Spy in Chancery hc-3

by Paul Doherty

  Ranulf was almost beside himself with happiness to be out of Neath. Corbett feit the same relief but it only covered the pain at leaving Maeve and the frustration that such a dangerous journey had achieved so little. They picked up their bundles and made their way along the busy wharfside: past sailors from Portugal, small and swarthy with gold or pearl-encrusted ear-rings, arrogant Hanse merchants in their dark colours and expensive beaver hats. There were Flemings, Rhinelanders, Hai-naulters and Genoese, their different tongues and out-iandish clothes reminded Corbett about the story of the Tower of Babel in the Bible. It was warm and he felt light-headed and unsteady after days in the fishing smack drinking stale water and eating salted fish.

  They left the wharves, Corbett pulling Ranulf from staring at the scaffolds, black and three-branched, each bearing the corpse of a river pirate rotting in the summer sun and sentenced to hang there for the turn of seven tides. The clerk and his servant made their way into the town, across the huge cobbled market place where traders were taking down the striped awnings, poles and trestle stalls under the watchful gaze of market officials.

  A group of drunks, still singing and revelling, were led off to sober up in the long range of stocks on a platform at the far end of the square. A pedlar, still desperate for trade, hoarsely shouted his wares; pins, needles, ribbons and geegaws. A thief was pelted with offal as he sat near a huge horse trough: dogs and cats fought like warriors over the pile of refuse, carts trundled away, wheels crashing, while their drivers, peasants with their families, slumped exhausted after a day's arduous trading.

  Corbett and Ranulf stared at it all, a stark contrast to the strange, outlandish routine of Neath Castle. Ranulf looked hungrily at the taverns, Corbett, wondering what Maeve was doing, testily urged him on. They walked through the market and entered a maze of streets where the huge, half-timbered houses loomed like trees above them. Corbett had already decided where to stay and gave a cry of relief when he left the streets and took the rutted track which led up to the Augustinian monastery.

  The clerk vaguely knew the Prior and trusted their acquaintanceship backed by royal letters and warrants would ensure a welcome. He was not disappointed: an ancient, ever-smiling, lay brother ushered them into an austere guest room, served them with stoups of ale and muttered that the Prior would join them as soon as Vespers ended. He then sat opposite them, smiling and nodding, as Corbett and Ranulf drank the ale.

  Eventually, as the priory bells boomed out, the Prior bustled in, he embraced Corbett, clasped Ranulf's hand and speedily agreed they could stay. Two small cells were provided, their walls still gleaming from fresh coats of lime whitewash. Both men bathed, sharing a huge tub or vat in the monastery laundry room and, after changing their soaked, salt-encrusted cloaks, went down to the rectory.

  Afterwards, Ranulf decided to wander in the monastery grounds catching as he said in crude mimicry of Corbett, the best of the evening breezes and, openly ignoring Corbett's order to see to their belongings, sauntered off. Corbett glared at his retreating back, sighed and made his way down to the chapel. It was dark and cool, the dusk only just kept at bay by huge candelabra whose pure flames sent the shadows moving like ghostly dancers. At the far end of the sanctuary behind the carved chancel screen, the monks were standing in their stalls chanting Compline, their words rolling like distant thunder, echoing the pure notes of the leading cantor.

  Corbett squatted in the nave at the base of a huge rounded pillar and let his mind be caught and soothed by the rhythmic singing. He heard the cantor's 'Dixi in excessu Meo, omоtes homines Mendaces'-'I said in my excess all men are liars', Corbett ignored the deep-throated response of the monks. Were all men, he wondered, liars? Were all women? Was Maeve? He felt the bittersweet sense of her loss clutch his heart. Would he see her again? Would she remember him, or let the memories seep away like water in the sand? The monks intoned the paean of praise which marked the end of their office: 'Gloria Patri, Filio et Spiritu Sancto'. He sighed, rose, stretched his cramped muscles and walked through the cloisters to his cell.

  There, he took his writing case and penned a swift letter to Maeve which he hoped the Prior would give to some trader, pedlar or fisherman. Corbett sealed it with a blob of red wax, realising it would take weeks, if ever, before it reached Neath.

