Spy in Chancery

EIGHT

The following day Corbett was back at Westminster Palace. He would have liked to have interviewed the Earl of Richmond but 'My Lord,' so a haughty squire informed him, 'was gone on secret business of the King's.' Corbett walked off in search of Tuberville but the knight was absent on duties in the city so Corbett was left to kick his heels around the palace. He walked over to the abbey church, enjoying the warm sunshine as he watched the masons scampering like ants along the scaffolding against the north side of the abbey. Corbett was always fascinated by these magicians in stone and spent some time admiring the trellissed carved masonry, the huge grinning gargoyles depicting men, dogs, griffons and an array of grotesque faces. The abbey bells rang for prayer and Corbett wandered back to the Great Hall.

The place was thronged with lawyers, officials, petitioners and plaintiffs. There were sheriffs in from the counties to present their accounts for the Easter audit: royal stewards from the Duchy of Cornwall, their finery ruined by mud and dirt, they looked tired and harassed as they asked for directions in a strange, nasal accent. Corbett looked around, noted how many rings were left on one of the day candles and, leaving the Hall, made his way along empty stonewashed corridors to the council room.

He found Tuberville in his chamber. A man of about thirty to thirty-five summers. Tuberville seemed the typical fighting man with his close-cropped blond hair and lean, narrow features. He would have looked a predator, a professional killer if it had not been for his full mouth and anxious guarded eyes. He was dressed in chain-mail covered by a long, white surcoat bearing the royal arms of England gathered by a stout leather belt which carried a sword and dagger sheath. When Corbett arrived, he was lounging by a window, the shutters flung open for the place was a small and dusty guardroom, a table and two benches alongside the wall being its only furnishings, the floor was bare stone and the walls were covered in flaking plaster.

Tuberville turned as Corbett came in and bluntly answered his query; 'Sir Thomas Tuberville?'

'The same.'

'My name is Hugh Corbett, chief clerk to the Chancery. I am on the King's special business.'

'What special business?'

'Investigating the recent dйbвcle in Gascony.' Corbett watched the knight's eyes narrow in anger.

'Do you have a warrant, licence to do this?' he asked.

'No,' Corbett replied. 'Why, do you want one? I can, we can, go to the King and see him.'

Tuberville smiled, his face becoming almost boyish.

'Here,' he waved Corbett to one of the stools and crossed to a rather battered up-turned barrel bearing a tray of pewter cups and a flagon. He filled two with wine and crossed to rejoin Corbett. 'Look,' he said. 'I am sorry П was abrupt.'

Corbett took the wine. 'It was nothing,' he replied, 'Perhaps a sign of the times?' Tuberville shrugged, sat and sipped from the cup.

'Your questions, Master Corbett?'

'You were with the Earl of Brittany in last year's expedition to Gascony?'

'Yes,' Tuberville replied, 'We sailed, a fleet of ships from Southampton and landed at Bordeaux. Richmond assembled the column of march and we advanced inland to occupy the castle and town of La Reole. You may remember,' Tuberville continued bitterly, 'the damned French had already occupied a number of border fortresses and their troops were moving inland. Richmond just sat and waited: he did not try to draw the French into battle but stayed in the town.' Tuberville shrugged. 'It was inevitable. The French found the countryside deserted and their troops poured across the duchy.' Tuberville paused, staring into the cup. 'Richmond did not move, but froze like a frightened rabbit. The French encircled the town with ditches and traps to block the roads. War machines were brought up, I remember one huge bastard the French nicknamed "Le Loup du Guerre", "The Warwolf". These pounded the town with fire balls and huge rocks. We could not break out, the King was unable to send any relief so Richmond decided to surrender.'

'Was there no attempt at a sortie?' Corbett asked.

Tuberville pursed his lips. 'Yes,' he smiled 'I disobeyed orders. During the negotiations between Richmond and the French, I led a sortie, a phalanx of about sixty men-at-arms and mounted archers.'

'What happened?'

'We were driven back, the French were furious and so was Richmond. The Earl threatened me with a traitor's death for violating negotiations. I pointed out that the negotiations themselves were traitorous so Richmond ordered me to be put under arrest.' Tuberville got up and refilled his cup. Corbett watching him closely.

'What happened during the surrender?' he asked.

Tuberville stared at the wine he was swilling round his cup.

'The French, God damn them, insisted that we leave La Reole, and we did, our banners and pennants trailing in the mud, the French lined the roads and let us go with the mockery of horn, pipe and drumbeat.'

