Spy in Chancery

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 standing 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.

A flimsy wherry boat took him up the crowded river past the docks, the steelyard, the galleys and ships pouring wealth into London and the pockets of its merchants: the light craft of the fishermen, petty traders, the scaffolds with the bodies of hanged pirates, their souls gone, fleeing through their blank eyes and yawning mouths. Around them, the living ignored this grim reminder of death in the pursuit of wealth; a spritely barge drifted by, its smart, black woodwork gilded and draped in costly cloths, pennants and banners which proclaimed its importance more loudly than a fanfare of trumpets.

The boatman guided his craft under the towering arches of London Bridge. The water roared and frothed as if in a giant cauldron, Corbett felt afraid but the boat shot through as straight and true as a well-aimed arrow. The turrets of the Tower loomed up above the trees: the great keep built by William the Norman now ringed and protected by walls, towers, gulleys and moat. A fortress to keep London quiet; the King's treasury and record office but also a place of darkness, terror and silent death. In its dungeons, the King's torturers and executioners searched for the truth or twisted it to suit their own ends.

Corbett shivered as he climbed up on to the Tower wharf; it was a calm, soft, golden evening but blighted by his mission to this place. He walked across the drawbridge and began his journey through a series of sombre gateways, places built for trapping and killing any attacker. He was stopped at every turn and corner by well-armed, hard-eyed young men who searched his person and examined scrupulously the warrants and letters he carried. One of these became his guide, a shadowy, mailed figure who led Corbett on, his head and face hidden by a steel conical helmet, he. marched in front, hand on sword, his great military cloak billowing out like the wings of a giant bat. They came out of the range of walls, many still covered with scaffolding ropes, as King Edward tried to strengthen the Tower's defences and on to a large grassy area which surrounded the great, soaring Norman keep.

Here, in the innermost bailey of the Tower, lived the garrison and its dependants; two-storeyed wooden houses for important officials such as the Constable and Steward, huts for workers, as well as stone kitchens, smithies and outhouses. A few children played, hopping around the great war machines, the battering rams, mangonels and catapaults which lay round the bailey, their silent menace and threat of death drowned by the games and cries of the children. Corbett's guide crossed to the keep and, following the line of the wall, walked round its base to a small side door.

Corbett entered, a deep sense of dread closing at his heart and stomach, he knew he was entering the dungeons and torture chambers of the Tower. He strained to hear the bird song and distant shouts of the children. He wanted to clutch the sound to his chest to comfort him. The door slammed shut behind him; his guide struck tinder-flint, took the flaring sconce torch out of its socket and beckoned Corbett to follow. They went down the wet, mildewed steps, at the bottom was a huge cavern, Corbett shivered when he saw the braziers filled with spent ash, the long, blood-soaked table and the huge pincers and jagged iron bars which lay along the damp, green-slimed walls. Torches flickered throwing shadows across the pools of light, ghosts, Corbett thought, the souls of dead, tortured men. The common law of England forbade torture but, here in the kingdom of the damned, there were no rules, no common law, no regulations except the will of the Prince.

They walked across the sand-strewn floor and along one of the tunnels which ran from this antechamber of hell down under the base of the keep. The light was poorer here; only the occasional rush-lights: they passed a series of small cells, each with its iron-studded door and the small grille. They turned a corner and, almost as if he was waiting for them, a fat turnkey, dressed in a dirty leather jerkin, leggings and apron, scuttled forward like a spider from the shadows. Corbett's guide mumbled a few words, the man jerked and bobbed, his fat face creasing into an ingratiatory grin. He led them on, stopped at a cell, fumbling as he drove a large key into the lock. The door swung open, Corbett took the sconce torch from the soldier.

'Wait here,' he said, 'I will see him alone.'

The door crashed behind him and Corbett held up the torch, the cell was small and dark, the rushes had turned to a soft oozy mess on the floor, the stench was terrible.

'Well, Corbett. Here to gloat?'