  Then, quickly he scratched down the conclusions he had learnt:

  Item – There was a traitor on Edward's council.

  Item – The traitor was corresponding with the French and, possibly, traitors in Wales.

  Item – This treachery had begun after the Earl of Richmond's disastrous expedition which had lost England the Duchy of Gascony.

  Item – Waterton the clerk: his mother was French, his father a rebel against the King: he lived beyond his means, was courted by the French and secretly met Philip IV's spy-master. He was a former clerk in Richmond's household and also seemed to have some connection with Lord Morgan of Neath.

  Item – Was Waterton the traitor? Or was it his master, the Earl of Richmond?

  Corbett stared into the darkness but only saw Maeve's lovely face and felt a cold loneliness grasp his soul in its iron-hard fist.

  Robert Aspale, clerk of the Exchequer, felt equally lonely. He had been sent to France by the King as his agent to oversee matters there. By 'oversee' Edward, of course, had meant 'spy'. The King had been most insistent that Aspale leave, adding that his emissary to South Wales, Hugh Corbett, had failed to return or even communicate with the English court. It should have been Corbett, Aspale thought, here, in this tavern on the outskirts of Amiens, but Edward had said he could wait no longer and so Aspale would travel to Paris posing as a merchant from Hainault. He would enter France through the territory of Edward's ally, Guy Dampierre, Count of Flanders: Aspale was fluent in the different tongues and dialects of the Low Countries and posing as a cloth merchant looking for fresh trade in the great markets of Northern France would prove easy.

  Secretly, however, Aspale was to discover if aiiy of Edward's agents and spies in Paris were still alive as well as try to unearth the secret designs of Philip IV. He carried a belt round his slim waist, its pouches filled with gold which could open doors and, more importantly, loosen tongues: courtesans, petty officials, impoverished knights, servants and retainers. They all heard gossip, bits and pieces which collected together like fragments of a mosaic, could form a clear picture of what was happening.

  Aspale stared round the crowded tavern, he felt comfortable after his meal of duck cooked in a thick, spicy sauce and washed down with deep gulps of Rhenish. He suddenly noticed a petite girl with hair as red as fire tumbling down to her shoulders. She was wearing a tight green dress which emphasised her jutting breasts and slim waist before falling in a flounce about rounded ankles. She was pale, her skin looked as smooth as alabaster, only her arrogant, heavy-lidded eyes and twisted, pouting mouth marred her beauty. She gazed boldly at Aspale, nodded slightly and, after a few minutes, left the table where she was sitting and moved across to join him. Her French was fluent though Aspale detected the softer accents of Provence.

  'Good evening, Monsieur,' she began. 'You have enjoyed your meal?' Aspale gazed back speculatively.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'I have enjoyed my meal, but why should that concern you?' The woman shrugged.

  'You look content, happy, I like to be with a happy man!'

  'I suppose you search them out?'

  The girl threw her head back and laughed. She smiled dazzlingly, the merriment in her eyes clearing the angry sulkiness from her face. She leaned across the table.

  'My name is Nightshade,' she murmured. 'Or that is what I prefer to call myself, and you?'

  'Van Greeling,' Aspale lied good-humourediy. 'And now, Lady Nightshade, a drink?'

  The girl nodded and Aspale ordered a fresh jug and two clean cups.

  The Englishman was under no illusion about his companion's true calling but he was tired, slightly drunk and totally flattered by this young courtesan's attention. They chatted
for a while as the tavern filled and became more noisy, Nightshade refilled his cup, leaned over and whispered in his ear. Aspale saw the unflawed whiteness of face, neck and breast and caught the faint fragrant perfume of her hair. He wanted this woman and, tiring of banal conversation, quickly agreed that they should move upstairs to a private chamber. Nightshade said she had one and rose.

  Aspale, half drunk, staggered to his feet and followed her through the crowd, careful lest he slipped in the dirt and refuse which littered the straw-covered floor, his eyes intent on his companion's fluid, rounded hips. They climbed the wooden staircase. Aspale followed Nightshade to a corner chamber, impatient as she fumbled at the iron clasp. The door swung open and Nightshade stepped into the pool of candelight. Drunk as he was, Aspale sensed there was something wrong. Who had lit the candle? It was too well prepared, Nightshade turned, her face drawn, the smile gone, her eyes haughty and sad. The door crashed shut behind him, Aspale scrabbled for his dagger but the assassin had the garrotte around his neck and Aspale's life flickered out like the flame of the candle.

