Crown in Darkness

ELEVEN

They spent that evening at the Cistercian monastery of Melrose and continued their journey the following morning. The countryside became more deserted, farmsteads and villages more sparse as they approached the green mass of trees on the far horizon which Corbett knew must be the great Forest of Ettrick. They drew near the trees and Corbett felt he was entering a different world. At first it was cool and beautiful, the sun's rays piercing the trees and shimmering on the gorse and heather like light through the coloured glass of a cathedral window. Then it became darker, the trees denser, thicker, hemming them in on all sides as Thomas guided their horses along some secret path known only to him. The birdsong, so clear at the edge of the forest, was now quiet. Small creatures moved and stirred amongst the undergrowth, the snapping of twigs and mysterious rustling noises sounding all the more ominous in the green cold silence of the forest. A boar, tusked and red-eyed, suddenly burst from the undergrowth and Corbett jumped in fear as it blundered its way amongst the trees. Still, they went further, even Thomas was quiet; the tension became oppressive, now and again broken by the mocking call of some bird. Corbett pushed his horse nearer to Thomas. 'Are we following the right route?' he whispered anxiously. Thomas nodded. 'Wait,' he muttered. 'I will show you.' They rode further on and Thomas pointed to a copper beech. Corbett peered closer and saw a V-rod and crescent marked on the tree. 'We are following the right path,' Thomas said, 'and soon we will be there.' He rode, Corbett following, noting the same symbol appeared on other trees they passed. Then a low, warbling birdsong came clear and pure through the silence. Thomas stopped and gestured Corbett to do the same. 'Do not move,' he whispered. The whistle came again, stronger, almost threatening, and Thomas, pursing his lips, returned the call, raising his hands like a priest giving a benediction. The whistling came again, clear and simple, then abruptly ceased. Corbett looked into the green darkness, straining his eyes to see any movement and almost screamed with terror as a hand touched his leg. He looked down and saw a man, small, dark, with black hair flowing down to his shoulders, staring up at him. Corbett looked wildly around and saw others. Small, swarthy men, no higher than his chest-bone, dressed in leather jerkins and leggings. Some wore cloaks clasped at the neck with huge ornamental brooches. They were all armed with spears, short bows and wicked little daggers pushed into their belts. They stared impassively at Corbett while their leader talked to Thomas in a tongue that Corbett did not know, though it sounded like birdsong, high, clicking and quick. The chieftain then stopped speaking and bowed to Corbett, who felt the group around him suddenly relax. The leader took the bridle of Thomas's horse, another seized Corbett's and they were led deeper into the forest.

Corbett expected the Pictish village to be hidden and secretive but suddenly the trees thinned, the sunlight glimmered then poured through as they abruptly left the canopy of trees and entered a large clearing. A huge rocky outcrop at the far end jutted up and beneath it a small river or burn flowed quietly, turning and twisting as it followed its banks. The houses were scattered around, low-slung, timbered, with a thatched roof and small porch; it was a village scene similar to many Corbett had seen elsewhere except for the small dark people, their furtive looks and quiet ways. 'Come Corbett!' Thomas called. 'We are amongst friends.' 'Their language is strange,' Corbett said. 'And their ways are so secretive!' Thomas looked around and nodded. 'Once they were a proud people and ruled the greater part of Scotland but the Celts, the Angles, the Saxons and the Normans drove them from their lands into the dark vastness of the forests. They scarcely venture out and do not take easily to strangers.' 'And if I met them when I was alone?' Corbett asked. Thomas grimaced. 'Out in the open? They would pass you by. You would not see them here in the forest. If you injured or offended them,' Thomas turned and pointed to the carvings on the rocky outcrop, a woman with large generous thighs and huge round breasts, 'they would put you in a wicker basket and burn you alive, an offering to their Mother Goddess.' He saw Corbett frown and added, 'Come, Hugh, tell me what happens at your Smithfield?' Corbett stared at him and looked away, the tension between them broken by the Pictish leader who took Thomas by the hand, like a child with a parent, and led him into the largest house, beckoning Corbett to follow them.

