Spy in Chancery

groaning, they pushed the boat to the water's edge, it was a cumbersome task till the waves caught the boat like a man catches a lover, then it became alive, bobbing and turning on the waves eager to break free of the land and make its way out to the open seas. Griffith climbed in, followed by Corbett and Ranulf: the Welshman grabbed the tiller while Corbett and Ranulf were ordered to man the oars and row. Griffith sat grinning like a devil while he ordered the two Englishmen to pull, loudly cursing every time they strained gasping over the oars.
    'Come gentlemen,' he mocked, 'you must row for your lives, well away from the land where we can wait for the tide to turn.'
    They did until the sun sank in flashes of red into the sea. Only then did Griffith order them to rest and, for a while, they collapsed on the benches breathless, until Griffith roused them with cups of water and slices of dry fish.
    They refreshed themselves feeling the boat rise and dip under the swelling tide, Griffith loosened the huge square sail and they drowsed while the boat ploughed through the sea under a clean, clear summer night. Corbett did not care for the night, the breeze or the dark blue sky iced by a summer moon and clear stars. While Ranulf slept, he crouched in his cloak and almost wept at the deep sense of loss at leaving Maeve. He was like that for most of the eight day voyage, too depressed even to feel seasick or choke on the simple fare Griffith provided. Once or twice he tried to draw the Welshman out on the lady Maeve and, when that failed, questioned the man about the Earl of Richmond's negotitations with the Lord Morgan over fishing rights along the South Wales coast but Griffith refused to answer.
    They continued on their voyage, which lasted over a week, favoured by warm winds which brought them into the sea roads into Bristol where all three, visibly relaxed to be in English waters, watched the huge cogs, men-of-war and merchantmen leave or arrive at the great port. They disembarked at evening, squeezing between two huge fat-bellied cargo ships. Corbett offered Griffith gold, the Welshman took it without a word of thanks and, dumping the saddle-bags on the cobbled quay, walked back to his boat.
    Ranulf was almost beside himself with happiness to be out of Neath. Corbett feit the same relief but it only covered the pain at leaving Maeve and the frustration that such a dangerous journey had achieved so little. They picked up their bundles and made their way along the busy wharfside: past sailors from Portugal, small and swarthy with gold or pearl-encrusted ear-rings, arrogant Hanse merchants in their dark colours and expensive beaver hats. There were Flemings, Rhinelanders, Hai-naulters and Genoese, their different tongues and out-iandish clothes reminded Corbett about the story of the Tower of Babel in the Bible. It was warm and he felt light-headed and unsteady after days in the fishing smack drinking stale water and eating salted fish.
    They left the wharves, Corbett pulling Ranulf from staring at the scaffolds, black and three-branched, each bearing the corpse of a river pirate rotting in the summer sun and sentenced to hang there for the turn of seven tides. The clerk and his servant made their way into the town, across the huge cobbled market place where traders were taking down the striped awnings, poles and trestle stalls under the watchful gaze of market officials.
    A group of drunks, still singing and revelling, were led off to sober up in the long range of stocks on a platform at the far end of the square. A pedlar, still desperate for trade, hoarsely shouted his wares; pins, needles, ribbons and geegaws. A thief was pelted with offal as he sat near a huge horse trough: dogs and cats fought like warriors over the pile of refuse, carts trundled away, wheels crashing, while their drivers, peasants with their families, slumped exhausted after a day's arduous trading.
    Corbett and Ranulf stared at it all, a stark contrast to the strange, outlandish routine of Neath Castle. Ranulf looked hungrily at the taverns, Corbett, wondering what Maeve was doing, testily urged him on. They walked through the market and entered a maze of streets where the huge, half-timbered houses loomed like trees above them. Corbett had already decided where to stay and gave a cry of relief when he left the streets and took the rutted track which led up to the Augustinian monastery.
    The clerk vaguely knew the Prior and trusted their