Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Ranulf was no more successful in eliciting information and soon settled down to ogling the women or losing any monies he had in endless games of dice. Ranulf declared he was being cheated but the Welsh just grinned and invited him to find out how. The only suspicious thing Corbett did discover was the huge pyre of faggots and brushwood stored on the roof of the keep. He supposed they would serve as a beacon if the castle was attacked or be used to boil oil or fire brands if It was under siege. Nevertheless, on one of his journeys along the coast, Corbett found similar beacons, barrels full of brushwood stacked on top of each other and he wondered if Morgan feared, even invited invasion. Corbett also noted that he was usually allowed the freedom of both the castle and the surrounding countryside but, a week after his arrival, for two days in succession, Owen politely but firmly insisted they stay in their quarters.

Apart from this, Morgan pretended to be the courteous host. Corbett dined on the high table: Lent was over, so it was an end to stale salted meat and dried herrings and mackerel, instead there was capon and sturgeon from Morgan's' fish stews just outside the castle walls, the Welsh lord ignoring the rule which stipulated that sturgeon was a royal fish only to be served at a King's table. Morgan's kitchens also served venison spiced with cloves, mint, cinnamon and stuffed with almonds; fresh onions, leeks; fruit tarts and pies, junkets of sliced fruit and cream, all to be washed down with tankards of heady strong mead. Corbett noticed only one item out of place, jugs of fresh Bordeaux wine served by Morgan in his vanity to impress his guests. Corbett appreciated the wine for its taste as well as the way it clarified his faint suspicions about the beacons he had seen along the coast.

During most days Corbett wandered around the castle, on occasions he attended the court held in the Great Hall. Morgan would sit on the great carved chair, beside him Father Thomas, the castle chaplain and secretary, crouched mouse-like on his stool, fearful of the things he would have to see and transcribe on the long roll of vellum before him. Most of the crimes were petty, land disputes or minor squabbles over possession. Now and again though, the authority of the Lord Morgan was challenged by a counterfeiter, poacher, outlaw or thief and punishment was always relentless, dread, cruel but, in its own way, upright and rigorous.

Corbett saw a poacher tried, sentenced and hustled from the hall: the poor malefactor was sent straight to the castle yard, his right arm extended over a block where the hissing slice of a sword took his hand off at the wrist. The man screamed in a half-faint as the executioners hurried him from the block to stick the amputated arm into a bowl of boiling pitch to cauterise and heal the bleeding stump. A few even less fortunate were sentenced to hang: one was hustled up to the battlements, a noose put around his neck and he was hoisted over to a dangling, choking death while others were taken in a great two-wheeled cart to the scaffold on the headland above the raging sea.

There was an atmosphere of terror about Neath yet the mood could alternate, swinging from one extreme to the other. At dinner, minstrels were invited to recite poems and epic stories while long-haired bards sang mournful dirges of past glories and dead dreams. Corbett had to sit through them with an equally disgruntled Ranulf. Neither could understand the songs or the conversation because Morgan insisted, most of the time, on speaking Welsh. The English envoys just had to sit there, knowing by the grins on Morgan's and Owen's faces that they were often the brunt of some cruel joke. Corbett observed that Maeve joined in though, when she laughed, it was false, the smile never reached her eyes and there were times when he caught her looking at him sideways, a sad haunted look in her large blue eyes.

A few days after their arrival at Neath, Maeve decided to break the tedium of Morgan's evening banquets and, while the bards prepared themselves with all the show and gestures professional minstrels could muster, she rose and came over to stand beside Corbett. 'Do you like our music, Englishman?' she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.

'My name is Hugh,' he replied. 'And your music is definitely better than your conversation, though I suppose that is not much of a compliment.'

She pouted, 'Well, Huw,' she said, deliberately pronouncing his name in the Welsh fashion, 'Let us change this. You play chess? Perhaps you can teach me?'

Corbett looked at the solemn, beautiful face and loved her, biting his lip to stifle the cry which ached to burst out. He knew her serious face was a mask, secretly she was mocking him but he did not care, he could have sat and stared for eternity like some angel caught up in the eye of God. He heard a snigger and looked down the table at Owen's smirking face. 'Well,' Corbett sighed deeply, 'I would be honoured to teach you chess.' He rose and escorted Maeve over to a window seat.

Maeve summoned a servant who returned with a table, board, casket of chess pieces and a small, sconce-stone oil light. Corbett ignored the hum of conversation and the elaborate guffaw of laughter from the high table. He was only conscious of Maeve, sitting there opposite him, her heart-shaped face cupped in her hands, her eyes smiling as she explored Corbett's discomfort with her cool amused stare. The clerk laboriously explained the game, the different pieces and the more complicated moves, Maeve nodded, murmuring her appreciation before tentatively playing a few moves. Then, satisfied, eyes sparkling, she clapped her hands and announced she wanted a full royal game. Corbett obliged, it was getting dark, some of the guests had left, a few were gathered round the still droning harpists but more around the alcove where they sat. Corbett made a few desultory moves, pushing his pieces around with the murmured 'J adoube'. Maeve responded and Corbett suddenly broke out of his dream for Maeve was responding with clever subtle moves and suddenly Corbett was defeated. He stared down at the chessboard and up into Maeve's concerned face.

'You have won!' he exclaimed. 'You're…' his words were halted by Maeve's peal of laughter, clear but warm, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her beautiful, slender fingers half covering her face as she tried to control her laughter. Corbett stared at her and the grinning circle of faces. He smiled, shrugged to hide his surprise and, bowing to Maeve, rose and walked down the hall. The patter of sandals made him turn, Maeve was alongside him, sliding a slender arm through his.

'Come,' she teased. 'I can play chess better than any man!' She pressed close to Corbett, 'Unbend, man, I only jested. Come, let us take the night air from the Tower.'

Corbett smiled, hoping she would not realise how hard his heart pounded at her closeness. They made their way up the narrow staircase, Maeve resting on his arm, her hair like soft gauze teasing his face with its silkiness and fragrant perfume. Corbett withdrew the bolts on the parapet door and they walked on to the roof of the keep. It was dark, only a red flush in the west marked the sunset, a strong breeze whipped in from the sea while above them the stars gleamed like jewels in a dark room. They walked over to the crenellated wall, listening to the distant murmur of the waves and the sounds from the castle bailey below.

'I have always played chess,' Maeve broke the silence, 'ever since my parents died in the Welsh wars, I have lived here with my uncle. The skill of the game often lifts the boredom of endless casde days.'

'You are very good,' he replied.

Maeve, turning so her back was against the wall, gazed up into Corbett's face. In the faint light, the clerk could see her face was calm, serene, the mock-solemn look had disappeared. 'I have read several treatises including the poem "De Shakie Ludo",' Maeve replied. 'I always welcome visitors, they are a fresh challenge.'