Inside it was dark and cool, smelling faintly of crushed grass and heather. A fire burnt in a ring of stones in the centre, the smoke rising to a flue-hole in the roof above the rough timbered rafters. Corbett shuddered when he looked closer and saw human skulls nestling in the cross-pieces. An old man, swathed in robes, sat before the fire; he looked up when Corbett and Thomas squatted before him across the stones, peering at them with rheumy eyes, his lips parted in a toothless, dribbling smile. His face was so dark and wizened that he reminded Corbett of a monkey he had once seen in the royal menagerie in the Tower of London. Beer made from barley, and flat oat-cakes were brought for them. They ate in silence, Corbett conscious of the old man staring at them now joined by the leader who had met them in the forest. Once they had eaten, the fire was doused and branches laid across the stones. On these, a huge hanging bowl was placed, made of beaten copper decorated around the rim with birds pecking at ornamental roundels, dogs' heads, and a variety of animals, all lifelike in careful, exquisite craftsmanship. The bowl was filled with water and the old man, chanting softly to himself, poured powder into it from small leather pouches. The leader rose and brought Corbett a cup and, making signs, urged Corbett to drink the creamy goats' milk laced with something acrid which burnt his mouth and the back of his throat.

The old man continued to chant and Corbett suddenly felt more relaxed. The old man's wizened face lost its folds and wrinkles, the eyes firmed, clear blue in their trance-like stare. Corbett looked away and gazed around; the room had grown larger; he turned and saw Thomas smiling at him as if through a haze. 'Look into the bowl, Hugh, see what you like!' Corbett stared down into the water. A face rushed up to meet him, clear and lifelike; he stared into the sweet round face of his long-dead wife. He went to touch the water but someone grabbed his hand. Next his child appeared, then others long dead. Alice, black hair flowing around her beautiful face: other images arose clear and bright in all their colours. Corbett forgot about those around him so intent was he on watching the water. 'The King's Grace,' he muttered. 'Kinghorn!' The water cleared and another image appeared, a horse and rider, falling slowly from the edge of rocks. The horse was white, the rider cloaked, but his red hair streamed out against the darkness as he fell, open-mouthed, eyes staring into the black void.

Corbett felt a bitter taste at the back of his mouth and struggled to reassert himself, impose order on the chaos surrounding him. He looked up; the old wizened face was gone, instead the man was young, sharp-eyed, with long black hair falling to his shoulders. Corbett peered. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'My name is Darkness,' the man replied, the voice low, pleasant and perfectly understandable. Corbett gazed into the eyes and sensed something evil; whatever Thomas said, there was a malevolence here. These small, dark people were not just primitive tribesmen but held something old, ancient and evil. Corbett tried to assert himself once more. Logic. Reason. These were needed here. His task, he thought impatiently; Burnell would be waiting. There were problems but no solutions. He thought of Cicero. 'Cui bono?' he asked. 'Who profits from the King's death?' 'Look into the bowl, Clerk,' the voice was deeper, almost snapping, as if the speaker sensed Corbett's inner conflict. Corbett looked again into the clear water. A creature appeared, a lion, red and huge, bounding up the narrow winding streets of Edinburgh, splashing through rivers of blood which poured from the castle. The lion turned, jaws slavering, eyes ablaze with fury and Corbett flinched as it came towards him, belly crouched, its tail twitching, its hind legs tense, then it sprang. Corbett looked up and tried to rise, the skulls in the cross-beam of the house opened their mouths and bellowed with laughter. He saw de Craon sitting in that dirty, miserable ale-house. Aaron, Benstede's man, glaring at him through the crowd at the banquet in the castle while Benstede looked reproachfully at him. Corbett knew he had to leave but the room was spinning around him and he fell gratefully into the gathering blackness.

