Spy in Chancery

last, taken a vow, promising to light a candle in the Cathedral Church of Notre Dame and kneel in an hour's prayer in the Lady Chapel, if the Virgin brought him safely to shore.
    Corbett had found lighting the candle an easy task but the hour's prayer had turned into a careful analysis of why the King had sent him to France in the first place. Corbett sighed, rose from his knees and leaned against one of the pillars, staring down into the darkness of the nave. He was a senior clerk in the chancery now, responsible for letters, memoranda, indentures, warrants and other documents issued under the secret seal of England, responsible only to the Chief Justiciar, Chancellor and King of England. A secure, well-paid job with fat fees and the right to draw on supplies from the King's own household, he had his own small house off Holborn, monies deposited with a goldsmith and even more with a Sienese banker.
    Corbett had few ties, no wife, no child, and he had reached his thirty-eighth year still enjoying robust health in an age when a man was lucky to pass his thirty-fifth. Corbett slid down and crouched at the base of the huge, fluted pillar. His stomach was still unsettled and he felt weak and unsteady from the sea crossing. Corbett cursed, he was back on his travels again, entrusted once more with secret and delicate tasks. He had thought that all was over now when his master, Burnell, had died some four years ago. Old Burnell, cunning, saintly with a streak of devious genius in rooting out any threat to the realm. Now he was gone, Corbett had been a member of the body watch which had knelt and prayed over the old bishop's stiffening corpse before it was shrouded and laid to rest in its pinewood coffin.
    Since his old master's death, Corbett's life had flowed and ebbed like some sluggish stream until the King intervened and summoned him to a secret meeting at his palace of Eltham. The King was planning a fresh expedition against the Scots and the room had been full of trunks, cases and leather chancery pouches containing letters, memoranda and bills concerning the Scottish question. Edward had quickly come to the point: there was a traitor or traitors in his own chancery or on his council who were collecting vital secret information on England's affairs and passing it, God knows how the King fumed, to Philip IV of France. Corbett was to be an envoy, join an embassy to the French court and discover the traitor.
    'Be on your guard,' the King bleakly commented, 'the traitor could well be one of your companions. You are to find him, Master Corbett, trap him in his filth!'
    'Shall I arrest him, your Grace?'
    'If possible,' came the bland reply, 'but, if that is not feasible, kill him!'
    Corbett shuddered and stared round the quiet, sombre church. He had come to pray and yet plotted death. He heard a sound at the back of the church and wearily rose. Ranulf would be waiting for him: the English clerk genuflected towards the solitary flickering sanctuary lamp and walked slowly down the nave.
    Corbett breathed deeply, slowly, he wished to remain calm, even though he was certain there was someone in the church, lurking in the darkness, watching him.

THREE
    The day after Corbett's visit to Notre Dame, the English envoys had sufficiendy recovered from the ordeal at sea to begin their journey, following the coast down to the Somme before turning south to Paris. They had brought their own horses and baggage across, a cumbersome trail of animals carrying supplies for my lords the Earls of Richmond and Lancaster, not to mention the clerks, scribes, cooks, cursors, bailiffs, priests and doctors. There was no obvious distinction in degree or status, the biting cold weather and shrill, sharp winds ensured everyone was wrapped in thick brown cloaks.
    Now there was the usual chaos outside the small monastery they had lodged in after leaving the port, horses were saddled, two needed a farrier, one was lame, another had sores on its back; girths, bridles and stirrups were checked, broken or damaged ones repaired before clothing, manuscripts and other baggage were loaded noisily on to them alongside provisions purchased at exorbitant prices from sly-eyed merchants. The calm of the monastery courtyard was shattered by cries, shouted orders, curses and the angry neighs of nervous, highly-strung horses. A number of mongrels wandered in to share and spread the confusion, only to be chased away by an irate, stick-wielding lay brother.
    Corbett sat