Spy in Chancery

white froth on his lips. He screamed soundlessly but Corbett ignored him as he glanced wildly around, eyes darting, looking to see if the crossbow man was friendly or hostile. Then, as sudden as their attack came, the assailants drew off, thundering back across the field in a cloud of dust.
    Corbett sat, slumped over his horse, fighting back the nausea which threatened to disgrace him. He stopped the sobbing in his throat and looked around; there were bodies sprawled on the road, men screaming and cursing at the rawness of their wounds. The long column was now broken: two horses lay dead, another kicked in its traces, blood streaming from its throat. Gradually order was restored. There were a number of dead, two soldiers, a scullion in the Duke of Richmond's household and one of the attackers. Corbett watched Lancaster and Richmond scream aloud about 'Outlaws, so near to Paris,' ' Lack of protection,' but the knights shrugged and, shoulders raised, deprecatingly asked if there were no oudaws in England?
    Lancaster intervened and called a meeting of his colleagues, Richmond, Waterton, Eastry and Corbett. They watched from the road while the Serjeants and stewards resorted order, the physician tended wounds while the French knights went off to commandeer a cart to take the dead and seriously wounded to a nearby manor. Richmond looked flushed, keen to brag about his own sword play, Waterton looked nervous, unmarked, not even a stain or cut, Eastry was sorrowful but coldy detached, eager to get back and give solace to the wounded, Lancaster looked furious, his white face mottled with anger.
    'Of course,' the earl began, 'I will personally protest at this attack to Philip IV. What we have to decide,' he patted his horse's neck and looked round the group, 'is whether it was an outlaw assault or a carefully planned attack. I think it was the latter.' A murmur of agreement broke out so Lancaster pressed his point.
    'If so,' his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, 'the traitor must be amongst us.'
    'Why?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'I mean, my Lord, our route was planned in England and, due to the noise our cavalcade makes, half of Normandy must be aware of us.'
    Lancaster's eyes slid back to the quiet, reserved clerk. He did not like Corbett, too guarded, the earl thought, too sure of himself. Corbett saw the flicker of dislike in Lancaster's eyes and stifled further questions. The English clerk did not agree with the earl's conclusion, the traitor may well be amongst them but wild, vague accusations would make everyone guarded, cautious and so make discovery of the truth all the more difficult. The earl himself realised this.
    'I think,' he continued, 'the traitor is with us, but when we arrive in Paris, we will contact Simon Fauvel, one of the King's agents there. He may have heard some chatter or gossip which could shed some light on these mysteries.'
    The group then returned to the now organised column and recommenced its slow journey into the outer suburbs of Paris. Corbett took his place, telling an anxious Ranulf that he was well, safe and unwounded and would appreciate it if his servant shut his mouth and left him alone. Ranulf drew back, muttering angrily while Corbett mulled over the attack. He had heard one of the French escort shout that those assailants who had been killed could not be identified, they carried no documents nor wore any emblem or device. Corbett expected that: the attack was planned but what really worried him was why the brunt of the attack seemed to be aimed at him. Why, he wondered, did someone believe he was so dangerous that he should be singled out for such a dangerous attack? Who in England had passed such information to the French? Corbett pulled his cloak around him, he felt cold, more from fear than the chill, biting wind.
    The fierce biting wind made the horsemen huddle closer to their mounts as they tried to get protection against the cold gusts whistling through the ruined windows and crumbling walls of the ancient church. Their leader, a Breton mercenary, cursed and stamped his feet on the ground in an attempt to recover some warmth. He was also angry at the failure of his attack and did not relish the coming meeting with Monsieur de Craon, Philip IV's chief clerk and master spy, who was now picking his way across the ruins to meet him. To the Breton's superstitious mind the French clerk, small and dark, in his thick black woollen cloak seemed a fiend out of hell. The Breton was usually