Spy in Chancery

FOURTEEN

Corbett turned, the beach seemed more desolate, the sun had lost some of its golden brilliance. He wanted to stay, to call Maeve back and realised how much he had come to accept her presence, like a man used to a warm fire, misses the heat when he moves away. Above him, hunting gulls screeched their lonely call, Corbett felt the desolation creeping in like mist from a marsh. He rubbed the side of his face and looked back at where Ranulf was digging the sand with the toe of his boot and awoke to the real danger they were in.

'Ranulf,' he called softly. 'We must leave, the tide will come in and trap us against the cliffs.'

Groaning and cursing, Ranulf picked up the fat, heavy saddle-bags and followed. They stayed under the brow of the cliffs, hidden from the eyes of any scout or watcher. Corbett also wanted to avoid disturbing the gulls and cormorants wading in the lazy foam-edged sea: a sudden flurry of birds would only draw attention. They walked on as the summer sun began to sink, a ball of orange streaking the sea with fire. There were no signs of pursuit and Corbett hoped Morgan, probably misled by Maeve, would be scouring the Vale of Neath, sending out search-parties, sealing off the valley mouths in an attempt to trap and kill them. The only real danger was the sea, now noticeably closer as the tide crept in threatening to cut them off. Corbett urged Ranulf on ordering him hoarsely to keep close and walk faster.

They rounded a bluff and Corbett almost shouted with pleasure. The cliffs suddenly swept down into a little cove and on their edge was the small fishing village Maeve had mentioned. Corbett told Ranulf to keep under the lea of the cliffs as they made their approach, Morgan's retainers might be in the village and he did not wish to walk into a trap. Corbett left Ranulf at the foot of the track and quietly made his way up to the brow of the hill, squatting behind some fern he watched the scene before him. The village was a collection of wood and daub huts, each in its own plot protected by a flimsy fence. The thatched roofs swept down almost covering the square open windows, very few of them had doors, the square opening being protected by a thick sheet of canvas or leather. Near the huts were long slats or planks slung between poles of dead ash where the fish were gutted and dried.

A pile of refuse lay beneath and even where Corbett sat the smell of decaying fish and other odours made him feel nauseous. The village was quiet, a few children, almost naked save for a few rags, played in the dirt clay alongside rooting, fat-flanked pigs and stinking dogs, Now and again, a woman would push back a leather doorway and call out to a group of men who sat on a bench before one of the huts, drinking and playing a desultory game of dice. There was no sight of any of Morgan's men. Corbett heaved a deep sigh, stood up and walked into the village.

One of the mongrels dashed towards him, its ugly head forwad, upper lip curled in a snarl of anger, it snapped and lunged with its rat-trap jaw. Corbett lashed out with his boot and the cur turned and ran as one of the men rose, shouting and gesticulating.

Corbett walked towards him. 'Griffith,' he said, 'the lady Maeve told me to ask for help.'

The man, small, thick-set with a balding head and skin the colour and texture of leather, simply stared back, one huge muscular hand stroking the thick, jet-black beard which fell to his chest. He replied in Welsh but Corbett was certain he understood English.

'The lady Maeve sent me,' Corbett repeated, 'She told me to give this to Griffith.' He opened his hand and showed the ring which the man swiftly took.

'I will keep this,' he replied in fluent English. 'I am Griffith: what does the lady Maeve want?'

'To take me across the Severn to Bristol.'

Griffith groaned, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He walked over to the small group of onlookers and turned.

'Come!' Griffith waved his hand.'Come!' he repeated. We go!'

'Now?'

'Why not?'

'The tide is turning,' Corbett protested, 'we cannot leave?'

Griffith looked at him with blue, child-like eyes.

'We may stay if you want,' he replied, 'but we have learnt that Lord Morgan's men are scouring the countryside, we can wait till they visit here if you like.'

Corbett grinned and hoisted the saddle-bags further up his shoulder.

'You are quite correct,' he replied, 'We should leave as soon as possible.' Griffith nodded, brushed past him and led Corbett down the path to where Ranulf was waiting for them. Griffith stopped, looked and beckoned him to join them.

They crossed the wet sand to where the fishing smacks were drawn up, lightly fastened to great stakes driven down into the sand. Griffith unfastened the largest, a long, low-slung craft which was already provisioned for sea, with water casks and two earthenware pots and Corbett realised that in normal times, Griffith and his fellows would wait for the evening tide, to go out and to ply their nets. Moaning and groaning, they pushed the boat to the water's edge, it was a cumbersome task till the waves caught the boat like a man catches a lover, then it became alive, bobbing and turning on the waves eager to break free of the land and make its way out to the open seas. Griffith climbed in, followed by Corbett and Ranulf: the Welshman grabbed the tiller while Corbett and Ranulf were ordered to man the oars and row. Griffith sat grinning like a devil while he ordered the two Englishmen to pull, loudly cursing every time they strained gasping over the oars.

