Spy in Chancery

THIRTEEN

By the sixth week in Neath, Corbett was perplexed and tense like a dog left on its leash. He had discovered nothing, he did not want to leave Maeve but felt increasingly trapped as the Lord Morgan courteously ignored his requests to return to London. The days dragged by so slowly that the resolution of his difficulties took him by surprise, coming quick like a sword leaving its sheath or the hum of an arrow through the air.

On the Tuesday, just after midsummer, the castle was caught up in a frenzy of activity. In the evening Corbett and Ranulf returned to their chamber to find Owen dressed in black skins perched like some evil bird on the narrow shelf of one of the window embrasures.

'I bring messages from the Lord Morgan,' he sang out, 'You are to be detained in your rooms.'

'Until when?' Corbett snapped, 'The same thing happened a few weeks ago. The Lord Morgan has a strange idea about hospitality. Why does he treat us like this? What does he want to hide?'

Owen jumped down like a cat and stood so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour and see his slanted, amber-flecked eyes.

'Lord Morgan,' Owen replied, 'Can do what he wants in his own castle and in his own domain, remember that, Englishman!' He brushed past Corbett and lightly skipped down the stone spiral staircase.

Owen was right. Morgan did what he liked and Corbett and Ranulf were virtual prisoners in their chambers until the following Monday. It was an experience neither would want to repeat: Corbett prowled round the room, snapping at Ranulf or lay on the small truckle bed and morosely glaring at the ceiling, wondering what Morgan was up to, even though he had a shrewd idea.

Corbett also knew that, despite his love for Maeve, he would have to leave Neath empty-handed. The King would be furious for Corbett had acquired nothing for his six weeks stay in Wales. Ranulf tried to comfort him, offering to show him how to play dice, cheat and win but got little thanks for his effort. Their meals were brought to them, Maeve visited but Ranulf's presence curtailed any enjoyment of each other's company and the encounter was limited to Corbett's questions about what was happening and Maeve's evasive answers. There was a constant guard on their chamber, four or five of Owen's cut-throats lounged in the narrow passageway outside their room and the only time they were permitted to leave was to use the garde-robe in a corner near their chamber.

Corbett did his best to find out the reason for their detention and spent a great deal of time asking rhetorical questions intended for no one, though Ranulf did his best to answer them. At last the young man, becoming tired of this angrily expostulated that Corbett could, easily find out the reason for their temporary imprisonment. 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped.

'Why, Gareth, the fool,' Ranulf replied, 'He wanders round watching everything."

'But he's witless!'

'No,' Ranulf smiled. 'He only appears to be, offer him a few coins and he will soon talk sense.' Corbett grunted and rolled on his side but a grain of an idea had taken root.

Late the following Monday morning, a grinning Owen ordered the guards away and announced that Corbett and Ranulf were free to go where they wished, and that included returning to London. The same evening, Lord Morgan repeated the invitation, openly insinuating that the English had outstayed their welcome and should be off, Corbett threw an anguished glance at Maeve, who bit her lip but almost imperceptibly nodded her head. Corbett could understand what she was trying to tell him though the next morning Maeve seemed to avoid him, Morgan and Owen boldly ensuring they did not meet and talk.

Corbett also sensed a change in mood in the castle; the retainers were more distant, the servants and other hangers-on open in their disdain. There was an air of menace, of silent danger gathering in the dark recesses of the castle. Corbett, despite his training in the halls of Oxford, as well as in the legal niceties of the Chancery and the Exchequer, trusted his instincts and believed he was in danger and should either fight or flee. Nevertheless, remembering Ranulf's advice, he searched out and found Gareth squatting in the corner of the parapet walk on the curtain wall.

'You are well, Gareth?' The man smiled, saliva dripping out of his mouth. Corbett looked quickly around 'and, digging into his purse, drew out a silver coin.

'This is for you, Gareth, if you tell me about the ships which have just gone.'

Corbett watched Gareth intently, certain he saw a flicker of recognition, of intelligence in the watery eyes.

'What ships? What does Master Englishman want to know about the ships?'

'So you know there were ships?' Corbett crouched and pulled out another coin. Gareth glanced quickly around, his eyes sliding like bubbles on water.

'Three ships,' he whispered and stretched out his hand.

'Ah,' Corbett withdrew. 'What ships?'

'French,' Gareth replied. 'I said to myself they are French, flying their great blue and gold pennants. Oh, a brave sight, Master spy.'

Corbett stared at Gareth and smiled realising Ranulf was right, this man only acted the fool. Gareth confirmed his suspicions: the French were visiting Neath, their ships finding it easy to slip into the deserted coves along the desolate coasdine of South Wales. This explained the beacons, Morgan's secretiveness as well as his wine cellar, though Corbett suspected die French brought arms and stores as well as tuns of red Bordeaux. Philip was intent on raising a rebellion in Wales and Morgan was his chief ally but was there a link with Philip's spy on Edward's council?

Corbett emptied his purse and showed Gareth a clutch of coins.

'They are yours,' he said, 'if you can tell me why Talbot died?'