When he awoke, he was lying on grass in the open air. He blinked and stretched, feeling relaxed and contented after a good night's sleep, although there was a bitterness at the back of his throat. He remembered the hut, the bowl of water and the terrifying visions of the night. He sat up and looked around; he was in open grassland, the horses were hobbled. Thomas was sitting, looking thoughtfully at him, a blade of grass between his teeth. Corbett turned and saw the edge of the forest behind them. 'You feel well, Hugh?' Thomas asked. Corbett nodded. 'But where are we? The village! The forest! Where are we?' Corbett asked in puzzlement. 'We left them,' Thomas said. 'That was yesterday. You slept the whole night. This morning I put you on your horse and we left.' Corbett nodded, rose and moved away; he emptied his bladder and went to a nearby stream to bathe his hands and face in the cold clear water. They tended to their horses and ate the flat, tasteless biscuits Thomas had brought with him before beginning their ride back. Corbett, remembering all he had seen the previous night, was more wary of Thomas: the evil he had experienced in that hut was nothing to take lightly. What had he learnt, he asked himself? There was something, petty but significant. He knew the red lion represented the House of Bruce but the blood? Was Bruce a regicide? Had he killed Alexander to get to the throne? Corbett turned to the silent Thomas. 'You saw the lion?' he asked. The poet nodded. 'I did,' he replied; 'and the cascading blood.' He looked sharply at Corbett. 'That does not make Bruce an assassin.' Thomas continued, 'You saw matters as they will be, not as they are. I saw other things after you fainted.' 'What things?' The poet closed his eyes and recited.

Of Bruce's side a son shall come,

From Carrick's bower to Scotland's throne:

The Red Lion beareth he.

The foe shall wear the Lion down

A score of years but three.

Till red of England blood shall run

Burn of Bannock to the sea.

'What does that mean?' Corbett testily asked. Thomas smiled. 'I do not know, but the red lion is not the Lord Bruce nor indeed his son, the Earl of Carrick but actually refers to Carrick's son, Bruce's grandson, a boy of twelve,' Thomas sniffed as if to say, 'Make of it what you wish.'

They continued their journey, their conversation desultory as if each was aware of the tension which now separated them. They stopped at Melrose and arrived in Earlston the following morning. Corbett was pleased to see Ranulf, now bored with the simple delights of the countryside and just as eager as his master to leave and have done with it. Corbett courteously thanked his hosts and, gently brushing aside their invitations, insisted on leaving at once. They departed the same day, Corbett eager and anxious to be back in Edinburgh. He had learnt something valuable, though he still could not isolate it in his mind. The problem of the prophecies was solved albeit in a way he had scarce expected. After three days hard riding, Corbett and his party reached Edinburgh in the middle of a sudden summer thunderstorm which drenched them to the skin. Ranulf was sullen and angry at the pace Corbett set, forgetting his pleasure at travelling again in constant moans about his aching back and saddle-sore thighs. The lay brother was quiet, contenting himself with the dry comment that he had done enough penance to wipe a thousand years of purgatory from the debt his soul owed God.

They were all pleased to enter the great gates of Holy Rood Abbey though Corbett sensed there was something wrong. A groom came out to take their horses and, when he saw Corbett, immediately ran off leaving all three of them standing in the pouring rain. He returned with the Prior and a young, red-haired man dressed in half-armour. The Prior's long face was white with anxiety. He nodded at Ranulf and the lay brother then turned to Corbett. 'I'm sorry, Hugh,' he said almost in a half-whisper, 'your servant can stay with us but you must accompany this knight.' He turned and gestured to his companion. 'This is Sir James Selkirk. He has been with us since yesterday. He comes from Bishop Wishart with a warrant for your arrest.' 'On what charge?' Corbett snapped. The Prior looked fearful and swallowed nervously before speaking. 'On treason and murder! Oh, Hugh,' he said. 'I do not doubt your innocence but you must go and clear your name.' Corbett nodded, too confused and tired to ask for details. It must be a mistake, he thought, and then remembered he was a lowly English clerk in a foreign land. He remembered the Lawnmarket, the black, stark gibbets, the criminal being pulled there and tried hard to control his shivering. In good, fluent English tinged with a broad Scots accent, Selkirk told him to mount his horse. Once he did, the man bound Corbett's hands tightly to the saddlebow and, passing the rope under the horse's belly, also secured his ankles. More men, about six, appeared; their horses were led out and saddled. Corbett could only shout at Ranulf to stay and do nothing before Selkirk took him at a canter out of the abbey.