'Come gentlemen,' he mocked, 'you must row for your lives, well away from the land where we can wait for the tide to turn.'

They did until the sun sank in flashes of red into the sea. Only then did Griffith order them to rest and, for a while, they collapsed on the benches breathless, until Griffith roused them with cups of water and slices of dry fish.

They refreshed themselves feeling the boat rise and dip under the swelling tide, Griffith loosened the huge square sail and they drowsed while the boat ploughed through the sea under a clean, clear summer night. Corbett did not care for the night, the breeze or the dark blue sky iced by a summer moon and clear stars. While Ranulf slept, he crouched in his cloak and almost wept at the deep sense of loss at leaving Maeve. He was like that for most of the eight day voyage, too depressed even to feel seasick or choke on the simple fare Griffith provided. Once or twice he tried to draw the Welshman out on the lady Maeve and, when that failed, questioned the man about the Earl of Richmond's negotitations with the Lord Morgan over fishing rights along the South Wales coast but Griffith refused to answer.

They continued on their voyage, which lasted over a week, favoured by warm winds which brought them into the sea roads into Bristol where all three, visibly relaxed to be in English waters, watched the huge cogs, men-of-war and merchantmen leave or arrive at the great port. They disembarked at evening, squeezing between two huge fat-bellied cargo ships. Corbett offered Griffith gold, the Welshman took it without a word of thanks and, dumping the saddle-bags on the cobbled quay, walked back to his boat.

Ranulf was almost beside himself with happiness to be out of Neath. Corbett feit the same relief but it only covered the pain at leaving Maeve and the frustration that such a dangerous journey had achieved so little. They picked up their bundles and made their way along the busy wharfside: past sailors from Portugal, small and swarthy with gold or pearl-encrusted ear-rings, arrogant Hanse merchants in their dark colours and expensive beaver hats. There were Flemings, Rhinelanders, Hai-naulters and Genoese, their different tongues and out-iandish clothes reminded Corbett about the story of the Tower of Babel in the Bible. It was warm and he felt light-headed and unsteady after days in the fishing smack drinking stale water and eating salted fish.

They left the wharves, Corbett pulling Ranulf from staring at the scaffolds, black and three-branched, each bearing the corpse of a river pirate rotting in the summer sun and sentenced to hang there for the turn of seven tides. The clerk and his servant made their way into the town, across the huge cobbled market place where traders were taking down the striped awnings, poles and trestle stalls under the watchful gaze of market officials.

A group of drunks, still singing and revelling, were led off to sober up in the long range of stocks on a platform at the far end of the square. A pedlar, still desperate for trade, hoarsely shouted his wares; pins, needles, ribbons and geegaws. A thief was pelted with offal as he sat near a huge horse trough: dogs and cats fought like warriors over the pile of refuse, carts trundled away, wheels crashing, while their drivers, peasants with their families, slumped exhausted after a day's arduous trading.

Corbett and Ranulf stared at it all, a stark contrast to the strange, outlandish routine of Neath Castle. Ranulf looked hungrily at the taverns, Corbett, wondering what Maeve was doing, testily urged him on. They walked through the market and entered a maze of streets where the huge, half-timbered houses loomed like trees above them. Corbett had already decided where to stay and gave a cry of relief when he left the streets and took the rutted track which led up to the Augustinian monastery.

The clerk vaguely knew the Prior and trusted their acquaintanceship backed by royal letters and warrants would ensure a welcome. He was not disappointed: an ancient, ever-smiling, lay brother ushered them into an austere guest room, served them with stoups of ale and muttered that the Prior would join them as soon as Vespers ended. He then sat opposite them, smiling and nodding, as Corbett and Ranulf drank the ale.

Eventually, as the priory bells boomed out, the Prior bustled in, he embraced Corbett, clasped Ranulf's hand and speedily agreed they could stay. Two small cells were provided, their walls still gleaming from fresh coats of lime whitewash. Both men bathed, sharing a huge tub or vat in the monastery laundry room and, after changing their soaked, salt-encrusted cloaks, went down to the rectory.

Afterwards, Ranulf decided to wander in the monastery grounds catching as he said in crude mimicry of Corbett, the best of the evening breezes and, openly ignoring Corbett's order to see to their belongings, sauntered off. Corbett glared at his retreating back, sighed and made his way down to the chapel. It was dark and cool, the dusk only just kept at bay by huge candelabra whose pure flames sent the shadows moving like ghostly dancers. At the far end of the sanctuary behind the carved chancel screen, the monks were standing in their stalls chanting Compline, their words rolling like distant thunder, echoing the pure notes of the leading cantor.

Corbett squatted in the nave at the base of a huge rounded pillar and let his mind be caught and soothed by the rhythmic singing. He heard the cantor's 'Dixi in excessu Meo, omоtes homines Mendaces'-'I said in my excess all men are liars', Corbett ignored the deep-throated response of the monks. Were all men, he wondered, liars? Were all women? Was Maeve? He felt the bittersweet sense of her loss clutch his heart. Would he see her again? Would she remember him, or let the memories seep away like water in the sand? The monks intoned the paean of praise which marked the end of their office: 'Gloria Patri, Filio et Spiritu Sancto'. He sighed, rose, stretched his cramped muscles and walked through the cloisters to his cell.

