Spy in Chancery

real danger they were in.
    'Ranulf,' he called softly. 'We must leave, the tide will come in and trap us against the cliffs.'
    Groaning and cursing, Ranulf picked up the fat, heavy saddle-bags and followed. They stayed under the brow of the cliffs, hidden from the eyes of any scout or watcher. Corbett also wanted to avoid disturbing the gulls and cormorants wading in the lazy foam-edged sea: a sudden flurry of birds would only draw attention. They walked on as the summer sun began to sink, a ball of orange streaking the sea with fire. There were no signs of pursuit and Corbett hoped Morgan, probably misled by Maeve, would be scouring the Vale of Neath, sending out search-parties, sealing off the valley mouths in an attempt to trap and kill them. The only real danger was the sea, now noticeably closer as the tide crept in threatening to cut them off. Corbett urged Ranulf on ordering him hoarsely to keep close and walk faster.
    They rounded a bluff and Corbett almost shouted with pleasure. The cliffs suddenly swept down into a little cove and on their edge was the small fishing village Maeve had mentioned. Corbett told Ranulf to keep under the lea of the cliffs as they made their approach, Morgan's retainers might be in the village and he did not wish to walk into a trap. Corbett left Ranulf at the foot of the track and quietly made his way up to the brow of the hill, squatting behind some fern he watched the scene before him. The village was a collection of wood and daub huts, each in its own plot protected by a flimsy fence. The thatched roofs swept down almost covering the square open windows, very few of them had doors, the square opening being protected by a thick sheet of canvas or leather. Near the huts were long slats or planks slung between poles of dead ash where the fish were gutted and dried.
    A pile of refuse lay beneath and even where Corbett sat the smell of decaying fish and other odours made him feel nauseous. The village was quiet, a few children, almost naked save for a few rags, played in the dirt clay alongside rooting, fat-flanked pigs and stinking dogs, Now and again, a woman would push back a leather doorway and call out to a group of men who sat on a bench before one of the huts, drinking and playing a desultory game of dice. There was no sight of any of Morgan's men. Corbett heaved a deep sigh, stood up and walked into the village.
    One of the mongrels dashed towards him, its ugly head forwad, upper lip curled in a snarl of anger, it snapped and lunged with its rat-trap jaw. Corbett lashed out with his boot and the cur turned and ran as one of the men rose, shouting and gesticulating.
    Corbett walked towards him. 'Griffith,' he said, 'the lady Maeve told me to ask for help.'
    The man, small, thick-set with a balding head and skin the colour and texture of leather, simply stared back, one huge muscular hand stroking the thick, jet-black beard which fell to his chest. He replied in Welsh but Corbett was certain he understood English.
    'The lady Maeve sent me,' Corbett repeated, 'She told me to give this to Griffith.' He opened his hand and showed the ring which the man swiftly took.
    'I will keep this,' he replied in fluent English. 'I am Griffith: what does the lady Maeve want?'
    'To take me across the Severn to Bristol.'
    Griffith groaned, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He walked over to the small group of onlookers and turned.
    'Come!' Griffith waved his hand.'Come!' he repeated. We go!'
    'Now?'
    'Why not?'
    'The tide is turning,' Corbett protested, 'we cannot leave?'
    Griffith looked at him with blue, child-like eyes.
    'We may stay if you want,' he replied, 'but we have learnt that Lord Morgan's men are scouring the countryside, we can wait till they visit here if you like.'
    Corbett grinned and hoisted the saddle-bags further up his shoulder.
    'You are quite correct,' he replied, 'We should leave as soon as possible.' Griffith nodded, brushed past him and led Corbett down the path to where Ranulf was waiting for them. Griffith stopped, looked and beckoned him to join them.
    They crossed the wet sand to where the fishing smacks were drawn up, lightly fastened to great stakes driven down into the sand. Griffith unfastened the largest, a long, low-slung craft which was already provisioned for sea, with water casks and two earthenware pots and Corbett realised that in normal times, Griffith and his fellows would wait for the evening tide, to go out and to ply their nets. Moaning and