Spy in Chancery

TEN

Corbett and Ranulf spent six days riding through the wild countryside of South Wales: sometimes they slept in the open, in a deserted byre or the occasional fortified manor house of an English lord. One of these warned them to be careful, marauders, outlaws and wolfs-heads still roamed the hills, even more dangerous, the lord advised, were the secret rites and rituals of the Welsh, some of whom still clung to a religion other than Christianity and celebrated their fire ceremonies in dark woods or in high places. Corbett took the warnings to heart but came to no danger, nothing worse than the mournful howl of a wolf or the screams of night creatures, as owl, fox, stoat and weasel plundered for food. The Welsh villages they passed through, small hamlets with wood and daub walls and thick thatched roofs, seemed friendly enough. Corbett could not understand the strange sing-song tongue of the people but the Welsh, small and dark, smiled and offered food and a strong fermented beer.

As they approached the craggy, sea-weeded coast around the castle of Neath, the countryside became more deserted. The occasional pedlar or merchant would jabber at them quickly when they mentioned Lord Morgan's name and, though he could not understand every word, Corbett gathered from their anxious looks that the Lord Morgan enjoyed a fearsome reputation. Corbett had acquired some information about him: Edward had conquered Wales twelve years earlier and, by 1284, all of Wales was subject to his writ, the same year a meeting of the Great Round Table had been held at Caernarvon where Edward's baby son had received the title Trinceps Walliae' or Prince of Wales. The occupied country, however, had been restless, revolts breaking out like sudden forest fires. In 1294, two years earlier, a serious revolt had occurred and the discontent rapidly spread.

The uprising was supported by Lord Morgan angry at the encroachment on his land by Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Morgan received widespread support but Edward had acted quickly, marshalling armies near Chester, he advanced into Wales and crushed the rebels in a series of brilliant campaigns. Lord Morgan and other Welsh princes had to sue for terms to be accepted back into the King's peace; he was allowed to keep Neath Castle and his estates but, if Talbot's letter was to be believed, Morgan was once more plotting treason, only this time with Philip IV. Corbett had sketched in his mind a triangle of treason, at one apex sat Philip, at another Morgan, but who was at the third? The English traitor supplying them with royal secrets?

Yet, if Lord Morgan was a traitor, he still wielded considerable power: at the entrance to the Vale of Neath, a long, wide, green valley snaking through the hills, stood two massive scaffolds, thick ash poles driven into the ground, each bearing a huge cartwheel turned sideways. From the spokes of each wheel, and there must have been twelve in all, hung a corpse, its neck broken, head flapping sideways, the face black with protruding eyes and tongue whilst beneath the wheel a hapless man, nailed by the ears to the pole, a crude sign round his neck proclaimed he was a poacher.

Ranulf paled with fright and Corbett secretly wondered at the terrors awaiting them. They entered the Vale where green, fertile hills dotted with trees and rocks rose up on either side of them. The silence was oppressive broken only by the raucous call of crows or the mocking song of the curlew. From a crude map drawn up by a Welsh-speaking monk in Bristol Abbey, Corbett knew that Neath Castle lay at the end of the valley on craggy cliffs overlooking the sea. Corbett no sooner caught the first glimpse of its grey walls then he turned in alarm as armed horsemen broke from the trees and swept down to meet them.

Corbett saw the puffs of dust raised by the thundering hooves, the flash of sun on metal and the great green and gold banners which fluttered and snapped above the charging horsemen. Corbett grabbed the reins of the sumpter pony with one hand while the other searched for his dagger, a useless gesture for his assailants were around them. Corbett had seen less-likely ruffians sentenced to hang at the Elms in London; the horsemen, about twenty in number, were dressed in a motley collection of arms and armour, chain-mail, breastplates and greaves; some had helmets, conical or flat-topped but the rest wore the skins of animals, calf, wolf, otter and fox. The leader, a swarthy fellow with a black drooping moustache, was dressed in shoddy splendour, leather hose and boot, a frayed purple satin shirt beneath a rusting breastplate. On his head, the grinning face of a wildcat, its skin draping the rider's hair.

