Spy in Chancery

abuse.
    Corbett himself did not say anything or attempt heroics: he knew these Welshmen, kind, courteous but, highly temperamental, they could turn suddenly violent and he had not forgotten the bodies swinging on the scaffold at the entrance to the Vale. The laughter subsided and the leader, taking the reins of Corbett's horse, led them on, the rest of the band grouped around them. The castle of Neath came into full view, a cold stark building perched on the crags of the cliffs, which rolled in a sheer drop to the sea-pounded rocks below.
    A huge donjon or keep jutted above the crenellated curtain wall and, as Corbett approached the main gateway in a central tower on the wall, he could see figures, soldiers on the parapet and the huge five-horse tail standards of Morgan. There was more: a man swung by his neck from the walls and just above the gateway hung a square, red-rusted cage, the. thick red chain from which it was suspended creaked eerily in the breeze.
    Corbett stared and shuddered at the white bones piled in one corner of the cage. His escort seemed unpeturbed, they crossed over a narrow, deep ditch, their horse's hooves thundering on the wooden drawbridge.
    Inside the cold, mildewed gateway, they paused while the portcullis was raised to allow entry into the huge yard circling the keep. This contained single-storeyed stone buildings erected against the keep, but the rest were wooden buildings, some standing free, others leaning against the curtain wall: smiths, outhouses, a kitchen, stables, a piggery and makeshift byres for cattle. A small village in itself, hens pecked and jabbed at the dirt, clucking at dogs and pigs which snouted and sniffed at everything.
    Children played with the inflated bladder of some animal, babies naked as the day they were born, squatted in the dirt, their parents too busy with countless tasks. The general noise and hubub died as the mounted horsemen entered the bailey and dismounted: Corbett and Ranulf were carefully inspected, a wolf-hound came over to sniff but was booted away, then an old man, with watery eyes and crippled arms shuffled over to stare up at Corbett. He giggled, picked his nose and gently patted the clerk's sleeve.
    'Be off, Gareth,' the leader said quietly and the fool, blowing kisses at Corbett, scampered away. 'An Englishman,' the leader said meaningfully. 'The Lord Morgan captured him in the wars and tried to question him. We call him Gareth for we lost his name when he lost his wits. The Lord Morgan is not too gentle with spies!' Corbett shrugged and offered the reins of his horse.
    'Take care of this,' he replied coolly, 'and go tell the Lord Morgan, the envoys of King Edward are ready to see him.' He watched the Welshman's face go white with fury at the insult, his hand creeping towards the hilt of his short stabbing sword, but he thought better of it, looked around and burst into laughter. The tension drained from the group and the crowd turned back to its tasks, the newcomers seemingly forgotten.
    Corbett and Ranulf were taken across the yard and up narrow stone steps to the second floor of the great keep and into the main hall. It was some thirty feet in height, and Corbett was astounded at its shabby opulence: in the south wall was a very large fireplace with a hood and mantel of square stone, Corbett supposed its chimney jutted through the thick wall to the outside. There were a number of round-headed arches about eight feet wide and splayed, these narrowed to form embrasures and narrow square windows which were glazed with the finest horn. The ceiling timbers were blackened rafters but huge drapes of many colours, some torn, others whole hung from them, while tapestries depicting scenes from the Old Testament in a wild variety of contrasting hues covered the whitewashed walls. At the far end of the hall, the dais bore a gleaming oak table on which were placed a gold jewel-encrusted salt cellar and fine silver candelabra which, Corbett suspected, were once the property of some English church. These bore lighted beeswax candles while pitch torches spluttered in brackets rusting on the wall. The floor was covered in clean rushes and Corbett could smell the crushed mint and heather which had been sprinkled on top.
    The room was deserted except for two men playing chess at a small trestle table near the fire. They sat crouched in their carved chairs, cloaks about them, intent on the game. Above them, on the wooden perch, a peregrine falcon stirred