Paul Doherty - Spy in Chancery

Corbett's anxieties were suddenly resolved by the clatter of boots on the cobbled streets. Two hooded figures stepped out of the darkness, the first entered the tavern but the second stopped in the pool of light by the door, pulled back his cowl and looked quickly around. Corbett stiffened with excitement, it was de Craon. The English clerk waited until the two had entered and, after a short while, walked across the street and peered through a crack in the shutter.

The place was ill-lit by oil cressets fixed in the wall. Corbett looked across the dirty room and saw Waterton joined by de Craon and his companion who pulled back her hood to reveal raven black hair and a face which Helen of Troy would have envied; alabaster skin, full red lips and large dark eyes. Despite the poor light, Waterton looked relaxed and pleased to see his visitors, he clasped the girl by the wrists and turning, called in a loud voice for the host to bring wine, the best he had. Corbett had seen enough and turned to go, almost screaming in fright at the dishevelled figure crouching behind him.

'A sou,' the beggar whined, 'For God's sake, a sou!'

Corbett stared at the dirty face and glittering eyes and edged away, he turned and ran like the wind down the dirty, dark street. He paused to listen for any pursuit and, though breathless, ran sobbing on, sometimes losing his way as he pounded up filthy alleys and muck-strewn runnels, slipping and gasping as he ploughed through heaps of dirt or missed his footing and splashed into the shit-strewn sewer which ran down the centre. Once he hid from the watch, on another occasion sent a poor beggar woman sprawling when she came out of the shadows pleading for charity. Corbett drew his dagger and, carrying it before him, ran on till, breathless and shaken, he reached his lodgings.

The next morning Corbett kept to his own chamber, pushing Ranulf out on some spurious errand. He was exhaused after the terrors of the previous evening. The thought of the silent horrors of those desolate streets and how close he had courted death made him feel nauseous. He dreaded the prospect of a possible return and stayed in his room for the rest of the day trying to make some sense of the chaotic information he had acquired. Waterton was half-French: he was a clerk of the royal council of England and therefore privy to King Edward's secret designs: Waterton acted suspiciously, he was courted by the French, met de Craon at night, cloaked all dealings in secrecy and seemed to have a limitless fund of money. But was he the traitor? Who was the girl? And how did Waterton pass on information to de Craon once he was back in England?

Dusk fell and Corbett got off his pallet bed. He had thought of asking Lancaster for help but he was too suspicious to confide in anyone yet he did make one request of the comptroller of Lancaster's household for certain items. The man looked startled but allowed Corbett to draw the supplies he needed. The clerk made his way down the narrow winding staircase to the hall, a low, black-beamed room with bare, whitewashed walls, a table with benches down each side, a few sconce lights and rusty charcoal braziers. The French, as Lancaster had mused loudly, had hardly bothered to make them welcome. The rooms were filthy and there was a constant wail from the buttery or the kitchen as the cooks discovered some fresh problem.

The evening meal was always a morose affair. Lancaster sat glowering at his food; Richmond, depending on his mood, was either silent or boastfully tedious as he recounted details from the Gascon campaign of 1295 which he had so badly led and so constantly justified. Eastry, after he had said the 'Benedictus', picked at his food, usually rancid beneath its sauce and spices, and kept his own counsel. Waterton ate quickly and made his excuses to leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Tonight was no different, Waterton nodded at Corbett, made the usual obeisance to Lancaster and left.

Corbett followed soon after, taking the same route as the previous evening. He soon caught sight of Waterton's purposeful walk, there was no difficulty for his quarry visited the same tavern, so the clerk hid in the shadows and began his vigil. This time Corbett not only kept the tavern door under scrutiny but occasionally stared around the gathering dusk, but there was nothing to see or hear. Only the light and faint sounds of the tavern broke the silent menace of the shadowed street.

De Craon and his companion eventually arrived, sweeping into the tavern without pausing or a backward glance. Corbett waited for a few seconds and walked quietly across the street and peered through the chink in the shutters. Waterton, de Craon and the lady sat huddled round the same table. Corbett watched but he was tense, his ears straining for any sound, his heart pounding. He wanted to run, flee from the danger he sensed was lurking in the shadows. A faint sound made Corbett turn. The beggar was there on all fours resting on wooden slats looking up at him. 'A sou, sir, just a sou.' Corbett dug into his purse and slowly handed a coin over. Later, Corbett could not truly describe what happened even though the scene became part of his nightmares. The beggar lifted his hand and suddenly iunged at Corbett's chest, showing the dagger he had concealed in his rags. Corbett moved sideways, even as the dagger dented the hauberk he wore beneath his cloak. Corbett struck back, the dagger he carried catching the beggar full in his exposed throat and, eyes wide at the blood spouting onto his chest, the man toppled over into the mud.

Corbett leaned against the tavern wall, trying to control his terrified sobbing and stared around but there was no further danger. He looked down at his would-be assassin and gingerly turned him over with his foot. He ignored the glazed eyes, the jagged slash in the throat and searched the man but there was nothing. Corbett rose and peered through the shutters but Waterton was still close with his visitors, oblivious to the grim, silent tragedy enacted outside.

The following morning Corbett ensured Waterton had returned to their lodgings before seeking an interview with Lancaster. He told the Earl of his suspicions and what had happened the previous evening, Lancaster scratched his still unshaven chin and peered at Corbett.

'How did you expect danger from a beggar?'

'Because someone like him,' Corbett replied, 'killed Poer and Fauvel.'

'How do you know that?'

'Well, the only peson mentioned by the innkeeper near Poer was a beggar.'

'And Fauvel?'

'He was stabbed outside his lodgings. His purse was taken to make it look like a robbery but his hand still held a few coins. I asked myself why a man should die outside his own house with coins in his hands. The only acceptable explanation was that he was about to distribute alms, a fistful of sous. Any man would be vulnerable to an assassin disguised as a beggar asking for alms.'

'But why didn't the beggar kill you the first evening?'

'I don't know,' Corbett replied. 'Perhaps I did not give him the opportunity. I fled.' The Earl slumped into a chair and toyed with the gold tassle of his gown.

'And do you think Waterton's the traitor?' he asked.

'Perhaps, but meeting de Craon is not treason, we have no proof, not yet.'

'If we trap him then it must not be in France,' Lancaster replied. 'There will be fresh opportunities.' He looked up and smiled, 'We start for England the day after tomorrow.'

Corbett was pleased to be leaving France. It was too dangerous to stay. He had killed de Craon's professional assassin and the Frenchman would neither forgive nor forget that. As for Waterton, Corbett was half-convinced he was the traitor, responsible for the death of at least two men in Paris and the wholesale destruction of an English ship and its crew. In England Corbett would gather further evidence and send Waterton to the scaffold at the Elms.