Spy in Chancery

understand every word, Corbett gathered from their anxious looks that the Lord Morgan enjoyed a fearsome reputation. Corbett had acquired some information about him: Edward had conquered Wales twelve years earlier and, by 1284, all of Wales was subject to his writ, the same year a meeting of the Great Round Table had been held at Caernarvon where Edward's baby son had received the title Trinceps Walliae' or Prince of Wales. The occupied country, however, had been restless, revolts breaking out like sudden forest fires. In 1294, two years earlier, a serious revolt had occurred and the discontent rapidly spread.
    The uprising was supported by Lord Morgan angry at the encroachment on his land by Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Morgan received widespread support but Edward had acted quickly, marshalling armies near Chester, he advanced into Wales and crushed the rebels in a series of brilliant campaigns. Lord Morgan and other Welsh princes had to sue for terms to be accepted back into the King's peace; he was allowed to keep Neath Castle and his estates but, if Talbot's letter was to be believed, Morgan was once more plotting treason, only this time with Philip IV. Corbett had sketched in his mind a triangle of treason, at one apex sat Philip, at another Morgan, but who was at the third? The English traitor supplying them with royal secrets?
    Yet, if Lord Morgan was a traitor, he still wielded considerable power: at the entrance to the Vale of Neath, a long, wide, green valley snaking through the hills, stood two massive scaffolds, thick ash poles driven into the ground, each bearing a huge cartwheel turned sideways. From the spokes of each wheel, and there must have been twelve in all, hung a corpse, its neck broken, head flapping sideways, the face black with protruding eyes and tongue whilst beneath the wheel a hapless man, nailed by the ears to the pole, a crude sign round his neck proclaimed he was a poacher.
    Ranulf paled with fright and Corbett secretly wondered at the terrors awaiting them. They entered the Vale where green, fertile hills dotted with trees and rocks rose up on either side of them. The silence was oppressive broken only by the raucous call of crows or the mocking song of the curlew. From a crude map drawn up by a Welsh-speaking monk in Bristol Abbey, Corbett knew that Neath Castle lay at the end of the valley on craggy cliffs overlooking the sea. Corbett no sooner caught the first glimpse of its grey walls then he turned in alarm as armed horsemen broke from the trees and swept down to meet them.
    Corbett saw the puffs of dust raised by the thundering hooves, the flash of sun on metal and the great green and gold banners which fluttered and snapped above the charging horsemen. Corbett grabbed the reins of the sumpter pony with one hand while the other searched for his dagger, a useless gesture for his assailants were around them. Corbett had seen less-likely ruffians sentenced to hang at the Elms in London; the horsemen, about twenty in number, were dressed in a motley collection of arms and armour, chain-mail, breastplates and greaves; some had helmets, conical or flat-topped but the rest wore the skins of animals, calf, wolf, otter and fox. The leader, a swarthy fellow with a black drooping moustache, was dressed in shoddy splendour, leather hose and boot, a frayed purple satin shirt beneath a rusting breastplate. On his head, the grinning face of a wildcat, its skin draping the rider's hair.
    He pointed a sword at Corbett's chest and flicked his fingers. The clerk looked around; his assailants were well armed with mace, sword, club and shield, so he shrugged and handed over his dagger. 'Who are you?' The leader's English was almost perfect. Corbett stared, beneath the rags and shoddy armour, the man was educated.
    'My name is Hugh Corbett, I am senior clerk in the Chancery. This is my servant, Ranulf atte Newgate. We are here on the orders of King Edward of England to seek an audience with the Lord Morgan. Now, sir, who are you?'
    The man stared at Corbett and burst into peals of laughter: he turned and chatted in Welsh to his companions. Corbett bit his lip in annoyance for he was sure the fellow was imitating him. Behind him, Ranulf had overcome his initial fright and was glaring round him. The Welshmen also found this funny, one of them leaned forward and ruffled Ranulf's hair, the whole group breaking into fresh peals of laughter when Ranulf reacted with a spate of filthy