Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

She had filled and fastened their saddle-bags. Ranulf gave a small moan of fear when he saw Owen's corpse but Maeve told him to be quiet and beckoned for them to follow. They slipped quickly down the steps of the keep, past the main hall where Corbett was alarmed to see some of the retainers beginning to stir. He heard the yelp of the spit dog, a small, crook-backed creature fastened to an iron post and made to press the cogs and wheels which turned the massive spit. Voices shouted, a cat scuttled by, a mouse in its jaws. Maeve led them out of the keep and, following its line, rounded a corner and stopped while Maeve fumbled with the heavy clasp on a wooden, iron-studded door.

Corbett anxiously looked around; the garrison was waking from its afternoon slumber, a girl sang softly, a dog stretched and yawned, impervious to the flies buzzing in a halo about his head. Soon the silence would be broken by a scream or shout as Owen's or Gareth's body was discovered. Maeve fumbled with the catch again and Corbett tried to control his panic, shifting uneasily under the heavy saddle-bags slung across his shoulders, beside him Ranulf almost whimpered with fear. At last, the door creaked open. Maeve whispered for them to be careful as they cautiously went down a row of slippery steps. Pitch-coated torches flared and flickered in their rusty clasps, the wet, slime-ridden walls gleaming in the light.

At the bottom of the steps, Maeve pulled a torch from its holding and led them along a cavernous tunnel, picking her way daintily around puddles of slime and mud. There were other tunnels leading off the main passage and Corbett realised that these led to the dungeons and storerooms of the casde. Maeve led them on, once she turned and demanded total silence with an imperious gesture. Corbett coughed once and immediately saw that the sound echoed along the tunnels like the crash of armoured feet. He stopped, froze like a hunted rabbit but, urged on by Maeve's gestures, followed her deeper into the passageway. It became darker, colder and Corbett wondered where they were going: a stiff, cold breeze caught the flame, teasing and making it dance. A rat slithered across their path squeaking in anger and, above his head, Corbett heard the rustle and flutter of bats. A distant, clapping thunder, like the hoof beats of mailed horsemen just before they charged, made him stop until he realised it was the roar of the sea.

The cave became lighter, damper, they turned a corner and Corbett almost gasped in relief at the sunlight blazing through the cave mouth. They left the tunnel, Corbett looked around, behind him rose the sheer cliffs of Neath while across the sand and shingle, the sea thundered under a clear blue sky. Maeve stopped, paused and pointed along the coastline.

'If you keep to the line of the cliffs you will come to a small fishing village.'

She slipped a ring shaped in the form of a Celtic cross from her finger and handed it to Corbett.

'Leave this with Griffith, a fisherman. Say I gave it to you, he will take you along the coast and across to Bristol'

'Maeve, can you, will you not come?'

'Hugh, you must go, please! This is the only way across, my uncle's men would only catch and hunt you down.'

Corbett held her hand and smiled.

'And Lord Morgan does not control the fishermen of the seas?'

'No,' Maeve replied. 'You must know such rights were granted by your King to the Earl of Richmond. My uncle is negotiating to buy these rights.'

She caught Corbett's startled gaze. 'Why, what is the matter?'

'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Nothing at all.'

'Then be gone,' she kissed him lightly on the lips and turned to go.

'Maeve,' Corbett took his dead wife's ring off his finger. 'Take this, remember me!'

She nodded, grasped the ring and slipped quietly back into the tunnel.

Corbett turned, the beach seemed more desolate, the sun had lost some of its golden brilliance. He wanted to stay, to call Maeve back and realised how much he had come to accept her presence, like a man used to a warm fire, misses the heat when he moves away. Above him, hunting gulls screeched their lonely call, Corbett felt the desolation creeping in like mist from a marsh. He rubbed the side of his face and looked back at where Ranulf was digging the sand with the toe of his boot and awoke to the real danger they were in.

'Ranulf,' he called softly. 'We must leave, the tide will come in and trap us against the cliffs.'

Groaning and cursing, Ranulf picked up the fat, heavy saddle-bags and followed. They stayed under the brow of the cliffs, hidden from the eyes of any scout or watcher. Corbett also wanted to avoid disturbing the gulls and cormorants wading in the lazy foam-edged sea: a sudden flurry of birds would only draw attention. They walked on as the summer sun began to sink, a ball of orange streaking the sea with fire. There were no signs of pursuit and Corbett hoped Morgan, probably misled by Maeve, would be scouring the Vale of Neath, sending out search-parties, sealing off the valley mouths in an attempt to trap and kill them. The only real danger was the sea, now noticeably closer as the tide crept in threatening to cut them off. Corbett urged Ranulf on ordering him hoarsely to keep close and walk faster.

They rounded a bluff and Corbett almost shouted with pleasure. The cliffs suddenly swept down into a little cove and on their edge was the small fishing village Maeve had mentioned. Corbett told Ranulf to keep under the lea of the cliffs as they made their approach, Morgan's retainers might be in the village and he did not wish to walk into a trap. Corbett left Ranulf at the foot of the track and quietly made his way up to the brow of the hill, squatting behind some fern he watched the scene before him. The village was a collection of wood and daub huts, each in its own plot protected by a flimsy fence. The thatched roofs swept down almost covering the square open windows, very few of them had doors, the square opening being protected by a thick sheet of canvas or leather. Near the huts were long slats or planks slung between poles of dead ash where the fish were gutted and dried.

A pile of refuse lay beneath and even where Corbett sat the smell of decaying fish and other odours made him feel nauseous. The village was quiet, a few children, almost naked save for a few rags, played in the dirt clay alongside rooting, fat-flanked pigs and stinking dogs, Now and again, a woman would push back a leather doorway and call out to a group of men who sat on a bench before one of the huts, drinking and playing a desultory game of dice. There was no sight of any of Morgan's men. Corbett heaved a deep sigh, stood up and walked into the village.

One of the mongrels dashed towards him, its ugly head forwad, upper lip curled in a snarl of anger, it snapped and lunged with its rat-trap jaw. Corbett lashed out with his boot and the cur turned and ran as one of the men rose, shouting and gesticulating.

Corbett walked towards him. 'Griffith,' he said, 'the lady Maeve told me to ask for help.'

The man, small, thick-set with a balding head and skin the colour and texture of leather, simply stared back, one huge muscular hand stroking the thick, jet-black beard which fell to his chest. He replied in Welsh but Corbett was certain he understood English.

'The lady Maeve sent me,' Corbett repeated, 'She told me to give this to Griffith.' He opened his hand and showed the ring which the man swiftly took.

'I will keep this,' he replied in fluent English. 'I am Griffith: what does the lady Maeve want?'

'To take me across the Severn to Bristol.'

Griffith groaned, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He walked over to the small group of onlookers and turned.

'Come!' Griffith waved his hand.'Come!' he repeated. We go!'