Spy in Chancery hc-3 Read online

  'Is that why the French demanded both his sons?'

  'Exactly,' Richmond stopped pacing and studied Corbett. 'Why do you ask that?'

  'Oh,' Corbett replied, 'Nothing really, just that they took Tuberville's sons but only your daughter. Why?'

  'None of your business.'

  'Do you miss your daughter?'

  'Don't be impudent, Corbett!' Richmond snarled, 'His Grace the King will know of your insubordination.'

  'Then I apologise,' Corbett coolly replied, 'But one last question. Waterton, the royal clerk, he was in your household?'

  Corbett almost stepped back in fear at the look of real anger which suffused the Earl's narrow, sallow face. 'Do not,' the Earl muttered softly, 'even mention that name in my presence. Now, Master Corbett, we are finished, so go! Wait!' the Earl scrabbled beneath his cloak and pulled out a small scroll. 'The King's warrant,' he sardonically commented, 'You are off to Wales, Master Corbett. I informed His Grace of your insolent request for an interview. He handed me this which is the reason О agreed to meet you. You are to travel to Glamorgan, Master Corbett. The King wishes you to pry amongst the affairs of the Lord Morgan.'

  Corbett avoided the Earl's malicious smile and took the warrant. The Earl strode off in a flurry of cloak and cape while Corbett, sitting on a wooden window seat, unfolded the commission. He studied it closely but it only confirmed his worst fears: he was to bear the King's greetings to Lord Morgan but secretly gather as much information as possible about the situation in South Wales.

  Corbett groaned. Wales! He had been there ten years earlier, as a member of Edward's armies as they fought their way up the narrow river valleys, cutting Wales into sections, bringing each portion under English rule. A cruel bitter war and now Corbett dreaded his return there, mixing with Welsh lords, openly obedient but secretly seething at having to accept Edward's writ, fierce fighters with their wicked daggers and long yew, bows unleashing silent death along misty valleys.

  Corbett rose, sighed and made his way home, his only consolation being the shouts of outraged horror when Ranulf was informed about where he was going. As matters turned out, Ranulf became strangely acquiescent and Corbett wondered if his servant had his own personal reasons for leaving the capital. He did not probe but ordered Ranulf to hire horses and sumpter ponies from the royal stables: bags and panniers were packed and, four days after receiving the warrant, Corbett and his servant were riding north-west through Acton, Gloucester and across the Severn into Wales.

  Corbett and Ranulf followed the old Roman road west as it cut through the shires. It was a soft, late spring, the vast, brown open fields being put under harrow and plough. Oxen trudged, great yokes across their shoulders, the deep, sharp plough knife cutting the ground for the sowers who followed. Above them whirled flocks of angry crows, cawing steadily at being driven from this feast by young boys who pelted them with sling stones. Villagers were coming to life after a savage winter and a cold, hard spring, so the roads were busy with carts, pedlars, huge dray horses with hogged manes and covered in black-greened leather straps.

  Corbett and Ranulf stopped at taverns, houses with an ale-stick pushed under the eaves or the more welcoming luxury of the occasional priory or monastery guest house. About mid-May, the day after Pentecost, they crossed the Severn ford at Bristol and entered Wales. The clerk described to Ranulf during his journey how he had fought there ten years previously, depicting the savage beauty of the land with its dense forests, narrow valleys and wild independent tribes. Edward I had hammered the Welsh into submission, turning their petty principalities into English shires. Their great leader, Llewellyn, had been driven into the black fastness of Snowdonia and later killed; his brother, David, goaded into rebellion, had been captured, sent to London and sentenced to the abhorrent death of a traitor, hanged, drawn and quartered. Edward had then brought the Welsh to heel by appointing English officials and building huge, concentric ringed castles at strategic places in the country.

  There was little sign of this forced occupation as Corbett and Ranulf made their way south, following the line of the Severn before turning inland. The countryside was noisy with sound and colour, rivers sparkled like silver as they rushed over dark crags and along winding river banks. The gorse and wild flowers were coining into colour and opening under the warming sun, so the green, mossy valley sides looked as if they were covered in costly drapes. Curlews, hawks, crows and buzzards whirled, flashes of black and white in the sky, their jubilant cawing a sharp contrast to the cool, liquid song of the thrush. The sun was warm and, at midday, both riders always stopped to rest in the cool shade of yew, oak or ash.

