Spy in Chancery hc-3

by Paul Doherty

  Finally, Owen tired of the game, broke off and cantered away, his opponent charged, sword extended, the hooves of his horse pounding the ground, Owen swerved his own horse to meet him but never seemed to reach a full gallop. Corbett mischievously thought Owen had become over confident and would be bowled over by his opponent. The riders met, Corbett saw Owen dive beneath his assailant's swinging sword and, as the man charged past, Owen checked his own horse almost bringing its haunches down into the dirt while he swung his own sword to catch his opponent on the back of the head and send him crahsing senseless to the ground. The onlookers cheered, Owen took off his helmet and, raising his sword, saluted the now breathless, pink-cheeked Maeve. Corbett he dismissed with a long murderous look.

  The English clerk was not unduly worried except by Maeve's passion for, whenever they rode out, they often kissed, embracing more passionately, more demanding. Corbett wanted to make love and hoped Maeve would invite him into her chamber. Only once, did he allude to this but received the tart response that her maidenhead was not a gift to some passing Englishman. Corbett believed she was frightened of him leaving and, now in his fourth week at Neath, he knew Edward would be impatient for his return whilst his continued presence was beginning to heighten the tension in the castle. Maeve wanted him but hid her feelings behind bitter-sweet mockery. Morgan just ignored him, Owen stalked him like a hunter whilst Ranulf, bored but now fearful of Owen's open hostility, began to plead with his master about the date of their return to London.

  Corbett anxiously wondered if Morgan would allow them to leave safely and, even if they did, would Owen and his men obey such an order? What really concerned Corbett, however, was King Edward's expected reaction: he had learnt very little at Neath and what he had would not be new: Morgan was ripe for rebellion but there was no evidence, nothing to connect him with the French or the traitor on Edward's council. Oh, Corbett, had questioned where and whenever he could but the blank stares continued: Maeve was the same, she remembered Talbot, even the day he left Neath Castle for good.

  'There was,' she remarked, 'a fierce quarrel between Talbot and Owen, Talbot demanding to be allowed to leave as he was on the King's business, Owen reluctant to allow him.'

  'Why?' Corbett asked. 'Why should Owen detain Talbot?'

  'I don't know,' Maeve crossly replied, her brows coming together as they did when she was angry, 'All I heard was Owen shouting that Talbot had been amongst the saddles!'

  'But that does not make sense. Saddles? What are so special about the saddles?'

  'God knows,' Maeve replied. 'My uncle bawled at Owen to let Talbot go, but not before riders were sent out warning scouts that Talbot was on his way. A short while after he left, Morgan sent Owen and a troop of horses after him.' Maeve shrugged, 'Who cared for Talbot? He was an English spy. No one here mourned for him.'

  Corbett felt like asking if she thought he too was an English spy and, more importantly, if anyone, particularly her, would mourn his death?

  TWELVE

  To John Balliol, by God's grace and with Edward of England's permission, King of Scotland, the very walls of Stirling Castle seemed to drip with sweat and glisten in the midsummer heat. Swarms of flies spawned in the putrid dung heaps in the courtyard below came in through the open window and hovered above a table littered with fragments of food and pools of spilled wine. In his thick, gold-encrusted robes Balliol felt hot, hotter than he had ever had in his whole life. His body was soaked in sweat and he noticed a trickle of dirt run from beneath a cuff of his frayed gold robe. He tried to ignore the chatter of the bishops and great ones of Scotland as he stared down the table looking in disgust at the discarded meat, soiled bread platters and huge pools of red Bordeaux wine.

  The latter seemed to gleam like great globules of blood and Balliol, blond-haired, thin-faced, gazed with his rabbit-like eyes and wondered if the wine acted as a warning, a prophecy of what might come. After all he was plotting against his overlord, Edward of England, and, although Balliol was frightened of everything and everyone, Edward of England held a special terror for him. Only God knew when that terrible man would march north, the heavy dust of his great baggage trains hanging over the roads of Scotland which would be scored by the hooves of his war-horses, warning the Scots that once again Edward of England, the Hammer of their kingdom, had arrived.

