Spy in Chancery hc-3 Read online

  Lancaster's eyes slid back to the quiet, reserved clerk. He did not like Corbett, too guarded, the earl thought, too sure of himself. Corbett saw the flicker of dislike in Lancaster's eyes and stifled further questions. The English clerk did not agree with the earl's conclusion, the traitor may well be amongst them but wild, vague accusations would make everyone guarded, cautious and so make discovery of the truth all the more difficult. The earl himself realised this.

  'I think,' he continued, 'the traitor is with us, but when we arrive in Paris, we will contact Simon Fauvel, one of the King's agents there. He may have heard some chatter or gossip which could shed some light on these mysteries.'

  The group then returned to the now organised column and recommenced its slow journey into the outer suburbs of Paris. Corbett took his place, telling an anxious Ranulf that he was well, safe and unwounded and would appreciate it if his servant shut his mouth and left him alone. Ranulf drew back, muttering angrily while Corbett mulled over the attack. He had heard one of the French escort shout that those assailants who had been killed could not be identified, they carried no documents nor wore any emblem or device. Corbett expected that: the attack was planned but what really worried him was why the brunt of the attack seemed to be aimed at him. Why, he wondered, did someone believe he was so dangerous that he should be singled out for such a dangerous attack? Who in England had passed such information to the French? Corbett pulled his cloak around him, he felt cold, more from fear than the chill, biting wind.

  The fierce biting wind made the horsemen huddle closer to their mounts as they tried to get protection against the cold gusts whistling through the ruined windows and crumbling walls of the ancient church. Their leader, a Breton mercenary, cursed and stamped his feet on the ground in an attempt to recover some warmth. He was also angry at the failure of his attack and did not relish the coming meeting with Monsieur de Craon, Philip IV's chief clerk and master spy, who was now picking his way across the ruins to meet him. To the Breton's superstitious mind the French clerk, small and dark, in his thick black woollen cloak seemed a fiend out of hell. The Breton was usually afraid of no man but Monsier de Craon exuded power as a woman did perfume and did not understand failure or opposition.

  De Craon pulled back the cowl of his cloak and went close up to the Breton totally ignoring the mercenary's vast bulk towering above him.

  'You launched the attack?' the clerk's voice was soft and polite.

  'Yes, we did.'

  'And you killed the man?'

  The Breton shook his head. 'No, we did not,' he replied and stepped back at the sudden look of hatred in de Craon's eyes. De Craon seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper. He spun on his heel and walked a few paces away before coming back, the only sign of his anger being the constant biting of his lower lip. He brought six bags of gold from beneath his robe.

  'These,' he rasped, 'would have been yours if the man had been killed.' De Craon took one of the bags between his finger and thumb, stared coolly at the Breton and dropped the bag at the soldier's feet. 'But you failed and so you only get one.' De Craon strode away, beneath his robe he clenched the bags of gold coins tightly so they bit into his hands but the Frenchman ignored the pain. He had wanted Corbett dead. He hated the man for being what he was as well as what he might do. De Craon stopped for a while and stared around the ruined chancel of the church he had met the assassins in, then he smiled, there would be other occasions to settle past debts with Monsieur Corbett.

  FOUR

  In Paris, Simon Fauvel, Edward I's agent to the French Court, was on his knees in a small church in the student quarter of the left bank of the Seine. Fauvel liked the tiny, close, musty church; its stark, bare walls and simple lines gave it an aura of purity, a place of prayer untouched by the glitter and gaudy colours of the outside world. Fauvel was not so much a religious man but a cynic tired of the mystery and intrigue which swirled through his normal life; the pretence, the deception, the clever words and phrases which disguised greed, power and the lust to rule. Fauvel knew all about these; as one of King Edward's agents at the French court, he kept the English king informed of developments, attempting to sift the kernel of truth from the thick dross of lies.

  'A Peritus' or lawyer on Gascon affairs, Fauvel's task was to argue with French officials and lawyers ever eager to extend Philip's rights over the duchy. Now, Fauvel wearily thought, Philip IV had the duchy and seemed reluctant to give it back. Of course, Fauvel had protested but the French had just shrugged and murmured that such problems could not be solved in a day.

  Fauvel tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the reason for visiting the church. It was the anniversary of his wife's death and, every year, he always set aside an hour to pray for her soul, the same date, the same hour when her breath had stopped rattling in her throat and she died of the fever, alone, except for a hedge priest, for Fauvel had been absent on the King's business in France. Fauvel had never really forgiven himself and vowed that on the anniversary of the date and time of her death as well as his neglect of her, God would see him on his knees in prayer. Fauvel scratched his balding head, grimacing at the cold seeping through his knees and thighs from the icy paving stones and tried to ignore the distraction of what he had so recently discovered. There was a traitor in England, the French were well informed about Edward's councils, as they were about their own designs and plots. Fauvel had chosen not to write to Edward about his anxieties but hoped the English embassy under King Edward's brother, the Earl of Lancaster, would soon reach Paris. Fauvel sighed.

