Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

'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?'

What else indeed, Corbett thought. He felt like laughing aloud at the mock-serious look on Morgan's face and the strained concern on that of his steward. Two traitors and splendid liars. Corbett cleared his throat and was about to continue the diplomatic farce when a sound at the far end of the hall made him turn. A small door on the side of the dais was opened and a splendid figure walked down the hall. Corbett rose and almost stifled a gasp: she had long blonde hair parted in the middle which fell like a gauze veil down to her shoulders. Her skin was alive, fair-complexioned but clear like that of a precious stone: the face was almost heart-shaped, the nose small but the eyes held his, wide, blue and full of mischief.

Corbett had never seen such loveliness: he unashamedly looked her up and down, noting how the dark green gown emphasised the contours of her waist and breasts. She wore a brooch clasp at her throat, a silver filigree chain round her slender waist with jewelled-studded bracelets on each fine wrist. The girl stared back at Corbett with feigned shock, slightly lifting the hem of her dress.

'I am wearing calfskin boots,' she said loudly, 'and dark blue hose. Or have you seen enough?'

'I am sorry,' Corbett stuttered. 'Er, I did not expect to, I,' he rose to his feet.

'What did you expect?' the voice was a mocking sing-song.

'Nothing,' Corbett snapped, angry at himself. 'I expected nothing, I was surprised. I did not expect to see a woman here.'

'You mean in men's business, the art of war, of killing each other for the best possible motive and, when you take a rest, call it diplomacy, negotiations.'

'Maeve!' Morgan rose in pretended anger but Corbett could see he was secretly delighted to see him put abruptly in his place. 'This is my niece, Maeve,' he said, half-turning to Corbett, 'she has a fierce tongue.'

'No Uncle, I have not,' she replied tardy, 'Just the English seem discourteous, unused to greeting women,' and before Corbett could think of some fitting reply, she swept on by him. Corbett turned as he heard Ranulf, who was standing behind him, choke on his own giggles. Corbett glared at him, hiding his complete bewilderment at allowing a woman he had only met for a few fleeting seconds to so effectively silence him.

Corbett and Ranulf had no choice but to stay at Neath. Lord Morgan showed them to their quarters, a whitewashed chamber on the fourth floor of the keep containing two truckle beds, a battered trunk and a stained table with benches down each side. Corbett bitterly complained about the cold and lack of warmth so Morgan grudgingly had wooden shutters fitted to the arrow-slit windows and moved a rusting brazier as well as an iron candelabra into the room. Corbett and Ranulf could not decide whether they were invited envoys or prisoners, they were allowed the freedom of the castle and the surrounding countryside but their real home was the keep.

The great keep or donjon had three floors above ground level which housed storerooms, buttery and kitchens. The first floor was the Great Hall where Corbett had met Morgan and the second housed the solar, chapel and private chambers while the third had a collection of small, cold, stale chambers, a grandiose word for places about as comfortable as a prison.

Corbett and Ranulf lived here, at the top of a narrow, winding, mildewed staircase as did Owen, the captain of Morgan's guard, whom Corbett studiously ignored. He disliked the man with his straggly, curly black hair, sallow face and constant smile. He felt the man was truly evil; Corbett had met his type before, a killer, a man who loved death and carried its rotten stink with him.

The rest of Morgan's household lived in the basement, the outhouses of the bailey or in outlying villages. Corbett sensed that Morgan, a petty tyrant, had the undying loyalty of his feudal tenants and retainers. The Welsh lord was undoubtedly rich, the Vale of Neath and the surrounding fertile fields ensured a steady revenue. Morgan also owned the fishing rights along the rocky, sea-swept coast and emphasised these by displaying a row of scaffolds, each bearing its rotting human carrion, stark and black against the blue summer sky. They served as a grim warning to poachers, thieves, wreckers and pirates.

Corbett often surveyed Morgan's domain from the top of the keep: it was a silent, majestic perch and Corbett loved to stand there feeling the sun and catching the salt-tinged sea breezes, a welcome relief from the stench of the garde-robes and latrines which spilled their muck into the moat. The clerk had tried to discover something about the death of David Talbot but all he drew were blank stares and polite smiles: if Corbett persisted, his listener would lapse into Welsh as if he did not understand what the Englishman was saying. The old fool Gareth always followed Corbett as soon as he appeared in the bailey, running alongside, imitating his walk to the general amusement of the crowd. Corbett usually ignored him.

On one occasion, however, he did question Gareth about Talbot and was sure he saw a flicker of intelligence, of recognition in the old man's eyes but then Gareth blinked, smiled slyly and, wrapping his dirty gown round him, took Corbett by the hand and led him into one of the outhouses, a long dark room, made of wattles and daub with only the door and a hole in the roof letting in any light. It reeked of leather, sweat and horse dung. Corbett peered round and saw that saddles, reins, halters, stirrups and other harness were slung across wooden bars which ran the length of the room. He turned and looked at Gareth's dreamy eyes.

'Talbot? What has this got to do with Talbot's death?' he asked but Gareth gave a toothless grin and shuffled out.