Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

'Oh,' Corbett asked, 'before you go, what terms did the French demand when they let you evacuate La Reole?'

'Hostages!' Corbett looked at the white fury in the knight's face.

'Hostages?' Tuberville nodded.

'Yes,' he explained, 'Richmond, myself and other officers had to agree to send to Paris members of our family as guarantors that, while the present troubles last, we will not fight in Gascony against the French King.'

'Whom did you send?'

'My two sons.' The reply was short, bitter and Corbett saw the hatred flare like a flame in Tuberville's eyes.

'And Richmond?'

'Oh, he sent his daughter.'

'You write to your sons?'

'Yes, letters are sent in Chancery pouches. Richmond does the same, a copy is kept in the Muniment Chamber.'

'Do you like Richmond?' Tuberville glared at Corbett. 'If I had my way,' he replied, 'I would have had that incompetent lord, court-martialled as a traitor.' He rose, touched Corbett on the shoulder and stalked from the room.

The clerk sighed and rose to follow, he would dearly love to question Richmond but the Earl was a cousin to the King, and, if things went wrong? Corbett chewed his lip and decided it would have to wait. Nevertheless he was deeply suspicious of Richmond, something nagging at him like an old wound and he would not be satisfied till he had resolved it. He remembered Tuberville's reference to letters and decided one way to check on Richmond would be to read the copies of any he sent to his daughter.

Corbett wandered about the palace buildings and stepped into a courtyard: the royal stables took up most of the space with out-buildings, forges, piles of manure and huge bins containing oats, barley and straw. Horses, great war destriers, sumpter ponies, mules and the occasional dray horse milled in the open space before being led back to or taken from the stables. Grooms, ostlers and smiths shouted and cursed to be heard over the din of the anvil and the raucous neighing of the horses. Corbett warily crossed, keeping a sharp eye on the plunging hooves of a backing horse. He entered a small side door and went down a cold, whitewashed passage way until he reached the back of the palace and a row of chambers which housed the royal records.

Corbett knocked on the iron-studded door and was admitted by an arrogant-looking clerk. 'What do you want?'

'I am Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.'

'Burneli's protйgй?'

'If you say so, and who are you?'

'Goronody Ap Rees, chief clerk of the records.' Corbett groaned to himself. There was, he thought, nothing so officious or trying as these pompous clerks who wielded their power like petty tyrants. 'Nigel Couville?' Corbett asked hopefully.

'I am here,' a deep grating voice answered and Couville shuffled out behind the pompous clerk.

'Why, Corbett,' the old man's lined face crinkled into a welcoming smile, his thin, cold, vein-streaked hands clasped Corbett by the shoulders. 'You should come more often,' he said softly. 'It is good for an old man to see his former students.' He turned so Ap Rees could hear him. 'Especially one of my most brilliant. Come!' He led Corbett into the small room, brushing past the furious Ap Rees.

Inside, the small chamber was packed with chests, coffers and great leather bags while shelves stretching from the stone floor to the black-timbered ceiling were full of neatly rolled scrolls, each tagged to show the month and regnal year of issue. In the centre of the room was a great oak table with benches down each side. Corbett recognised and loved the smell of red wax, ageing vellum, pumice stone and dried ink.

'What is it you want?' Ap Rees almost squeaked with annoyance.

'Certain letters,' Corbett replied, 'despatched by the Earl of Richmond to his daughter, a hostage to the court of Philip le Bel in Paris.'

'You have no right!' Ap Rees snapped back.

'I have every right,' Corbett wearily replied. He turned to Nigel Couville. 'Tell this pompous fool,' he continued, 'that if I do not have the letters written by Richmond and others to relatives held as hostage at the French court, I shall return with His Grace, the King, to continue this conversation.'

'Master Ap Rees' Nigel replied, 'is from Glamorgan, he is always telling me that things are done differndy there.' Corbett turned and looked at the narrow, pinched face of the Welshman.

'So you know the Lord Morgan?'

'I know him,' Ap Rees replied caustically, 'But 1 am the King's man. I have proved that in my years of service to the crown/

"Then prove it now, Master Ap Rees, the letters please!' Ap Rees looked askance at Corbett and was about to refuse but thought better of it, shrugged and walked over to a large, leather chancery bag. He unloosed the gold-fringed, red cord, spilled the contents out onto the table and searched amongst the different scrolls and scraps of parchment. Finally, he picked one up, examined its tag, grunted and beckoned to Corbett. 'Here it is, you cannot take it away, but stay and read it here.' Corbett winked at Couville and, taking the scroll, sat at the great oak table to study it.

The manuscript consisted of small sheets of vellum stitched together, all transcribed in mauve ink by the same clerkly hand. Corbett could guess how it was done: each individual would write, or have written, his own tetter before submitting it to the Chancery who would examine them to ensure they gave away no information prejudicial to the crown. The royal clerk would then transcribe the letters, making a fair copy before despatching the letters to France, sealed in a red, Spanish leather Chancery pouch while the copies were stitiched together with twine and stored away.

Corbett quickly scanned the sheets and felt a wave of compassion sweep through him; the letters invariably short, were filled with sorrow and tears as parents wrote to children, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. One of the longest was from Tuberville to his two sons. His anguish and hatred of the French were apparent, the letter, dated January, the Feast of Saint Hilary, 1295, regretted they had not spent Christmas together but he had bought them Saint Christopher medals, a wolfhound named Nicholas and, when they returned, he would hold a great feast in some local tavern. Corbett searched on until he found Richmond's letter, a stark contrast to Tuberville's, the Earl's relationship with his daughter was cold: the Earl was formal, distinct and, most interestingly, kept referring darkly to some 'secret matter'.

Corbett, satisfied, rolled the parchment up and handed it back to Ap Rees. 'Thank you,' he smiled at Couville and nodded. 'We'll meet again, take care.' The old man beamed a toothless smile, Corbett touched him gently on the cheek and walked out into the passageway. Corbett would have exchanged a month's fees to discover Richmond's 'dark secret' and was now determined to question the Earl; not caring whether he was a rather arrogant relation of the King.

When Corbett returned to Thames Street it was dark, lantern horns had been lit and hung outside certain houses, revellers, half drunk on cheap ale and their own pleasure, burst from a tavern shouting loudly in the street. Corbett felt the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt and gently eased his way past them. They hurled abuse but he was through and, with a sigh of relief, reached his own house and climbed the dark, twisting staircase. A decidedly dejected Ranulf was already lighting rushlights and long white beeswax candles. Corbett asked him how things were, but only received mumbled sentences in reply. Corbett quietly smiled, Ranulf's mood meant the evening meal of wine and cold meats would be a deadly silent one.

Corbett did not mind for once the table was cleared, he left Ranulf to his own devices while he took his writing tray from a large casket and began to jot down on a scrap of parchment his conclusions and suspicions.