Spy in Chancery hc-3 Read online

  A flimsy wherry boat took him up the crowded river past the docks, the steelyard, the galleys and ships pouring wealth into London and the pockets of its merchants: the light craft of the fishermen, petty traders, the scaffolds with the bodies of hanged pirates, their souls gone, fleeing through their blank eyes and yawning mouths. Around them, the living ignored this grim reminder of death in the pursuit of wealth; a spritely barge drifted by, its smart, black woodwork gilded and draped in costly cloths, pennants and banners which proclaimed its importance more loudly than a fanfare of trumpets.

  The boatman guided his craft under the towering arches of London Bridge. The water roared and frothed as if in a giant cauldron, Corbett felt afraid but the boat shot through as straight and true as a well-aimed arrow. The turrets of the Tower loomed up above the trees: the great keep built by William the Norman now ringed and protected by walls, towers, gulleys and moat. A fortress to keep London quiet; the King's treasury and record office but also a place of darkness, terror and silent death. In its dungeons, the King's torturers and executioners searched for the truth or twisted it to suit their own ends.

  Corbett shivered as he climbed up on to the Tower wharf; it was a calm, soft, golden evening but blighted by his mission to this place. He walked across the drawbridge and began his journey through a series of sombre gateways, places built for trapping and killing any attacker. He was stopped at every turn and corner by well-armed, hard-eyed young men who searched his person and examined scrupulously the warrants and letters he carried. One of these became his guide, a shadowy, mailed figure who led Corbett on, his head and face hidden by a steel conical helmet, he. marched in front, hand on sword, his great military cloak billowing out like the wings of a giant bat. They came out of the range of walls, many still covered with scaffolding ropes, as King Edward tried to strengthen the Tower's defences and on to a large grassy area which surrounded the great, soaring Norman keep.

  Here, in the innermost bailey of the Tower, lived the garrison and its dependants; two-storeyed wooden houses for important officials such as the Constable and Steward, huts for workers, as well as stone kitchens, smithies and outhouses. A few children played, hopping around the great war machines, the battering rams, mangonels and catapaults which lay round the bailey, their silent menace and threat of death drowned by the games and cries of the children. Corbett's guide crossed to the keep and, following the line of the wall, walked round its base to a small side door.

  Corbett entered, a deep sense of dread closing at his heart and stomach, he knew he was entering the dungeons and torture chambers of the Tower. He strained to hear the bird song and distant shouts of the children. He wanted to clutch the sound to his chest to comfort him. The door slammed shut behind him; his guide struck tinder-flint, took the flaring sconce torch out of its socket and beckoned Corbett to follow. They went down the wet, mildewed steps, at the bottom was a huge cavern, Corbett shivered when he saw the braziers filled with spent ash, the long, blood-soaked table and the huge pincers and jagged iron bars which lay along the damp, green-slimed walls. Torches flickered throwing shadows across the pools of light, ghosts, Corbett thought, the souls of dead, tortured men. The common law of England forbade torture but, here in the kingdom of the damned, there were no rules, no common law, no regulations except the will of the Prince.

  They walked across the sand-strewn floor and along one of the tunnels which ran from this antechamber of hell down under the base of the keep. The light was poorer here; only the occasional rush-lights: they passed a series of small cells, each with its iron-studded door and the small grille. They turned a corner and, almost as if he was waiting for them, a fat turnkey, dressed in a dirty leather jerkin, leggings and apron, scuttled forward like a spider from the shadows. Corbett's guide mumbled a few words, the man jerked and bobbed, his fat face creasing into an ingratiatory grin. He led them on, stopped at a cell, fumbling as he drove a large key into the lock. The door swung open, Corbett took the sconce torch from the soldier.

  'Wait here,' he said, 'I will see him alone.'

  The door crashed behind him and Corbett held up the torch, the cell was small and dark, the rushes had turned to a soft oozy mess on the floor, the stench was terrible.

  'Well, Corbett. Here to gloat?'

  The clerk raised the torch higher and saw Waterton on a low trestle bed in the far corner. His clothes were now a collection of dirty rags and, as Corbett stepped forward, he saw the man's unshaven face was bruised, the left eye almost closed while his lips were swollen and flecked with blood.

