Spy in Chancery

up a slender, wicked-looking paper knife and began to cut a piece of vellum, drawing carefully along the ruled line and rubbing the parchment with the grey pumice stone until its surface glowed like soft silk. He stopped and looked up.
    'What are you implying, Corbett?'
    'Nothing. I am implying nothing, I just asked you a question.'
    Waterton pursed his lips in annoyance and threw down the pumice stone. 'Look, Corbett,' he snapped. 'My business is my own. You scrutinise me like some village gossip. My father was a well-to-do merchant, hence my relative wealth. My mother was French so I am both fluent in the language and not afraid of walking about a French city. Satisfied?'
    Corbett nodded. 'I am sorry,' he replied, not feeling the least contrite. 'I was only asking.'
    Waterton scowled at him and returned to scraping the parchment, so Corbett left, bitterly regretting the meeting had achieved nothing except alerting Waterton and putting him on his guard.
    Corbett did not share his suspicions with Lancaster who had studiously avoided him since their last meeting, moreover, the Earl had announced a date for their return to England and was busy organising the preparations. The Earl had not forgotten the attack on the Beauvais road and demanded safe conducts and an increased military escort to the coast. Philip, of course, demurred saying Lancaster did not seem to trust him so the Earl was drawn into further complex negotiations, his temper not improved by the sly innuendos and subtle taunting of the French court.
    Corbett waited. The French envoys and officials visited the house and, on one such occasion, Corbett definitely saw Waterton receive a piece of parchment. He felt tempted to challenge his colleague on the spot but realised he would look a complete fool if it proved to be nothing. That same evening, however, Corbett wrapped in a heavy soldier's cloak, sword and dagger fastened to his waist, followed Waterton from their lodgings. He pursued him through a veritable maze of streets and alleyways, crossing squares past darkened houses. Corbett moved slowly ensuring he kept his quarry barely in view in case there were others, silent protectors of this night-wandering English clerk.
    At last Waterton entered a tavern, Corbett stayed outside, watching the lighted doorway and square shuttered windows. The streets were deserted, except for the occasional drunken beggar or the crashing and clink of chainmail as foot soldiers, the night watch of that quarter, did their rounds. Corbett, hidden in the shadows, watched them pass in a pool of light thrown by the flickering cresset torch carried by their leader. Apart from the faint singing and clatter from the tavern, the silence was oppressive: a faint chilling rain began to fall, Corbett jumped as a rat rising among the rubbish in a corner, squealed and thrashed about as a large cat caught it silently in its killing jaws and hurried off.
    The houses on the other side of the street rose, a huge dark mass above him, the night sky was clouding over, the full spring moon suddenly covered by dark rain clouds. Corbett shivered and huddled deeper into his cloak. He concentrated on the sliver of light marking the tavern door, wondering when Waterton would leave. Was he there for a night's roistering? Or was the person he was meeting already with him? Corbett cursed his stupidity, he should have at least tried to resolve that problem when Waterton first entered the tavern, now he dare not approach the door.
    Corbett's anxieties were suddenly resolved by the clatter of boots on the cobbled streets. Two hooded figures stepped out of the darkness, the first entered the tavern but the second stopped in the pool of light by the door, pulled back his cowl and looked quickly around. Corbett stiffened with excitement, it was de Craon. The English clerk waited until the two had entered and, after a short while, walked across the street and peered through a crack in the shutter.
    The place was ill-lit by oil cressets fixed in the wall. Corbett looked across the dirty room and saw Waterton joined by de Craon and his companion who pulled back her hood to reveal raven black hair and a face which Helen of Troy would have envied; alabaster skin, full red lips and large dark eyes. Despite the poor light, Waterton looked relaxed and pleased to see his visitors, he clasped the girl by the wrists and turning, called in a loud voice for the host to bring wine, the best he had. Corbett had seen enough