Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Ogilvie made his way down the narrow, dung-strewn street which stank like a midden in the summer heat. He saw a ragged, one-armed beggar man drive off some yapping mongrel and the sight of another man's wretchedness made him hug himself with pleasure. He was young, he was able and soon he would be rich. He hurried on through the market place, ignoring the cries of the hawkers and the pedlars with their tawdry geegaws and the trash they usually sold, and entered the cool darkness of the tavern lit only by the sunlight which poured through two rough-hewn windows. In the far corner of the room his English counterpart was waiting for him.

'Well,' the Scottish clerk thought, 'not really English, more Welsh.' He had come here ostensibly on business connected with Edward of England and stayed hoping to garner whatever information he could. Ogilvie smiled as he crossed the room, he had news which would set this arrogant Welsh clerk by his ears.

Goronody Ap Rees was pleased to see Ogilvie. He had been sent by Edward of England to spy and this young cockerel of a Scot would make it worthwhile. He ordered the best wine and, after the slattern had served them, generously poured cupfuls for the Scotsman to gulp whilst only sipping his own. He listened carefully to the Scotsman's chatter, sifting the wheat from the chaff, the gossip from the truth, the facts from the scurrilous items Ogilvie seemed eager to press upon him. He sensed the squire had something important to say and realised that, given enough time and enough wine, he would. Eventually Ogilvie, flushed with wine, paused, took a deep draught from the cup and slammed it down on the table.

'I have,' he announced loudly, 'some special news, but it will cost you.' Ap Rees nodded, expecting this, and the Scotsman launched into his startling revelations. Ap Rees listened, concealing his own excitement and once Ogilvie had finished, pulled a clinking, leather purse from his pouch and threw it across the table.

'You have earned this, Scotsman!' he said, 'You have earned it well' and, without further fuss, rose and quietly swept out of the tavern. Ogilvie, much the worse for wine, stared down at the purse, carefully picked it up, hid it under his robe, gulped the remains of the wine and rose to leave.

The two men in the far corner had watched this little tableau and, after Ogilvie had staggered out, broke their watchful silence.

'Do you think Ogilvie told him?'

'Of course!' the second replied, 'That is why the purse was passed.'

'And what now?'

The other shrugged.

'Edward's emissary has his news. And Ogilvie?'

The first man turned and smiled bleakly at his companion. 'Oh, he served his purpose. Make sure that you are with him tonight and cut his throat!'

By the sixth week in Neath, Corbett was perplexed and tense like a dog left on its leash. He had discovered nothing, he did not want to leave Maeve but felt increasingly trapped as the Lord Morgan courteously ignored his requests to return to London. The days dragged by so slowly that the resolution of his difficulties took him by surprise, coming quick like a sword leaving its sheath or the hum of an arrow through the air.

On the Tuesday, just after midsummer, the castle was caught up in a frenzy of activity. In the evening Corbett and Ranulf returned to their chamber to find Owen dressed in black skins perched like some evil bird on the narrow shelf of one of the window embrasures.

'I bring messages from the Lord Morgan,' he sang out, 'You are to be detained in your rooms.'

'Until when?' Corbett snapped, 'The same thing happened a few weeks ago. The Lord Morgan has a strange idea about hospitality. Why does he treat us like this? What does he want to hide?'

Owen jumped down like a cat and stood so close that Corbett could smell his stale odour and see his slanted, amber-flecked eyes.

'Lord Morgan,' Owen replied, 'Can do what he wants in his own castle and in his own domain, remember that, Englishman!' He brushed past Corbett and lightly skipped down the stone spiral staircase.

Owen was right. Morgan did what he liked and Corbett and Ranulf were virtual prisoners in their chambers until the following Monday. It was an experience neither would want to repeat: Corbett prowled round the room, snapping at Ranulf or lay on the small truckle bed and morosely glaring at the ceiling, wondering what Morgan was up to, even though he had a shrewd idea.

Corbett also knew that, despite his love for Maeve, he would have to leave Neath empty-handed. The King would be furious for Corbett had acquired nothing for his six weeks stay in Wales. Ranulf tried to comfort him, offering to show him how to play dice, cheat and win but got little thanks for his effort. Their meals were brought to them, Maeve visited but Ranulf's presence curtailed any enjoyment of each other's company and the encounter was limited to Corbett's questions about what was happening and Maeve's evasive answers. There was a constant guard on their chamber, four or five of Owen's cut-throats lounged in the narrow passageway outside their room and the only time they were permitted to leave was to use the garde-robe in a corner near their chamber.

Corbett did his best to find out the reason for their detention and spent a great deal of time asking rhetorical questions intended for no one, though Ranulf did his best to answer them. At last the young man, becoming tired of this angrily expostulated that Corbett could, easily find out the reason for their temporary imprisonment. 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped.

'Why, Gareth, the fool,' Ranulf replied, 'He wanders round watching everything."

'But he's witless!'

'No,' Ranulf smiled. 'He only appears to be, offer him a few coins and he will soon talk sense.' Corbett grunted and rolled on his side but a grain of an idea had taken root.

Late the following Monday morning, a grinning Owen ordered the guards away and announced that Corbett and Ranulf were free to go where they wished, and that included returning to London. The same evening, Lord Morgan repeated the invitation, openly insinuating that the English had outstayed their welcome and should be off, Corbett threw an anguished glance at Maeve, who bit her lip but almost imperceptibly nodded her head. Corbett could understand what she was trying to tell him though the next morning Maeve seemed to avoid him, Morgan and Owen boldly ensuring they did not meet and talk.

Corbett also sensed a change in mood in the castle; the retainers were more distant, the servants and other hangers-on open in their disdain. There was an air of menace, of silent danger gathering in the dark recesses of the castle. Corbett, despite his training in the halls of Oxford, as well as in the legal niceties of the Chancery and the Exchequer, trusted his instincts and believed he was in danger and should either fight or flee. Nevertheless, remembering Ranulf's advice, he searched out and found Gareth squatting in the corner of the parapet walk on the curtain wall.

'You are well, Gareth?' The man smiled, saliva dripping out of his mouth. Corbett looked quickly around 'and, digging into his purse, drew out a silver coin.

'This is for you, Gareth, if you tell me about the ships which have just gone.'

Corbett watched Gareth intently, certain he saw a flicker of recognition, of intelligence in the watery eyes.

'What ships? What does Master Englishman want to know about the ships?'

'So you know there were ships?' Corbett crouched and pulled out another coin. Gareth glanced quickly around, his eyes sliding like bubbles on water.

'Three ships,' he whispered and stretched out his hand.

'Ah,' Corbett withdrew. 'What ships?'

'French,' Gareth replied. 'I said to myself they are French, flying their great blue and gold pennants. Oh, a brave sight, Master spy.'