  Ranulf acted slightly frightened, longing for the busy, narrow, noisy streets of London but Corbett loved the peace, the golden dappled colours of the woods and fields, the warm sun on his back. Sometimes, he would slump slit-eyed in the saddle feeling the cool breeze on his face and neck, listening to the bird song and the clatter of crickets and he would go back across the years to the downs of Sussex. If he concentrated, he could hear his wife, Mary, singing and the constant chatter of his baby girl. Paradise, Eden, the sun always seemed to shine there, the days were always warm until the fever came breaking into his private heaven, taking both Mary and his child. So quickly, he thought, like a cloud races across the sun, the shadow does not last long but, when it is gone, nothing is the same.

  TEN

  Corbett and Ranulf spent six days riding through the wild countryside of South Wales: sometimes they slept in the open, in a deserted byre or the occasional fortified manor house of an English lord. One of these warned them to be careful, marauders, outlaws and wolfs-heads still roamed the hills, even more dangerous, the lord advised, were the secret rites and rituals of the Welsh, some of whom still clung to a religion other than Christianity and celebrated their fire ceremonies in dark woods or in high places. Corbett took the warnings to heart but came to no danger, nothing worse than the mournful howl of a wolf or the screams of night creatures, as owl, fox, stoat and weasel plundered for food. The Welsh villages they passed through, small hamlets with wood and daub walls and thick thatched roofs, seemed friendly enough. Corbett could not understand the strange sing-song tongue of the people but the Welsh, small and dark, smiled and offered food and a strong fermented beer.

  As they approached the craggy, sea-weeded coast around the castle of Neath, the countryside became more deserted. The occasional pedlar or merchant would jabber at them quickly when they mentioned Lord Morgan's name and, though he could not understand every word, Corbett gathered from their anxious looks that the Lord Morgan enjoyed a fearsome reputation. Corbett had acquired some information about him: Edward had conquered Wales twelve years earlier and, by 1284, all of Wales was subject to his writ, the same year a meeting of the Great Round Table had been held at Caernarvon where Edward's baby son had received the title Trinceps Walliae' or Prince of Wales. The occupied country, however, had been restless, revolts breaking out like sudden forest fires. In 1294, two years earlier, a serious revolt had occurred and the discontent rapidly spread.

  The uprising was supported by Lord Morgan angry at the encroachment on his land by Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Morgan received widespread support but Edward had acted quickly, marshalling armies near Chester, he advanced into Wales and crushed the rebels in a series of brilliant campaigns. Lord Morgan and other Welsh princes had to sue for terms to be accepted back into the King's peace; he was allowed to keep Neath Castle and his estates but, if Talbot's letter was to be believed, Morgan was once more plotting treason, only this time with Philip IV. Corbett had sketched in his mind a triangle of treason, at one apex sat Philip, at another Morgan, but who was at the third? The English traitor supplying them with royal secrets?

  Yet, if Lord Morgan was a traitor, he still wielded considerable power: at the entrance to the Vale of Neath, a long, wide, green valley snaking through the hills, stood two massive scaffolds, thick ash poles driven into the ground, each bearing a huge cartwhe
el turned sideways. From the spokes of each wheel, and there must have been twelve in all, hung a corpse, its neck broken, head flapping sideways, the face black with protruding eyes and tongue whilst beneath the wheel a hapless man, nailed by the ears to the pole, a crude sign round his neck proclaimed he was a poacher.

  Ranulf paled with fright and Corbett secretly wondered at the terrors awaiting them. They entered the Vale where green, fertile hills dotted with trees and rocks rose up on either side of them. The silence was oppressive broken only by the raucous call of crows or the mocking song of the curlew. From a crude map drawn up by a Welsh-speaking monk in Bristol Abbey, Corbett knew that Neath Castle lay at the end of the valley on craggy cliffs overlooking the sea. Corbett no sooner caught the first glimpse of its grey walls then he turned in alarm as armed horsemen broke from the trees and swept down to meet them.