  The English war host was a splendid and terrible sight, a moving forest of death, but, as Balliol knew from his constant recurring nightmares, the real terror was the tall figure of Edward, encased in black armour, mounted on a gold caparisoned, black destrier, his yellow hair now white with age streaming in the wind, his tough old body held fast in a cuirass of steel. Balliol wondered if the wine prophesied that when Edward heard of Balhol's plotting, once again he would invade Scotland and his great army devastate the kingdom from the Tweed to the foothills and mountains of the north. Balliol sighed and moved his backside on the hard chair. He felt his queasy stomach grumble and churn, accompanied by a sharp stab of pain, and once again he experienced that deep depression at his own inadequacies which so affected his health that even here in the council chamber he could not control his body.

  Balliol was a man who had wanted to be king but now he had achieved the crown, realised how dreadful the responsibilities were. Scotland was a sprawling mass of fighting factions; the barons of the Lowlands despising the clan chieftains of the north; the Lord of the Isles, with his sleek, low-slung galleys, ever ready to go to war against all and sundry. How was he supposed to keep the peace? Years previously the true king of Scotland, Alexander III, had fallen mysteriously to his death leaving no apparent male heir.

  The Scottish lords had squabbled amongst themselves over the succession and Edward of England, like some great black cat, had sat and watched them weary each other before intervening, solemnly adjudicating thai the nobleman with the best claim was Balliol. Once Balliol accepted, Edward imposed very strict terms and conditions which made the King of Scotland no more than a vassal of the King of England. Balliol, of course, had objected and, time and again, Edward had returned north to remind him of his obligations. Balliol knew that he was not strong enough to withstand Edward, never mind his own barons, and writhed with embarrassment as he remembered some of the humiliating experiences inflicted upon him; being summoned by English merchants before Edward's courts to answer like some common lackey for his actions and decisions.

  Of course, the great Scottish lords, led by the Braces and the Comyns, had watched all this with wry amusement, sniggering behind their hands, laughing at him, calling him Edward's puppet or mammet, yet Balliol had no choice but to submit humbly, seething with anger.

  However, now it was different, salvation had come from an unexpected quarter. Philip of France had overrun Gascony, maliciously pointing out to Edward that he was as much France's vassal as he claimed Balliol was his. But there was more, Philip had weaved alliances in the Low Countries as well as with Eric of Norway and he wanted Scotland to be part of France's great design against Edward of England. Balliol at first refused, hesitant, fearful of what Edward might do or say, but then Philip had given him assurances that England faced trouble in South Wales as well as in Gascony and worse would come for Philip had a spy on Edward's council. A man close to Edward, who sold the French everything Edward thought, decided or planned to do. The French claimed that this traitor could be the key to unlock Edward's strength and drain it just as much as Philip Augustus, almost over а hundred years earlier, had unlocked the key to the power of Edward's grandfather, King John, and drove him out of Normandy.

  Balliol had promptly summoned his council to Stirling and surprised them all by announcing his intention to overthrow Edward's rule, seek an alliance with France and Norway and compound this alliance by his own marriage with Jeanne de Valois, Philip IV's cousin. At first the barons and bishops had been horrified, then delighted to see their king for the first time in his reign act like one. There had been discussions for hours on the best method of achieving this
and Balliol smugly watched them all, revelling for the first time in a true notion of kingship and power. Nevertheless, his terror of Edward still held him fast. He looked down at the bishops and barons, so eager to advise and counsel him. Wolves, he thought, savage men, who, if he failed this time, would assuredly tear him to pieces.

  At last, tired of the confusion and chaos in the hall, Balliol raised his wine cup and slammed it down on the table. He banged it harder when, with annoyance, he realised that everyone ignored him, and shouted shrilly for silence and order. Slowly, his counsellors stopped their individual discussions and looked towards him.

  'My Lords,' Balliol said, realising how he was almost imitating Edward's voice and manner, 'My Lords, we have decisions to make. We know that Edward is weakened by this traitor on his council and now faces formidable alliances led by our friend, Philip of France. It is our intention to renounce homage to Edward and seek an alliance with the French. Is this your wish?'

