Spy in Chancery

SIX

The next morning Corbett kept to his own chamber, pushing Ranulf out on some spurious errand. He was exhaused after the terrors of the previous evening. The thought of the silent horrors of those desolate streets and how close he had courted death made him feel nauseous. He dreaded the prospect of a possible return and stayed in his room for the rest of the day trying to make some sense of the chaotic information he had acquired. Waterton was half-French: he was a clerk of the royal council of England and therefore privy to King Edward's secret designs: Waterton acted suspiciously, he was courted by the French, met de Craon at night, cloaked all dealings in secrecy and seemed to have a limitless fund of money. But was he the traitor? Who was the girl? And how did Waterton pass on information to de Craon once he was back in England?

Dusk fell and Corbett got off his pallet bed. He had thought of asking Lancaster for help but he was too suspicious to confide in anyone yet he did make one request of the comptroller of Lancaster's household for certain items. The man looked startled but allowed Corbett to draw the supplies he needed. The clerk made his way down the narrow winding staircase to the hall, a low, black-beamed room with bare, whitewashed walls, a table with benches down each side, a few sconce lights and rusty charcoal braziers. The French, as Lancaster had mused loudly, had hardly bothered to make them welcome. The rooms were filthy and there was a constant wail from the buttery or the kitchen as the cooks discovered some fresh problem.

The evening meal was always a morose affair. Lancaster sat glowering at his food; Richmond, depending on his mood, was either silent or boastfully tedious as he recounted details from the Gascon campaign of 1295 which he had so badly led and so constantly justified. Eastry, after he had said the 'Benedictus', picked at his food, usually rancid beneath its sauce and spices, and kept his own counsel. Waterton ate quickly and made his excuses to leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Tonight was no different, Waterton nodded at Corbett, made the usual obeisance to Lancaster and left.

Corbett followed soon after, taking the same route as the previous evening. He soon caught sight of Waterton's purposeful walk, there was no difficulty for his quarry visited the same tavern, so the clerk hid in the shadows and began his vigil. This time Corbett not only kept the tavern door under scrutiny but occasionally stared around the gathering dusk, but there was nothing to see or hear. Only the light and faint sounds of the tavern broke the silent menace of the shadowed street.

De Craon and his companion eventually arrived, sweeping into the tavern without pausing or a backward glance. Corbett waited for a few seconds and walked quietly across the street and peered through the chink in the shutters. Waterton, de Craon and the lady sat huddled round the same table. Corbett watched but he was tense, his ears straining for any sound, his heart pounding. He wanted to run, flee from the danger he sensed was lurking in the shadows. A faint sound made Corbett turn. The beggar was there on all fours resting on wooden slats looking up at him. 'A sou, sir, just a sou.' Corbett dug into his purse and slowly handed a coin over. Later, Corbett could not truly describe what happened even though the scene became part of his nightmares. The beggar lifted his hand and suddenly iunged at Corbett's chest, showing the dagger he had concealed in his rags. Corbett moved sideways, even as the dagger dented the hauberk he wore beneath his cloak. Corbett struck back, the dagger he carried catching the beggar full in his exposed throat and, eyes wide at the blood spouting onto his chest, the man toppled over into the mud.

Corbett leaned against the tavern wall, trying to control his terrified sobbing and stared around but there was no further danger. He looked down at his would-be assassin and gingerly turned him over with his foot. He ignored the glazed eyes, the jagged slash in the throat and searched the man but there was nothing. Corbett rose and peered through the shutters but Waterton was still close with his visitors, oblivious to the grim, silent tragedy enacted outside.

The following morning Corbett ensured Waterton had returned to their lodgings before seeking an interview with Lancaster. He told the Earl of his suspicions and what had happened the previous evening, Lancaster scratched his still unshaven chin and peered at Corbett.

'How did you expect danger from a beggar?'

'Because someone like him,' Corbett replied, 'killed Poer and Fauvel.'

'How do you know that?'

'Well, the only peson mentioned by the innkeeper near Poer was a beggar.'

'And Fauvel?'

'He was stabbed outside his lodgings. His purse was taken to make it look like a robbery but his hand still held a few coins. I asked myself why a man should die outside his own house with coins in his hands. The only acceptable explanation was that he was about to distribute alms, a fistful of sous. Any man would be vulnerable to an assassin disguised as a beggar asking for alms.'

'But why didn't the beggar kill you the first evening?'

'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'Perhaps I did not give him the opportunity. I fled.' The Earl slumped into a chair and toyed with the gold tassle of his gown.

'And do you think Waterton's the traitor?' he asked.

'Perhaps, but meeting de Craon is not treason, we have no proof, not yet.'

'If we trap him then it must not be in France,' Lancaster replied. 'There will be fresh opportunities.' He looked up and smiled, 'We start for England the day after tomorrow.'