  Corbett saw the puffs of dust raised by the thundering hooves, the flash of sun on metal and the great green and gold banners which fluttered and snapped above the charging horsemen. Corbett grabbed the reins of the sumpter pony with one hand while the other searched for his dagger, a useless gesture for his assailants were around them. Corbett had seen less-likely ruffians sentenced to hang at the Elms in London; the horsemen, about twenty in number, were dressed in a motley collection of arms and armour, chain-mail, breastplates and greaves; some had helmets, conical or flat-topped but the rest wore the skins of animals, calf, wolf, otter and fox. The leader, a swarthy fellow with a black drooping moustache, was dressed in shoddy splendour, leather hose and boot, a frayed purple satin shirt beneath a rusting breastplate. On his head, the grinning face of a wildcat, its skin draping the rider's hair.

  He pointed a sword at Corbett's chest and flicked his fingers. The clerk looked around; his assailants were well armed with mace, sword, club and shield, so he shrugged and handed over his dagger. 'Who are you?' The leader's English was almost perfect. Corbett stared, beneath the rags and shoddy armour, the man was educated.

  'My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the Chancery. This is my servant, Ranulf atte Newgate. We are here on the orders of King Edward of England to seek an audience with the Lord Morgan. Now, sir, who are you?'

  The man stared at Corbett and burst into peals of laughter: he turned and chatted in Welsh to his companions. Corbett bit his lip in annoyance for he was sure the fellow was imitating him. Behind him, Ranulf had overcome his initial fright and was glaring round him. The Welshmen also found this funny, one of them leaned forward and ruffled Ranulf's hair, the whole group breaking into fresh peals of laughter when Ranulf reacted with a spate of filthy abuse.

  Corbett himself did not say anything or attempt heroics: he knew these Welshmen, kind, courteous but, highly temperamental, they could turn suddenly violent and he had not forgotten the bodies swinging on the scaffold at the entrance to the Vale. The laughter subsided and the leader, taking the reins of Corbett's horse, led them on, the rest of the band grouped around them. The castle of Neath came into full view, a cold stark building perched on the crags of the cliffs, which rolled in a sheer drop to the sea-pounded rocks below.

  A huge donjon or keep jutted above the crenellated curtain wall and, as Corbett approached the main gateway in a central tower on the wall, he could see figures, soldiers on the parapet and the huge five-horse tail standards of Morgan. There was more: a man swung by his neck from the walls and just above the gateway hung a square, red-rusted cage, the. thick red chain from which it was suspended creaked eerily in the breeze.

  Corbett stared and shuddered at the white bones piled in one corner of the cage. His escort seemed unpeturbed, they crossed over a narrow, deep ditch, their horse's hooves thundering on the wooden drawbridge.

  Inside the cold, mildewed gateway, they paused while the portcullis was raised to allow entry into the huge yard circling the keep. This contained single-storeyed stone buildings erected against the keep, but the rest were wooden buildings, some standing free, others leaning against the curtain wall: smiths, outhouses, a kitchen, stables, a piggery and makeshift byres for cattle. A small village in itself, hens pecked and jabbed at the dirt, clucking at dogs and pigs which snouted and sniffed at everything.

  Children played with the inflated bladder of some animal, babies naked as the day they were born, squatted in the dirt, their parents too busy with countless tasks. The general noise and hubub died as the mounted horsemen entered the bailey and dismounted: Corbett and Ranulf were carefully inspected, a wolf-hound came over to sniff but was booted away, then an old man, with watery eyes and crippled arms shuffled over to stare up at Corbett. He giggled, picked his nose and gently patted the clerk's sleeve.

  'Be off, Gareth,' the leader said quietly and the fool, blowing kisses at Corbett, scampered away. 'An Englishman,' the leader said meaningfully. 'The Lord Morgan captured him in the wars and tried to question him. We call him Gareth for we lost his name when he lost his wits. The Lord Morgan is not too gentle with spies!' Corbett shrugged and offered the reins of his horse.

  'Take care of this,' he replied coolly, 'and go tell the Lord Morgan, the envoys of King Edward are ready to see him.' He watched the Welshman's face go white with fury at the insult, his hand creeping towards the hilt of his short stabbing sword, but he thought better of it, looked around and burst into laughter. The tension drained from the group and the crowd turned back to its tasks, the newcomers seemingly forgotten.

