Spy in Chancery hc-3 Read online

  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.

  SEVEN

  Corbett waited outside the chamber at the far end of one of the whitewashed corridors which ran off from the great hall of Westminster. Not for the first time he turned and looked up at the timbered ceiling or wandered across to push open a wooden shutter and stare out at the royal garden beginning to bloom under a warm spring sun. Corbett had landed at Dover two weeks ago and travelled back to London, only to succumb to a fever which made his limbs and head ache. Lancaster had told him to rest in his own house while he and the others reported back to the King.

  Corbett had spent days being cared for by an overzealous Ranulf, who was always anxious when his master was ill, for, if he died, he would lose his livelihood. A doctor had been summoned, who wanted to bleed him so, as he put it, the fever would be drained and the evil humours quelled. When Corbett threatened to cut his throat, the doctor quickly changed his remedies, placing a jade stone on the English clerk's stomach while feeding him a herbal concoction of wild parsley, fennel, ginger and cinnamon, all pounded to pulp and served in piping hot wine. Corbett slept and sweated, his dreams disturbed by fevers and nightmares in which he relived the horror of slaying the beggar assassin in Paris.

  At last he woke, weak but cool, the fever gone. The physcian returned, genuinely amazed that his remedies had worked, the fellow gabbled instructions at Ranulf, pocketed his sizeable fee and promptly left just in case his patient took a sudden turn for the worse. Corbett soon regained his strength and, a few days later, received a royal writ ordering his presence at Westminster. Corbett wondered how long he would have to wait for by the sounds coming from the chamber Edward was working himself into one of his royal rages. At last the door was flung open and the King himself gestured at Corbett to enter. Inside, a nervous clerk was seated at a table trying to conceal his anxiety by carefully studying what he had written while Lancaster lounged in a chair, slightly forward so as to favour his misshapen shoulder.

  Both the King and his brother were dressed simply in dark gowns, surcoats and mantles; jewelled brooches, clasps and heavy studded rings their only concession to fashion. The room itself looked more like a tent or a military camp; two dirty stained tapestries hung slightly askew on the wall, an iron sconce was twisted downwards and the none-too-clean rushes had been kicked into heaps. By Lancaster's look of forced patience and the mottled spots high on the King's cheeks, Corbett guessed there had been a fierce altercation between the royal brothers.

  The King dismissed the scribe, glared at Corbett and waved him to a bench alongside the wall. 'Sit, sit, Master Corbett,' he snarled. 'I don't suppose you have better news for me. The journey to France was a farce, Philip outmanoeuvred, insulted and ignored you. You learnt nothing and you acquired nothing except insults. God knows, you left like whipped curs, your tails tucked beneath your legs!'

  'Your Grace,' Corbett replied slowly, 'What did you expect? Excuse my bluntness but I doubt if we will catch the spy in France. He is here in your council.' Edward glowered at Corbett, but the clerk pressed on.

  'First,' he continued, ticking the points off on his finger, 'We did kill the murderer of Fauvel and probably Poer: secondly, we do know that Waterton is under suspicion,' Corbett nodded to Lancaster, 'I gave the Ear! a full report during our voyage back. Finally, we do know that Philip has some grand design and the seizure of Gascony is only a part of it.' The King sat down wearily on a stool, head in his hands.

  'I am sorry,' he muttered looking up. 'You, Corbett, and my brother, Lancaster, are the only ones I trust.' He tossed a greasy parchment at Corbett. 'A report from David Talbot, squire and royal retainer. It was the last letter he sent. Five days ago his headless body was found at the bottom of a Welsh valley, another casualty inflicted by Philip.' Corbett slowly read the letter from Talbot, written in a forced, clumsy style.

  'David Talbot, squire, to his Grace, Edward, King of England, health and greetings. Know you that I have been most busy in your affairs in Wales in the county of Glamorgan. Know you that I have kept the castle and retainers of the Lord Morgan under close scrutiny and that the same Lord Morgan, despite being recently received into the King's peace, conspires with the King's enemies abroad. I have seen French ships off the coast and members of their crews rowed ashore and taken to the Lord Morgan's castle. I have carried out my own searches and found that the Lord Morgan has also received messengers from dissatisfied lords in Scotland. I believe, your Grace, that Lord Morgan is still hostile to your interests and is allied to your enemies both at home and abroad. The moving force behind, all this is, as you know, Philip of France: he intends to destroy your Grace's patrimony in France and raise Scotland, Wales and Ireland against you. Know you that I have seen the same French ships land arms and that the Lord Morgan has new found wealth. I beg, your Grace, to intervene here otherwise all your interests will be lost. God save you. Written at Neath, March 1296.'

