Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

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.

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 cartwheel 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.