Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Then, quickly he scratched down the conclusions he had learnt:

Item – There was a traitor on Edward's council.

Item – The traitor was corresponding with the French and, possibly, traitors in Wales.

Item – This treachery had begun after the Earl of Richmond's disastrous expedition which had lost England the Duchy of Gascony.

Item – Waterton the clerk: his mother was French, his father a rebel against the King: he lived beyond his means, was courted by the French and secretly met Philip IV's spy-master. He was a former clerk in Richmond's household and also seemed to have some connection with Lord Morgan of Neath.

Item – Was Waterton the traitor? Or was it his master, the Earl of Richmond?

Corbett stared into the darkness but only saw Maeve's lovely face and felt a cold loneliness grasp his soul in its iron-hard fist.

Robert Aspale, clerk of the Exchequer, felt equally lonely. He had been sent to France by the King as his agent to oversee matters there. By 'oversee' Edward, of course, had meant 'spy'. The King had been most insistent that Aspale leave, adding that his emissary to South Wales, Hugh Corbett, had failed to return or even communicate with the English court. It should have been Corbett, Aspale thought, here, in this tavern on the outskirts of Amiens, but Edward had said he could wait no longer and so Aspale would travel to Paris posing as a merchant from Hainault. He would enter France through the territory of Edward's ally, Guy Dampierre, Count of Flanders: Aspale was fluent in the different tongues and dialects of the Low Countries and posing as a cloth merchant looking for fresh trade in the great markets of Northern France would prove easy.

Secretly, however, Aspale was to discover if aiiy of Edward's agents and spies in Paris were still alive as well as try to unearth the secret designs of Philip IV. He carried a belt round his slim waist, its pouches filled with gold which could open doors and, more importantly, loosen tongues: courtesans, petty officials, impoverished knights, servants and retainers. They all heard gossip, bits and pieces which collected together like fragments of a mosaic, could form a clear picture of what was happening.

Aspale stared round the crowded tavern, he felt comfortable after his meal of duck cooked in a thick, spicy sauce and washed down with deep gulps of Rhenish. He suddenly noticed a petite girl with hair as red as fire tumbling down to her shoulders. She was wearing a tight green dress which emphasised her jutting breasts and slim waist before falling in a flounce about rounded ankles. She was pale, her skin looked as smooth as alabaster, only her arrogant, heavy-lidded eyes and twisted, pouting mouth marred her beauty. She gazed boldly at Aspale, nodded slightly and, after a few minutes, left the table where she was sitting and moved across to join him. Her French was fluent though Aspale detected the softer accents of Provence.

'Good evening, Monsieur,' she began. 'You have enjoyed your meal?' Aspale gazed back speculatively.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I have enjoyed my meal, but why should that concern you?' The woman shrugged.

'You look content, happy, I like to be with a happy man!'

'I suppose you search them out?'

The girl threw her head back and laughed. She smiled dazzlingly, the merriment in her eyes clearing the angry sulkiness from her face. She leaned across the table.

'My name is Nightshade,' she murmured. 'Or that is what I prefer to call myself, and you?'

'Van Greeling,' Aspale lied good-humourediy. 'And now, Lady Nightshade, a drink?'

The girl nodded and Aspale ordered a fresh jug and two clean cups.

The Englishman was under no illusion about his companion's true calling but he was tired, slightly drunk and totally flattered by this young courtesan's attention. They chatted for a while as the tavern filled and became more noisy, Nightshade refilled his cup, leaned over and whispered in his ear. Aspale saw the unflawed whiteness of face, neck and breast and caught the faint fragrant perfume of her hair. He wanted this woman and, tiring of banal conversation, quickly agreed that they should move upstairs to a private chamber. Nightshade said she had one and rose.

Aspale, half drunk, staggered to his feet and followed her through the crowd, careful lest he slipped in the dirt and refuse which littered the straw-covered floor, his eyes intent on his companion's fluid, rounded hips. They climbed the wooden staircase. Aspale followed Nightshade to a corner chamber, impatient as she fumbled at the iron clasp. The door swung open and Nightshade stepped into the pool of candelight. Drunk as he was, Aspale sensed there was something wrong. Who had lit the candle? It was too well prepared, Nightshade turned, her face drawn, the smile gone, her eyes haughty and sad. The door crashed shut behind him, Aspale scrabbled for his dagger but the assassin had the garrotte around his neck and Aspale's life flickered out like the flame of the candle.

Corbett and Ranulf took four days to reach London, the Prior loaning them the best horses from his stables, Corbett solemnly promising that the royal household would ensure their safe return. The journey back was peaceful, no danger of outlaw attack for the roads were packed with soldiers moving south to the coast as the King, having crushed the rebels in Scotland, was now determined to take an army to France.

Corbett sat and watched the soldiers march past: most were veterans, professional killers in their boots, leggings, boiled leather jackets and steel conical helmets. They were all well armed with a dagger, sword, spear and shield and marched by oblivious to the dust clouds and haze of swarming flies. Corbett let them pass, the troops showed that King Edward's patience had snapped and was now determined to settle the quarrel with Philip by force.

Corbett rode on through Acton and into the city. They reached their lodgings, checked their possessions, Ranulf taking the horses to the royal stables and promptly disappearing into the shady swirl of South-wark's low life. Corbett resignedly accepted this and spent two days regulating his own affairs before sending a message to the royal palace of Westminster that he had returned. If Corbett thought the King's absence would provide him with a respite he was swiftly disappointed. The following morning, a group of royal Serjeants armed with warrants arrived to take him to Westminster where Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, was waiting in the sacristy of the abbey church.

There, among the splendid silken capes, silver candelabra, crucifixes and chalices, Corbett gave the Earl a brief summary of his visit to Neath. The Earl, dressed informally in silken shirt and hose, slumped in a great oaken chair and heard him out. Corbett, ignoring the look of anger on the Earl's pinched features, reiterated the obvious conclusion that the visit had achieved little, dismissing with a lurch of his heart, Maeve's sweet face and beautiful eyes. When he finished, Lancaster sat, head to one side, a gesture which only emphasised his crooked frame. At length he smiled wearily and rose.

'You failed, Corbett. I know,' he raised a be-ringed hand to fend off any questions, 'You did your best. When I say "failed" I mean you discovered nothing new except confirm our suspicions about the traitor.'

'You know who he is?'

Lancaster grimaced. 'It must be Waterton," he replied. 'It has to be. These are your conclusions and we have fresh evidence.'

'Against Waterton?'

'Yes. My brother is in the north bringing Balliol to heel. The Scottish King's defiance lasted days but it did serve us well for one of his squires, Ogilvie, told our spy in Stirling that the Scots had learnt that Waterton was

'How did they know?' 'From the French!'

'But they could have just said that to protect the real traitor!' Lancaster shrugged. 'But why bother,' he snapped, 'in protecting someone that does not need any protection. Anyway,' the Earl concluded, 'someone evidently thought Ogilvie had done something very wrong. A few hours after he met our spy, he was found with his throat cut.'