Spy in Chancery

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!'