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.