by Paul Doherty
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.
'Be on your guard,' the King bleakly commented, 'the traitor could well be one of your companions. You are to find him, Master Corbett, trap him in his filth!'
'Shall I arrest him, your Grace?'
'If possible,' came the bland reply, 'but, if that is not feasible, kill him!'
Corbett shuddered and stared round the quiet, sombre church. He had come to pray and yet plotted death. He heard a sound at the back of the church and wearily rose. Ranulf would be waiting for him: the English clerk genuflected towards the solitary flickering sanctuary lamp and walked slowly down the nave.
Corbett breathed deeply, slowly, he wished to remain calm, even though he was certain there was someone in the church, lurking in the darkness, watching him.
THREE
The day after Corbett's visit to Notre Dame, the English envoys had sufficiendy recovered from the ordeal at sea to begin their journey, following the coast down to the Somme before turning south to Paris. They had brought their own horses and baggage across, a cumbersome trail of animals carrying supplies for my lords the Earls of Richmond and Lancaster, not to mention the clerks, scribes, cooks, cursors, bailiffs, priests and doctors. There was no obvious distinction in degree or status, the biting cold weather and shrill, sharp winds ensured everyone was wrapped in thick brown cloaks.
Now there was the usual chaos outside the small monastery they had lodged in after leaving the port, horses were saddled, two needed a farrier, one was lame, another had sores on its back; girths, bridles and stirrups were checked, broken or damaged ones repaired before clothing, manuscripts and other baggage were loaded noisily on to them alongside provisions purchased at exorbitant prices from sly-eyed merchants. The calm of the monastery courtyard was shattered by cries, shouted orders, curses and the angry neighs of nervous, highly-strung horses. A number of mongrels wandered in to share and spread the confusion, only to be chased away by an irate, stick-wielding lay brother.
Corbett sat on a ruined bench in the corner of the courtyard and morosely watched the chaos. The shouts and curses would have drowned the cries of the damned in hell; Corbett stared up at the huge tympanum carved above the monastery church door where, etched eternally in stone, the damned hanged by their bellies from trees of fire while more smothered in furnaces, their hands across their mouths, their stone eyes staring through plumes of smoke; Christ in judgement held the saved in his hands while the wicked were swallowed by monst
rous fish, some gnawed by demons, tormented by serpents, fire, ice or tormented by fruits forever hanging out of reach of their starving maws. Corbett morosely concluded such terrors were nothing compared to the experience of being sent across the channel in freezing winter on an English embassy to France.
'Master Corbett,' the clerk groaned and got up as his servant, Ranulf, shoved his way through the crowded courtyard, the man's red hair glowing like a beacon above his white, anxious face. Corbett had saved Ranulf from the gallows some ten years before, now he was the clerk's faithful steward and companion, at least superficially, for Corbett knew Ranulf atte Newgate had a powerful interest in bettering himself at the expense of everyone else, Corbett included. Ranulf could lie, cheat and betray with a skill which constantly astonished and amused the clerk while Ranulf's pursuit of other men's wives would, Corbett privately maintained, bring his servant to a violent and sudden end.
Now, Ranulf was acting the role of the agitated, concerned servant, slyly hoping he could disturb his secretive, solemn master.
'It's Blaskett!' Ranulf said breathlessly. 'He says we are ready to leave soon and asks if your baggage is packed and loaded?' Blaskett was the pompous, arrogant peacock of a steward in the Earl of Lancaster's household. A man who loved authority and all its show like other men loved gold.
'Is our baggage loaded, Ranulf?' Corbett asked.
'Yes.'
'And are we ready to leave?'
'Yes.'
'Then why not tell my lord Blaskett!' Ranulf stared like a man who had just received a great secret, nodded and, turning on his heel, bustled back into the monastery to continue his malicious baiting of the pigeon-breasted Blaskett.
The English embassy departed just as the monastery bells were booming out for Terce; the French escort were waiting for them outside the monastery gate, a pursuivant of Philip's court, resplendent in scarlet and black, three nondescript clerks and two knights in half-armour, their sleeveless jerkins covering breastplates displaying the blue and gold of the royal French household. They were accompanied by a number of mounted men-at-arms, rough looking veterans, wearing boiled leather jerkins, steel breastplates and thick woollen serge leggings pushed into stout riding-boots. Corbett watched Lancaster and Richmond talk to the knights, documents were exchanged and, with the mounted escort strung out on either side of them, the English embassy continued its journey.
The Normandy countryside was flat, brown and still in the mailed fist of winter. Some hardy peasants, their russet cloaks belted around them, felt hats pulled over their eyes, attempted to break the ground for sowing: behind them, their families, women, even small children worked scattering marle, lime or manure to fertilise the soil. To Corbett, who had witnessed the ravages of war on the marcher counties during King Edward's Welsh wars, the land seemed prosperous enough. Nevertheless, he remembered the saying of Jacques of Vitry, 'what the peasant gains by stubborn work in a year, the lord will devour in an hour'. Justice was harsh, the lords of the manor in their walled, moated homes of wood and stone, exercised more justice than they did in England and every crossroad had its scaffold or stocks.
The villages were a collection of cottages, each with a small garden surrounded by a hedge and shallow ditch but Corbett was particularly struck by the number of towns, some old but others only in existence for decades; each was walled, the houses clustered around an abbey, cathedral or church. Sometimes the English stayed in one of these places, such as Noyon and Beauvis, where there was a welcoming priory or tavern spacious enough to host them. On other occasions, a variety of manors, royal or otherwise, were compelled to accept them. The French knights would flaunt their warrants, demanding purveyance which obliged the hapless lord or steward to feed the envoys and their entourage. Nevertheless, despite such hospitality, Corbett and his colleagues were left well alone by their French escort who treated them in a sullen, off-hand manner. On reflection, Corbett was not surprised, a state of armed truce existed between France and England with every indication that both countries might soon slip into war.
