Spy in Chancery

lord or steward to feed the envoys and their entourage. Nevertheless, despite such hospitality, Corbett and his colleagues were left well alone by their French escort who treated them in a sullen, off-hand manner. On reflection, Corbett was not surprised, a state of armed truce existed between France and England with every indication that both countries might soon slip into war.
    Corbett soon tired of the endless, daily tasks and problems of travelling though men like Blaskett thrived on them. The little things, the chatter, the gossip, who sat where, who was due what monies, it sounded glorious to be sent on an embassy to France: Corbett knew many of his colleagues would seize and enhance such an opportunity, forgetting the sores on their arses and thighs from constant riding, the rat-infested hostels, the rancid meat and sour wine which turned their bowels to water and the journey into a nightmare. The company of the great was no consolation, Lancaster was mean, sour-mouthed and taciturn: Brittany was conscious of his own importance, was eager to forget his recent military expedition to Gascony which had made him the laughing stock of the English court. The clerk, Waterton, seemed an amiable fellow, but he kept to himself except where women were concerned, almost rivalling Ranulf in sexual prowess. Corbett often heard the sounds of revelry at night, the slap of hand on some wench's soft bottom, the giggles, screams and cries of lovemaking.
    At the same time, beneath the banality of this tedious journey, Corbett felt there was distrust and tension. Once they left Boulogne, Corbett lost his sense of being watched but he did experience the lack of trust betwen the leaders of the English embassy. King Edward had told Corbett that Lancaster, Brittany and Waterton, as well as the young, taciturn Henry Eastry, a monk of Canterbury and notary to Archbishop Winchelsea, were all privy to the secret business to Edward's council, anyone of them could be the traitor betraying information and English lives to the French.
    Corbett quietly watched Eastry, Waterton and the two earls, but they did nothing unusual, regarding the French with the same studied dislike as the rest of the entourage. None of them had any contact more than they should have with their escort or made any effort, even secretly, to communicate with any French official in the towns they passed through.
    It took two weeks to reach the outskirts of Paris after the most banal and boring journey in Corbett's life. The clerk felt stifled by the grinding routine but, looking back, realised that made it the ideal time for an ambush. They were on the Beauvais road, a broad, rutted track which swept into Paris, bordered by thick clumps of trees when the attackers struck; dressed in black, red hoods over their faces, they thundered from the trees and swooped down on the English party. The French escort turned, their leaders drawing swords and crying out orders just as the assailants crashed into them.
    Corbett, grasping his long dagger, lashed out furiously, turning his horse, terrified lest one of the attackers got behind him for a quick, easy slash to the back of his neck. He sensed he was in the thick of the fight, frightened by the terrifying horsemen pushing through towards him and wondered why the assailants had chosen this point of the column and not its head where Lancaster and Richmond rode, or the rear where the baggage carts carried possible plunder. A figure loomed up before him, cloak flapping, eyes glistening with malice through the eye-holes of the hood, arm raised to drive the mace down for the killing blow. Corbett threw himself along his horse's neck, lunging with his dagger at his assailant's exposed belly, but the man wore hard armour beneath his cloak. Corbett felt the blade jar and a streak of pain ran up his arm. Nevertheless, the blow forced his opponent to drop his club and turn away clutching his stomach.
    Corbett, the sweat now soaking his body, whirled in terror, he was surrounded by attackers though the rest of the English entourage were beginning to assert themselves and Corbett could see the French escort, rather dilatory at first, were making their presence felt. There were screams, curses, men fell, choking in the saddle, blood pumping from open wounds; axes, daggers and clubs whirled and Corbett heard the chilling whine of a jagged crossbow bolt. Ranulf came up beside him, blood streaming from a cut on his face, eyes staring madly, a