Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Edward stared dully around the chamber, a pretence while he plotted his words and studied the faces of his councillors. One of them was a traitor. But who? Robert Winchelsea, his sainted Archbishop of Canterbury? A prelate of the church? Edward did not trust the man, an upstart, a sanctimonious clerk, a shallow man who always supported noble causes. On the King's left, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Edward stared at his brother's thin white face framed by long, black hair. He felt a touch of compassion whenever he studied his brother. Edmund had always been sickly and looked permanently ill with his slightly withered arm and cruel, distorted right shoulder. An accident at birth, or so they said. Yet, Edward had heard the stories about Edmund really being the first born, Henry Ill's eldest son but overlooked because of his disabilities, the crown passing to his stronger, more acceptable brother? Lies! Edward knew the truth but often wondered if his brother did. Edmund had been in charge of Gascony yet he had quietly surrendered it to the French, tricked, outmanoeuvred, making his name and the crown of England a laughing-stock in Europe.

Edward's gaze passed on. Next to Edmund sat John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond. Another fool, Edward thought. Richmond held lands in France and was related, albeit tenuously, to Philip IV. Edward often wondered if Richmond had been bought for a price, a little higher than the usual thirty pieces of silver. Edward silently ground his teeth. He had trusted that florid-faced fool as a son. For what? Richmond had taken an expeditionary force to France, invaded Gascony and promptly surrendered. Edward looked around. There were others, Bohun, Earl of Hereford, and Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. God's teeth, a precious pair! Gascony, had demanded that the province be handed over to him for thirty days while the dispute was setded. Edward ground his teeth at what happened next. His own dear brother, Edmund, had agreed, later justifying his actions by all sorts of legal nonsense. The French had immediately occupied it and Philip IV, that white-faced, devious bastard, had refused to cede it back. His troops poured into the duchy like a river breaking a dam, and all was lost.

Edward had complained bitterly to Philip, the Pope and other princes of Europe. Oh, they had been sorry. They thought it was a terrible violation of a vassal's feudal rights but Edward knew they would not help, behind their polite diplomatic statements, they were laughing at him. Yet this had only been the beginning of the nightmare; Edward's spies began to send in reports of a secret, grand design by Philip to isolate England, striking through Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Gascony. Edward had brought Wales firmly under his control, Scotland could be subjected and Gascony regained, but what if the reverse was true? If Philip took all these provinces before launching an all-out assault on England. Duke William of Normandy had done the same two hundred years before.

Edward's own grandfather, John, had lost all of England's possessions in northern France and had to face a French invasion of England. Was the pattern going to repeat itself? Edward frowned and cracked his knuckles. He had made a serious mistake, he had underestimated Philip IV, nicknamed 'Le Bel', the French King had fooled everyone with his coy, blond looks, frank blue eyes and honest, down-to-earth approach. Now Edward knew better. Philip was intent on creating an empire which would have made Charlemagne gasp in amazement.

Edward flexed his fingers above the brazier. There must be a way out, he thought; he would reinforce the Welsh garrisons and send an army north to smash the Scots. And Philip IV? Edward sighed. He would grovel to the Pope, kiss his satin sandal, place England and its territories under his protection. Grandfather John had done the same with brilliant results. If anybody attacked England, they would, in fact, be assaulting the Holy Father and all the might of the Catholic Church. Edward grinned, he would send bushels of gold to that old reprobate, Pope Boniface VIII, and ask him to intervene, arbitrate. At the same time, he would root out the traitors here in Westminster. But whom could he trust? Whom would Burnell have chosen? Edward thought and his grin almost broke into a laugh. Of course! The King of England had chosen his man.

Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the royal chancery of England, knelt before the statue of the Virgin in the palatial, incense-smelling lady chapel of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Boulogne-sur-Mer. The English clerk was not a religious man but he believed that the good Christ and his mother should be treated with every courtesy, so he prayed when he remembered to. Corbett found prayer hard, he did most of the talking while God always seemed too busy to answer him. Corbett had lit a pure beeswax candle and now knelt in its circle of light, desperately trying to fulfil his vow.

He had made it during that God-forsaken voyage from England in a squat, fat-bellied cog which seemed to have a will of its own, almost malicious in the damage it had caused. On leaving Dover, it had run into a storm and backed and heaved itself across the swelling sullen waves. An icy, blasting wind had filled the sail, tossing the ship like a leaf on a pond and Corbett had spent the entire voyage crouched in the bows, vomiting and retching till he thought his heart would give out.

The cold sea water poured through the scuppers, soaking his already freezing body until Corbett thought he was going to die. He could not move for what was the use? Only to vomit and be despatched back to the rail by his equally discomforted colleagues. Corbett's only consolation was that his body-servant, Ranulf, had been as ill. Usually a man of robust appetites, Ranulf had joined his master in his agony. Corbett had, at last, taken a vow, promising to light a candle in the Cathedral Church of Notre Dame and kneel in an hour's prayer in the Lady Chapel, if the Virgin brought him safely to shore.

Corbett had found lighting the candle an easy task but the hour's prayer had turned into a careful analysis of why the King had sent him to France in the first place. Corbett sighed, rose from his knees and leaned against one of the pillars, staring down into the darkness of the nave. He was a senior clerk in the chancery now, responsible for letters, memoranda, indentures, warrants and other documents issued under the secret seal of England, responsible only to the Chief Justiciar, Chancellor and King of England. A secure, well-paid job with fat fees and the right to draw on supplies from the King's own household, he had his own small house off Holborn, monies deposited with a goldsmith and even more with a Sienese banker.

Corbett had few ties, no wife, no child, and he had reached his thirty-eighth year still enjoying robust health in an age when a man was lucky to pass his thirty-fifth. Corbett slid down and crouched at the base of the huge, fluted pillar. His stomach was still unsettled and he felt weak and unsteady from the sea crossing. Corbett cursed, he was back on his travels again, entrusted once more with secret and delicate tasks. He had thought that all was over now when his master, Burnell, had died some four years ago. Old Burnell, cunning, saintly with a streak of devious genius in rooting out any threat to the realm. Now he was gone, Corbett had been a member of the body watch which had knelt and prayed over the old bishop's stiffening corpse before it was shrouded and laid to rest in its pinewood coffin.

Since his old master's death, Corbett's life had flowed and ebbed like some sluggish stream until the King intervened and summoned him to a secret meeting at his palace of Eltham. The King was planning a fresh expedition against the Scots and the room had been full of trunks, cases and leather chancery pouches containing letters, memoranda and bills concerning the Scottish question. Edward had quickly come to the point: there was a traitor or traitors in his own chancery or on his council who were collecting vital secret information on England's affairs and passing it, God knows how the King fumed, to Philip IV of France. Corbett was to be an envoy, join an embassy to the French court and discover the traitor.