  FIFTEEN

  Corbett and Ranulf took four days to reach London, the Prior loaning them the best horses from his stables, Corbett solemnly promising that the royal household would ensure their safe return. The journey back was peaceful, no danger of outlaw attack for the roads were packed with soldiers moving south to the coast as the King, having crushed the rebels in Scotland, was now determined to take an army to France.

  Corbett sat and watched the soldiers march past: most were veterans, professional killers in their boots, leggings, boiled leather jackets and steel conical helmets. They were all well armed with a dagger, sword, spear and shield and marched by oblivious to the dust clouds and haze of swarming flies. Corbett let them pass, the troops showed that King Edward's patience had snapped and was now determined to settle the quarrel with Philip by force.

  Corbett rode on through Acton and into the city. They reached their lodgings, checked their possessions, Ranulf taking the horses to the royal stables and promptly disappearing into the shady swirl of South-wark's low life. Corbett resignedly accepted this and spent two days regulating his own affairs before sending a message to the royal palace of Westminster that he had returned. If Corbett thought the King's absence would provide him with a respite he was swiftly disappointed. The following morning, a group of royal Serjeants armed with warrants arrived to take him to Westminster where Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, was waiting in the sacristy of the abbey church.

  There, among the splendid silken capes, silver candelabra, crucifixes and chalices, Corbett gave the Earl a brief summary of his visit to Neath. The Earl, dressed informally in silken shirt and hose, slumped in a great oaken chair and heard him out. Corbett, ignoring the look of anger on the Earl's pinched features, reiterated the obvious conclusion that the visit had achieved little, dismissing with a lurch of his heart, Maeve's sweet face and beautiful eyes. When he finished, Lancaster sat, head to one side, a gesture which only emphasised his crooked frame. At length he smiled wearily and rose.

  'You failed, Corbett. I know,' he raised a be-ringed hand to fend off any questions, 'You did your best. When I say "failed" I mean you discovered nothing new except confirm our suspicions about the traitor.'

  'You know who he is?'

  Lancaster grimaced. 'It must be Waterton," he replied. 'It has to be. These are your conclusions and we have fresh evidence.'

  'Against Waterton?'

  'Yes. My brother is in the north bringing Balliol to heel. The Scottish King's defiance lasted days but it did serve us well for one of his squires, Ogilvie, told our spy in Stirling that the Scots had learnt that Waterton was

  'How did they know?' 'From the French!'

  'But they could have just said that to protect the real traitor!' Lancaster shrugged. 'But why bother,' he snapped, 'in protecting someone that does not need any protection. Anyway,' the Earl concluded, 'someone evidently thought Ogilvie had done something very wrong. A few hours after he met our spy, he was found with his throat cut.'

  The Earl paused to pour himself a cup of wine. 'There's more,' he continued. 'On our return from the embassy, the chancery bags and pouches were emptied. A large fragment of Philip's secret seal was found in the pouch used by Waterton. Which means,' Lancaster testily added, 'that Waterton must have received some secret message from Philip IV.' Lancaster pursed his lips.

  'Of course, it may have been a mistake, it may have even been put there but,' Lancaster sighed, 'all the evidence points to Waterton.' The Earl jabbed a finger, dismissing further questions. 'Enough,' he snapped. 'You are to visit Waterton. He has already been arrested and committed to the Tower and,' Lancaster smiled maliciously, 'after that you are, at the King's express command, to return to France with Philip's envoys and see if you can find anything new.'

  Corbett groaned at the thought of France but he had no choice in the matter. He nodded his reluctant agreement to the still smirking Earl who rose, patted Corbett on the shoulder and swirled his great cloak around his body.

  'The French envoys are now awaiting us,' he said, 'We had better meet them.'

