedium of Morgan's evening banquets and, while the bards prepared themselves with all the show and gestures professional minstrels could muster, she rose and came over to stand beside Corbett. 'Do you like our music, Englishman?' she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.
'My name is Hugh,' he replied. 'And your music is definitely better than your conversation, though I suppose that is not much of a compliment.'
She pouted, 'Well, Huw,' she said, deliberately pronouncing his name in the Welsh fashion, 'Let us change this. You play chess? Perhaps you can teach me?'
Corbett looked at the solemn, beautiful face and loved her, biting his lip to stifle the cry which ached to burst out. He knew her serious face was a mask, secretly she was mocking him but he did not care, he could have sat and stared for eternity like some angel caught up in the eye of God. He heard a snigger and looked down the table at Owen's smirking face. 'Well,' Corbett sighed deeply, 'I would be honoured to teach you chess.' He rose and escorted Maeve over to a window seat.
Maeve summoned a servant who returned with a table, board, casket of chess pieces and a small, sconce-stone oil light. Corbett ignored the hum of conversation and the elaborate guffaw of laughter from the high table. He was only conscious of Maeve, sitting there opposite him, her heart-shaped face cupped in her hands, her eyes smiling as she explored Corbett's discomfort with her cool amused stare. The clerk laboriously explained the game, the different pieces and the more complicated moves, Maeve nodded, murmuring her appreciation before tentatively playing a few moves. Then, satisfied, eyes sparkling, she clapped her hands and announced she wanted a full royal game. Corbett obliged, it was getting dark, some of the guests had left, a few were gathered round the still droning harpists but more around the alcove where they sat. Corbett made a few desultory moves, pushing his pieces around with the murmured 'J adoube'. Maeve responded and Corbett suddenly broke out of his dream for Maeve was responding with clever subtle moves and suddenly Corbett was defeated. He stared down at the chessboard and up into Maeve's concerned face.
'You have won!' he exclaimed. 'You're…' his words were halted by Maeve's peal of laughter, clear but warm, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her beautiful, slender fingers half covering her face as she tried to control her laughter. Corbett stared at her and the grinning circle of faces. He smiled, shrugged to hide his surprise and, bowing to Maeve, rose and walked down the hall. The patter of sandals made him turn, Maeve was alongside him, sliding a slender arm through his.
'Come,' she teased. 'I can play chess better than any man!' She pressed close to Corbett, 'Unbend, man, I only jested. Come, let us take the night air from the Tower.'
Corbett smiled, hoping she would not realise how hard his heart pounded at her closeness. They made their way up the narrow staircase, Maeve resting on his arm, her hair like soft gauze teasing his face with its silkiness and fragrant perfume. Corbett withdrew the bolts on the parapet door and they walked on to the roof of the keep. It was dark, only a red flush in the west marked the sunset, a strong breeze whipped in from the sea while above them the stars gleamed like jewels in a dark room. They walked over to the crenellated wall, listening to the distant murmur of the waves and the sounds from the castle bailey below.
'I have always played chess,' Maeve broke the silence, 'ever since my parents died in the Welsh wars, I have lived here with my uncle. The skill of the game often lifts the boredom of endless casde days.'
'You are very good,' he replied.
Maeve, turning so her back was against the wall, gazed up into Corbett's face. In the faint light, the clerk could see her face was calm, serene, the mock-solemn look had disappeared. 'I have read several treatises including the poem "De Shakie Ludo",' Maeve replied. 'I always welcome visitors, they are a fresh challenge.'
'So you can read?'
'Latin and French.'
Corbett looked into the gathering darkness, 'And you are happy, I mean here, at Neath?'
'It is my home.'
'And the Lord Morgan?'
Maeve smiled. 'A strange man, you know he hates the English?' Corbett nodded.
Maeve looked away, 'Who wouldn't? They killed my parents, put half of Wales to the torch, killed our chieftains, built great castles like the one at Caernarvon and turned our kingdoms into English shires ruled by Edward's kinsmen!'
Corbet could only agree. He had fought in Wales and seen the cruelties and barbarism perpetrated by both sides: men crucified, children tossed down wells, women raped until they died. English prisoners skinned alive or nailed to trees. 'And do you hate us, Maeve.' he asked.