Corbett shifted in his seat. 'But you came back to a great honour, captain of the King's guard and responsible for protecting the King and his council?'

'Ah!' Tuberville smiled. 'When we returned to England, Edward read the results of the campaign and, ignoring Richmond's protests, gave me this post.'

Tuberville turned and looked through the narrow arrow-slit window. 'I must be going, I have to check the guard and ensure no threat exists to our sovereign lord.' Corbett caught the gentle sarcasm of the remark and smiled back. He liked the man, the typical professional soldier, hard, sardonic but strangely vulnerable.

'Oh,' Corbett asked, 'before you go, what terms did the French demand when they let you evacuate La Reole?'

'Hostages!' Corbett looked at the white fury in the knight's face.

'Hostages?' Tuberville nodded.

'Yes,' he explained, 'Richmond, myself and other officers had to agree to send to Paris members of our family as guarantors that, while the present troubles last, we will not fight in Gascony against the French King.'

'Whom did you send?'

'My two sons.' The reply was short, bitter and Corbett saw the hatred flare like a flame in Tuberville's eyes.

'And Richmond?'

'Oh, he sent his daughter.'

'You write to your sons?'

'Yes, letters are sent in Chancery pouches. Richmond does the same, a copy is kept in the Muniment Chamber.'

'Do you like Richmond?' Tuberville glared at Corbett. 'If I had my way,' he replied, 'I would have had that incompetent lord, court-martialled as a traitor.' He rose, touched Corbett on the shoulder and stalked from the room.

The clerk sighed and rose to follow, he would dearly love to question Richmond but the Earl was a cousin to the King, and, if things went wrong? Corbett chewed his lip and decided it would have to wait. Nevertheless he was deeply suspicious of Richmond, something nagging at him like an old wound and he would not be satisfied till he had resolved it. He remembered Tuberville's reference to letters and decided one way to check on Richmond would be to read the copies of any he sent to his daughter.

Corbett wandered about the palace buildings and stepped into a courtyard: the royal stables took up most of the space with out-buildings, forges, piles of manure and huge bins containing oats, barley and straw. Horses, great war destriers, sumpter ponies, mules and the occasional dray horse milled in the open space before being led back to or taken from the stables. Grooms, ostlers and smiths shouted and cursed to be heard over the din of the anvil and the raucous neighing of the horses. Corbett warily crossed, keeping a sharp eye on the plunging hooves of a backing horse. He entered a small side door and went down a cold, whitewashed passage way until he reached the back of the palace and a row of chambers which housed the royal records.

Corbett knocked on the iron-studded door and was admitted by an arrogant-looking clerk. 'What do you want?'

'I am Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.'

'Burneli's protйgй?'

'If you say so, and who are you?'

'Goronody Ap Rees, chief clerk of the records.' Corbett groaned to himself. There was, he thought, nothing so officious or trying as these pompous clerks who wielded their power like petty tyrants. 'Nigel Couville?' Corbett asked hopefully.

'I am here,' a deep grating voice answered and Couville shuffled out behind the pompous clerk.

'Why, Corbett,' the old man's lined face crinkled into a welcoming smile, his thin, cold, vein-streaked hands clasped Corbett by the shoulders. 'You should come more often,' he said softly. 'It is good for an old man to see his former students.' He turned so Ap Rees could hear him. 'Especially one of my most brilliant. Come!' He led Corbett into the small room, brushing past the furious Ap Rees.

Inside, the small chamber was packed with chests, coffers and great leather bags while shelves stretching from the stone floor to the black-timbered ceiling were full of neatly rolled scrolls, each tagged to show the month and regnal year of issue. In the centre of the room was a great oak table with benches down each side. Corbett recognised and loved the smell of red wax, ageing vellum, pumice stone and dried ink.

'What is it you want?' Ap Rees almost squeaked with annoyance.

'Certain letters,' Corbett replied, 'despatched by the Earl of Richmond to his daughter, a hostage to the court of Philip le Bel in Paris.'

'You have no right!' Ap Rees snapped back.

'I have every right,' Corbett wearily replied. He turned to Nigel Couville. 'Tell this pompous fool,' he continued, 'that if I do not have the letters written by Richmond and others to relatives held as hostage at the French court, I shall return with His Grace, the King, to continue this conversation.'

