Spy in Chancery

restlessly against the jesses and bells on its claws, its sharp mischievous face scanning the room. The leader of the escort pushed Corbett gently, so the clerk strode across the room, studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Both players looked up, one a young, blond-haired, pallid-faced man with a girl's pink lips and cornflower blue eyes. The other, small and dark, brown hair tumbling to his shoulders, a strange contrast to the man's iron-black beard and moustache, his eyes were dark, the face as cruel and as sharp as the falcon. The younger man giggled for Corbett's move had jeopardised his opponent's game but the other just rose and stared bleakly at Corbett.
    'Who are you?' he asked, his voice surprisingly low and soft.
    'Hugh Corbett, royal clerk and envoy of Edward I.'
    The man nodded and barked an order in Welsh, a servant scurried foward with a stool, the man waved Corbett to it, pouring him a cup of wine whilst grandly introducing himself as the Lord Morgan. Corbett nodded, sipped the wine, relishing the fine taste of Bordeaux while he studied Morgan. The Welshman was an impressive figure, gold rings swung from his ears, a silver-jewelled torque round his neck and bracelets and amethysts adorned his wrists and fingers. He was dressed in a deep blue robe trimmed with pure lambswool though Corbett saw the stains on it and the white cambric shirt beneath. The Welshman also studied the clerk, watching him warily as he sipped his wine.
    'Did Owen look after you?' Morgan asked, nodding to where the captain of his escort still stood.
    'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'Owen looked after me, he laughs a lot.'
    'Why complain, we Welsh have little even to smile about!'
    'You are discontent, my Lord?'
    'No, Corbett!' Morgan sharply replied, 'I am not discontent, just making observations, as I have every right to do in my own hall, is this not right?' Morgan glared at his blond-haired companion.
    'Yes,' the fellow almost lisped. 'You are certainly right.' He turned to Corbett. 'Let me introduce myself,' he continued. 'I am Gilbert Medar, steward of the Lord Morgan.' Corbett smiled warily in reply, Gilbert might be the Lord Morgan's steward, he thought, and a great deal more but this was certainly not the place to begin a debate on the subject. Morgan put his cup on the table and scooped the chess pieces back into a jewelled casket which he placed under the table.
    'His Grace the King,' he said brusquely, 'has sent you to me. Why?' Corbett had expected this question, his brief interview with Edward before he left London had impressed on him one clear instruction: to find out all he could about the Lord Morgan's treasonable actions and see if they could throw any light on the traitor in London.
    'His Grace the King,' Corbett lied slowly, 'sends his regards and good wishes. He is anxious that the good relations now established with you should continue: he wonders if you have caught the murderers of David Talbot and he assures you that he dismisses as malicious lies and slander, rumours that you have any communications with the King's enemy, Philip of France.' Inwardly, Corbett smiled with mischievous glee, Morgan's eyes shot to one side and the clerk felt the steward stiffen.
    'I thank his Grace,' Morgan replied cautiously, 'for his good wishes to a loyal subject. Unfortunately, Talbot's assailants have not been found. The King knows that South Wales still abounds with lordless, lawless men. Finally,' Morgan spread his hands, 'I am glad His Grace has rejected any scandalous allegations about my loyalty to the crown. What else can I say?'
    What else indeed, Corbett thought. He felt like laughing aloud at the mock-serious look on Morgan's face and the strained concern on that of his steward. Two traitors and splendid liars. Corbett cleared his throat and was about to continue the diplomatic farce when a sound at the far end of the hall made him turn. A small door on the side of the dais was opened and a splendid figure walked down the hall. Corbett rose and almost stifled a gasp: she had long blonde hair parted in the middle which fell like a gauze veil down to her shoulders. Her skin was alive, fair-complexioned but clear like that of a precious stone: the face was almost heart-shaped, the nose small but the eyes held his, wide, blue and full of mischief.
    Corbett had never seen such loveliness: he unashamedly looked her up and down, noting how the dark green gown emphasised the contours of her waist and breasts. She wore a brooch