There, he took his writing case and penned a swift letter to Maeve which he hoped the Prior would give to some trader, pedlar or fisherman. Corbett sealed it with a blob of red wax, realising it would take weeks, if ever, before it reached Neath.

Then, quickly he scratched down the conclusions he had learnt:

Item – There was a traitor on Edward's council.

Item – The traitor was corresponding with the French and, possibly, traitors in Wales.

Item – This treachery had begun after the Earl of Richmond's disastrous expedition which had lost England the Duchy of Gascony.

Item – Waterton the clerk: his mother was French, his father a rebel against the King: he lived beyond his means, was courted by the French and secretly met Philip IV's spy-master. He was a former clerk in Richmond's household and also seemed to have some connection with Lord Morgan of Neath.

Item – Was Waterton the traitor? Or was it his master, the Earl of Richmond?

Corbett stared into the darkness but only saw Maeve's lovely face and felt a cold loneliness grasp his soul in its iron-hard fist.

Robert Aspale, clerk of the Exchequer, felt equally lonely. He had been sent to France by the King as his agent to oversee matters there. By 'oversee' Edward, of course, had meant 'spy'. The King had been most insistent that Aspale leave, adding that his emissary to South Wales, Hugh Corbett, had failed to return or even communicate with the English court. It should have been Corbett, Aspale thought, here, in this tavern on the outskirts of Amiens, but Edward had said he could wait no longer and so Aspale would travel to Paris posing as a merchant from Hainault. He would enter France through the territory of Edward's ally, Guy Dampierre, Count of Flanders: Aspale was fluent in the different tongues and dialects of the Low Countries and posing as a cloth merchant looking for fresh trade in the great markets of Northern France would prove easy.

Secretly, however, Aspale was to discover if aiiy of Edward's agents and spies in Paris were still alive as well as try to unearth the secret designs of Philip IV. He carried a belt round his slim waist, its pouches filled with gold which could open doors and, more importantly, loosen tongues: courtesans, petty officials, impoverished knights, servants and retainers. They all heard gossip, bits and pieces which collected together like fragments of a mosaic, could form a clear picture of what was happening.

Aspale stared round the crowded tavern, he felt comfortable after his meal of duck cooked in a thick, spicy sauce and washed down with deep gulps of Rhenish. He suddenly noticed a petite girl with hair as red as fire tumbling down to her shoulders. She was wearing a tight green dress which emphasised her jutting breasts and slim waist before falling in a flounce about rounded ankles. She was pale, her skin looked as smooth as alabaster, only her arrogant, heavy-lidded eyes and twisted, pouting mouth marred her beauty. She gazed boldly at Aspale, nodded slightly and, after a few minutes, left the table where she was sitting and moved across to join him. Her French was fluent though Aspale detected the softer accents of Provence.

'Good evening, Monsieur,' she began. 'You have enjoyed your meal?' Aspale gazed back speculatively.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I have enjoyed my meal, but why should that concern you?' The woman shrugged.

'You look content, happy, I like to be with a happy man!'

'I suppose you search them out?'

The girl threw her head back and laughed. She smiled dazzlingly, the merriment in her eyes clearing the angry sulkiness from her face. She leaned across the table.

'My name is Nightshade,' she murmured. 'Or that is what I prefer to call myself, and you?'

'Van Greeling,' Aspale lied good-humourediy. 'And now, Lady Nightshade, a drink?'

The girl nodded and Aspale ordered a fresh jug and two clean cups.

The Englishman was under no illusion about his companion's true calling but he was tired, slightly drunk and totally flattered by this young courtesan's attention. They chatted for a while as the tavern filled and became more noisy, Nightshade refilled his cup, leaned over and whispered in his ear. Aspale saw the unflawed whiteness of face, neck and breast and caught the faint fragrant perfume of her hair. He wanted this woman and, tiring of banal conversation, quickly agreed that they should move upstairs to a private chamber. Nightshade said she had one and rose.

Aspale, half drunk, staggered to his feet and followed her through the crowd, careful lest he slipped in the dirt and refuse which littered the straw-covered floor, his eyes intent on his companion's fluid, rounded hips. They climbed the wooden staircase. Aspale followed Nightshade to a corner chamber, impatient as she fumbled at the iron clasp. The door swung open and Nightshade stepped into the pool of candelight. Drunk as he was, Aspale sensed there was something wrong. Who had lit the candle? It was too well prepared, Nightshade turned, her face drawn, the smile gone, her eyes haughty and sad. The door crashed shut behind him, Aspale scrabbled for his dagger but the assassin had the garrotte around his neck and Aspale's life flickered out like the flame of the candle.