Spy in Chancery

and turned to go, almost screaming in fright at the dishevelled figure crouching behind him.
    'A sou,' the beggar whined, 'For God's sake, a sou!'
    Corbett stared at the dirty face and glittering eyes and edged away, he turned and ran like the wind down the dirty, dark street. He paused to listen for any pursuit and, though breathless, ran sobbing on, sometimes losing his way as he pounded up filthy alleys and muck-strewn runnels, slipping and gasping as he ploughed through heaps of dirt or missed his footing and splashed into the shit-strewn sewer which ran down the centre. Once he hid from the watch, on another occasion sent a poor beggar woman sprawling when she came out of the shadows pleading for charity. Corbett drew his dagger and, carrying it before him, ran on till, breathless and shaken, he reached his lodgings.

SIX
    The next morning Corbett kept to his own chamber, pushing Ranulf out on some spurious errand. He was exhaused after the terrors of the previous evening. The thought of the silent horrors of those desolate streets and how close he had courted death made him feel nauseous. He dreaded the prospect of a possible return and stayed in his room for the rest of the day trying to make some sense of the chaotic information he had acquired. Waterton was half-French: he was a clerk of the royal council of England and therefore privy to King Edward's secret designs: Waterton acted suspiciously, he was courted by the French, met de Craon at night, cloaked all dealings in secrecy and seemed to have a limitless fund of money. But was he the traitor? Who was the girl? And how did Waterton pass on information to de Craon once he was back in England?
    Dusk fell and Corbett got off his pallet bed. He had thought of asking Lancaster for help but he was too suspicious to confide in anyone yet he did make one request of the comptroller of Lancaster's household for certain items. The man looked startled but allowed Corbett to draw the supplies he needed. The clerk made his way down the narrow winding staircase to the hall, a low, black-beamed room with bare, whitewashed walls, a table with benches down each side, a few sconce lights and rusty charcoal braziers. The French, as Lancaster had mused loudly, had hardly bothered to make them welcome. The rooms were filthy and there was a constant wail from the buttery or the kitchen as the cooks discovered some fresh problem.
    The evening meal was always a morose affair. Lancaster sat glowering at his food; Richmond, depending on his mood, was either silent or boastfully tedious as he recounted details from the Gascon campaign of 1295 which he had so badly led and so constantly justified. Eastry, after he had said the 'Benedictus', picked at his food, usually rancid beneath its sauce and spices, and kept his own counsel. Waterton ate quickly and made his excuses to leave as soon as courtesy allowed. Tonight was no different, Waterton nodded at Corbett, made the usual obeisance to Lancaster and left.
    Corbett followed soon after, taking the same route as the previous evening. He soon caught sight of Waterton's purposeful walk, there was no difficulty for his quarry visited the same tavern, so the clerk hid in the shadows and began his vigil. This time Corbett not only kept the tavern door under scrutiny but occasionally stared around the gathering dusk, but there was nothing to see or hear. Only the light and faint sounds of the tavern broke the silent menace of the shadowed street.
    De Craon and his companion eventually arrived, sweeping into the tavern without pausing or a backward glance. Corbett waited for a few seconds and walked quietly across the street and peered through the chink in the shutters. Waterton, de Craon and the lady sat huddled round the same table. Corbett watched but he was tense, his ears straining for any sound, his heart pounding. He wanted to run, flee from the danger he sensed was lurking in the shadows. A faint sound made Corbett turn. The beggar was there on all fours resting on wooden slats looking up at him. 'A sou, sir, just a sou.' Corbett dug into his purse and slowly handed a coin over. Later, Corbett could not truly describe what happened even though the scene became part of his nightmares. The beggar lifted his hand and suddenly iunged at Corbett's chest, showing the dagger he had concealed in his rags. Corbett moved sideways, even as the dagger dented the hauberk he wore beneath his cloak. Corbett struck back, the dagger he carried