Corbett was pleased to be leaving France. It was too dangerous to stay. He had killed de Craon's professional assassin and the Frenchman would neither forgive nor forget that. As for Waterton, Corbett was half-convinced he was the traitor, responsible for the death of at least two men in Paris and the wholesale destruction of an English ship and its crew. In England Corbett would gather further evidence and send Waterton to the scaffold at the Elms.

On his part, Waterton continued to act as if everything was normal, though he accepted the friendly farewells of the French officials and a further purse of gold from Philip IV. Corbett had no further chance to keep him under scrutiny for he and Ranulf spent the next few days packing their belongings and assisting with the preparations for leaving. Lancaster drove them harshly, his abrupt declaration of departure meant to take the French off their guard and so prevent any planned treachery. Horses and ponies were saddled, trunks, cases and caskets, packed at the dead of night, were hurried down and slung across their backs. Lancaster ensured some documents were sealed in pouches and others burnt. All the arms were distributed, helmets, swords, sallets, daggers and crossbows. Corbett kept the mail shirt he had drawn from the armoury and, after a meeting with Lancaster, obtained the Earl s permission to ride in the centre of the column.

The English embassy left Paris on the appointed day with banners and pennants unfurled, soldiers on the outside, clerks and officials in the centre. Outside Paris just a mile north of the gallows of Montfauзon, a French escort consisting of six knights and forty mounted men-at-arms with a scattering of mercenaries, joined them. Lancaster reluctantly accepted their offer of protection but, overriding the objections of the knights, insisted on allocating the French to their positions. Corbett watched the stooped, lank-haired Earl and privately concluded that, though he did not fully know who the traitor was, he felt Lancaster was not the man.

As it was, the Earl's precautions proved unnecessary, the English envoys had a bruising, nasty but uneventful journey back to the French coast. Corbett was tired, harassed and saddlesore when he reached Calais though relieved to be on the verge of leaving France. Waterton was just as secretive and withdrawn as ever but did nothing to provoke further suspicion. Ranulf was positively morose, Corbett thought it was just his servant's inherent laziness yet Ranulf had more subtle reasons; he had returned to the rue Nesle and the dead Fauvel's lodgings to pay court to that haughty lady and fully enjoyed the consequences.

Madame Areras, as the lady of the house called herself, had been difficult at first, but Ranulf plied her with trifling gifts, sweet words and longing stares. Madame Areras was cold and distant as any lady in the chansons of the troubadours but, slowly, like a flower with its face to the sun, she opened and responded to the forceful young Englishman's wooing. Oh, there had been sighs and pretty pleas even as Ranulf removed her skirts so she stood naked before him in her own chamber. Ranulf had ignored these, patting her bottom, stroking her thighs, breasts and neck until soon they were bouncing and rolling on Madame Areras' great bolster-filled bed: the lady gasping, crying out and groaning with pleasure. Now, Ranulf would never be able to continue the affair and he glared at his taciturn master who was responsible for ending his pleasures.

Corbett ignored his surly servant and concentrated on assisting Lancaster who had laid his plans so carefully. An English cog with an escorting man-of-war was waiting in the port of Calais. Under the Earl's hard stare and biting tongue, the English stumbled aboard, men followed by horses, ponies and baggage. Lancaster did not even bother to say farewell to the French escort but stood before them, spat in the dust at their horses' hooves and, turning, stalked up the gangplank. That same evening, the English ships slipped their moorings and stood out into the Channel, heading for England.

David Talbot, yeoman farmer, squire and heir to certain prosperous lands in Hereford and along the Welsh March, was riding for his life. He dug his spurs deeper into the soft, hot flanks of his horse which leaned forward, head outstretched, its magnificent legs and iron-shod hooves pounding the shale of the rutted track into a fine, white dust. Talbot turned in his saddle and looked quickly back over his shoulder, there would be, must be, pursuit.

Morgan's men were tracking him along these narrow, twisting Welsh valleys for Talbot was a young man who knew too much. King Edward of England had promised him a fortune in gold if he brought information about a rebel leader in Wales who was secretly negotiating with the French. Well, Talbot now had such information as well as the name of the English traitor on Edward's council. He had already sent some details to Edward but this he would bring personally and so receive his merited rewards, if only he escaped the pursuit, if only he had not been found in Morgan's outhouse, examining the way the English spy had sent information to the traitorous Welsh lord.

Talbot had to escape, break out from these treacherous valleys, the hills rising out on either side of him dotted with gorse bushes which might harbour one of Morgan's bowmen. The Welsh knew these valley roads and Talbot had seen the beacons spraying into flame, sending warnings ahead. Talbot turned, his heart lurching when he saw his pursuers, black cloaks fluttering, had also entered the valley in hot pursuit. Talbot leaned across his horse's neck, urging it on with words as well as with scarring, blood-tinged spurs. The narrow valley opening was in sight, Talbot gave a cry of relief and raised himself in the saddle and this made his death instantaneous. The thin, sharp wires strung across the valley mouth sliced through his neck and sent the blood-spurting head bouncing like a ball amongst the loose shale.