Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

'These,' he rasped, 'would have been yours if the man had been killed.' De Craon took one of the bags between his finger and thumb, stared coolly at the Breton and dropped the bag at the soldier's feet. 'But you failed and so you only get one.' De Craon strode away, beneath his robe he clenched the bags of gold coins tightly so they bit into his hands but the Frenchman ignored the pain. He had wanted Corbett dead. He hated the man for being what he was as well as what he might do. De Craon stopped for a while and stared around the ruined chancel of the church he had met the assassins in, then he smiled, there would be other occasions to settle past debts with Monsieur Corbett.

In Paris, Simon Fauvel, Edward I's agent to the French Court, was on his knees in a small church in the student quarter of the left bank of the Seine. Fauvel liked the tiny, close, musty church; its stark, bare walls and simple lines gave it an aura of purity, a place of prayer untouched by the glitter and gaudy colours of the outside world. Fauvel was not so much a religious man but a cynic tired of the mystery and intrigue which swirled through his normal life; the pretence, the deception, the clever words and phrases which disguised greed, power and the lust to rule. Fauvel knew all about these; as one of King Edward's agents at the French court, he kept the English king informed of developments, attempting to sift the kernel of truth from the thick dross of lies.

'A Peritus' or lawyer on Gascon affairs, Fauvel's task was to argue with French officials and lawyers ever eager to extend Philip's rights over the duchy. Now, Fauvel wearily thought, Philip IV had the duchy and seemed reluctant to give it back. Of course, Fauvel had protested but the French had just shrugged and murmured that such problems could not be solved in a day.

Fauvel tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the reason for visiting the church. It was the anniversary of his wife's death and, every year, he always set aside an hour to pray for her soul, the same date, the same hour when her breath had stopped rattling in her throat and she died of the fever, alone, except for a hedge priest, for Fauvel had been absent on the King's business in France. Fauvel had never really forgiven himself and vowed that on the anniversary of the date and time of her death as well as his neglect of her, God would see him on his knees in prayer. Fauvel scratched his balding head, grimacing at the cold seeping through his knees and thighs from the icy paving stones and tried to ignore the distraction of what he had so recently discovered. There was a traitor in England, the French were well informed about Edward's councils, as they were about their own designs and plots. Fauvel had chosen not to write to Edward about his anxieties but hoped the English embassy under King Edward's brother, the Earl of Lancaster, would soon reach Paris. Fauvel sighed.

He could not pray and soon the bells of Notre Dame would be tolling Vespers, a time of public worship as well as the signal for the beginning of the curfew. Fauvel got up, stretched and tried to rub the cold out of his thighs. Paris was dangerous at night and he was already anxious about Nicholas Poer, the spy from the English chancery whose regular meetings with him had so abruptly ceased. Was Poer alive or dead? Fauvel wondered. He shrugged to himself, such problems would have to wait until Lancaster arrived.

Fauvel pulled the hood close about his face, eyed the deserted, eerie church and stepped into the narrow, dark street. There were still a few people about but he hurried along, eager to reach his lodgings. A beggar rushed out of the shadows, whining for alms, Fauvel pushed him away but the fellow followed, tugging at his cloak and screeching for a sou. Fauvel turned cursing but the beggar persisted, following him like a tormented demon, loudly protesting and shouting abuse. At last, just outside his lodgings, Fauvel exasperated, stopped, turned and dug into his purse.

'Take these and be off!' The beggar grasped Fauvel's wrist, its warmth and strength surprised the cautious English agent, he should have known better but it was too late for as he began to slip backwards, the beggar suddenly lunged forward and drove the dagger, concealed in his other hand, straight into Fauvel's throat.

Corbett shouldered his way through the busy, gaudy-smelling throng. He had been in Paris seven days and was trying to forget his own problems by visiting the self-proclaimed capital of Europe. Paris stretched from the Grands Boulevards on the right bank of the Seine to the Luxembourg Gardens on the left, the city had grown round the castles and manor houses of the King and was spreading out to include the great homes of the merchant princes as well as the wood and daub houses of the artisans.

The city of Paris was centred on the оle de la Citй in the Seine on which stood the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Hфtel Dieu and the Royal Palace of the Louvre. Paris was ruled by its kings but dominated by its guilds: each trade had its own quarter; the apothecaries in the city: the literary trades, parchment sellers, scribes, illuminators, booksellers in the Latin quarter on the left bank of the Seine: money-changers, Jews, Lombards and goldsmiths on the Grand Port. As he neared the Grand Chвtelet, Corbett noted that the trades, forbidden to tout their wares, displayed huge signs, a giant glove, pestle or hat.

Paris was a prosperous city with busy markets: bread in the Place Maribet: meat in the Grand Chвtelet: St. Germain for sausages: flowers and geegaws on the Petit Port. Corbett wandered down the great boulevard which would allow two or three carts abreast to the Great Orberie or herb market on the quayside opposite the оle de la Citй. Corbett loved the sweet crushed smell of herbs which reminded him of his native west Sussex and, though a shy man, he also loved crowds and the sharp, devious manner of the merchants when doing business. Corbett wandered amongst the stalls trying to detect which butchers bled out the meat or used the blood to freshen the gills of old, stale fish. He was fascinated by deception, the way things could be made to appear in sharp contrast with the way they really were.

Politics were no different, Corbett had been surprised by what had happened since his arrival in Paris and he needed time to think, reflect and analyse. The English envoys had been given a large manor house near the main Paris bridge across the Seine, a large rambling affair with crenellated walls, spiked towers and a huge courtyard. The English soon made themselves at home, men like Blaskett had their virtues for their love of power meant order was soon imposed, supplies, bought, kitchens cleaned and ready for use. On the third day of their arrival in Paris, the principal English envoys were invited to meet King Philip and his council in the Louvre Palace on the оle de la Citй. They had assembled in its large hall, decked with blazing blood-red banners, exquisite drapes and the blue and gold colours of the royal household.

Fresh rushes sprinkled with spring flowers had been strewn on the floor and a host of great iron candelabra burning beeswax candles were placed around the heavy, oaken table on the dais at the far end of the hall. Lancaster, Corbett and the other English envoys sat at one side of this and rose suddenly when trumpets brayed and King Philip with his entourage swept into the room. Corbett was immediately struck by the majesty of the French king dressed from head to toe in a blue velvet gown trimmed with snow-white costly ermine, the gown being decorated with silver fleur-de-lis and gathered close by a thick gold belt. The King's blond hair, bound by a silver coronet, fell down to his shoulders to frame a white face, narrow eyes, a beak of a nose and thin bloodless lips.

Philip IV, exuding majesty in his every gesture, had nodded at Lancaster before sitting down in a great oaken chair at the head of the table and, with a weary wave of a purple-gloved hand, gestured to the English envoys and members of his own entourage to take their seats. Corbett did, almost standing up again in surprise when he noticed the small, dark figure beside the French king; the man was glaring at him, not bothering to hide the malice glistening in his eyes. Corbett looked again in disbelief but there was no mistaking Amaury de Craon, special envoy of the French crown. Corbett had encountered him in Scotland some years earlier and, judging by the malice in de Craon's stare, the French clerk had not forgiven nor forgotten the way Corbett had outwitted him. Corbett glanced away, gathered his thoughts and hid his surprise beneath an inscrutable, diplomatic poise.