  Corbett looked at Ed
ward. 'Who is this Morgan?'

  'A Welsh lord, recently at war with the Earl of Gloucester, he surrendered and was accepted into my peace.' Corbett looked at Edward's strained face. 'Then why not arrest him, he is a traitor?'

  'Hearsay,' Edward testily replied. 'No real evidence except Talbot's letters. Talbot himself is now dead.' Lancaster rose and shuffled to the open window.

  'Look,' the Earl said quietly, 'All these are symptoms. Poer, Fauvel, Talbot and French involvement in Wales are only symptoms of a deeper disease, treachery. Find the traitor, root him out and all the rest dies.' There was silence as Edward stared at his brother.

  'Waterton,' the King said abruptly. 'Waterton must be the spy, the traitor, his mother was French, he has more wealth than he should have even if his father was a rich merchant. There is more, Waterton's father was a supporter of de Montfort.'

  Corbett straightened up and looked sharply at the King. In 1265 de Montfort, the great rebel against Henry III, the King's father, had finally been destroyed at the Battle of Evesham and a savage civil war was brought to a close. London and its merchants had been fervent supporters of de Montfort. Hundreds of them died or had been fined for their support. Old wounds still rankled deeply. Corbett knew that only too well, years earlier Edward had used him to seek out and destroy supporters of the dead de Montfort.

  'Your Grace,' Corbett urged, 'we have enough evidence now, arrest Waterton and stop his treason.'

  'Nicely said,' Edward replied, 'But evidence – do you need it?'

  'No.'

  'But what if you are wrong? What happens if Waterton is only a pawn? After all, he was a member of Richmond's household, it was the Earl who recommended him to my service and it was the Earl who lost my army in Gascony.'

  'Do you suspect the Earl of Richmond?' Corbett asked.

  'He is French, he has land there and God knows how he lost my army?'

  Edward rose and paced the room. The French,' the King continued, 'launched their attack on Gascony in 1293. In the autumn of 1294, Brittany landed my army at La Reole and garrisoned it. In the spring of 1295, the French laid siege to the town and, within a fortnight, a fortnight! Brittany had surrendered both town and army.'

  'Your Grace thinks that Brittany may be the traitor?' Corbett asked.

  'Possible, it is possible.' Edward replied.

  'If the traitor is here in Westminster,' Lancaster broke in, 'how do they communicate with the French? Philip has no envoys in London, all ports and ships are searched. None of our spies in the French ports have noted any exchange of letters.'

  Through Wales or Scotland?' Corbett asked hopefully.

  'No,' the King replied, The information is sent too quickly. Philip seems to know what I have decided within days. No,' the King concluded, The information is sent from here.'

  'Are there any letters sent to France?' Corbett asked.

  'Official letters to Philip,' Edward replied, 'as well as letters to the hostages.'

  'Hostages?'

  'Yes, when Brittany surrendered, several of the knights could only ransom themselves by giving hostages to the French, in most cases, children. The knights write regularly to these.'

  'Do any of the knights serve on the council or know any of its business?'

  'No,' the King replied. 'Only Tuberville, Thomas de Tuberville. A baron from Gloucestershire. He serves as a knight of the chamber, he is Captain of the Guard.'

  'Could he listen in?'

  'No,' Edward answered, 'No one can listen through oaken doors and thick stone walls. Moreover, Tuberville hates the French, his letters attest to that.'

  'How does your Grace know?'

  'Like the rest, copies of his letters are kept in the Chancery files.'

  'Talk,' Lancaster abruptly interrupted, 'All talk, everything points to Richmond. We would do well to put him, Waterton, Tuberville, anyone who has anything to do with him into prison.'

  Edward rose and paced the room. 'No,' he said, 'Not yet.' He pointed at Corbett, 'You will pursue what we know. You will first visit Lord Morgan in Wales and ask him some pertinent questions.' Corbett's heart sank but one look at the cold, tired eyes of the King warned him that any objections would be ruthlessly dealt with.

  A day later Corbett and Ranulf were preparing for the journey. Ranulf objected but Corbett sternly told him to carry out his orders for clothes, weapons, provisions and horses would be needed. Corbett himself wandered out into the streets, wanting to think, to reflect on his recent interview with the King. He strolied up into Cheapside, the broad highway sweeping from east to west was the main business area of the city with the Cornmarket, butchers' shambles, the Tun Prison and the Great Conduit which gave the city its water.