  'I would rise,' Waterton's voice was terse and clipped, 'but the guards are none too gentle and my ankles have swollen.'

  'Stay,' Corbett urged. 'I have not come to gloat but merely to question, perhaps help.'

  'How?'

  'You have been arrested,' Corbett answered, 'because we think, or rather the evidence points to you being the traitor on Edward's council.'

  'Do you think that?'

  'Perhaps, but only you can disprove it.'

  'Again, I ask you. How?'

  Corbett stepped closer and looked at Waterton. The man was sullen, brave but, in the flickering light of the torch, Corbett saw the fear lurking in his eyes.

  'You can explain your wealth?'

  'My father deposited a great deal with Italian bankers, both the Frescobaldi and Bardi families can attest to this.'

  'We will see. And your father?'

  'An opponent of King Henry III.' Waterton bitterly commented, scratching an open sore which seemed to glare out through the shreds of his leggings.

  'Do you share his views?' Corbett quietly asked.

  'No. Traitors swing to a choking death. I do not want that.' Waterton eased himself up, the steel gyves chafing his wrists, the chains clanking in protest.

  'And my mother,' he almost jibed, 'Is it high treason for her to be French?'

  'No,' Corbett snapped, 'But it is high treason to consort with the French.'

  Waterton jerked up the chains screeching and clashing as the man moved in fury.

  'You cannot prove that!'

  'So, you do not deny it.'

  'Yes, I do,' Waterton snarled, 'Don't be such a clever bastard, stop putting words in my mouth. I do not know what you are asking.'

  'In Paris,' Corbett answered, 'In Paris, the French paid special attention to you, singling you out for favours and gifts.'

  Waterton shrugged wearily.

  'I did not know and still do not, why such favours were shown to me.'

  'Or why you should meet de Craon and a young, blond woman, secretly at night in some Parisian tavern'?'

  Even in the dim light of the sconce torch Corbett saw the blood drain from Waterton's gaunt face.

  'I do not know what you mean!'

  'By God you do!' Corbett shouted, 'Are you the traitor, the spy? Did you send Aspale and others to their deaths? An entire ship's crew? For what? To satisfy the itch in your cock!'

  Waterton lunged forward like a dog, teeth bared, his usual saturnine face twisted into a snarl of rage. Corbett stared at him as, held back by the chains, the man clawed furiously at the air.

  'Tell me,' Corbett continued as Waterton slumped sobbing, back on to his filthy bed. 'Tell me the truth. If you are innocent, in hours you'll be free but now you are in deep mire, held fast as any fly in a spider's web.'

  Corbett paused. 'Why did the French favour you? Who was the girl you met with de Craon? Have you been in correspondence with Lord Morgan of Neath?'

  Waterton breathed deeply.

  'My father was a rebel against the crown,' he began slowly. 'But I am not. My mother was French but I am not. My wealth is my own. My allegiance is to Edward of England. I do not know why de Craon favoured me. I was the clerk responsible for sending the King's letters to him but I would no more correspond secretly with that treacherous Welshman than you!'

  'And the young woman in Paris?'

  'That, Corbett, is my affair. My only secret. For God's sake!' Watert
on shouted, 'If every man who secretly met a woman was charged with being a traitor, then we are all dead men.'

  'Tell me her name!'

  'I will not!'

  Corbett shrugged and, turning, knocked on the cell door.

  'Corbett!'

  Hugh turned and flinched at the hate in Waterton's eyes.

  'Listen, Corbett,' he rasped, 'If I told you, you would not believe me, not you. You're a lonely man, Corbett, a righteous man with a sharp brain and a dead soul. You may have loved once but now, you have forgotten even how to. So. why should О tell you? I hate you, your cold emptiness, from the very bowels of Hell, Satan and all his demons will surely come to fill it!'

  Corbett turned and banged on the door. He wanted to get out, he had come to make Waterton face the truth and now hated having to confront it himself.