The clerk raised the torch higher and saw Waterton on a low trestle bed in the far corner. His clothes were now a collection of dirty rags and, as Corbett stepped forward, he saw the man's unshaven face was bruised, the left eye almost closed while his lips were swollen and flecked with blood.

'I would rise,' Waterton's voice was terse and clipped, 'but the guards are none too gentle and my ankles have swollen.'

'Stay,' Corbett urged. 'I have not come to gloat but merely to question, perhaps help.'

'How?'

'You have been arrested,' Corbett answered, 'because we think, or rather the evidence points to you being the traitor on Edward's council.'

'Do you think that?'

'Perhaps, but only you can disprove it.'

'Again, I ask you. How?'

Corbett stepped closer and looked at Waterton. The man was sullen, brave but, in the flickering light of the torch, Corbett saw the fear lurking in his eyes.

'You can explain your wealth?'

'My father deposited a great deal with Italian bankers, both the Frescobaldi and Bardi families can attest to this.'

'We will see. And your father?'

'An opponent of King Henry III.' Waterton bitterly commented, scratching an open sore which seemed to glare out through the shreds of his leggings.

'Do you share his views?' Corbett quietly asked.

'No. Traitors swing to a choking death. I do not want that.' Waterton eased himself up, the steel gyves chafing his wrists, the chains clanking in protest.

'And my mother,' he almost jibed, 'Is it high treason for her to be French?'

'No,' Corbett snapped, 'But it is high treason to consort with the French.'

Waterton jerked up the chains screeching and clashing as the man moved in fury.

'You cannot prove that!'

'So, you do not deny it.'

'Yes, I do,' Waterton snarled, 'Don't be such a clever bastard, stop putting words in my mouth. I do not know what you are asking.'

'In Paris,' Corbett answered, 'In Paris, the French paid special attention to you, singling you out for favours and gifts.'

Waterton shrugged wearily.

'I did not know and still do not, why such favours were shown to me.'

'Or why you should meet de Craon and a young, blond woman, secretly at night in some Parisian tavern'?'

Even in the dim light of the sconce torch Corbett saw the blood drain from Waterton's gaunt face.

'I do not know what you mean!'

'By God you do!' Corbett shouted, 'Are you the traitor, the spy? Did you send Aspale and others to their deaths? An entire ship's crew? For what? To satisfy the itch in your cock!'

Waterton lunged forward like a dog, teeth bared, his usual saturnine face twisted into a snarl of rage. Corbett stared at him as, held back by the chains, the man clawed furiously at the air.

'Tell me,' Corbett continued as Waterton slumped sobbing, back on to his filthy bed. 'Tell me the truth. If you are innocent, in hours you'll be free but now you are in deep mire, held fast as any fly in a spider's web.'

Corbett paused. 'Why did the French favour you? Who was the girl you met with de Craon? Have you been in correspondence with Lord Morgan of Neath?'

Waterton breathed deeply.

'My father was a rebel against the crown,' he began slowly. 'But I am not. My mother was French but I am not. My wealth is my own. My allegiance is to Edward of England. I do not know why de Craon favoured me. I was the clerk responsible for sending the King's letters to him but I would no more correspond secretly with that treacherous Welshman than you!'

'And the young woman in Paris?'

'That, Corbett, is my affair. My only secret. For God's sake!' Waterton shouted, 'If every man who secretly met a woman was charged with being a traitor, then we are all dead men.'

'Tell me her name!'

'I will not!'

Corbett shrugged and, turning, knocked on the cell door.

'Corbett!'

Hugh turned and flinched at the hate in Waterton's eyes.

'Listen, Corbett,' he rasped, 'If I told you, you would not believe me, not you. You're a lonely man, Corbett, a righteous man with a sharp brain and a dead soul. You may have loved once but now, you have forgotten even how to. So. why should О tell you? I hate you, your cold emptiness, from the very bowels of Hell, Satan and all his demons will surely come to fill it!'

Corbett turned and banged on the door. He wanted to get out, he had come to make Waterton face the truth and now hated having to confront it himself.