He pointed a sword at Corbett's chest and flicked his fingers. The clerk looked around; his assailants were well armed with mace, sword, club and shield, so he shrugged and handed over his dagger. 'Who are you?' The leader's English was almost perfect. Corbett stared, beneath the rags and shoddy armour, the man was educated.

'My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the Chancery. This is my servant, Ranulf atte Newgate. We are here on the orders of King Edward of England to seek an audience with the Lord Morgan. Now, sir, who are you?'

The man stared at Corbett and burst into peals of laughter: he turned and chatted in Welsh to his companions. Corbett bit his lip in annoyance for he was sure the fellow was imitating him. Behind him, Ranulf had overcome his initial fright and was glaring round him. The Welshmen also found this funny, one of them leaned forward and ruffled Ranulf's hair, the whole group breaking into fresh peals of laughter when Ranulf reacted with a spate of filthy abuse.

Corbett himself did not say anything or attempt heroics: he knew these Welshmen, kind, courteous but, highly temperamental, they could turn suddenly violent and he had not forgotten the bodies swinging on the scaffold at the entrance to the Vale. The laughter subsided and the leader, taking the reins of Corbett's horse, led them on, the rest of the band grouped around them. The castle of Neath came into full view, a cold stark building perched on the crags of the cliffs, which rolled in a sheer drop to the sea-pounded rocks below.

A huge donjon or keep jutted above the crenellated curtain wall and, as Corbett approached the main gateway in a central tower on the wall, he could see figures, soldiers on the parapet and the huge five-horse tail standards of Morgan. There was more: a man swung by his neck from the walls and just above the gateway hung a square, red-rusted cage, the. thick red chain from which it was suspended creaked eerily in the breeze.

Corbett stared and shuddered at the white bones piled in one corner of the cage. His escort seemed unpeturbed, they crossed over a narrow, deep ditch, their horse's hooves thundering on the wooden drawbridge.

Inside the cold, mildewed gateway, they paused while the portcullis was raised to allow entry into the huge yard circling the keep. This contained single-storeyed stone buildings erected against the keep, but the rest were wooden buildings, some standing free, others leaning against the curtain wall: smiths, outhouses, a kitchen, stables, a piggery and makeshift byres for cattle. A small village in itself, hens pecked and jabbed at the dirt, clucking at dogs and pigs which snouted and sniffed at everything.

Children played with the inflated bladder of some animal, babies naked as the day they were born, squatted in the dirt, their parents too busy with countless tasks. The general noise and hubub died as the mounted horsemen entered the bailey and dismounted: Corbett and Ranulf were carefully inspected, a wolf-hound came over to sniff but was booted away, then an old man, with watery eyes and crippled arms shuffled over to stare up at Corbett. He giggled, picked his nose and gently patted the clerk's sleeve.

'Be off, Gareth,' the leader said quietly and the fool, blowing kisses at Corbett, scampered away. 'An Englishman,' the leader said meaningfully. 'The Lord Morgan captured him in the wars and tried to question him. We call him Gareth for we lost his name when he lost his wits. The Lord Morgan is not too gentle with spies!' Corbett shrugged and offered the reins of his horse.

'Take care of this,' he replied coolly, 'and go tell the Lord Morgan, the envoys of King Edward are ready to see him.' He watched the Welshman's face go white with fury at the insult, his hand creeping towards the hilt of his short stabbing sword, but he thought better of it, looked around and burst into laughter. The tension drained from the group and the crowd turned back to its tasks, the newcomers seemingly forgotten.