  SIXTEEN

  Six days later, after a quiet and uneventful journey, Gorbett and the French envoys landed at Boulogne-su-Mer. Corbett was accompanied by an ever-grumbling Ranulf, angry at being snatched away from the pleasures and joys of London's low life. Another Englishman accompanied them, William Hervey, a small, mouse-like man, a scribe by profession and timid by nature. He was used to working in the Court of Common Pleas and was totally overawed by the company in which he now travelled. The French left them alone. De Craon and Corbett exchanged pleasantries but, in the main, the relationship, if one could call it that, was one of mutual distrust. Actually, Corbett felt safer with the French than he had since his return from Wales: they had guaranteed the safety and security of his person; awesome oaths sworn over sacred relics and the Bible that he would be allowed a safe return to the English court.

  Lancaster had also given him a stream of verbal instructions; what to say, what not to say, what to offer, what not to offer, when to leave and when to stay. Corbett ignored most of them. He realised that the Earl was telling him to seek the best offer he could get and accept it. It was openly agreed at the English court that Philip, now faced with war in Flanders brought about by English agents, could not contemplate similar action in Gascony if Edward took his army there.

  Consequently, the French king would probably agree to return Gascony, but on terms beneficial to himself. In more leisurely moments Corbett had studied some of the memoranda and documents written by Philip IV's clever lawyers, particularly the writer, Pierre Dubois, who saw Philip as a new Charlemagne in Europe. Dubois recommended that Philip extend his power through a series of judicious marriage alliances. The French King seemed to agree with this, marrying his three sons to members of the powerful French nobility in the hope of annexing the independent Duchy of Burgundy.

  On his journey to Dover and during the peaceful sea voyage Corbett had reached the conclusion that Philip would offer such a treaty to Edward. The English King's son was now six or seven years old and already there were rumours that Edward was looking for a bride amongst the powerful dukes in the Low Countries. Someone he could bring into his own circle of allies against Philip.

  Philip would counter this: his wife, Joan of Navarre, had recently given birth to a young princess named Isabella. Corbett wondered if Philip intended to return Gascony on condition that Edward marry his heir to the young Princess Isabella? The more the clerk thought about such a plan, the more feasible it became and he only hoped that he would negotiate as skilfully as possible and not incur the anger of his ever irrational royal master.

  Corbett had other instuctions. He was to continue to seek out the traitor on Edward's council. He considered the information he had garnered and believed Lancaster and the King would not disagree with it. Although Waterton was guilty of suspicious activities, he was not the traitor they were hunting. Corbett turned the matter over and over again in his mind, half-listening to Ranulf's grumbles about the French, the lack of food and the hostile company.

  Corbett still missed Maeve, still loved her yet he felt a quiet surge of excitement over his present task; the traitor, whoever he or she might be, must surely become over confident? In all his previous investigations Corbett had discovered it was at such a moment that the culprit could be detected and brought to justice. As the envoys left Boulogne and began the long journey to Paris, Corbett felt that stage was fast approaching.

  The journey was pleasant enough. A glorious summer and a golden sun had turned the barren Norman countryside into a vision of loveliness. Elm, sycamore, oak trees, majestic in their summer growth, the orchards and cornfields, full and ripe for the reaping. The prospect of a good harvest and an easy winter had relaxed the attitudes of the usually hostile peasants and taciturn manor lords, and they were shown hospitality at every place they stopped. Of course, Corbett attempted to open conversation with the French but he sensed de Craon's deep distrust of him which was reflected in the eyes of the rest of the French escort, even the elderly Count Louis of Evreux, whenever Corbett spoke they were watchful, suspicious, almost respectful as if they feared Corbett as animals might a skilled hunter.

  Eight days after they had left Boulogne, they entered Paris, now a seething mass of people as the late summer fairs began. The streets were thronged with beggars, tinkers, pedlars, men and women of various nationalities, merchants who had drifted south from the Rhine or Low Countries in the hope of selling and buying goods. Even the execution ground, Montfaucon, was deserted despite the bodies swinging from a makeshift scaffold and the poor wretches locked in the stocks. Corbett and the French envoys crossed the River Seine, went through a maze of winding streets, past Notre Dame Cathedral and into the Louvre Palace.