Gareth wiped saliva from his slack lips and stared at Corbett, the vacuous expression in his eyes, replaced by a wary cunning. 'Master Talbot,' he drooled, 'was an inquisitive man who also paid,' he stretched out a be-grimed claw-like hand and Corbett dropped a few coins into it before drawing back.

'Gareth,' he added warningly. 'You are trying my patience.'

Gareth smiled. 'Master Talbot had a quarrel with the Lord Morgan.'

'What was said?'

'Nothing, except the Lord Morgan accused him of prying where he should not.'

'Anything else?'

'No, except I heard Talbot, Master Talbot, that is, mention something about saddling. I suppose he intended leaving, there was something else.'

'Yes. What?'

'A man called Waterdoun.'

'You mean Waterton?'

'Yes, I think so for I heard both Lord Morgan and Master Talbot use that name.'

Is there more?'

Gareth turned, looking slyly out of the corner of his eyes.

'Oh, no,' he replied. 'That's all Gareth knows. Truly, so why not pay Gareth his money.8

Corbett handed the rest of the money over and rose to go. He heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the parapet walk and hastily distanced himself from Gareth but Owen came tripping up the stairs and stood, legs apart, blocking Corbett's path. Dressed in black, Owen looked like some sleek, well-groomed crow, his glittering eyes stared at Corbett and then beyond to where Gareth say huddled in terror.

'So,' the Welshman said in his half-sung tones, 'the Englishmen have been talking and now Master Corbett has to be away. Ah well,' he stood to one side and mockingly bowed with an ornate flourish of hands for Corbett to continue down the steps. The clerk turned and looked pityingly at Gareth crouched like a frightened rabbit, there was little he could do and he had to prepare himself. Clutching the dagger beneath his cloak, Corbett glared at Owen and passed him by and, throat dry, his heart thudding with fear, he walked slowly down the steps, half expecting Owen to challenge him, listening intently for the hiss of steel as sword or dagger were pulled from their sheath.

Nothing. Corbett reached the bottom and continued his journey across the castle yard and up the steps into the keep. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against the cold, grey stones as he tried to control the terror which had drenched him in sweat and threatened to turn his bowels and legs to water. He breathed deeply, gulping the air until his heart ceased its beating and the warmth seeped back through his body.

Corbett wanted to stay hidden in the dark gloom but he knew he had to prepare himself, he sighed and made his way slowly up to his chamber, leaving the door ajar while he hurriedly packed saddle-bags, ensuring the purses, warrants and secret memoranda were carefully filed away. He searched the bottom of the largest trunk until he found what he was looking for and lifted it out, his ears straining for any sound on the steps behind him. He heard the soft scuff of a boot and turned praying it would not be Ranulf. He adjusted the saddle blanket on his arm, watching as the door pushed open and Owen slid like the figure of death into the room. He carried a sword and Corbett saw the blood splashes on its edge and tip.

'You look as if you expected me, Englishman?'

'I waited for you, Owen,' Corbett looked down at the sword, 'and how is Gareth?'

'Oh,' Owen smiled brilliantly. 'Gareth is dead. I always thought he only acted the fool. I told the Lord Morgan that many a time but, as you have found out, he has a soft heart, like Maeve his niece!'

'Like Maeve his niece,' Corbett repeated, mocking the words, glad to see the slight flush of anger in Owen's face. 'And you, Master Welshman,' he continued, 'Why are you here, Owen?'

To kill you, Englishman!'

'Why?'

'Firstly, you are English. Secondly, you are a retainer of the English King, and thirdly you are a spy and, finally, because I want to.'

'Why, because Maeve loves me?' Corbett taunted.

Owen anrily threw his head back snorting with laughter and Corbett waited no longer. He let the blanket drop, jerked the clasp of the small, steel-meshed crossbow and the jagged bolt was speeding for Owen's chest even as he lowered his head, catching him just beneath the heart and flinging him back against the half-open door. Owen groaned and looked in surprise at Corbett as he crumpled to the floor. A great dark stain circled the bolt embedded firmly in his chest and a light red froth seeped between his half-open lips.

'Why?' he whispered, 'like this?'

'Like all killers,' Corbett replied, 'you talk too much.'

But Owen could no longer hear, he groaned, coughed blood, his head sagging forward as he quietly died. Corbett crossed and felt Owen's neck, guilty at the warmth he still felt there but relieved there was no beat of the heart. He jerked up, clutching for his dagger as the door was pushed open shoving Owen's corpse onto its face. Maeve stood there, her face as white as snow, mouth open, her bosom heaving to suppress the scream.

'Hugh!' she exclaimed. 'I saw Owen walk across the bailey with his sword drawn, I knew he was coming, I expected…'

'To find Owen alive and me dead? Corbett interrupted.

Maeve nodded, her face still white with terror. She looked down at Owen.

He is dead?'

Corbett nodded. 'He killed Gareth and came over to murder me.'

Why?'