  The boards of the traders were lowered, their protective awnings pulled out against the strong sun. Trade was brisk in everything from a pair of hose or cherries fresh off the branch, to a pair of gilt spurs or a satin shirt with cambric lace. A funeral cortиge passed, led by a friar, a quiet, sinister figure in his dark robes, pinched features staring from the cowl over his head. The mourners stumbled by, followed by the coffin on the shoulders of the bearers. Corbett heard the sobbing of the women and the deep-throated howl of a dog. Such sights seemed out of place on such a day, the crowds were out, the lawyers in fur capes on their way to the courts at Westminster: peasants in brown and green smocks coaxed their carts up to the market places ignoring the taunts and attempts at pilfer by a horde of ragged-arsed urchins. A column of mounted archers clattered by, prisoners in the middle, their hands tied to the saddle, ankles secured by chains under the horses' bellies.

  A courtesan, her face painted and her brows finely plucked, stepped daintily through the street, one red, velvet-gloved hand raising her laced dress to escape the mud. She glanced coyly at Corbett and walked on. The noise and bustle was intense: tradesmen plucked his sleeve and dinned his ears with shouts and offers of custom. Corbett, regretting his decision to walk, pushed his way through the crowd into the coolness of the 'Hooded Kestrel' tavern.

  It was a dirty, low-timbered room with a scattering of tables, up-turned barrels and a row of huge vats and kegs. Corbett ordered ale and a bowl of fish soup, he always found eating by himself an aid to logical analysis. He was troubled by what he had learnt: despite his victories in Scodand, the King was highly anxious, casting about like an imprisoned dog, lashing out at shadows, grasping the air and thinking it was substance. Corbett understood such anxiety but knew the traitor would only be caught through careful questioning, analysis and the application of logic. Corbett sipped thoughtfully from his tankard as he itemised what he knew about the traitor:

  Item: The person was close to Edward:

  Item: He had a swift, ingenious way of communication with the French which deflected all the efforts of Edward's searchers and spies:

  Item: The person seemed to be a member of the Earl of Richmond's household, the same baron who had so disastrously attempted to defend Gascony just a few months ago, when, so the King implied, the trickle of vital information to the French began:

  Item: It was only logical that Corbett start questioning members of Richmond's household who also had something to do with the council.

  Corbett smiled to himself. He felt better and, deciding on what he should do next, left the tavern and walked back to his lodgings in Thames Street. Ranulf was surprised to see his master smile for the first time in weeks and so took advantage of the situation to ask permission to go on an errand. Corbett, smiling absent-mindedly, nodded and Ranulf was off before the clerk could change his mind, the 'errand' was the attempted seduction of some lady and there was always the chance that Corbett might suspect something amiss. Ranulf clattered down the stairs, behind him the plaintive sound of the flute his master always insisted on playing when trying to solve some intricate problem.

  EIGHT

  The following day Corbett was back at Westminster Palace. He would have liked to have interviewed the Earl of Richmond but 'My Lord,' so a haughty squire informed
him, 'was gone on secret business of the King's.' Corbett walked off in search of Tuberville but the knight was absent on duties in the city so Corbett was left to kick his heels around the palace. He walked over to the abbey church, enjoying the warm sunshine as he watched the masons scampering like ants along the scaffolding against the north side of the abbey. Corbett was always fascinated by these magicians in stone and spent some time admiring the trellissed carved masonry, the huge grinning gargoyles depicting men, dogs, griffons and an array of grotesque faces. The abbey bells rang for prayer and Corbett wandered back to the Great Hall.

  The place was thronged with lawyers, officials, petitioners and plaintiffs. There were sheriffs in from the counties to present their accounts for the Easter audit: royal stewards from the Duchy of Cornwall, their finery ruined by mud and dirt, they looked tired and harassed as they asked for directions in a strange, nasal accent. Corbett looked around, noted how many rings were left on one of the day candles and, leaving the Hall, made his way along empty stonewashed corridors to the council room.

  He found Tuberville in his chamber. A man of about thirty to thirty-five summers. Tuberville seemed the typical fighting man with his close-cropped blond hair and lean, narrow features. He would have looked a predator, a professional killer if it had not been for his full mouth and anxious guarded eyes. He was dressed in chain-mail covered by a long, white surcoat bearing the royal arms of England gathered by a stout leather belt which carried a sword and dagger sheath. When Corbett arrived, he was lounging by a window, the shutters flung open for the place was a small and dusty guardroom, a table and two benches alongside the wall being its only furnishings, the floor was bare stone and the walls were covered in flaking plaster.

  Tuberville turned as Corbett came in and bluntly answered his query; 'Sir Thomas Tuberville?'