Spy in Chancery

Nicholas Poer. Corbett knew that if Lancaster raised these issues, he would have to explain the secret work both the Saint Christopher and Poer were involved in. Philip IV, however, was unwilling to leave the matter.
    'Your master, our sweet cousin,' he commented, 'is going through unsettled times. In his letters to me he makes veiled references to treason and traitors around him.' Philip spread his hands slowly. 'But what can we do?' The English envoys, Corbett included, were too surprised to answer such an insult, so Lancaster rose, bowed and beckoned at his colleagues to withdraw.

FIVE
    The meeting afterwards was brief but sombre, Lancaster neatly summarising the English position: Philip would hold onto Gascony as long as possible and only hand it back on terms fully advantageous to the French. Philip IV also believed he had the upper hand (the rest bitterly agreed with this) and intended to develop a great design or plan against Edward. The most worrying item, however, was Philip's open baiting with his insinuations that he knew there was a traitor at the heart of Edward's council, Fauvel's death and the attack on the Beauvais road only rubbing salt into an open wound. Lancaster's colleagues reacted predictably; Richmond flustered, Eastry coolly observed they had done all they could and should leave while Waterton remained silent, seemingly anxious to be away. At last Lancaster dismissed them but asked Corbett to stay. The Earl closed the chamber door and came swiftly to the point.
    'I do not like you, Corbett,' he observed, 'you are secretive, too withdrawn. You have no experience of diplomacy yet my august brother has sent you here and evidently trusts you, more,' Lancaster bitterly added, 'more than he does me!' Corbett just stared back so the Earl continued, 'I suggest you were sent, Master Clerk, to search out this traitor, and may I suggest, you should begin.'
    'If I did,' Corbett replied sarcastically. 'Where would you suggest I start?'
    'Well,' the Earl tartly observed. 'You could continue to watch us as I, Master Corbett, will continue to watch you!'
    'And secondly?'
    'Discover who killed Poer and Fauvel!' Corbett would have liked the Earl to inform him how he was supposed to achieve this but the Earl turned his back, a sign that the interview was over.
    So now, Corbett, accompanied by an ever-garrulous Ranulf, paced the streets, alleys and runnels of Paris. They had been given some information regarding Poer and Fauvel. About the former it was very sparse: a brief description of the man, the tavern he usually frequented and, after a series of searching, endless questioning and strange glances at his foreign accent, Corbett had finally discovered the tavern Poer had last been seen in. Not that the discovery led to much, the squat, ugly inkeeper had morosely described a man matching Poer's description who had drank and ate there on that particular evening: no, he was alone: no, he left by himself, no one followed him and the only person who had left around the same time was a crippled beggar. Corbett had tried to press the matter further but the fellow just scowled, turned away and spat.
    Corbett had then decided to visit the lodgings of the dead Fauvel. He and Ranulf shouldered their way through the crowds who lined the Seine, waiting for the barges bringing produce in from the outlying farms. They crossed one of the great stone bridges spanning the Seine and walked along the alleys which twisted and turned behind the carved stonework of Notre Dame Cathedral. Ranulf pestered Corbett with questions only to lapse into a sullen silence when his master just refused to answer. Eventually, they found the rue Nesle, a narrow alley with a deep swill-edged sewer running down its middle. The houses of black timber and dirty white plaster crowded together and rose three or four storeys high, each storey leaning over the one below. The windows were wooden shutters with the occasional one of horn and, more rarely, painted glass. Corbett found the building he was looking for and knocked on the stained door. There was a clattering inside, the door swung open and an arrogant, middle-aged woman dressed in an overblown fustian pouted at the English clerk.
    'Qu'est ce que?'
    'Je suis Anglais,' Corbett replied. 'Je cherche…' 'I speak English,' the woman interrupted. 'I am Devon born, my late husband was a wine merchant from Bordeaux. When he died, I turned part of this house into lodgings for English visitors to Paris. I