Corbett and Ranulf were taken across the yard and up narrow stone steps to the second floor of the great keep and into the main hall. It was some thirty feet in height, and Corbett was astounded at its shabby opulence: in the south wall was a very large fireplace with a hood and mantel of square stone, Corbett supposed its chimney jutted through the thick wall to the outside. There were a number of round-headed arches about eight feet wide and splayed, these narrowed to form embrasures and narrow square windows which were glazed with the finest horn. The ceiling timbers were blackened rafters but huge drapes of many colours, some torn, others whole hung from them, while tapestries depicting scenes from the Old Testament in a wild variety of contrasting hues covered the whitewashed walls. At the far end of the hall, the dais bore a gleaming oak table on which were placed a gold jewel-encrusted salt cellar and fine silver candelabra which, Corbett suspected, were once the property of some English church. These bore lighted beeswax candles while pitch torches spluttered in brackets rusting on the wall. The floor was covered in clean rushes and Corbett could smell the crushed mint and heather which had been sprinkled on top.

The room was deserted except for two men playing chess at a small trestle table near the fire. They sat crouched in their carved chairs, cloaks about them, intent on the game. Above them, on the wooden perch, a peregrine falcon stirred restlessly against the jesses and bells on its claws, its sharp mischievous face scanning the room. The leader of the escort pushed Corbett gently, so the clerk strode across the room, studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Both players looked up, one a young, blond-haired, pallid-faced man with a girl's pink lips and cornflower blue eyes. The other, small and dark, brown hair tumbling to his shoulders, a strange contrast to the man's iron-black beard and moustache, his eyes were dark, the face as cruel and as sharp as the falcon. The younger man giggled for Corbett's move had jeopardised his opponent's game but the other just rose and stared bleakly at Corbett.

'Who are you?' he asked, his voice surprisingly low and soft.

'Hugh Corbett, royal clerk and envoy of Edward I.'

The man nodded and barked an order in Welsh, a servant scurried foward with a stool, the man waved Corbett to it, pouring him a cup of wine whilst grandly introducing himself as the Lord Morgan. Corbett nodded, sipped the wine, relishing the fine taste of Bordeaux while he studied Morgan. The Welshman was an impressive figure, gold rings swung from his ears, a silver-jewelled torque round his neck and bracelets and amethysts adorned his wrists and fingers. He was dressed in a deep blue robe trimmed with pure lambswool though Corbett saw the stains on it and the white cambric shirt beneath. The Welshman also studied the clerk, watching him warily as he sipped his wine.

'Did Owen look after you?' Morgan asked, nodding to where the captain of his escort still stood.

'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'Owen looked after me, he laughs a lot.'

'Why complain, we Welsh have little even to smile about!'

'You are discontent, my Lord?'

'No, Corbett!' Morgan sharply replied, 'I am not discontent, just making observations, as I have every right to do in my own hall, is this not right?' Morgan glared at his blond-haired companion.

'Yes,' the fellow almost lisped. 'You are certainly right.' He turned to Corbett. 'Let me introduce myself,' he continued. 'I am Gilbert Medar, steward of the Lord Morgan.' Corbett smiled warily in reply, Gilbert might be the Lord Morgan's steward, he thought, and a great deal more but this was certainly not the place to begin a debate on the subject. Morgan put his cup on the table and scooped the chess pieces back into a jewelled casket which he placed under the table.

'His Grace the King,' he said brusquely, 'has sent you to me. Why?' Corbett had expected this question, his brief interview with Edward before he left London had impressed on him one clear instruction: to find out all he could about the Lord Morgan's treasonable actions and see if they could throw any light on the traitor in London.

'His Grace the King,' Corbett lied slowly, 'sends his regards and good wishes. He is anxious that the good relations now established with you should continue: he wonders if you have caught the murderers of David Talbot and he assures you that he dismisses as malicious lies and slander, rumours that you have any communications with the King's enemy, Philip of France.' Inwardly, Corbett smiled with mischievous glee, Morgan's eyes shot to one side and the clerk felt the steward stiffen.

'I thank his Grace,' Morgan replied cautiously, 'for his good wishes to a loyal subject. Unfortunately, Talbot's assailants have not been found. The King knows that South Wales still abounds with lordless, lawless men. Finally,' Morgan spread his hands, 'I am glad His Grace has rejected any scandalous allegations about my loyalty to the crown. What else can I say?'

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.