  Corbett and Ranulf were taken across the yard and up narrow stone steps to the second floor of the great keep and into the main hall. It was some thirty feet in height, and Corbett was astounded at its shabby opulence: in the south wall was a very large fireplace with a hood and mantel of square stone, Corbett supposed its chimney jutted through the thick wall to the outside. There were a number of round-headed arches about eight feet wide and splayed, these narrowed to form embrasures and narrow square windows which were glazed with the finest horn. The ceiling timbers were blackened rafters but huge drapes of many colours, some torn, others whole hung from them, while tapestries depicting scenes from the Old Testament in a wild variety of contrasting hues covered the whitewashed walls. At the far end of the hall, the dais bore a gleaming oak table on which were placed a gold jewel-encrusted salt cellar and fine silver candelabra which, Corbett suspected, were once the property of some English church. These bore lighted beeswax candles while pitch torches spluttered in brackets rusting on the wall. The floor was covered in clean rushes and Corbett could smell the crushed mint and heather which had been sprinkled on top.

  The room was deserted except for two men playing chess at a small trestle table near the fire. They sat crouched in their carved chairs, cloaks about them, intent on the game. Above them, on the wooden perch, a peregrine falcon stirred restlessly against the jesses and bells on its claws, its sharp mischievous face scanning the room. The leader of the escort pushed Corbett gently, so the clerk strode across the room, studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Both players looked up, one a young, blond-haired, pallid-faced man with a girl's pink lips and cornflower blue eyes. The other, small and dark, brown hair tumbling to his shoulders, a strange contrast to the man's iron-black beard and moustache, his eyes were dark, the face as cruel and as sharp as the falcon. The younger man giggled for Corbett's move had jeopardised his opponent's game but the other just rose and stared bleakly at Corbett.

  'Who are you?' he asked, his voice surprisingly low and soft.

  'Hugh Corbett, royal clerk and envoy of Edward I.'

  The man nodded and barked an order in Welsh, a servant scurried foward with a stool, the man waved Corbett to it, pouring him a cup of wine whilst grandly introducing himself as the Lord Morgan. Corbett nodded, sipped the wine, relishing the fine taste of Bordeaux while he studied Morgan. The Welshman was an impressive figure, gold rings swung from his ears, a silver-jewelled torque round his neck and bracelets and amethysts adorned his wrists and fingers. He was dressed in a deep blue robe trimmed with pure lambswool though Corbett saw the
stains on it and the white cambric shirt beneath. The Welshman also studied the clerk, watching him warily as he sipped his wine.

  'Did Owen look after you?' Morgan asked, nodding to where the captain of his escort still stood.

  'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'Owen looked after me, he laughs a lot.'

  'Why complain, we Welsh have little even to smile about!'

  'You are discontent, my Lord?'

  'No, Corbett!' Morgan sharply replied, 'I am not discontent, just making observations, as I have every right to do in my own hall, is this not right?' Morgan glared at his blond-haired companion.

  'Yes,' the fellow almost lisped. 'You are certainly right.' He turned to Corbett. 'Let me introduce myself,' he continued. 'I am Gilbert Medar, steward of the Lord Morgan.' Corbett smiled warily in reply, Gilbert might be the Lord Morgan's steward, he thought, and a great deal more but this was certainly not the place to begin a debate on the subject. Morgan put his cup on the table and scooped the chess pieces back into a jewelled casket which he placed under the table.

  'His Grace the King,' he said brusquely, 'has sent you to me. Why?' Corbett had expected this question, his brief interview with Edward before he left London had impressed on him one clear instruction: to find out all he could about the Lord Morgan's treasonable actions and see if they could throw any light on the traitor in London.

  'His Grace the King,' Corbett lied slowly, 'sends his regards and good wishes. He is anxious that the good relations now established with you should continue: he wonders if you have caught the murderers of David Talbot and he assures you that he dismisses as malicious lies and slander, rumours that you have any communications with the King's enemy, Philip of France.' Inwardly, Corbett smiled with mischievous glee, Morgan's eyes shot to one side and the clerk felt the steward stiffen.

  'I thank his Grace,' Morgan replied cautiously, 'for his good wishes to a loyal subject. Unfortunately, Talbot's assailants have not been found. The King knows that South Wales still abounds with lordless, lawless men. Finally,' Morgan spread his hands, 'I am glad His Grace has rejected any scandalous allegations about my loyalty to the crown. What else can I say?'