Spy in Chancery

gestures professional minstrels could muster, she rose and came over to stand beside Corbett. 'Do you like our music, Englishman?' she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.
    'My name is Hugh,' he replied. 'And your music is definitely better than your conversation, though I suppose that is not much of a compliment.'
    She pouted, 'Well, Huw,' she said, deliberately pronouncing his name in the Welsh fashion, 'Let us change this. You play chess? Perhaps you can teach me?'
    Corbett looked at the solemn, beautiful face and loved her, biting his lip to stifle the cry which ached to burst out. He knew her serious face was a mask, secretly she was mocking him but he did not care, he could have sat and stared for eternity like some angel caught up in the eye of God. He heard a snigger and looked down the table at Owen's smirking face. 'Well,' Corbett sighed deeply, 'I would be honoured to teach you chess.' He rose and escorted Maeve over to a window seat.
    Maeve summoned a servant who returned with a table, board, casket of chess pieces and a small, sconce-stone oil light. Corbett ignored the hum of conversation and the elaborate guffaw of laughter from the high table. He was only conscious of Maeve, sitting there opposite him, her heart-shaped face cupped in her hands, her eyes smiling as she explored Corbett's discomfort with her cool amused stare. The clerk laboriously explained the game, the different pieces and the more complicated moves, Maeve nodded, murmuring her appreciation before tentatively playing a few moves. Then, satisfied, eyes sparkling, she clapped her hands and announced she wanted a full royal game. Corbett obliged, it was getting dark, some of the guests had left, a few were gathered round the still droning harpists but more around the alcove where they sat. Corbett made a few desultory moves, pushing his pieces around with the murmured 'J adoube'. Maeve responded and Corbett suddenly broke out of his dream for Maeve was responding with clever subtle moves and suddenly Corbett was defeated. He stared down at the chessboard and up into Maeve's concerned face.
    'You have won!' he exclaimed. 'You're…' his words were halted by Maeve's peal of laughter, clear but warm, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her beautiful, slender fingers half covering her face as she tried to control her laughter. Corbett stared at her and the grinning circle of faces. He smiled, shrugged to hide his surprise and, bowing to Maeve, rose and walked down the hall. The patter of sandals made him turn, Maeve was alongside him, sliding a slender arm through his.
    'Come,' she teased. 'I can play chess better than any man!' She pressed close to Corbett, 'Unbend, man, I only jested. Come, let us take the night air from the Tower.'
    Corbett smiled, hoping she would not realise how hard his heart pounded at her closeness. They made their way up the narrow staircase, Maeve resting on his arm, her hair like soft gauze teasing his face with its silkiness and fragrant perfume. Corbett withdrew the bolts on the parapet door and they walked on to the roof of the keep. It was dark, only a red flush in the west marked the sunset, a strong breeze whipped in from the sea while above them the stars gleamed like jewels in a dark room. They walked over to the crenellated wall, listening to the distant murmur of the waves and the sounds from the castle bailey below.
    'I have always played chess,' Maeve broke the silence, 'ever since my parents died in the Welsh wars, I have lived here with my uncle. The skill of the game often lifts the boredom of endless casde days.'
    'You are very good,' he replied.
    Maeve, turning so her back was against the wall, gazed up into Corbett's face. In the faint light, the clerk could see her face was calm, serene, the mock-solemn look had disappeared. 'I have read several treatises including the poem "De Shakie Ludo",' Maeve replied. 'I always welcome visitors, they are a fresh challenge.'
    'So you can read?'
    'Latin and French.'
    Corbett looked into the gathering darkness, 'And you are happy, I mean here, at Neath?'
    'It is my home.'
    'And the Lord Morgan?'
    Maeve smiled. 'A strange man, you know he hates the English?' Corbett nodded.
    Maeve looked away, 'Who wouldn't? They killed my parents, put half of Wales to the torch, killed our chieftains, built great castles like the one at Caernarvon and turned our kingdoms into English shires ruled by Edward's kinsmen!'
    Corbet could only agree. He had fought in Wales and