Spy in Chancery

FIVE

The meeting afterwards was brief but sombre, Lancaster neatly summarising the English position: Philip would hold onto Gascony as long as possible and only hand it back on terms fully advantageous to the French. Philip IV also believed he had the upper hand (the rest bitterly agreed with this) and intended to develop a great design or plan against Edward. The most worrying item, however, was Philip's open baiting with his insinuations that he knew there was a traitor at the heart of Edward's council, Fauvel's death and the attack on the Beauvais road only rubbing salt into an open wound. Lancaster's colleagues reacted predictably; Richmond flustered, Eastry coolly observed they had done all they could and should leave while Waterton remained silent, seemingly anxious to be away. At last Lancaster dismissed them but asked Corbett to stay. The Earl closed the chamber door and came swiftly to the point.

'I do not like you, Corbett,' he observed, 'you are secretive, too withdrawn. You have no experience of diplomacy yet my august brother has sent you here and evidently trusts you, more,' Lancaster bitterly added, 'more than he does me!' Corbett just stared back so the Earl continued, 'I suggest you were sent, Master Clerk, to search out this traitor, and may I suggest, you should begin.'

'If I did,' Corbett replied sarcastically. 'Where would you suggest I start?'

'Well,' the Earl tartly observed. 'You could continue to watch us as I, Master Corbett, will continue to watch you!'

'And secondly?'

'Discover who killed Poer and Fauvel!' Corbett would have liked the Earl to inform him how he was supposed to achieve this but the Earl turned his back, a sign that the interview was over.

So now, Corbett, accompanied by an ever-garrulous Ranulf, paced the streets, alleys and runnels of Paris. They had been given some information regarding Poer and Fauvel. About the former it was very sparse: a brief description of the man, the tavern he usually frequented and, after a series of searching, endless questioning and strange glances at his foreign accent, Corbett had finally discovered the tavern Poer had last been seen in. Not that the discovery led to much, the squat, ugly inkeeper had morosely described a man matching Poer's description who had drank and ate there on that particular evening: no, he was alone: no, he left by himself, no one followed him and the only person who had left around the same time was a crippled beggar. Corbett had tried to press the matter further but the fellow just scowled, turned away and spat.

Corbett had then decided to visit the lodgings of the dead Fauvel. He and Ranulf shouldered their way through the crowds who lined the Seine, waiting for the barges bringing produce in from the outlying farms. They crossed one of the great stone bridges spanning the Seine and walked along the alleys which twisted and turned behind the carved stonework of Notre Dame Cathedral. Ranulf pestered Corbett with questions only to lapse into a sullen silence when his master just refused to answer. Eventually, they found the rue Nesle, a narrow alley with a deep swill-edged sewer running down its middle. The houses of black timber and dirty white plaster crowded together and rose three or four storeys high, each storey leaning over the one below. The windows were wooden shutters with the occasional one of horn and, more rarely, painted glass. Corbett found the building he was looking for and knocked on the stained door. There was a clattering inside, the door swung open and an arrogant, middle-aged woman dressed in an overblown fustian pouted at the English clerk.

'Qu'est ce que?'

'Je suis Anglais,' Corbett replied. 'Je cherche…' 'I speak English,' the woman interrupted. 'I am Devon born, my late husband was a wine merchant from Bordeaux. When he died, I turned part of this house into lodgings for English visitors to Paris. I know,' she continued breathlessly, 'you must be here about Master Fauvel, am I right?'

Corbett smiled. 'Of course, Madame, О would appreciate some information about his death.' He thought the woman might invite them in but she leaned against the door and shrugged.

There's little 1 can tell you,' she replied and pointed to the muddy street. 'He was found there, stabbed in the throat!'

'Nothing else?'

'No,' she said and stared first at Corbett and then at Ranulf who was leering at her. The woman blushed at his frank, admiring smile and looked lost for words.

'There was nothing,' she stammered, 'except the coins.'

'What coins?'