'Master Ap Rees' Nigel replied, 'is from Glamorgan, he is always telling me that things are done differndy there.' Corbett turned and looked at the narrow, pinched face of the Welshman.

'So you know the Lord Morgan?'

'I know him,' Ap Rees replied caustically, 'But 1 am the King's man. I have proved that in my years of service to the crown/

"Then prove it now, Master Ap Rees, the letters please!' Ap Rees looked askance at Corbett and was about to refuse but thought better of it, shrugged and walked over to a large, leather chancery bag. He unloosed the gold-fringed, red cord, spilled the contents out onto the table and searched amongst the different scrolls and scraps of parchment. Finally, he picked one up, examined its tag, grunted and beckoned to Corbett. 'Here it is, you cannot take it away, but stay and read it here.' Corbett winked at Couville and, taking the scroll, sat at the great oak table to study it.

The manuscript consisted of small sheets of vellum stitched together, all transcribed in mauve ink by the same clerkly hand. Corbett could guess how it was done: each individual would write, or have written, his own tetter before submitting it to the Chancery who would examine them to ensure they gave away no information prejudicial to the crown. The royal clerk would then transcribe the letters, making a fair copy before despatching the letters to France, sealed in a red, Spanish leather Chancery pouch while the copies were stitiched together with twine and stored away.

Corbett quickly scanned the sheets and felt a wave of compassion sweep through him; the letters invariably short, were filled with sorrow and tears as parents wrote to children, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. One of the longest was from Tuberville to his two sons. His anguish and hatred of the French were apparent, the letter, dated January, the Feast of Saint Hilary, 1295, regretted they had not spent Christmas together but he had bought them Saint Christopher medals, a wolfhound named Nicholas and, when they returned, he would hold a great feast in some local tavern. Corbett searched on until he found Richmond's letter, a stark contrast to Tuberville's, the Earl's relationship with his daughter was cold: the Earl was formal, distinct and, most interestingly, kept referring darkly to some 'secret matter'.

Corbett, satisfied, rolled the parchment up and handed it back to Ap Rees. 'Thank you,' he smiled at Couville and nodded. 'We'll meet again, take care.' The old man beamed a toothless smile, Corbett touched him gently on the cheek and walked out into the passageway. Corbett would have exchanged a month's fees to discover Richmond's 'dark secret' and was now determined to question the Earl; not caring whether he was a rather arrogant relation of the King.

When Corbett returned to Thames Street it was dark, lantern horns had been lit and hung outside certain houses, revellers, half drunk on cheap ale and their own pleasure, burst from a tavern shouting loudly in the street. Corbett felt the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt and gently eased his way past them. They hurled abuse but he was through and, with a sigh of relief, reached his own house and climbed the dark, twisting staircase. A decidedly dejected Ranulf was already lighting rushlights and long white beeswax candles. Corbett asked him how things were, but only received mumbled sentences in reply. Corbett quietly smiled, Ranulf's mood meant the evening meal of wine and cold meats would be a deadly silent one.

Corbett did not mind for once the table was cleared, he left Ranulf to his own devices while he took his writing tray from a large casket and began to jot down on a scrap of parchment his conclusions and suspicions.

Item: There was a traitor on Edward's council who gave secrets to the French and communicated with the King's enemies in Wales.

Item: Waterton, the clerk, was half-French, his father had been a supporter of Earl Simon de Montfort, an inveterate opponent of Edward. Despite de Montfort's cruel death some thirty years ago, his memory was still revered in many quarters, especially in London.

Item: Waterton seemed wealthy, he acted suspiciously in Paris, being favoured by Philip as well as secretly meeting the French King's spy-master, Amaury de Craon.

Item: Waterton had been recommended to the King by the Earl of Richmond, his former patron and employer. Richmond had disastrously lost the war in Gascony, he, too, was half-French and a member of the council.

Corbett reviewed the list and sighed. It was all very well, he thought, but important questions remained unanswered:

Item: Who was the traitor? Was it more than one person?

Item: How did the traitor communicate his informaton to the French?

Corbet studied his scrap of parchment while the candles burnt low. At last he threw it to one side, logic could not help when there was insufficient information, he snuffed the candles and lay down on his trestle bed. There was something else but it eluded him until, almost on the verge of sleep, Corbett suddenly remembered that the file of letters he had seen earlier in the day were written in a familiar hand: Corbett recalled his meeting with Waterton in the writing chamber in Paris and realised Waterton was the clerk responsible for transcribing the letters to the hostages.