  A loud chorus of 'Ayes' and roars of approval greeted his words and Balliol smiled, nodded and slouched wearily back in his chair, oblivious to the conversations which broke out further down the table. Neither he nor his counsellors noticed the young squire who slipped from the hall, made his way down to the castle yard through the great cavernous gateway and into the town.

  Robert Ogilvie, squire to the Scottish court, was in fact a traitor. He had heard news and information which he knew the English emissary in Stirling would pay gold for, the identity of the traitor on Edward of England's council. That ninny of a king, Balliol, had virtually announced who it was but the rest of the council had been either too inebriated or insensitive to grasp it. Except Ogilvie, who had dreams of wealth and power, and the secret he carried would make them real.

  Ogilvie made his way down the narrow, dung-strewn street which stank like a midden in the summer heat. He saw a ragged, one-armed beggar man drive off some yapping mongrel and the sight of another man's wretchedness made him hug himself with pleasure. He was young, he was able and soon he would be rich. He hurried on through the market place, ignoring the cries of the hawkers and the pedlars with their tawdry geegaws and the trash they usually sold, and entered the cool darkness of the tavern lit only by the sunlight which poured through two rough-hewn windows. In the far corner of the room his English counterpart was waiting for him.

  'Well,' the Scottish clerk thought, 'not really English, more Welsh.' He had come here ostensibly on business connected with Edward of England and stayed hoping to garner whatever information he could. Ogilvie smiled as he crossed the room, he had news which would set this arrogant Welsh clerk by his ears.

  Goronody Ap Rees was pleased to see Ogilvie. He had been sent by Edward of England to spy and this young cockerel of a Scot would make it worthwhile. He ordered the best wine and, after the slattern had served them, generously poured cupfuls for the Scotsman to gulp whilst only sipping his own. He listened carefully to the Scotsman's chatter, sifting the wheat from the chaff, the gossip from the truth, the facts from the scurrilous items Ogilvie seemed eager to press upon him. He sensed the squire had something important to say and realised that, given enough time and enough wine, he would. Eventually Ogilvie, flushed with wine, paused, took a deep draught from the cup and slammed it down on the table.

  'I have,' he announced loudly, 'some special news, but it will cost you.' Ap Rees nodded, expecting this, and the Scotsman launched into his startling revelations. Ap Rees listened, concealing his own excitement and once Ogilvie had finished, pulled a clinking, leather purse from his pouch and threw it across the table.

  'You have earned this, Scotsman!' he said, 'You have earned it well' and, without further fuss, rose and quietly swept out of the tavern. Ogilvie, much the worse for wine, stared down at the purse, carefully picked it up, hid it under his robe, gulped the remains of the wine and rose to leave.

  The two men in the far corner had watched this little tableau and, after Ogilvie had staggered out, broke their watchful silence.

  'Do you think Ogilvie told him?'

  'Of course!' the second replied, 'That is why the purse was passed.'

  'And what now?'

  The other shrugged.

  'Edward's emissary has his news. And Ogilvie?'

  The first man turned and smiled bleakly at his companion. 'Oh, he served his purpose. Make sure that you are with him tonight and cut his throat!'

  THIRTEEN

  By the sixth week in Neath, Corbett was perplexed and tense like a dog left on its leash. He had discovered nothing, he did not want to leave Maeve but felt increasingly trapped as the Lord Morgan courteously ignored his requests to return to London. The days dragged by so slowly that the resolution of his difficulties took him by surprise, coming quick like a sword leaving its sheath or the hum of an arrow through the air.

  On the Tuesday, just after midsummer, the castle was caught up in a frenzy of activity. In the evening Corbett and Ranulf returned to their chamber to find Owen dressed in black skins perched like some evil bird on the narrow shelf of one of the window embrasures.

  'I bring messages from the Lord Morgan,' he sang out, 'You are to be detained in your rooms.'

  'Until when?' Corbett snapped, 'The same thing happened a few weeks ago. The Lord Morgan has a strange idea about hospitality. Why does he treat us like this? What does he want to hide?'

