Spy in Chancery

ELEVEN

During most days Corbett wandered around the castle, on occasions he attended the court held in the Great Hall. Morgan would sit on the great carved chair, beside him Father Thomas, the castle chaplain and secretary, crouched mouse-like on his stool, fearful of the things he would have to see and transcribe on the long roll of vellum before him. Most of the crimes were petty, land disputes or minor squabbles over possession. Now and again though, the authority of the Lord Morgan was challenged by a counterfeiter, poacher, outlaw or thief and punishment was always relentless, dread, cruel but, in its own way, upright and rigorous.

Corbett saw a poacher tried, sentenced and hustled from the hall: the poor malefactor was sent straight to the castle yard, his right arm extended over a block where the hissing slice of a sword took his hand off at the wrist. The man screamed in a half-faint as the executioners hurried him from the block to stick the amputated arm into a bowl of boiling pitch to cauterise and heal the bleeding stump. A few even less fortunate were sentenced to hang: one was hustled up to the battlements, a noose put around his neck and he was hoisted over to a dangling, choking death while others were taken in a great two-wheeled cart to the scaffold on the headland above the raging sea.

There was an atmosphere of terror about Neath yet the mood could alternate, swinging from one extreme to the other. At dinner, minstrels were invited to recite poems and epic stories while long-haired bards sang mournful dirges of past glories and dead dreams. Corbett had to sit through them with an equally disgruntled Ranulf. Neither could understand the songs or the conversation because Morgan insisted, most of the time, on speaking Welsh. The English envoys just had to sit there, knowing by the grins on Morgan's and Owen's faces that they were often the brunt of some cruel joke. Corbett observed that Maeve joined in though, when she laughed, it was false, the smile never reached her eyes and there were times when he caught her looking at him sideways, a sad haunted look in her large blue eyes.

A few days after their arrival at Neath, Maeve decided to break the tedium of Morgan's evening banquets and, while the bards prepared themselves with all the show and gestures professional minstrels could muster, she rose and came over to stand beside Corbett. 'Do you like our music, Englishman?' she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.

'My name is Hugh,' he replied. 'And your music is definitely better than your conversation, though I suppose that is not much of a compliment.'

She pouted, 'Well, Huw,' she said, deliberately pronouncing his name in the Welsh fashion, 'Let us change this. You play chess? Perhaps you can teach me?'

Corbett looked at the solemn, beautiful face and loved her, biting his lip to stifle the cry which ached to burst out. He knew her serious face was a mask, secretly she was mocking him but he did not care, he could have sat and stared for eternity like some angel caught up in the eye of God. He heard a snigger and looked down the table at Owen's smirking face. 'Well,' Corbett sighed deeply, 'I would be honoured to teach you chess.' He rose and escorted Maeve over to a window seat.

Maeve summoned a servant who returned with a table, board, casket of chess pieces and a small, sconce-stone oil light. Corbett ignored the hum of conversation and the elaborate guffaw of laughter from the high table. He was only conscious of Maeve, sitting there opposite him, her heart-shaped face cupped in her hands, her eyes smiling as she explored Corbett's discomfort with her cool amused stare. The clerk laboriously explained the game, the different pieces and the more complicated moves, Maeve nodded, murmuring her appreciation before tentatively playing a few moves. Then, satisfied, eyes sparkling, she clapped her hands and announced she wanted a full royal game. Corbett obliged, it was getting dark, some of the guests had left, a few were gathered round the still droning harpists but more around the alcove where they sat. Corbett made a few desultory moves, pushing his pieces around with the murmured 'J adoube'. Maeve responded and Corbett suddenly broke out of his dream for Maeve was responding with clever subtle moves and suddenly Corbett was defeated. He stared down at the chessboard and up into Maeve's concerned face.

'You have won!' he exclaimed. 'You're…' his words were halted by Maeve's peal of laughter, clear but warm, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her beautiful, slender fingers half covering her face as she tried to control her laughter. Corbett stared at her and the grinning circle of faces. He smiled, shrugged to hide his surprise and, bowing to Maeve, rose and walked down the hall. The patter of sandals made him turn, Maeve was alongside him, sliding a slender arm through his.

'Come,' she teased. 'I can play chess better than any man!' She pressed close to Corbett, 'Unbend, man, I only jested. Come, let us take the night air from the Tower.'

