by Paul Doherty
Corbett emptied his purse and showed Gareth a clutch of coins.
'They are yours,' he said, 'if you can tell me why Talbot died?'
Gareth wiped saliva from his slack lips and stared at Corbett, the vacuous expression in his eyes, replaced by a wary cunning. 'Master Talbot,' he drooled, 'was an inquisitive man who also paid,' he stretched out a be-grimed claw-like hand and Corbett dropped a few coins into it before drawing back.
'Gareth,' he added warningly. 'You are trying my patience.'
Gareth smiled. 'Master Talbot had a quarrel with the Lord Morgan.'
'What was said?'
'Nothing, except the Lord Morgan accused him of prying where he should not.'
'Anything else?'
'No, except I heard Talbot, Master Talbot, that is, mention something about saddling. I suppose he intended leaving, there was something else.'
'Yes. What?'
'A man called Waterdoun.'
'You mean Waterton?'
'Yes, I think so for I heard both Lord Morgan and Master Talbot use that name.'
Is there more?'
Gareth turned, looking slyly out of the corner of his eyes.
'Oh, no,' he replied. 'That's all Gareth knows. Truly, so why not pay Gareth his money.8
Corbett handed the rest of the money over and rose to go. He heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the parapet walk and hastily distanced himself from Gareth but Owen came tripping up the stairs and stood, legs apart, blocking Corbett's path. Dressed in black, Owen looked like some sleek, well-groomed crow, his glittering eyes stared at Corbett and then beyond to where Gareth say huddled in terror.
'So,' the Welshman said in his half-sung tones, 'the Englishmen have been talking and now Master Corbett has to be away. Ah well,' he stood to one side and mockingly bowed with an ornate flourish of hands for Corbett to continue down the steps. The clerk turned and looked pityingly at Gareth crouched like a frightened rabbit, there was little he could do and he had to prepare himself. Clutching the dagger beneath his cloak, Corbett glared at Owen and passed him by and, throat dry, his heart thudding with fear, he walked slowly down the steps, half expecting Owen to challenge him, listening intently for the hiss of steel as sword or dagger were pulled from their sheath.
Nothing. Corbett reached the bottom and continued his journey across the castle yard and up the steps into the keep. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against the cold, grey stones as he tried to control the terror which had drenched him in sweat and threatened to turn his bowels and legs to water. He breathed deeply, gulping the air until his heart ceased its beating and the warmth seeped back through his body.
Corbett wanted to stay hidden in the dark gloom but he knew he had to prepare himself, he sighed and made his way slowly up to his chamber, leaving the door ajar while he hurriedly packed saddle-bags, ensuring the purses, warrants and secret memoranda were carefully filed away. He searched the bottom of the largest trunk until he found what he was looking for and lifted it out, his ears straining for any sound on the steps behind him. He heard the soft scuff of a boot and turned praying it would not be Ranulf. He adjusted the saddle blanket on his arm, watching as the door pushed open and Owen slid like the figure of death into the room. He carried a sword and Corbett saw the blood splashes on its edge and tip.
'You look as if you expected me, Englishman?'
'I waited for you, Owen,' Corbett looked down at the sword, 'and how is Gareth?'
'Oh,' Owen smiled brilliantly. 'Gareth is dead. I always thought he only acted the fool. I told the Lord Morgan that many a time but, as you have found out, he has a soft heart, like Maeve his niece!'
'Like Maeve his niece,' Corbett repeated, mocking the words, glad to see the slight flush of anger in Owen's face. 'And you, Master Welshman,' he continued, 'Why are you here, Owen?'
To kill you, Englishman!'
'Why?'
'Firstly, you are English. Secondly, you are a retainer of the English King, and thirdly you are a spy and, finally, because I want to.'
'Why, because Maeve loves me?' Corbett taunted.
Owen anrily threw his head back snorting with laughter and Corbett waited no longer. He let the blanket drop, jerked the clasp of the small, steel-meshed crossbow and the jagged bolt was speeding for Owen's chest even as he lowered his head, catching him just beneath the heart and flinging him back against the half-open door. Owen groaned and looked in surprise at Corbett as he crumpled to the floor. A great dark stain circled the bolt embedded firmly in his chest and a light red froth seeped between his half-open lips.
