Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

He was certain he was being watched, trailed as he made his way down the alleys and runnels of Paris. Earlier in the day he had been in the great square before the Cathedral of Notre Dame, watching a mountebank eat fire while his sons juggled with coloured baubles and there, Poer experienced the same feeling of dread which had assailed him a few days earlier. Someone was following him and though he had turned and twisted, never once did he catch a glimpse of the malicious watching eyes. This evening, as he made his way back to his lodgings in the garret of a mercer's house, Poer's disquiet had grown; the gentle slither of leather over wet cobbles, shadows deep in doorways, the soft clip-clop of a trained war-horse but, when he looked, there was nothing.

Poer finished his meal and slowly gazed round the dingy tavern room, he had sought sanctuary here, hoping his pursuers would show themselves, but he had been disappointed. Only an old beggar, his legs cut off at the knees, had hobbled in, the wooden slats fixed to his hands and the stumps of his legs clattering like drum-beats on the tavern floor. He watched the man eat like a dog lapping its bowl and scrabble out as Poer rose, wrapped his cloak about him and slipped out into the icy streets. Poer turned and made his way down the narrow alley, the timber and wattle houses stretching high above him, each tier jutting out above the other so the roofs of the houses closed in like conspirators locking out the frozen sky.

Poer stared up, the windows and doors were tightly shuttered, no sound except the moaning of the wind which rolled the mist and battered, almost with malicious glee, some loosened shutter. Poer drew his dagger and walked down the centre of the street, keeping clear of the dirt and ordure piled outside each door as well as the rank, fetid sewer which ran down the middle. He saw a shadow move in one of the doorways and a white, skeletal arm shot out, followed by the whine of a beggar.

'Ah, Monsieur, ayez pitiй, ayez pitiй.' Poer showed his long cruel dagger, the man disappeared and the beggar's voice faded.

Poer walked on cautiously. There was something wrong, something which had just happened but he could not place it. He was too tired, too anxious. He did not want to be arrested as a spy, to be dragged on a hurdle to the gallows at Montfauзon, strapped to a wheel and whirled naked whilst red-hooded executioners carefully broke each of his limbs with their wicked, jagged iron bars. Poer shivered and, holding his dagger before him, left the alleyway. He felt better now. He was at the crossroads, massive lighted braziers were placed here every evening by the civic authorities and a huge tallow candle fixed in the niche before the statue of the saint of that particular quarter, such light and heat drove off the icy mist and reassured Poer.

He whirled to his left as he heard the clack of wood on stone but only the old beggar from the tavern came out of the mist, whining and dragging himself across the cobbles in front of Poer. The spy ignored him and started to cross the square, the clatter increased in speed and Poer suddenly realised what was wrong, the old man had left a few seconds before him yet he had reached the top of the alleyway. Poer hesitated, turned but it was too late, the old man hurled into him, trapping his legs and Poer, stumbling over him, his hands caught in the folds of his cloak, fell, a sickening thud as his head hit the sharp cobbles.

The 'old beggar' pulled himself clear, his hands scrabbling behind him as he loosened the straps which pulled back his legs, the wooden slats were jerked from his knees and he straightened up. One glance at the fallen man showed there was no need to hurry, his victim was still unconscious. The beggar whistled quietly and was answered by the clip-clop of a great black war-horse which came out of the mist like some phantom from the gates of hell. Its rider, muffled in a dark cloak and hood, dismounted and walked over to the prostrate man, others joined him out of the darkness to form a threatening circle round the unconscious body.

'Is he dead?' the rider asked, his voice dry, devoid of any emotion.

'No,' the beggar muttered. 'Only unconscious. Is he to be questioned?' The leader shook his head and gathered the reins of his horse.

'No,' he replied. 'Sew him in a sack and throw him into the Seine!'

'It would be a mercy to cut his throat,' the beggar pointed out. The leader mounted and savagely jerked at the reins to turn his horse.

'Mercy!' he commented drily. 'If you had failed or lost him, I would have shown you such a mercy. He is a spy! He deserves none. Do as I say!' He turned, and soon both horse and rider were hidden by the cloying mist.

Edward, King of England and Duke of Aquitaine, was furious. In the council chamber near the royal chapel at Westminster, he was indulging in one of his passionate regal rages. Swathed in robes, his council sat and meekly witnessed the royal drama, some closely studied the red-gold tapestries covering the whitewashed walls, others scuffed their boots in the rush-strewn floor trying to rub the cold numbness from their legs and feet. It was cold, freezing, despite the large, iron charcoal braziers which had been wheeled into the room. The wind battered the shutters on the horn-glazed windows, piercing the cracks and blowing cold blasts of air to waft and fan the flames of the candles and the oil in their sconce stones. The clerks sat, pens poised above the thick, silk-smooth parchment, they realised the King did not want his curses transcribed so they patiently waited, hoping their fingers would not lose their feeling or the ink freeze in their metal pots.

Edward had no such reservations, time and again, he brought his fists crashing down on the long wooden table.

'My Lords,' he bellowed. 'There is treason here, rank and foul as the contents of any sewer!'

'Your Grace,' Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, intervened quickly, hoping to calm the King. 'It would seem…'

'It would seem,' Edward harshly interrupted, 'My Lord of Canterbury, that the royal arse cannot fart without Philip IV of France knowing it!'

Winchelsea nodded, fully agreeing with the sentiment, though not with Edward's unique way of expressing it. The archbishop decided to remain silent, Edward's rages were becoming more frequent, the deaths of the beloved Queen Eleanor, his Chancellor and friend, Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells, had loosened dark forces in the King's soul. His blond hair and beard were streaked with white, that once bronzed skin now sallow and pulled in deep lines around the sharp blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth.

Winchelsea sipped from the cup of mulled wine and scowled, it had gone cold, the archbishop leaned back in his chair and heartily wished the King's anger would cool as quickly as his wine. At last the King quietened, he sat upright in his great, oak-carved chair at the top of the table, his be-ringed hands twisted into fists.

'My Lords,' he said slowly, drawing deep gulps of air. 'There is a traitor amongst us.' He jabbed at the table top. 'Here in Westminster, a traitor, a spy who tells the French everything, our secrets, our plans, our designs. The Saint Christopher has undoubtedly been caught and sunk and one of our most valuable spies, a man many of you know well, a high-ranking clerk in the Exchequer, Nicholas Poer, has been murdered in Paris.' Edward stopped and the council stirred itself, there were exclamations, groans, mutters and curses. 'Poer,' Edward continued, 'was taken out of the Seine. He had been stitched alive into a sack and drowned like an unwanted cat. Someone, someone here might have informed the French about him for Poer was too clever to let slip his disguise and be caught. The same is true of the Saint Christopher. Philip IV, God damn him, must have been informed of its mission to collect reports from our spies in Gascony. God only knows what has happened to them!'