  He could not pray and soon the bells of Notre Dame would be tolling Vespers, a time of public worship as well as the signal for the beginning of the curfew. Fauvel got up, stretched and tried to rub the cold out of his thighs. Paris was dangerous at night and he was already anxious about Nicholas Poer, the spy from the English chancery whose regular meetings with him had so abruptly ceased. Was Poer alive or dead? Fauvel wondered. He shrugged to himself, such problems would have to wait until Lancaster arrived.

  Fauvel pulled the hood close about his face, eyed the deserted, eerie church and stepped into the narrow, dark street. There were still a few people about but he hurried along, eager to reach his lodgings. A beggar rushed out of the shadows, whining for alms, Fauvel pushed him away but the fellow followed, tugging at his cloak and screeching for a sou. Fauvel turned cursing but the beggar persisted, following him like a tormented demon, loudly protesting and shouting abuse. At last, just outside his lodgings, Fauvel exasperated, stopped, turned and dug into his purse.

  'Take these and be off!' The beggar grasped Fauvel's wrist, its warmth and strength surprised the cautious English agent, he should have known better but it was too late for as he began to slip backwards, the beggar suddenly lunged forward and drove the dagger, concealed in his other hand, straight into Fauvel's throat.

  Corbett shouldered his way through the busy, gaudy-smelling throng. He had been in Paris seven days and was trying to forget his own problems by visiting the self-proclaimed capital of Europe. Paris stretched from the Grands Boulevards on the right bank of the Seine to the Luxembourg Gardens on the left, the city had grown round the castles and manor houses of the King and was spreading out to include the great homes of the merchant princes as well as the wood and daub houses of the artisans.

  The city of Paris was centred on the оle de la Citй in the Seine on which stood the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Hфtel Dieu and the Royal Palace of the Louvre. Paris was ruled by its kings but dominated by its guilds: each trade had its own quarter; the apothecaries in the city: the literary trades, parchment sellers, scribes, illuminators, booksellers in the Latin quarter on the left bank of the Seine: money-changers, Jews, Lombards and goldsmiths on the Grand Port. As he neared the Grand Chвtelet, Corbett noted that the trades, forbidden to tout their wares, displayed huge signs, a giant glove, pestle or hat.

  Paris was a prosperous city with busy markets: bread in the Place Maribet: meat in the Grand Chвtelet: St
. Germain for sausages: flowers and geegaws on the Petit Port. Corbett wandered down the great boulevard which would allow two or three carts abreast to the Great Orberie or herb market on the quayside opposite the оle de la Citй. Corbett loved the sweet crushed smell of herbs which reminded him of his native west Sussex and, though a shy man, he also loved crowds and the sharp, devious manner of the merchants when doing business. Corbett wandered amongst the stalls trying to detect which butchers bled out the meat or used the blood to freshen the gills of old, stale fish. He was fascinated by deception, the way things could be made to appear in sharp contrast with the way they really were.

  Politics were no different, Corbett had been surprised by what had happened since his arrival in Paris and he needed time to think, reflect and analyse. The English envoys had been given a large manor house near the main Paris bridge across the Seine, a large rambling affair with crenellated walls, spiked towers and a huge courtyard. The English soon made themselves at home, men like Blaskett had their virtues for their love of power meant order was soon imposed, supplies, bought, kitchens cleaned and ready for use. On the third day of their arrival in Paris, the principal English envoys were invited to meet King Philip and his council in the Louvre Palace on the оle de la Citй. They had assembled in its large hall, decked with blazing blood-red banners, exquisite drapes and the blue and gold colours of the royal household.

  Fresh rushes sprinkled with spring flowers had been strewn on the floor and a host of great iron candelabra burning beeswax candles were placed around the heavy, oaken table on the dais at the far end of the hall. Lancaster, Corbett and the other English envoys sat at one side of this and rose suddenly when trumpets brayed and King Philip with his entourage swept into the room. Corbett was immediately struck by the majesty of the French king dressed from head to toe in a blue velvet gown trimmed with snow-white costly ermine, the gown being decorated with silver fleur-de-lis and gathered close by a thick gold belt. The King's blond hair, bound by a silver coronet, fell down to his shoulders to frame a white face, narrow eyes, a beak of a nose and thin bloodless lips.