'No, only your desire to crush and conquer,' she turned and stared into the night, 'South Wales has seen many strange sights: they say the road below used to lead to Arthur's Camelot, that the ancient tribes, the Silures who ate human flesh and sacrificed to dark woodland gods, still thrive in the deep forests.' Maeve gathered her cloak about her and nodded towards the shoreline. 'Yet, it's the sea which brings the strangest sights, small, dark brown bodies brought in on the tide. The wise women say they come in from a land to the west.'
Corbett smiled and moved nearer the battlements. Soon, he knew, he would find out why she had brought him here. Corbett was a cynic. No beautiful woman, he reasoned, would want to be alone with him. There would have to be a reason, something she wanted. There always was. Corbett felt her hand pressing firmly on his elbow, he turned and saw her face lovely as the night staring up at him. She edged closer and kissed him softly on the lips, then she was gone.
Corbett was unused to such directness, maybe his wife, Mary, perhaps, Alice, his lover, a murderess ten years dead but she was subtle, complex and devious. Maeve was natural, relaxed and direct. The next day she sought him out and they continued the conversation and the kissing of the previous evening.
Corbett suspected she was there to watch and report on his actions but dismissed this as unworthy. She told him bluntly that he was solemn, pompous but still very funny for beneath it all he was a shy, frightened man who needed to smile more. In the following days, Corbett certainly did, as Maeve took him out to ride through the wild beautiful countryside which surrounded the castle.
She tried to teach him some Welsh words but gave it up, mocking him as too insensitive for such a subtle tongue. She drew him into talking about his past life: his wife, his work in the Chancery, even Alice and the great conspiracy in London which, ten years previously, Corbett had so successfully destroyed.
Corbett responded, cautiously at first, but soon he chatted like a child fascinated by this strange beautiful woman, so changeable, one minute coyly teasing him, the next lecturing him on Wales' past glories and the depredations of his English king.
She made no pretence about his visit to. Neath. 'My uncle, the Lord Morgan,' she said on one occasion, 'is a rogue, a ruffian, a hard, fair man who hates King Edward and would gladly rise in rebellion if the opportunity presented itself. But,' she co
ntinued darkly, 'the price of failure is too great. He has rebelled once and has been pardoned. The next time he may suffer the same fate as the great Prince David, Llewellyn's brother.' Corbett let the matter rest. He was frightened lest Maeve provoke a quarrel by openly accusing him of being a spy. Corbett was also wary of Morgan, who might take offence at an Englishman paying court to his niece, but surprisingly, the old rogue just laughed and clapped him on the shoulders. It seemed, Corbett concluded, that Maeve was the only person the Lord Morgan was frightened of.
Owen, the captain of the garrison, was a different matter. He smiled more but his dark eyes glistened with a murderous malice whenever they met, and even Ranulf, now immersed in the daily routine of the castle, begged his master to be more careful. Corbett heeded the advice. Once, Maeve took him down to the castle bailey where Owen was drilling his men. Hugh was used to the mounted phalanxes of English knights, a feast of colour as armoured men in chain-mail and plate' armour covered in bright heraldic designs, charged and counter-charged with sword, mace and blunted lance, according to the rules of the tournament and tourney. But this was different and when Owen saw Maeve and himself on the steps leading down from the keep, he selected one of his men and staged a mock fight as much to dazzle Maeve as well as warn the Englishman.
Corbett felt jealous as Maeve clapped her hands and cried out in amazement at Owen's prowess but even he grudgingly praised the Welshman and quietly vowed that if it ever came to a fight, he would have to kill Owen with the first blow for the man was a born warrior. Owen and his opponent fought on horseback, sturdy, surefooted garrons, who wheeled and turned as their riders pressed with knee or thigh. Both men were lightly armoured in chain-mail shirts, boiled leather leggings and boots, their heads protected by conical helmets with cheek and noseguard. Each carried a small round shield and, because this was a mock fight, blunted swords which could still inflict a serious wound. The riders charged and circled each other. Owen's swordsmanship drawing the gasps of the onlookers as he whirled and dodged so it seemed horse and rider were one. Time and again, Owen ducked under his opponent's guard, smacking the flat of his sword against the unfortunate man's stomach and chest.