  The Earl swept out of the room, Corbett following him down to the great council chamber. Lancaster sat on the throne in the centre of the dais, gesturing at Corbett to join him on his right; other members of the council took their seats as, amid the shrill bray of trumpets, the French entered the chamber led by Louis of Evreux, Philip IV's brother, resplendent in a blue ermine gown, a jewel-encrusted brooch swinging against his chest, glittering rubies, pearls and diamonds sparkling on his gloved hands. Evreux carried his head proudly as if it was something precious and unique, he sat on the chair opposite Lancaster, his entourage taking up position alongside him whilst the clerks and scribes from both sides arranged themselves round a side table.

  Lancaster and Evreux began the meeting with the usual diplomatic platitudes; Evreux mourning the absence of Edward and smirking when Lancaster, flushed with anger, snapped back that trouble in Scotland prevented the King being present. The process of Gascony then began, both sides repeating their long lists of grievances. Corbett let the sonorous speeches slip by like water in a steam. He had glimpsed de Craon sitting on Louis Evreux's right. The French master spy had also seen him but avoided any direct giance so Corbett glared at him. Was de Craon surprised to see him? Corbett thought so but the Frenchman's face was impassive as he carefully listened to the list of grievances presented by the English. Corbett sighed and, not for the first time that day, thought about Maeve. Her face stayed in his mind like a sanctuary lamp flickering brightly against the darkness, whilst the memory of her soft blue eyes and long blond hair haunted the innermost reaches of his soul. He wished she was here amongst these grave, self-important men whose thoughts and words would, in a year, be mere dust.

  Suddenly, he heard raised voices and broke from his reverie. Louis was taunting Lancaster, achieving considerable success for the Earl was virtually shouting in reply. Corbett felt the rising tension, even the scribes looked sideways, pens poised as they helplessly wondered what would happen next. Corbett glanced at de Craon and caught the sardonic gleam of triumph in the Frenchman's eyes; God, Corbett thought, they bait us here in the very Palace of Westminster. He remembered the attack outside Paris, the vibrant loveliness of Maeve and felt a terrible rage surge through him. Corbett whispered into Lancaster's ear, urging the Earl to say something to halt the constant taunts from the French.

  'My Lord of Evreux!' Lancaster called out pulling himself free from Corbett, 'I must apologise for the tumult and discord on our side but this is due to special circumstances.' He looked around, evidently pleased at the way his words silenced the clamour in the hall. 'We have,' Lancaster bluntly continued, 'just ordered the arrest of a man close to our counsels, a veritable viper in our bosom, who gave our secrets to the King's enemies here and,' he added, pausing for effect, 'across the seas.'

  His words were greeted by a hum of consternation from those English stan
ding behind the French envoys. Corbett ignored them, closely studying the reactions of the French: Evreux did not seem disconcerted whilst de Craon continued to pick at a loose thread in the sleeve of his gown before turning to whisper to Count Louis. Corbett had set the trap, he now waited for the French to step into it.

  'My Earl of Lancaster,' Evreux called out, 'We are pleased that our English cousin has been freed from such an irritation. We hope this viper is not involved in the negotiations with us for, if he has betrayed you, he could well have betrayed us.'

  'Is that all, my Lord?' Corbett was surprised to hear himself speak. Evreux looked at him disdainfully.

  'Of course,' he replied. 'What else is there?'

  'What else?' Corbett thought to himself, ignoring Lancaster's curious glances and de Craon's hostile stare. He had sprung a trap upon the French, years ago in Scotland and now he had done it again. He was sure of it. He clenched his fists in excitement, not bothering to concentrate as the discussion reverted to more boring, desultory matters.

  It was late afternoon before the process was completed and, as Lancaster later sardonically commented, there was a great deal of talking but little was said. The French believed there was a way to settle the dispute, saying it was a pity the English king was not present but, and here de Craon had looked meaningfully at Corbett, King Philip IV would personally explain to Edward's envoys his ideas for the resolution of all difficulties. The French then presented their sworn safe conducts for the English envoys who were to accompany them back to France. When Lancaster announced it was Corbett, de Craon smirked whilst Evreux looked offended as if he had expected someone of higher rank. The meeting broke up, Corbett patiently listening to Lancaster's angry exclamations before leaving for the Tower and his interview with Waterton.