'Why?' he whispered, 'like this?'
'Like all killers,' Corbett replied, 'you talk too much.'
But Owen could no longer hear, he groaned, coughed blood, his head sagging forward as he quietly died. Corbett crossed and felt Owen's neck, guilty at the warmth he still felt there but relieved there was no beat of the heart. He jerked up, clutching for his dagger as the door was pushed open shoving Owen's corpse onto its face. Maeve stood there, her face as white as snow, mouth open, her bosom heaving to suppress the scream.
'Hugh!' she exclaimed. 'I saw Owen walk across the bailey with his sword drawn, I knew he was coming, I expected…'
'To find Owen alive and me dead? Corbett interrupted.
Maeve nodded, her face still white with terror. She looked down at Owen.
He is dead?'
Corbett nodded. 'He killed Gareth and came over to murder me.'
Why?'
'Why not?' Corbett snapped back and slumped wearily on the bed. 'Maeve,' he added slowly, 'you know why I was sent here. I know your uncle is conspiring against the King. He must stop. Philip of France is only using him. Owen knew I was a spy and he hated me for that as well as for loving you.'
'And do you?' Maeve picked her way over Owen's body and came to stand next to Corbett. 'Oh, Englishman,' she said, 'I stand in my own castle with the corpse of a man who would have championed me against the world, yet I neglect him because of an Englishman, a spy who says he loves me. And do you? Do you really?'
Corbett grasped her white clenched hands in his and drew her to him to kiss her. 'With all my heart,' he muttered fiercely. 'So, leave with me, Maeve. Now, come!' She kissed him gently on the forehead and stroked his cheek, tracing with one finger the furrows around his mouth.
'I cannot,' she whispered, 'but,' she drew herself together briskly, 'you must. Now! No!' She stopped any protest by placing her fingers gently against his mouth. 'You must go, my uncle will kill you for Owen's death. You must not take your horses but leave by sea. I will show you.' She stared round the chamber. 'Get Ranulf!' she ordered. 'Now!'
Corbett rose and was about to speak but saw her determined look and meekly complied.
He found Ranulf ensconced in one of the outhouses, hiding like the rest of the garrison from the fierce afternoon sun. He was wearily attempting to seduce a girl who persisted in talking in Welsh and so refused to accept or acknowledge any of his compliments. Corbett dragged him outside and whispered what had happened and, stifling the young man's exclamation of horror with a vicious rap on the ankles, returned to their chamber in the keep. Corbett was now concerned that the garrison would soon rouse itself from its slumbers, questions would be asked and he had no illusions about what would happen if they were in Neath when Owen's corpse was discovered. Maeve was still in the room.
She had filled and fastened their saddle-bags. Ranulf gave a small moan of fear when he saw Owen's corpse but Maeve told him to be quiet and beckoned for them to follow. They slipped quickly down the steps of the keep, past the main hall where Corbett was alarmed to see some of the retainers beginning to stir. He heard the yelp of the spit dog, a small, crook-backed creature fastened to an iron post and made to press the cogs and wheels which turned the massive spit. Voices shouted, a cat scuttled by, a mouse in its jaws. Maeve led them out of the keep and, following its line, rounded a corner and stopped while Maeve fumbled with the heavy clasp on a wooden, iron-studded
door.
Corbett anxiously looked around; the garrison was waking from its afternoon slumber, a girl sang softly, a dog stretched and yawned, impervious to the flies buzzing in a halo about his head. Soon the silence would be broken by a scream or shout as Owen's or Gareth's body was discovered. Maeve fumbled with the catch again and Corbett tried to control his panic, shifting uneasily under the heavy saddle-bags slung across his shoulders, beside him Ranulf almost whimpered with fear. At last, the door creaked open. Maeve whispered for them to be careful as they cautiously went down a row of slippery steps. Pitch-coated torches flared and flickered in their rusty clasps, the wet, slime-ridden walls gleaming in the light.