  Philip IV, exuding majesty in his every gesture, had nodded at Lancaster before sitting down in a great oaken chair at the head of the table and, with a weary wave of a purple-gloved hand, gestured to the English envoys and members of his own entourage to take their seats. Corbett did, almost standing up again in surprise when he noticed the small, dark figure beside the French king; the man was glaring at him, not bothering to hide the malice glistening in his eyes. Corbett looked again in disbelief but there was no mistaking Amaury de Craon, special envoy of the French crown. Corbett had encountered him in Scotland some years earlier and, judging by the malice in de Craon's stare, the French clerk had not forgiven nor forgotten the way Corbett had outwitted him. Corbett glanced away, gathered his thoughts and hid his surprise beneath an inscrutable, diplomatic poise.

  Philip IV ensured his scribes were seated behind him at a small table and began the usual courtly courtesies: Introductions and anxious enquiries about the health of his 'dear cousin, Edward of England.' Corbett looked sideways at Lancaster who found this all too much, nearly choking on his fury but the French king sitting rigid in his chair, his eyes staring at a point above the English envoys' heads, continued in a dry monotone. Philip IV, not even bothering to pause so Lancaster could answer, starkly presented the Gascon's situation as he saw it: he was overlord of the duchy, Edward may be king of England but, as Duke of Gascony, he was the French king's feudal subject: Edward's Gascon lords had attacked French property, the feudal bond was broken by Edward, therefore the duchy was forfeit to his overlord the French king. At this Lancaster could contain his anger no further.

  'Your Grace,' he rudely interrupted. 'You may have good cause to seize the duchy but, by what right do you hold it?'

  'Oh, that is quite simple,' de Craon silkily interjected, 'French troops are all over the duchy, so,' he spread his hands in an expansive gesture, 'we wait with bated breath for your reply.'

  The English envoys had already discussed the strategies and tactics they should employ when they met the French and Lancaster, overcoming his dislike of Corbett, had asked him to intervene when he thought fit. Corbett now believed it was opportune.

  'Your Grace,' he replied quickly before Lancaster made further rash remarks, 'does that mean that our two countries are at war? In which case,' he extended his hand in mimicry of de Craon, 'our meeting is over and we beg to withdraw.'

  'Monsieur Corbett,' the French king's face flickered in a smile, 'you have it wrong, de Craon was only describing the situation as it is, rather than what it should be.' The English eagerly seized on the phrase 'should be' and a long protracted discussion took place on future negotiations. Corbett sat, detached and objective, aware that both de Craon and his master, Philip IV, were quietly studying him. The phrases 'allodial', 'fief, 'feudal rights and suzerainty' were bantered like feathers round the room and Corbett believed the French intended to hold on to the duchy for as long as possible. Yet, both he and Lancaster, who communicated with him in hushed whispers, also came to the conclusion that the French were not just playing for time, their seizure of Gascony being only part of a greater game.

  The arguments swept back and forth across the table until both sides agreed to continue the debate at some future date. However, there were other points to raise and Lancaster came rudely to the point.

  'Your Grace,' he said brusquely, 'The English agent in Paris, Simon Fauvel, has disappeared.'

  'Not disappeared,' de Craon sardonically observed. 'Monsieur Fauvel, I regret to say, is dead. He was killed, probably by one of the beggar bands who roam the streets.' His words shocked the English into angry murmurs of protest.

  'This is unacceptable!' Lancaster retorted. 'We are' attacked outside Paris, the English king's agent is murdered in the city! Is the French king's writ so worthless that the sanctity of protected envoys can be so easily violated?'

  'Monsieur Lancaster!' Philip exclaimed, 'Look at the facts, our envoys have been attacked in England: the assault outside Paris was most regrettable and you have our apologies and our assurances that the City Provost is searching high and low for the culprits. As for Monsieur Fauvel,' he added crisply, it would appear that your agent ignored our advice. He was out alone, at night, and contrary to our ordinances, walking the streets after curfew. Of course we regret these incidents, but there are only two, are there not?' Lancaster saw the trap and neatly avoided it. Philip was baiting them, hoping they would make some reference to the attack on the Saint Christopher and the death of Nicholas Poer. Corbett knew that if Lancaster raised these issues, he would have to explain the secret work both the Saint Christopher and Poer were involved in. Philip IV, however, was unwilling to leave the matter.

  'Your master, our sweet cousin,' he commented, 'is going through unsettled times. In his letters to me he makes veiled references to treason and traitors around him.' Philip spread his hands slowly. 'But what can we do?' The English envoys, Corbett included, were too surprised to answer such an insult, so Lancaster rose, bowed and beckoned at his colleagues to withdraw.

  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 d
o 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.