Spy in Chancery

doctor quickly changed his remedies, placing a jade stone on the English clerk's stomach while feeding him a herbal concoction of wild parsley, fennel, ginger and cinnamon, all pounded to pulp and served in piping hot wine. Corbett slept and sweated, his dreams disturbed by fevers and nightmares in which he relived the horror of slaying the beggar assassin in Paris.
    At last he woke, weak but cool, the fever gone. The physcian returned, genuinely amazed that his remedies had worked, the fellow gabbled instructions at Ranulf, pocketed his sizeable fee and promptly left just in case his patient took a sudden turn for the worse. Corbett soon regained his strength and, a few days later, received a royal writ ordering his presence at Westminster. Corbett wondered how long he would have to wait for by the sounds coming from the chamber Edward was working himself into one of his royal rages. At last the door was flung open and the King himself gestured at Corbett to enter. Inside, a nervous clerk was seated at a table trying to conceal his anxiety by carefully studying what he had written while Lancaster lounged in a chair, slightly forward so as to favour his misshapen shoulder.
    Both the King and his brother were dressed simply in dark gowns, surcoats and mantles; jewelled brooches, clasps and heavy studded rings their only concession to fashion. The room itself looked more like a tent or a military camp; two dirty stained tapestries hung slightly askew on the wall, an iron sconce was twisted downwards and the none-too-clean rushes had been kicked into heaps. By Lancaster's look of forced patience and the mottled spots high on the King's cheeks, Corbett guessed there had been a fierce altercation between the royal brothers.
    The King dismissed the scribe, glared at Corbett and waved him to a bench alongside the wall. 'Sit, sit, Master Corbett,' he snarled. 'I don't suppose you have better news for me. The journey to France was a farce, Philip outmanoeuvred, insulted and ignored you. You learnt nothing and you acquired nothing except insults. God knows, you left like whipped curs, your tails tucked beneath your legs!'
    'Your Grace,' Corbett replied slowly, 'What did you expect? Excuse my bluntness but I doubt if we will catch the spy in France. He is here in your council.' Edward glowered at Corbett, but the clerk pressed on.
    'First,' he continued, ticking the points off on his finger, 'We did kill the murderer of Fauvel and probably Poer: secondly, we do know that Waterton is under suspicion,' Corbett nodded to Lancaster, 'I gave the Ear! a full report during our voyage back. Finally, we do know that Philip has some grand design and the seizure of Gascony is only a part of it.' The King sat down wearily on a stool, head in his hands.
    'I am sorry,' he muttered looking up. 'You, Corbett, and my brother, Lancaster, are the only ones I trust.' He tossed a greasy parchment at Corbett. 'A report from David Talbot, squire and royal retainer. It was the last letter he sent. Five days ago his headless body was found at the bottom of a Welsh valley, another casualty inflicted by Philip.' Corbett slowly read the letter from Talbot, written in a forced, clumsy style.
    'David Talbot, squire, to his Grace, Edward, King of England, health and greetings. Know you that I have been most busy in your affairs in Wales in the county of Glamorgan. Know you that I have kept the castle and retainers of the Lord Morgan under close scrutiny and that the same Lord Morgan, despite being recently received into the King's peace, conspires with the King's enemies abroad. I have seen French ships off the coast and members of their crews rowed ashore and taken to the Lord Morgan's castle. I have carried out my own searches and found that the Lord Morgan has also received messengers from dissatisfied lords in Scotland. I believe, your Grace, that Lord Morgan is still hostile to your interests and is allied to your enemies both at home and abroad. The moving force behind, all this is, as you know, Philip of France: he intends to destroy your Grace's patrimony in France and raise Scotland, Wales and Ireland against you. Know you that I have seen the same French ships land arms and that the Lord Morgan has new found wealth. I beg, your Grace, to intervene here otherwise all your interests will be lost. God save you. Written at Neath, March 1296.'
    Corbett looked at Edward. 'Who is this Morgan?'
    'A Welsh lord, recently at war with the Earl of Gloucester,