Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Here, in the innermost bailey of the Tower, lived the garrison and its dependants; two-storeyed wooden houses for important officials such as the Constable and Steward, huts for workers, as well as stone kitchens, smithies and outhouses. A few children played, hopping around the great war machines, the battering rams, mangonels and catapaults which lay round the bailey, their silent menace and threat of death drowned by the games and cries of the children. Corbett's guide crossed to the keep and, following the line of the wall, walked round its base to a small side door.

Corbett entered, a deep sense of dread closing at his heart and stomach, he knew he was entering the dungeons and torture chambers of the Tower. He strained to hear the bird song and distant shouts of the children. He wanted to clutch the sound to his chest to comfort him. The door slammed shut behind him; his guide struck tinder-flint, took the flaring sconce torch out of its socket and beckoned Corbett to follow. They went down the wet, mildewed steps, at the bottom was a huge cavern, Corbett shivered when he saw the braziers filled with spent ash, the long, blood-soaked table and the huge pincers and jagged iron bars which lay along the damp, green-slimed walls. Torches flickered throwing shadows across the pools of light, ghosts, Corbett thought, the souls of dead, tortured men. The common law of England forbade torture but, here in the kingdom of the damned, there were no rules, no common law, no regulations except the will of the Prince.

They walked across the sand-strewn floor and along one of the tunnels which ran from this antechamber of hell down under the base of the keep. The light was poorer here; only the occasional rush-lights: they passed a series of small cells, each with its iron-studded door and the small grille. They turned a corner and, almost as if he was waiting for them, a fat turnkey, dressed in a dirty leather jerkin, leggings and apron, scuttled forward like a spider from the shadows. Corbett's guide mumbled a few words, the man jerked and bobbed, his fat face creasing into an ingratiatory grin. He led them on, stopped at a cell, fumbling as he drove a large key into the lock. The door swung open, Corbett took the sconce torch from the soldier.

'Wait here,' he said, 'I will see him alone.'

The door crashed behind him and Corbett held up the torch, the cell was small and dark, the rushes had turned to a soft oozy mess on the floor, the stench was terrible.

'Well, Corbett. Here to gloat?'

The clerk raised the torch higher and saw Waterton on a low trestle bed in the far corner. His clothes were now a collection of dirty rags and, as Corbett stepped forward, he saw the man's unshaven face was bruised, the left eye almost closed while his lips were swollen and flecked with blood.

'I would rise,' Waterton's voice was terse and clipped, 'but the guards are none too gentle and my ankles have swollen.'

'Stay,' Corbett urged. 'I have not come to gloat but merely to question, perhaps help.'

'How?'

'You have been arrested,' Corbett answered, 'because we think, or rather the evidence points to you being the traitor on Edward's council.'

'Do you think that?'

'Perhaps, but only you can disprove it.'

'Again, I ask you. How?'

Corbett stepped closer and looked at Waterton. The man was sullen, brave but, in the flickering light of the torch, Corbett saw the fear lurking in his eyes.

'You can explain your wealth?'

'My father deposited a great deal with Italian bankers, both the Frescobaldi and Bardi families can attest to this.'

'We will see. And your father?'

'An opponent of King Henry III.' Waterton bitterly commented, scratching an open sore which seemed to glare out through the shreds of his leggings.

'Do you share his views?' Corbett quietly asked.

'No. Traitors swing to a choking death. I do not want that.' Waterton eased himself up, the steel gyves chafing his wrists, the chains clanking in protest.

'And my mother,' he almost jibed, 'Is it high treason for her to be French?'

'No,' Corbett snapped, 'But it is high treason to consort with the French.'

Waterton jerked up the chains screeching and clashing as the man moved in fury.

'You cannot prove that!'

'So, you do not deny it.'

'Yes, I do,' Waterton snarled, 'Don't be such a clever bastard, stop putting words in my mouth. I do not know what you are asking.'

'In Paris,' Corbett answered, 'In Paris, the French paid special attention to you, singling you out for favours and gifts.'

Waterton shrugged wearily.

'I did not know and still do not, why such favours were shown to me.'

'Or why you should meet de Craon and a young, blond woman, secretly at night in some Parisian tavern'?'

Even in the dim light of the sconce torch Corbett saw the blood drain from Waterton's gaunt face.

'I do not know what you mean!'

'By God you do!' Corbett shouted, 'Are you the traitor, the spy? Did you send Aspale and others to their deaths? An entire ship's crew? For what? To satisfy the itch in your cock!'

Waterton lunged forward like a dog, teeth bared, his usual saturnine face twisted into a snarl of rage. Corbett stared at him as, held back by the chains, the man clawed furiously at the air.

'Tell me,' Corbett continued as Waterton slumped sobbing, back on to his filthy bed. 'Tell me the truth. If you are innocent, in hours you'll be free but now you are in deep mire, held fast as any fly in a spider's web.'

Corbett paused. 'Why did the French favour you? Who was the girl you met with de Craon? Have you been in correspondence with Lord Morgan of Neath?'

Waterton breathed deeply.

'My father was a rebel against the crown,' he began slowly. 'But I am not. My mother was French but I am not. My wealth is my own. My allegiance is to Edward of England. I do not know why de Craon favoured me. I was the clerk responsible for sending the King's letters to him but I would no more correspond secretly with that treacherous Welshman than you!'

'And the young woman in Paris?'

'That, Corbett, is my affair. My only secret. For God's sake!' Waterton shouted, 'If every man who secretly met a woman was charged with being a traitor, then we are all dead men.'

'Tell me her name!'

'I will not!'

Corbett shrugged and, turning, knocked on the cell door.

'Corbett!'

Hugh turned and flinched at the hate in Waterton's eyes.

'Listen, Corbett,' he rasped, 'If I told you, you would not believe me, not you. You're a lonely man, Corbett, a righteous man with a sharp brain and a dead soul. You may have loved once but now, you have forgotten even how to. So. why should О tell you? I hate you, your cold emptiness, from the very bowels of Hell, Satan and all his demons will surely come to fill it!'

Corbett turned and banged on the door. He wanted to get out, he had come to make Waterton face the truth and now hated having to confront it himself.

Six days later, after a quiet and uneventful journey, Gorbett and the French envoys landed at Boulogne-su-Mer. Corbett was accompanied by an ever-grumbling Ranulf, angry at being snatched away from the pleasures and joys of London's low life. Another Englishman accompanied them, William Hervey, a small, mouse-like man, a scribe by profession and timid by nature. He was used to working in the Court of Common Pleas and was totally overawed by the company in which he now travelled. The French left them alone. De Craon and Corbett exchanged pleasantries but, in the main, the relationship, if one could call it that, was one of mutual distrust. Actually, Corbett felt safer with the French than he had since his return from Wales: they had guaranteed the safety and security of his person; awesome oaths sworn over sacred relics and the Bible that he would be allowed a safe return to the English court.