Corbett soon tired of the endless, daily tasks and problems of travelling though men like Blaskett thrived on them. The little things, the chatter, the gossip, who sat where, who was due what monies, it sounded glorious to be sent on an embassy to France: Corbett knew many of his colleagues would seize and enhance such an opportunity, forgetting the sores on their arses and thighs from constant riding, the rat-infested hostels, the rancid meat and sour wine which turned their bowels to water and the journey into a nightmare. The company of the great was no consolation, Lancaster was mean, sour-mouthed and taciturn: Brittany was conscious of his own importance, was eager to forget his recent military expedition to Gascony which had made him the laughing stock of the English court. The clerk, Waterton, seemed an amiable fellow, but he kept to himself except where women were concerned, almost rivalling Ranulf in sexual prowess. Corbett often heard the sounds of revelry at night, the slap of hand on some wench's soft bottom, the giggles, screams and cries of lovemaking.
At the same time, beneath the banality of this tedious journey, Corbett felt there was distrust and tension. Once they left Boulogne, Corbett lost his sense of being watched but he did experience the lack of trust betwen the leaders of the English embassy. King Edward had told Corbett that Lancaster, Brittany and Waterton, as well as the young, taciturn Henry Eastry, a monk of Canterbury and notary to Archbishop Winchelsea, were all privy to the secret business to Edward's council, anyone of them could be the traitor betraying information and English lives to the French.
Corbett quietly watched Eastry, Waterton and the two earls, but they did nothing unusual, regarding the French with the same studied dislike as the rest of the entourage. None of them had any contact more than they should have with their escort or made any effort, even secretly, to communicate with any French official in the towns they passed through.
It took two weeks to reach the outskirts of Paris after the most banal and boring journey in Corbett's life. The clerk felt stifled by the grinding routine but, looking back, realised that made it the ideal time for an ambush. They were on the Beauvais road, a broad, rutted track which swept into Paris, bordered by thick clumps of trees when the attackers struck; dressed in black, red hoods over their faces, they thundered from the trees and swooped down on the English party. The French escort turned, their leaders drawing swords and crying out orders just as the assailants crashed into them.
Corbett, grasping his long dagger, lashed out furiously, turning his horse, terrified lest one of the attackers got behind him for a quick, easy slash to the back of his neck. He sensed he was in the thick of the fight, frightened by the terrifying horsemen pushing through towards him and wondered why the assailants had chosen this point of the column and not its head where Lancaster and Richmond rode, or the rear where the baggage carts carried possible plunder. A figure loomed up before him, cloak flapping, eyes glistening with malice through the eye-holes of the hood, arm raised to drive the mace down for the killing blow. Corbett threw himself along his horse's neck, lunging with his dagger at his assailant's exposed belly, but the man wore hard armour beneath his cloak. Corbett felt the blade jar and a streak of pain ran up his arm. Nevertheless, the blow forced his opponent to drop his club and turn away clutching his stomach.
Corbett, the sweat now soaking his body, whirled in terror, he was surrounded by attackers though the rest of the English entourage were beginning to assert themselves and Corbett could see the French escort, rather dilatory at first, were making their presence felt. There were screams, curses, men fell, choking in the saddle, blood pumping from open wounds; axes, daggers and clubs whirled and Corbett heard the chilling whine of a jagged crossbow bolt. Ranulf came up beside him, blood streaming from a cut on his face, eyes staring madly, a white froth on his lips. He screamed soundlessly but Corbett ignored him as he glanced wildly around, eyes darting, looking to see if the crossbow man was friendly or hostile. Then, as sudden as their attack came, the assai
lants drew off, thundering back across the field in a cloud of dust.
Corbett sat, slumped over his horse, fighting back the nausea which threatened to disgrace him. He stopped the sobbing in his throat and looked around; there were bodies sprawled on the road, men screaming and cursing at the rawness of their wounds. The long column was now broken: two horses lay dead, another kicked in its traces, blood streaming from its throat. Gradually order was restored. There were a number of dead, two soldiers, a scullion in the Duke of Richmond's household and one of the attackers. Corbett watched Lancaster and Richmond scream aloud about 'Outlaws, so near to Paris,' ' Lack of protection,' but the knights shrugged and, shoulders raised, deprecatingly asked if there were no oudaws in England?
Lancaster intervened and called a meeting of his colleagues, Richmond, Waterton, Eastry and Corbett. They watched from the road while the Serjeants and stewards resorted order, the physician tended wounds while the French knights went off to commandeer a cart to take the dead and seriously wounded to a nearby manor. Richmond looked flushed, keen to brag about his own sword play, Waterton looked nervous, unmarked, not even a stain or cut, Eastry was sorrowful but coldy detached, eager to get back and give solace to the wounded, Lancaster looked furious, his white face mottled with anger.
'Of course,' the earl began, 'I will personally protest at this attack to Philip IV. What we have to decide,' he patted his horse's neck and looked round the group, 'is whether it was an outlaw assault or a carefully planned attack. I think it was the latter.' A murmur of agreement broke out so Lancaster pressed his point.
'If so,' his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, 'the traitor must be amongst us.'
'Why?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'I mean, my Lord, our route was planned in England and, due to the noise our cavalcade makes, half of Normandy must be aware of us.'