At the bottom of the steps, Maeve pulled a torch from its holding and led them along a cavernous tunnel, picking her way daintily around puddles of slime and mud. There were other tunnels leading off the main passage and Corbett realised that these led to the dungeons and storerooms of the casde. Maeve led them on, once she turned and demanded total silence with an imperious gesture. Corbett coughed once and immediately saw that the sound echoed along the tunnels like the crash of armoured feet. He stopped, froze like a hunted rabbit but, urged on by Maeve's gestures, followed her deeper into the passageway. It became darker, colder and Corbett wondered where they were going: a stiff, cold breeze caught the flame, teasing and making it dance. A rat slithered across their path squeaking in anger and, above his head, Corbett heard the rustle and flutter of bats. A distant, clapping thunder, like the hoof beats of mailed horsemen just before they charged, made him stop until he realised it was the roar of the sea.
The cave became lighter, damper, they turned a corner and Corbett almost gasped in relief at the sunlight blazing through the cave mouth. They left the tunnel, Corbett looked around, behind him rose the sheer cliffs of Neath while across the sand and shingle, the sea thundered under a clear blue sky. Maeve stopped, paused and pointed along the coastline.
'If you keep to the line of the cliffs you will come to a small fishing village.'
She slipped a ring shaped in the form of a Celtic cross from her finger and handed it to Corbett.
'Leave this with Griffith, a fisherman. Say I gave it to you, he will take you along the coast and across to Bristol'
'Maeve, can you, will you not come?'
'Hugh, you must go, please! This is the only way across, my uncle's men would only catch and hunt you down.'
Corbett held her hand and smiled.
'And Lord Morgan does not control the fishermen of the seas?'
'No,' Maeve replied. 'You must know such rights were granted by your King to the Earl of Richmond. My uncle is negotiating to buy these rights.'
She caught Corbett's startled gaze. 'Why, what is the matter?'
'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Nothing at all.'
'Then be gone,' she kissed him lightly on the lips and turned to go.
'Maeve,' Corbett took his dead wife's ring off his finger. 'Take this, remember me!'
She nodded, grasped the ring and slipped quietly back into the tunnel.
FOURTEEN
Corbett turned, the beach seemed more desolate, the sun had lost some of its golden brilliance. He wanted to stay, to call Maeve back and realised how much he had come to accept her presence, like a man used to a warm fire, misses the heat when he moves away. Above him, hunting gulls screeched their lonely call, Corbett felt the desolation creeping in like mist from a marsh. He rubbed the side of his face and looked back at where Ranulf was digging the sand with the toe of his boot and awoke to the real danger they were in.
'Ranulf,' he called softly. 'We must leave, the tide will come in and trap us against the cliffs.'
Groaning and cursing, Ranulf picked up the fat, heavy saddle-bags and followed. They stayed under the brow of the cliffs, hidden from the eyes of any scout or watcher. Corbett also wanted to avoid disturbing the gulls and cormorants wading in the lazy foam-edged sea: a sudden flurry of birds would only draw attention. They walked on as the summer sun began to sink, a ball of orange streaking the sea with fire. There were no signs of pursuit and Corbett hoped Morgan, probably misled by Maeve, would be scouring the Vale of Neath, sending out search-parties, sealing off the valley mouths in an attempt to trap and kill them. The only real danger was the sea, now noticeably closer as the tide crept in threatening to cut them off. Corbett urged Ranulf on ordering him hoarsely to keep close and walk faster.
They rounded a bluff and Corbett almost shouted with pleasure. The cliffs suddenly swept down into a little cove and on their edge was the small fishing village Maeve had mentioned. Corbett told Ranulf to keep under the lea of the cliffs as they made their approach, Morgan's retainers might be in the village and he did not wish to walk into a trap. Corbett left Ranulf at the foot of the track and quietly made his way up to the brow of the hill, squatting behind some fern he watched the scene before him. The village was a collection of wood and daub huts, each in its own plot protected by a flimsy fence. The thatched roofs swept down almost covering the square open windows, very few of them had doors, the square opening being protected by a thick sheet of canvas or leather. Near the huts were long slats or planks slung between poles of dead ash where the fish were gutted and dried.