Corbett smiled, hoping she would not realise how hard his heart pounded at her closeness. They made their way up the narrow staircase, Maeve resting on his arm, her hair like soft gauze teasing his face with its silkiness and fragrant perfume. Corbett withdrew the bolts on the parapet door and they walked on to the roof of the keep. It was dark, only a red flush in the west marked the sunset, a strong breeze whipped in from the sea while above them the stars gleamed like jewels in a dark room. They walked over to the crenellated wall, listening to the distant murmur of the waves and the sounds from the castle bailey below.

'I have always played chess,' Maeve broke the silence, 'ever since my parents died in the Welsh wars, I have lived here with my uncle. The skill of the game often lifts the boredom of endless casde days.'

'You are very good,' he replied.

Maeve, turning so her back was against the wall, gazed up into Corbett's face. In the faint light, the clerk could see her face was calm, serene, the mock-solemn look had disappeared. 'I have read several treatises including the poem "De Shakie Ludo",' Maeve replied. 'I always welcome visitors, they are a fresh challenge.'

'So you can read?'

'Latin and French.'

Corbett looked into the gathering darkness, 'And you are happy, I mean here, at Neath?'

'It is my home.'

'And the Lord Morgan?'

Maeve smiled. 'A strange man, you know he hates the English?' Corbett nodded.

Maeve looked away, 'Who wouldn't? They killed my parents, put half of Wales to the torch, killed our chieftains, built great castles like the one at Caernarvon and turned our kingdoms into English shires ruled by Edward's kinsmen!'

Corbet could only agree. He had fought in Wales and seen the cruelties and barbarism perpetrated by both sides: men crucified, children tossed down wells, women raped until they died. English prisoners skinned alive or nailed to trees. 'And do you hate us, Maeve.' he asked.

'No, only your desire to crush and conquer,' she turned and stared into the night, 'South Wales has seen many strange sights: they say the road below used to lead to Arthur's Camelot, that the ancient tribes, the Silures who ate human flesh and sacrificed to dark woodland gods, still thrive in the deep forests.' Maeve gathered her cloak about her and nodded towards the shoreline. 'Yet, it's the sea which brings the strangest sights, small, dark brown bodies brought in on the tide. The wise women say they come in from a land to the west.'

Corbett smiled and moved nearer the battlements. Soon, he knew, he would find out why she had brought him here. Corbett was a cynic. No beautiful woman, he reasoned, would want to be alone with him. There would have to be a reason, something she wanted. There always was. Corbett felt her hand pressing firmly on his elbow, he turned and saw her face lovely as the night staring up at him. She edged closer and kissed him softly on the lips, then she was gone.

Corbett was unused to such directness, maybe his wife, Mary, perhaps, Alice, his lover, a murderess ten years dead but she was subtle, complex and devious. Maeve was natural, relaxed and direct. The next day she sought him out and they continued the conversation and the kissing of the previous evening.

Corbett suspected she was there to watch and report on his actions but dismissed this as unworthy. She told him bluntly that he was solemn, pompous but still very funny for beneath it all he was a shy, frightened man who needed to smile more. In the following days, Corbett certainly did, as Maeve took him out to ride through the wild beautiful countryside which surrounded the castle.

She tried to teach him some Welsh words but gave it up, mocking him as too insensitive for such a subtle tongue. She drew him into talking about his past life: his wife, his work in the Chancery, even Alice and the great conspiracy in London which, ten years previously, Corbett had so successfully destroyed.

Corbett responded, cautiously at first, but soon he chatted like a child fascinated by this strange beautiful woman, so changeable, one minute coyly teasing him, the next lecturing him on Wales' past glories and the depredations of his English king.

She made no pretence about his visit to. Neath. 'My uncle, the Lord Morgan,' she said on one occasion, 'is a rogue, a ruffian, a hard, fair man who hates King Edward and would gladly rise in rebellion if the opportunity presented itself. But,' she continued darkly, 'the price of failure is too great. He has rebelled once and has been pardoned. The next time he may suffer the same fate as the great Prince David, Llewellyn's brother.' Corbett let the matter rest. He was frightened lest Maeve provoke a quarrel by openly accusing him of being a spy. Corbett was also wary of Morgan, who might take offence at an Englishman paying court to his niece, but surprisingly, the old rogue just laughed and clapped him on the shoulders. It seemed, Corbett concluded, that Maeve was the only person the Lord Morgan was frightened of.