The woman pointed down at the dirt. 'There, a few sous, nothing much, just lying in the dirt.'

They had fallen out of his purse?'

'No, out of his hand, almost as if he was going to give them to someone.'

'Whom?'

'I don't know,' came the tart reply, 'perhaps some beggar?'

'Ah,' Corbett let out a long sigh. It was possible, he thought, just possible. He may not know why Fauvel and Poer died or who gave the order but he guessed how and by whom. Corbett turned away muttering his thanks when the woman called out.

'Monsieur, if you need lodgings?' Corbett smiled and shook his head. He would not return to this house but, judging by the look on Ranulf's face, his servant surely would.

Corbett returned to the English envoys certain in his knowledge of what had happened to Poer and Fauvel though this was only a surmise, a calculated guess and, even if it was correct, there was little he could do with the information except wait, so he decided to turn his attention to his companions. Lancaster and Richmond he tended to leave alone, Eastry was a cold fish and spent most of the time in his own small chamber, so he concentrated on Waterton. The latter had proved himself a brilliant clerk, the document he drew up summarising the meeting with Philip reflected an ordered, logical mind. As a courtesy, the English and French had exchanged memoranda of the meeting at the Louvre and Philip IV had been so impressed by the English scribe's work as to send him a purse of money as a gift.

Nonetheless, Waterton puzzled Corbett: he was secretive and withdrawn, using every opportunity to leave his colleagues to wander out in the streets and, unless his services as a scribe were needed, he would not return until the early hours the following morning. Corbett did not regard this as too suspicious for Paris and its fleshpots were an enduring attraction but, as the days passed, Waterton became even more secretive. Corbett also noticed that when French officials or messengers visited the lodgings, they always made a point of asking if Monsieur Waterton was in attendance, sometimes they brought gifts and, on one occasion Corbett thought he saw one of the French slip Waterton a piece of parchment.

Corbett finally asked Ranulf to follow Waterton on one of his nightly expeditions but his servant returned to announce he had been unsuccessful. 'I followed him for a while,' Ranulf wearily commented, 'but then a group of drunkards surrounded me and, when they found out I was English, they began to taunt and jostle me. By the time I was free of them, Waterton was gone.' Corbett his suspicions now aroused, decided to question Waterton.

He chose his moment carefully: one Sunday after Mass he found Waterton alone in his small, windowless chamber. The English scribe was seated at a table busily drafting a letter, surrounded by rolls of parchment, pumice stones, pens and inkhorns. Corbett, apologising for the intrusion, began a desultory conversation about the weather, the recent meeting with the French and the possible date of their return to England. Waterton was polite but cautious, his long narrow face showing nothing except signs of fatigue and tension. As he talked, Corbett noted his companion's very costly dress, the soft leather boots, the pure woollen cloak, hose and doublet with a frothy cambric lace showing at the neck. He wore a silver link chain round his neck and an amethyst ring on the little finger of his left hand. Quite the lady's man, Corbett thought.

'You find me interesting, Master Corbett?' Waterton suddenly asked.

'You are a very skilful clerk,' Corbett replied. 'Yet, so secretive. I know little about you.'

'Why should you?'

Corbett shrugged, 'We are all locked up here together,' he replied. 'We face a common danger, yet you wander around Paris, even after the curfew. It is unsafe.' Waterton picked up a slender, wicked-looking paper knife and began to cut a piece of vellum, drawing carefully along the ruled line and rubbing the parchment with the grey pumice stone until its surface glowed like soft silk. He stopped and looked up.

'What are you implying, Corbett?'

'Nothing. I am implying nothing, I just asked you a question.'

Waterton pursed his lips in annoyance and threw down the pumice stone. 'Look, Corbett,' he snapped. 'My business is my own. You scrutinise me like some village gossip. My father was a well-to-do merchant, hence my relative wealth. My mother was French so I am both fluent in the language and not afraid of walking about a French city. Satisfied?'

