Spy in Chancery

afraid of no man but Monsier de Craon exuded power as a woman did perfume and did not understand failure or opposition.
    De Craon pulled back the cowl of his cloak and went close up to the Breton totally ignoring the mercenary's vast bulk towering above him.
    'You launched the attack?' the clerk's voice was soft and polite.
    'Yes, we did.'
    'And you killed the man?'
    The Breton shook his head. 'No, we did not,' he replied and stepped back at the sudden look of hatred in de Craon's eyes. De Craon seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper. He spun on his heel and walked a few paces away before coming back, the only sign of his anger being the constant biting of his lower lip. He brought six bags of gold from beneath his robe.
    '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.

FOUR
    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