  Owen jumped down like a cat and stood so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour and see his slanted, amber-flecked eyes.

  'Lord Morgan,' Owen replied, 'Can do what he wants in his own castle and in his own domain, remember that, Englishman!' He brushed past Corbett and lightly skipped down the stone spiral staircase.

  Owen was right. Morgan did what he liked and Corbett and Ranulf were virtual prisoners in their chambers until the following Monday. It was an experience neither would want to repeat: Corbett prowled round the room, snapping at Ranulf or lay on the small truckle bed and morosely glaring at the ceiling, wondering what Morgan was up to, even though he had a shrewd idea.

  Corbett also knew that, despite his love for Maeve, he would have to leave Neath empty-handed. The King would be furious for Corbett had acquired nothing for his six weeks stay in Wales. Ranulf tried to comfort him, offering to show him how to play dice, cheat and win but got little thanks for his effort. Their meals were brought to them, Maeve visited but Ranulf's presence curtailed any enjoyment of each other's company and the encounter was limited to Corbett's questions about what was happening and Maeve's evasive answers. There was a constant guard on their chamber, four or five of Owen's cut-throats lounged in the narrow passageway outside their room and the only time they were permitted to leave was to use the garde-robe in a corner near their chamber.

  Corbett did his best to find out the reason for their detention and spent a great deal of time asking rhetorical questions intended for no one, though Ranulf did his best to answer them. At last the young man, becoming tired of this angrily expostulated that Corbett could, easily find out the reason for their temporary imprisonment. 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped.

  'Why, Gareth, the fool,' Ranulf replied, 'He wanders round watching everything."

  'But he's witless!'

  'No,' Ranulf smiled. 'He only appears to be, offer him a few coins and he will soon talk sense.' Corbett grunted and rolled on his side but a grain of an idea had taken root.

  Late the following Monday morning, a grinning Owen ordered the guards away and announced that Corbett and Ranulf were free to go where they wished, and that included returning to London. The same evening, Lord Morgan repeated the invitation, openly insinuating that the English had outstayed their welcome and should be off, Corbett threw an anguished glance at Maeve, who bit her lip but almost imperceptibly nodded her head. Corbett could understand what she was trying to tell him though the next morning Maeve seemed to avoid him, Morgan and Owen boldly ensuring they did not meet and talk.

  Corbett also sensed a change in mood in the castle; the retainers were more distan
t, the servants and other hangers-on open in their disdain. There was an air of menace, of silent danger gathering in the dark recesses of the castle. Corbett, despite his training in the halls of Oxford, as well as in the legal niceties of the Chancery and the Exchequer, trusted his instincts and believed he was in danger and should either fight or flee. Nevertheless, remembering Ranulf's advice, he searched out and found Gareth squatting in the corner of the parapet walk on the curtain wall.

  'You are well, Gareth?' The man smiled, saliva dripping out of his mouth. Corbett looked quickly around 'and, digging into his purse, drew out a silver coin.

  'This is for you, Gareth, if you tell me about the ships which have just gone.'

  Corbett watched Gareth intently, certain he saw a flicker of recognition, of intelligence in the watery eyes.

  'What ships? What does Master Englishman want to know about the ships?'

  'So you know there were ships?' Corbett crouched and pulled out another coin. Gareth glanced quickly around, his eyes sliding like bubbles on water.

  'Three ships,' he whispered and stretched out his hand.

  'Ah,' Corbett withdrew. 'What ships?'

  'French,' Gareth replied. 'I said to myself they are French, flying their great blue and gold pennants. Oh, a brave sight, Master spy.'

  Corbett stared at Gareth and smiled realising Ranulf was right, this man only acted the fool. Gareth confirmed his suspicions: the French were visiting Neath, their ships finding it easy to slip into the deserted coves along the desolate coasdine of South Wales. This explained the beacons, Morgan's secretiveness as well as his wine cellar, though Corbett suspected die French brought arms and stores as well as tuns of red Bordeaux. Philip was intent on raising a rebellion in Wales and Morgan was his chief ally but was there a link with Philip's spy on Edward's council?