Spy in Chancery

wheeled and turned as their riders pressed with knee or thigh. Both men were lightly armoured in chain-mail shirts, boiled leather leggings and boots, their heads protected by conical helmets with cheek and noseguard. Each carried a small round shield and, because this was a mock fight, blunted swords which could still inflict a serious wound. The riders charged and circled each other. Owen's swordsmanship drawing the gasps of the onlookers as he whirled and dodged so it seemed horse and rider were one. Time and again, Owen ducked under his opponent's guard, smacking the flat of his sword against the unfortunate man's stomach and chest.
    Finally, Owen tired of the game, broke off and cantered away, his opponent charged, sword extended, the hooves of his horse pounding the ground, Owen swerved his own horse to meet him but never seemed to reach a full gallop. Corbett mischievously thought Owen had become over confident and would be bowled over by his opponent. The riders met, Corbett saw Owen dive beneath his assailant's swinging sword and, as the man charged past, Owen checked his own horse almost bringing its haunches down into the dirt while he swung his own sword to catch his opponent on the back of the head and send him crahsing senseless to the ground. The onlookers cheered, Owen took off his helmet and, raising his sword, saluted the now breathless, pink-cheeked Maeve. Corbett he dismissed with a long murderous look.
    The English clerk was not unduly worried except by Maeve's passion for, whenever they rode out, they often kissed, embracing more passionately, more demanding. Corbett wanted to make love and hoped Maeve would invite him into her chamber. Only once, did he allude to this but received the tart response that her maidenhead was not a gift to some passing Englishman. Corbett believed she was frightened of him leaving and, now in his fourth week at Neath, he knew Edward would be impatient for his return whilst his continued presence was beginning to heighten the tension in the castle. Maeve wanted him but hid her feelings behind bitter-sweet mockery. Morgan just ignored him, Owen stalked him like a hunter whilst Ranulf, bored but now fearful of Owen's open hostility, began to plead with his master about the date of their return to London.
    Corbett anxiously wondered if Morgan would allow them to leave safely and, even if they did, would Owen and his men obey such an order? What really concerned Corbett, however, was King Edward's expected reaction: he had learnt very little at Neath and what he had would not be new: Morgan was ripe for rebellion but there was no evidence, nothing to connect him with the French or the traitor on Edward's council. Oh, Corbett, had questioned where and whenever he could but the blank stares continued: Maeve was the same, she remembered Talbot, even the day he left Neath Castle for good.
    'There was,' she remarked, 'a fierce quarrel between Talbot and Owen, Talbot demanding to be allowed to leave as he was on the King's business, Owen reluctant to allow him.'
    'Why?' Corbett asked. 'Why should Owen detain Talbot?'
    'I don't know,' Maeve crossly replied, her brows coming together as they did when she was angry, 'All I heard was Owen shouting that Talbot had been amongst the saddles!'
    'But that does not make sense. Saddles? What are so special about the saddles?'
    'God knows,' Maeve replied. 'My uncle bawled at Owen to let Talbot go, but not before riders were sent out warning scouts that Talbot was on his way. A short while after he left, Morgan sent Owen and a troop of horses after him.' Maeve shrugged, 'Who cared for Talbot? He was an English spy. No one here mourned for him.'
    Corbett felt like asking if she thought he too was an English spy and, more importantly, if anyone, particularly her, would mourn his death?

TWELVE
    To John Balliol, by God's grace and with Edward of England's permission, King of Scotland, the very walls of Stirling Castle seemed to drip with sweat and glisten in the midsummer heat. Swarms of flies spawned in the putrid dung heaps in the courtyard below came in through the open window and hovered above a table littered with fragments of food and pools of spilled wine. In his thick, gold-encrusted robes Balliol felt hot, hotter than he had ever had in his whole life. His body was soaked in sweat and he noticed a trickle of dirt run from beneath a cuff of his frayed gold robe. He tried to ignore the chatter of the bishops and great ones of Scotland