Corbett nodded. 'I am sorry,' he replied, not feeling the least contrite. 'I was only asking.'

Waterton scowled at him and returned to scraping the parchment, so Corbett left, bitterly regretting the meeting had achieved nothing except alerting Waterton and putting him on his guard.

Corbett did not share his suspicions with Lancaster who had studiously avoided him since their last meeting, moreover, the Earl had announced a date for their return to England and was busy organising the preparations. The Earl had not forgotten the attack on the Beauvais road and demanded safe conducts and an increased military escort to the coast. Philip, of course, demurred saying Lancaster did not seem to trust him so the Earl was drawn into further complex negotiations, his temper not improved by the sly innuendos and subtle taunting of the French court.

Corbett waited. The French envoys and officials visited the house and, on one such occasion, Corbett definitely saw Waterton receive a piece of parchment. He felt tempted to challenge his colleague on the spot but realised he would look a complete fool if it proved to be nothing. That same evening, however, Corbett wrapped in a heavy soldier's cloak, sword and dagger fastened to his waist, followed Waterton from their lodgings. He pursued him through a veritable maze of streets and alleyways, crossing squares past darkened houses. Corbett moved slowly ensuring he kept his quarry barely in view in case there were others, silent protectors of this night-wandering English clerk.

At last Waterton entered a tavern, Corbett stayed outside, watching the lighted doorway and square shuttered windows. The streets were deserted, except for the occasional drunken beggar or the crashing and clink of chainmail as foot soldiers, the night watch of that quarter, did their rounds. Corbett, hidden in the shadows, watched them pass in a pool of light thrown by the flickering cresset torch carried by their leader. Apart from the faint singing and clatter from the tavern, the silence was oppressive: a faint chilling rain began to fall, Corbett jumped as a rat rising among the rubbish in a corner, squealed and thrashed about as a large cat caught it silently in its killing jaws and hurried off.

The houses on the other side of the street rose, a huge dark mass above him, the night sky was clouding over, the full spring moon suddenly covered by dark rain clouds. Corbett shivered and huddled deeper into his cloak. He concentrated on the sliver of light marking the tavern door, wondering when Waterton would leave. Was he there for a night's roistering? Or was the person he was meeting already with him? Corbett cursed his stupidity, he should have at least tried to resolve that problem when Waterton first entered the tavern, now he dare not approach the door.

Corbett's anxieties were suddenly resolved by the clatter of boots on the cobbled streets. Two hooded figures stepped out of the darkness, the first entered the tavern but the second stopped in the pool of light by the door, pulled back his cowl and looked quickly around. Corbett stiffened with excitement, it was de Craon. The English clerk waited until the two had entered and, after a short while, walked across the street and peered through a crack in the shutter.

The place was ill-lit by oil cressets fixed in the wall. Corbett looked across the dirty room and saw Waterton joined by de Craon and his companion who pulled back her hood to reveal raven black hair and a face which Helen of Troy would have envied; alabaster skin, full red lips and large dark eyes. Despite the poor light, Waterton looked relaxed and pleased to see his visitors, he clasped the girl by the wrists and turning, called in a loud voice for the host to bring wine, the best he had. Corbett had seen enough and turned to go, almost screaming in fright at the dishevelled figure crouching behind him.

'A sou,' the beggar whined, 'For God's sake, a sou!'

Corbett stared at the dirty face and glittering eyes and edged away, he turned and ran like the wind down the dirty, dark street. He paused to listen for any pursuit and, though breathless, ran sobbing on, sometimes losing his way as he pounded up filthy alleys and muck-strewn runnels, slipping and gasping as he ploughed through heaps of dirt or missed his footing and splashed into the shit-strewn sewer which ran down the centre. Once he hid from the watch, on another occasion sent a poor beggar woman sprawling when she came out of the shadows pleading for charity. Corbett drew his dagger and, carrying it before him, ran on till, breathless and shaken, he reached his lodgings.