A pile of refuse lay beneath and even where Corbett sat the smell of decaying fish and other odours made him feel nauseous. The village was quiet, a few children, almost naked save for a few rags, played in the dirt clay alongside rooting, fat-flanked pigs and stinking dogs, Now and again, a woman would push back a leather doorway and call out to a group of men who sat on a bench before one of the huts, drinking and playing a desultory game of dice. There was no sight of any of Morgan's men. Corbett heaved a deep sigh, stood up and walked into the village.
One of the mongrels dashed towards him, its ugly head forwad, upper lip curled in a snarl of anger, it snapped and lunged with its rat-trap jaw. Corbett lashed out with his boot and the cur turned and ran as one of the men rose, shouting and gesticulating.
Corbett walked towards him. 'Griffith,' he said, 'the lady Maeve told me to ask for help.'
The man, small, thick-set with a balding head and skin the colour and texture of leather, simply stared back, one huge muscular hand stroking the thick, jet-black beard which fell to his chest. He replied in Welsh but Corbett was certain he understood English.
'The lady Maeve sent me,' Corbett repeated, 'She told me to give this to Griffith.' He opened his hand and showed the ring which the man swiftly took.
'I will keep this,' he replied in fluent English. 'I am Griffith: what does the lady Maeve want?'
'To take me across the Severn to Bristol.'
Griffith groaned, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He walked over to the small group of onlookers and turned.
'Come!' Griffith waved his hand.'Come!' he repeated. We go!'
'Now?'
'Why not?'
'The tide is turning,' Corbett protested, 'we cannot leave?'
Griffith looked at him with blue, child-like eyes.
'We may stay if you want,' he replied, 'but we have learnt that Lord Morgan's men are scouring the countryside, we can wait till they visit here if you like.'
Corbett grinned and hoisted the saddle-bags further up his shoulder.
'You are quite correct,' he replied, 'We should leave as soon as possible.' Griffith nodded, brushed past him and led Corbett down the path to where Ranulf was waiting for them. Griffith stopped, looked and beckoned him to join them.
They crossed the wet sand to where the fishing smacks were drawn up, lightly fastened to great stakes driven down into the sand. Griffith unfastened the largest, a long, low-slung craft which was already provisioned for sea, with water casks and two earthenware pots and Corbett realised that in normal times, Griffith and his fellows would wait for the evening tide, to go out and to ply their nets. Moaning and groaning, they pushed the boat to the water's edge, it was a cumbersome task till the waves caught the boat like a man catches a lover, then it became alive,
bobbing and turning on the waves eager to break free of the land and make its way out to the open seas. Griffith climbed in, followed by Corbett and Ranulf: the Welshman grabbed the tiller while Corbett and Ranulf were ordered to man the oars and row. Griffith sat grinning like a devil while he ordered the two Englishmen to pull, loudly cursing every time they strained gasping over the oars.
'Come gentlemen,' he mocked, 'you must row for your lives, well away from the land where we can wait for the tide to turn.'
They did until the sun sank in flashes of red into the sea. Only then did Griffith order them to rest and, for a while, they collapsed on the benches breathless, until Griffith roused them with cups of water and slices of dry fish.
They refreshed themselves feeling the boat rise and dip under the swelling tide, Griffith loosened the huge square sail and they drowsed while the boat ploughed through the sea under a clean, clear summer night. Corbett did not care for the night, the breeze or the dark blue sky iced by a summer moon and clear stars. While Ranulf slept, he crouched in his cloak and almost wept at the deep sense of loss at leaving Maeve. He was like that for most of the eight day voyage, too depressed even to feel seasick or choke on the simple fare Griffith provided. Once or twice he tried to draw the Welshman out on the lady Maeve and, when that failed, questioned the man about the Earl of Richmond's negotitations with the Lord Morgan over fishing rights along the South Wales coast but Griffith refused to answer.
They continued on their voyage, which lasted over a week, favoured by warm winds which brought them into the sea roads into Bristol where all three, visibly relaxed to be in English waters, watched the huge cogs, men-of-war and merchantmen leave or arrive at the great port. They disembarked at evening, squeezing between two huge fat-bellied cargo ships. Corbett offered Griffith gold, the Welshman took it without a word of thanks and, dumping the saddle-bags on the cobbled quay, walked back to his boat.