'Why not?' Corbett snapped back and slumped wearily on the bed. 'Maeve,' he added slowly, 'you know why I was sent here. I know your uncle is conspiring against the King. He must stop. Philip of France is only using him. Owen knew I was a spy and he hated me for that as well as for loving you.'

'And do you?' Maeve picked her way over Owen's body and came to stand next to Corbett. 'Oh, Englishman,' she said, 'I stand in my own castle with the corpse of a man who would have championed me against the world, yet I neglect him because of an Englishman, a spy who says he loves me. And do you? Do you really?'

Corbett grasped her white clenched hands in his and drew her to him to kiss her. 'With all my heart,' he muttered fiercely. 'So, leave with me, Maeve. Now, come!' She kissed him gently on the forehead and stroked his cheek, tracing with one finger the furrows around his mouth.

'I cannot,' she whispered, 'but,' she drew herself together briskly, 'you must. Now! No!' She stopped any protest by placing her fingers gently against his mouth. 'You must go, my uncle will kill you for Owen's death. You must not take your horses but leave by sea. I will show you.' She stared round the chamber. 'Get Ranulf!' she ordered. 'Now!'

Corbett rose and was about to speak but saw her determined look and meekly complied.

He found Ranulf ensconced in one of the outhouses, hiding like the rest of the garrison from the fierce afternoon sun. He was wearily attempting to seduce a girl who persisted in talking in Welsh and so refused to accept or acknowledge any of his compliments. Corbett dragged him outside and whispered what had happened and, stifling the young man's exclamation of horror with a vicious rap on the ankles, returned to their chamber in the keep. Corbett was now concerned that the garrison would soon rouse itself from its slumbers, questions would be asked and he had no illusions about what would happen if they were in Neath when Owen's corpse was discovered. Maeve was still in the room.

She had filled and fastened their saddle-bags. Ranulf gave a small moan of fear when he saw Owen's corpse but Maeve told him to be quiet and beckoned for them to follow. They slipped quickly down the steps of the keep, past the main hall where Corbett was alarmed to see some of the retainers beginning to stir. He heard the yelp of the spit dog, a small, crook-backed creature fastened to an iron post and made to press the cogs and wheels which turned the massive spit. Voices shouted, a cat scuttled by, a mouse in its jaws. Maeve led them out of the keep and, following its line, rounded a corner and stopped while Maeve fumbled with the heavy clasp on a wooden, iron-studded door.

Corbett anxiously looked around; the garrison was waking from its afternoon slumber, a girl sang softly, a dog stretched and yawned, impervious to the flies buzzing in a halo about his head. Soon the silence would be broken by a scream or shout as Owen's or Gareth's body was discovered. Maeve fumbled with the catch again and Corbett tried to control his panic, shifting uneasily under the heavy saddle-bags slung across his shoulders, beside him Ranulf almost whimpered with fear. At last, the door creaked open. Maeve whispered for them to be careful as they cautiously went down a row of slippery steps. Pitch-coated torches flared and flickered in their rusty clasps, the wet, slime-ridden walls gleaming in the light.

At the bottom of the steps, Maeve pulled a torch from its holding and led them along a cavernous tunnel, picking her way daintily around puddles of slime and mud. There were other tunnels leading off the main passage and Corbett realised that these led to the dungeons and storerooms of the casde. Maeve led them on, once she turned and demanded total silence with an imperious gesture. Corbett coughed once and immediately saw that the sound echoed along the tunnels like the crash of armoured feet. He stopped, froze like a hunted rabbit but, urged on by Maeve's gestures, followed her deeper into the passageway. It became darker, colder and Corbett wondered where they were going: a stiff, cold breeze caught the flame, teasing and making it dance. A rat slithered across their path squeaking in anger and, above his head, Corbett heard the rustle and flutter of bats. A distant, clapping thunder, like the hoof beats of mailed horsemen just before they charged, made him stop until he realised it was the roar of the sea.

The cave became lighter, damper, they turned a corner and Corbett almost gasped in relief at the sunlight blazing through the cave mouth. They left the tunnel, Corbett looked around, behind him rose the sheer cliffs of Neath while across the sand and shingle, the sea thundered under a clear blue sky. Maeve stopped, paused and pointed along the coastline.

'If you keep to the line of the cliffs you will come to a small fishing village.'

She slipped a ring shaped in the form of a Celtic cross from her finger and handed it to Corbett.

'Leave this with Griffith, a fisherman. Say I gave it to you, he will take you along the coast and across to Bristol'

'Maeve, can you, will you not come?'

'Hugh, you must go, please! This is the only way across, my uncle's men would only catch and hunt you down.'

Corbett held her hand and smiled.

'And Lord Morgan does not control the fishermen of the seas?'

'No,' Maeve replied. 'You must know such rights were granted by your King to the Earl of Richmond. My uncle is negotiating to buy these rights.'

She caught Corbett's startled gaze. 'Why, what is the matter?'

'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Nothing at all.'

'Then be gone,' she kissed him lightly on the lips and turned to go.

'Maeve,' Corbett took his dead wife's ring off his finger. 'Take this, remember me!'

She nodded, grasped the ring and slipped quietly back into the tunnel.