Spy in Chancery

servant were riding north-west through Acton, Gloucester and across the Severn into Wales.
    Corbett and Ranulf followed the old Roman road west as it cut through the shires. It was a soft, late spring, the vast, brown open fields being put under harrow and plough. Oxen trudged, great yokes across their shoulders, the deep, sharp plough knife cutting the ground for the sowers who followed. Above them whirled flocks of angry crows, cawing steadily at being driven from this feast by young boys who pelted them with sling stones. Villagers were coming to life after a savage winter and a cold, hard spring, so the roads were busy with carts, pedlars, huge dray horses with hogged manes and covered in black-greened leather straps.
    Corbett and Ranulf stopped at taverns, houses with an ale-stick pushed under the eaves or the more welcoming luxury of the occasional priory or monastery guest house. About mid-May, the day after Pentecost, they crossed the Severn ford at Bristol and entered Wales. The clerk described to Ranulf during his journey how he had fought there ten years previously, depicting the savage beauty of the land with its dense forests, narrow valleys and wild independent tribes. Edward I had hammered the Welsh into submission, turning their petty principalities into English shires. Their great leader, Llewellyn, had been driven into the black fastness of Snowdonia and later killed; his brother, David, goaded into rebellion, had been captured, sent to London and sentenced to the abhorrent death of a traitor, hanged, drawn and quartered. Edward had then brought the Welsh to heel by appointing English officials and building huge, concentric ringed castles at strategic places in the country.
    There was little sign of this forced occupation as Corbett and Ranulf made their way south, following the line of the Severn before turning inland. The countryside was noisy with sound and colour, rivers sparkled like silver as they rushed over dark crags and along winding river banks. The gorse and wild flowers were coining into colour and opening under the warming sun, so the green, mossy valley sides looked as if they were covered in costly drapes. Curlews, hawks, crows and buzzards whirled, flashes of black and white in the sky, their jubilant cawing a sharp contrast to the cool, liquid song of the thrush. The sun was warm and, at midday, both riders always stopped to rest in the cool shade of yew, oak or ash.
    Ranulf acted slightly frightened, longing for the busy, narrow, noisy streets of London but Corbett loved the peace, the golden dappled colours of the woods and fields, the warm sun on his back. Sometimes, he would slump slit-eyed in the saddle feeling the cool breeze on his face and neck, listening to the bird song and the clatter of crickets and he would go back across the years to the downs of Sussex. If he concentrated, he could hear his wife, Mary, singing and the constant chatter of his baby girl. Paradise, Eden, the sun always seemed to shine there, the days were always warm until the fever came breaking into his private heaven, taking both Mary and his child. So quickly, he thought, like a cloud races across the sun, the shadow does not last long but, when it is gone, nothing is the same.

TEN
    Corbett and Ranulf spent six days riding through the wild countryside of South Wales: sometimes they slept in the open, in a deserted byre or the occasional fortified manor house of an English lord. One of these warned them to be careful, marauders, outlaws and wolfs-heads still roamed the hills, even more dangerous, the lord advised, were the secret rites and rituals of the Welsh, some of whom still clung to a religion other than Christianity and celebrated their fire ceremonies in dark woods or in high places. Corbett took the warnings to heart but came to no danger, nothing worse than the mournful howl of a wolf or the screams of night creatures, as owl, fox, stoat and weasel plundered for food. The Welsh villages they passed through, small hamlets with wood and daub walls and thick thatched roofs, seemed friendly enough. Corbett could not understand the strange sing-song tongue of the people but the Welsh, small and dark, smiled and offered food and a strong fermented beer.
    As they approached the craggy, sea-weeded coast around the castle of Neath, the countryside became more deserted. The occasional pedlar or merchant would jabber at them quickly when they mentioned Lord Morgan's name and, though he could not