  Corbett paid his respects to Evreux and de Craon and, after receiving little thanks, was led off by a chamberlain, Ranulf and Hervey in his wake, to their quarters, three small garrets at the top of the palace. Corbett swore they were under the very eaves. Ranulf squeaked in protest and urged Corbett to remonstrate with Philip's chamberlain but the clerk, on reflection, thought differently. He was an envoy, but not in the usual sense, and the French would only delight in a fresh opportunity of provoking him. They were masters of protocol and courtly etiquette and Corbett sensed that he had been given this dingy garret and tawdry furniture in the hope of inciting him to some surprising outburst.

  Moreover, the rooms were on one floor and Corbett knew he could come and go as he wished and be able to give the slip to the usual spies de Craon would feel obliged to send his way. Corbett instructed Ranulf and Hervey that on no account were they to leave the royal palace and to report to him immediately any suspicious occurrences or happenings. Hervey looked relieved at this but Ranulf sulked for hours when he realised he had been refused permission to run wild in the fleshpots of the city. The brothels and bordellos of Paris were famous for their whores, Ranulf had tasted some of these delights on his last visit and was disappointed to learn he would not be able to renew old acquaintances.

  They settled down to the court routine, Corbett realising that the French would only receive him in an official audience when the time was ripe. They drew food from the buttery and kitchens, sometimes dining in the great hall beneath the silken canopies and arras bearing the White Cross of Lorraine or the Silver Fleur de Lis of France. Corbett constantly tried to learn what was going on; items of gossip, pieces of information, snatches of news which could be sewn together to form a mental tapestry.

  He soon accepted this would be harder than he thought, de Craon or perhaps someone even higher, had issued the strictest instructions; the English envoys were to be treated kindly, afforded some hospitality but to be given no concessions and certainly not any gossip. Corbett found his witticisms and attempts at intelligent conversation rapidly brought to nothing, while even Ranulf's quick and easy tongue, subtle flatteries and droll humour made little headway with the serving girls who worked in the palace.

  They also knew they were observed, which reduced Hervey to such constant agitation and nervous tension that Corbett tired of trying to allay his fears. Despite the colour, the pageantry, the glorious gaudy costumes of the household knights and
the different ranks of servants, there was a sense of malice, of quiet menace in the palace. Corbett knew this atmosphere was not caused by de Craon but came direct from Philip, a king who prided himself on knowing every turn, every occurrence in his realm.

  The days dragged on. Corbett spent most of his time either listening to the choirs in the royal chapel or browsing greedily amongst the rare books and manuscripts of the palace library. King Philip prided himself on being a man of culture and Corbett was delighted to find that royal French gold had purchased works of Aristotle from the Islamic writers of Spain and North Africa. His pleasure was marred by having to keep an ever-vigilant eye on Ranulf whose restless roaming about the palace could pose a threat to their security. Corbett knew that they were safe as long as they obeyed the strict protocol of the envoys. If that was broken, the French would rightly claim that they had usurped their rights and were subject to any punishment the French King thought fit.

  One day, about a week after their arrival, Ranulf returned breathlessly to their garret to announce that he had discovered other English people in the palace. At first, Corbett thought he was mad, dismissing his words as mere fantasies, the result of too much wine or enforced loneliness. Yet, as Ranulf described what he had seen, Corbett sensed his servant was speaking the truth and had probably met some of the hostages Philip had demanded after the English army surrendered in Gascony. He decided that perhaps these were worth a visit and Ranulf gladly took him back. They were all in one of the small herb gardens which lay at the back of the palace, a fairly unprepossessing group of elderly men, women and a few children.

  Corbett remembered the letters he had brought and was pleased to hear they had received them. He chatted for a while, giving them news of England and the royal court, trying to do his best to allay their anxieties and reassure them that their homesickness would soon be at an end. He met Tuberville's sons, two sturdy boys of eleven and thirteen who resembled their father as closely as peas out of a pod. Corbett found their youthful enthusiasm and constant questions about their father and home as a welcome relief to the gloom and despondency of the other hostages. They spoke of the letters they had received and the eldest, Jocelyn, openly confessed that sometimes he did not know what his father was writing about. Corbett laughed, promising to tell their father to write in a more clear and lucid fashion.