Spy in Chancery by Paul C. Doherty

Author:Paul C. Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FICTION, General, Mystery & Detective, Suspense, Mystery, Crime & mystery, Crime & Thriller, Historical fiction, Historical, Traditional British
ISBN: 9780747236153
Publisher: Headline
Published: 1991-07-03T23:00:00+00:00

'There was,' she remarked, 'a fierce quarrel between Talbot and Owen, Talbot demanding to be allowed to leave as he was on the King's business, Owen reluctant to allow him.'

'Why?' Corbett asked. 'Why should Owen detain Talbot?'

'I don't know,' Maeve crossly replied, her brows coming together as they did when she was angry, 'All I heard was Owen shouting that Talbot had been amongst the saddles!'

'But that does not make sense. Saddles? What are so special about the saddles?'

'God knows,' Maeve replied. 'My uncle bawled at Owen to let Talbot go, but not before riders were sent out warning scouts that Talbot was on his way. A short while after he left, Morgan sent Owen and a troop of horses after him.' Maeve shrugged, 'Who cared for Talbot? He was an English spy. No one here mourned for him.'

Corbett felt like asking if she thought he too was an English spy and, more importantly, if anyone, particularly her, would mourn his death?

TWELVE

To John Balliol, by God's grace and with Edward of England's permission, King of Scotland, the very walls of Stirling Castle seemed to drip with sweat and glisten in the midsummer heat. Swarms of flies spawned in the putrid dung heaps in the courtyard below came in through the open window and hovered above a table littered with fragments of food and pools of spilled wine. In his thick, gold-encrusted robes Balliol felt hot, hotter than he had ever had in his whole life. His body was soaked in sweat and he noticed a trickle of dirt run from beneath a cuff of his frayed gold robe. He tried to ignore the chatter of the bishops and great ones of Scotland as he stared down the table looking in disgust at the discarded meat, soiled bread platters and huge pools of red Bordeaux wine.

The latter seemed to gleam like great globules of blood and Balliol, blond-haired, thin-faced, gazed with his rabbit-like eyes and wondered if the wine acted as a warning, a prophecy of what might come. After all he was plotting against his overlord, Edward of England, and, although Balliol was frightened of everything and everyone, Edward of England held a special terror for him. Only God knew when that terrible man would march north, the heavy dust of his great baggage trains hanging over the roads of Scotland which would be scored by the hooves of his war-horses, warning the Scots that once again Edward of England, the Hammer of their kingdom, had arrived.

The English war host was a splendid and terrible sight, a moving forest of death, but, as Balliol knew from his constant recurring nightmares, the real terror was the tall figure of Edward, encased in black armour, mounted on a gold caparisoned, black destrier, his yellow hair now white with age streaming in the wind, his tough old body held fast in a cuirass of steel. Balliol wondered if the wine prophesied that when Edward heard of Balhol's plotting, once again he would invade

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