Owen, the captain of the garrison, was a different matter. He smiled more but his dark eyes glistened with a murderous malice whenever they met, and even Ranulf, now immersed in the daily routine of the castle, begged his master to be more careful. Corbett heeded the advice. Once, Maeve took him down to the castle bailey where Owen was drilling his men. Hugh was used to the mounted phalanxes of English knights, a feast of colour as armoured men in chain-mail and plate' armour covered in bright heraldic designs, charged and counter-charged with sword, mace and blunted lance, according to the rules of the tournament and tourney. But this was different and when Owen saw Maeve and himself on the steps leading down from the keep, he selected one of his men and staged a mock fight as much to dazzle Maeve as well as warn the Englishman.

Corbett felt jealous as Maeve clapped her hands and cried out in amazement at Owen's prowess but even he grudgingly praised the Welshman and quietly vowed that if it ever came to a fight, he would have to kill Owen with the first blow for the man was a born warrior. Owen and his opponent fought on horseback, sturdy, surefooted garrons, who wheeled and turned as their riders pressed with knee or thigh. Both men were lightly armoured in chain-mail shirts, boiled leather leggings and boots, their heads protected by conical helmets with cheek and noseguard. Each carried a small round shield and, because this was a mock fight, blunted swords which could still inflict a serious wound. The riders charged and circled each other. Owen's swordsmanship drawing the gasps of the onlookers as he whirled and dodged so it seemed horse and rider were one. Time and again, Owen ducked under his opponent's guard, smacking the flat of his sword against the unfortunate man's stomach and chest.

Finally, Owen tired of the game, broke off and cantered away, his opponent charged, sword extended, the hooves of his horse pounding the ground, Owen swerved his own horse to meet him but never seemed to reach a full gallop. Corbett mischievously thought Owen had become over confident and would be bowled over by his opponent. The riders met, Corbett saw Owen dive beneath his assailant's swinging sword and, as the man charged past, Owen checked his own horse almost bringing its haunches down into the dirt while he swung his own sword to catch his opponent on the back of the head and send him crahsing senseless to the ground. The onlookers cheered, Owen took off his helmet and, raising his sword, saluted the now breathless, pink-cheeked Maeve. Corbett he dismissed with a long murderous look.

The English clerk was not unduly worried except by Maeve's passion for, whenever they rode out, they often kissed, embracing more passionately, more demanding. Corbett wanted to make love and hoped Maeve would invite him into her chamber. Only once, did he allude to this but received the tart response that her maidenhead was not a gift to some passing Englishman. Corbett believed she was frightened of him leaving and, now in his fourth week at Neath, he knew Edward would be impatient for his return whilst his continued presence was beginning to heighten the tension in the castle. Maeve wanted him but hid her feelings behind bitter-sweet mockery. Morgan just ignored him, Owen stalked him like a hunter whilst Ranulf, bored but now fearful of Owen's open hostility, began to plead with his master about the date of their return to London.

Corbett anxiously wondered if Morgan would allow them to leave safely and, even if they did, would Owen and his men obey such an order? What really concerned Corbett, however, was King Edward's expected reaction: he had learnt very little at Neath and what he had would not be new: Morgan was ripe for rebellion but there was no evidence, nothing to connect him with the French or the traitor on Edward's council. Oh, Corbett, had questioned where and whenever he could but the blank stares continued: Maeve was the same, she remembered Talbot, even the day he left Neath Castle for good.

'There was,' she remarked, 'a fierce quarrel between Talbot and Owen, Talbot demanding to be allowed to leave as he was on the King's business, Owen reluctant to allow him.'

'Why?' Corbett asked. 'Why should Owen detain Talbot?'

'I don't know,' Maeve crossly replied, her brows coming together as they did when she was angry, 'All I heard was Owen shouting that Talbot had been amongst the saddles!'

'But that does not make sense. Saddles? What are so special about the saddles?'

'God knows,' Maeve replied. 'My uncle bawled at Owen to let Talbot go, but not before riders were sent out warning scouts that Talbot was on his way. A short while after he left, Morgan sent Owen and a troop of horses after him.' Maeve shrugged, 'Who cared for Talbot? He was an English spy. No one here mourned for him.'

Corbett felt like asking if she thought he too was an English spy and, more importantly, if anyone, particularly her, would mourn his death?