Read Online Spy in Chancery by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online

any exchange of letters.'
    Through Wales or Scotland?' Corbett asked hopefully.
    'No,' the King replied, The information is sent too quickly. Philip seems to know what I have decided within days. No,' the King concluded, The information is sent from here.'
    'Are there any letters sent to France?' Corbett asked.
    'Official letters to Philip,' Edward replied, 'as well as letters to the hostages.'
    'Hostages?'
    'Yes, when Brittany surrendered, several of the knights could only ransom themselves by giving hostages to the French, in most cases, children. The knights write regularly to these.'
    'Do any of the knights serve on the council or know any of its business?'
    'No,' the King replied. 'Only Tuberville, Thomas de Tuberville. A baron from Gloucestershire. He serves as a knight of the chamber, he is Captain of the Guard.'
    'Could he listen in?'
    'No,' Edward answered, 'No one can listen through oaken doors and thick stone walls. Moreover, Tuberville hates the French, his letters attest to that.'
    'How does your Grace know?'
    'Like the rest, copies of his letters are kept in the Chancery files.'
    'Talk,' Lancaster abruptly interrupted, 'All talk, everything points to Richmond. We would do well to put him, Waterton, Tuberville, anyone who has anything to do with him into prison.'
    Edward rose and paced the room. 'No,' he said, 'Not yet.' He pointed at Corbett, 'You will pursue what we know. You will first visit Lord Morgan in Wales and ask him some pertinent questions.' Corbett's heart sank but one look at the cold, tired eyes of the King warned him that any objections would be ruthlessly dealt with.
    A day later Corbett and Ranulf were preparing for the journey. Ranulf objected but Corbett sternly told him to carry out his orders for clothes, weapons, provisions and horses would be needed. Corbett himself wandered out into the streets, wanting to think, to reflect on his recent interview with the King. He strolied up into Cheapside, the broad highway sweeping from east to west was the main business area of the city with the Cornmarket, butchers' shambles, the Tun Prison and the Great Conduit which gave the city its water.
    The boards of the traders were lowered, their protective awnings pulled out against the strong sun. Trade was brisk in everything from a pair of hose or cherries fresh off the branch, to a pair of gilt spurs or a satin shirt with cambric lace. A funeral cortиge passed, led by a friar, a quiet, sinister figure in his dark robes, pinched features staring from the cowl over his head. The mourners stumbled by, followed by the coffin on the shoulders of the bearers. Corbett heard the sobbing of the women and the deep-throated howl of a dog. Such sights seemed out of place on such a day, the crowds were out, the lawyers in fur capes on their way to the courts at Westminster: peasants in brown and green smocks coaxed their carts up to the market places ignoring the taunts and attempts at pilfer by a horde of ragged-arsed urchins. A column of mounted archers clattered by, prisoners in the middle, their hands tied to the saddle, ankles secured by chains under the horses' bellies.
    A courtesan, her face painted and her brows finely plucked, stepped daintily through the street, one red, velvet-gloved hand raising her laced dress to escape the mud. She glanced coyly at Corbett and walked on. The noise and bustle was intense: tradesmen plucked his sleeve and dinned his ears with shouts and offers of custom. Corbett, regretting his decision to walk, pushed his way through the crowd into the coolness of the 'Hooded Kestrel' tavern.
    It was a dirty, low-timbered room with a scattering of tables, up-turned barrels and a row of huge vats and kegs. Corbett ordered ale and a bowl of fish soup, he always found eating by himself an aid to logical analysis. He was troubled by what he had learnt: despite his victories in Scodand, the King was highly anxious, casting about like an imprisoned dog, lashing out at shadows, grasping the