Crown in Darkness

EIGHTEEN

Corbett felt drained, exhausted, but there was more to do. He took his cloak and walked slowly down the cloisters. 'Hugh?' a soft voice called. Corbett turned. The Prior anxiously searched the English clerk's white, drawn face. 'You have finished your task?' Corbett nodded. 'Is there anything I can do?' the monk asked. 'No, just tell Ranulf to join me in the stable courtyard.'

The ride to the castle was slow, Corbett made sure Selkirk's men fanned out around them. Here, in the city of Edinburgh, Corbett mused, he had to use the same tactics his commander had when advancing up a hostile valley in South Wales. He did not think Benstede would launch any attack but he felt it would be foolish not to take precautions. They clattered across the drawbridge into the castle. A servant fetched Selkirk, who crossly announced that the Bishop was reading his Office in the castle chapel. 'You will have to wait, Master Clerk!' he jibed. 'I think not!' Corbett replied and brushed him aside. The chapel lay at the back of the castle on the very summit of the great rock escarpment of Edinburgh. Corbett, followed by a panting, quietly cursing Ranulf, strode through the narrow, stone-vaulted castle corridors and up flights of stairs to the chapel. It was an ancient place, built by the saintly Queen Margaret, wife to Malcolm Conmore, the slayer of the tyrant Macbeth. It was also one of the smallest royal chapels Corbett had seen. Built of dark-grey stone, it must have only measured six yards long and four yards wide and consisted of a timber-roofed nave and a simply carved stone-vaulted apse, the two being separated by an archway. Under this knelt Bishop Wishart, praying before the bare wooden altar. He rose and turned as Corbett walked up the nave. 'Master Corbett, you could not wait?' he said softly. 'No, my Lord, I have waited long enough. The matter is finished.' Corbett turned as Ranulf, followed by Selkirk, entered the chapel. 'I would like to talk to you alone, my Lord.' The Bishop nodded at Sir James, who glared at Corbett but left, followed by a bemused Ranulf.

Wishart gestured to a bench alongside the far wall of the nave and they sat there, while Corbett summarised his conversation with Benstede, omitting any details he thought appropriate. The Bishop heard him out, concealing his surprise at this English clerk's stamina and logical brilliance. Corbett finished and Wishart rubbed his stubbled chin carefully, thinking out the consequences of what the clerk had told him. He pursed his lips and sighed. 'Benstede,' he admitted, 'did kill the late King but all the evidence you have mentioned could not be produced in court. It is a mixture of coincidence and careful calculation. Even if it was,' Wishart continued, 'it would cause uproar, threaten an already delicately-held peace.' He paused and stared fixedly at Corbett. 'Of course, I have not mentioned the reaction of your own master, King Edward of England. I accept that Benstede may have acted on his own initiative but I have my suspicions. If this matter were brought into the public eye, you would scarce receive the thanks of a grateful monarch. You could not return to England and you would not be welcome to stay here!' 'And Benstede?' Corbett interrupted bitterly. 'The regicide, the slayer of the Lord's anointed, not to mention the murderer of four men whose blood cries out for justice and vengeance.' 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I shall repay,' the Bishop replied soothingly, pleased to put the clerk down. 'Well, payment is long overdue!' Corbett tartly replied. The Bishop shifted uneasily on the hard wooden bench. 'It's not Benstede,' he snapped, 'who is dangerous. It's you, Master Corbett, with your search for the facts, your ability to ferret out the truth. The truth often hurts. It does no good, this turning over of stones. And why?' Wishart asked. 'What business is it of yours?' 'I do not know,' Corbett replied. 'I was given orders and I carried them out. Perhaps one day I will know the reason why!' 'But not here!' replied Wishart firmly. 'You will be gone, within forty-eight hours, you and all your retinue must be out of Edinburgh and journeying south to the border. If you are not, you will be arrested for treason!'

Corbett stood, his face now flushed with anger. 'You, especially, my Lord, want me gone. You know that I know the truth!' He almost jabbed a finger in the Bishop's face. 'You knew that the King was murdered. How? Why? And by whom? Perhaps not, but you still did nothing. Every time you looked at me you remembered your own guilt!' Wishart stood up and walked to the steps of the chancel, trying to control his temper. 'Yes,' he replied angrily. 'I knew but I had no proof, no evidence; even now I can do nothing! Nothing at all! Go now, Master Clerk!'

Corbett bowed and muttered something. 'What was that, Clerk?' Wishart snapped. 'A quotation from the Psalms, my Lord, "Put not your trust in Princes".' The Bishop sighed. 'Come back, Master Clerk! Come back! Look!' the Bishop edged closer to Corbett. 'I can do nothing. I hold Scotland from the brink of civil war. The King is dead, murdered, but he is dead. Yet,' he added bitterly, 'if a king of Scotland can suffer an accident then so can an English envoy. Rest assured, Benstede and his servant will never leave Scotland alive!' Wishart extended his hands as if in a blessing. 'What more can I do?' he said softly. 'Except give you an escort out of Scotland. 'Yes, there is something!' Corbett suddenly remembered the widow, Joan Taggart, surrounded by her hungry, frightened children. 'There is a woman, the widow of the boatman whom Benstede killed, she lives near Queensferry. Now she and her children starve.' 'You have my word,' the Bishop replied. 'They will be well looked after. Now!' he added briskly, 'you must be gone, Clerk, in forty-eight hours.' Corbett sketched a bow and left the old Bishop, the echoes of his steps ringing round the small, empty church.

The Prior and his monks were disconsolate at Corbett's abrupt departure. They had grown accustomed to his eccentric, secretive ways, his sudden and mysterious comings and goings, his help in the library and scriptorium. 'We shall miss you, Hugh," the Prior said. 'We wish you a safe journey. I am sending two of my lay brothers with you, they will carry letters of safe conduct. No enemy, English or Scots, would dare attack a man under the protection of the Abbey of Holy Rood!' Corbett smiled and embraced the Prior, feeling his fragile, bony shoulders beneath the grey, fustian robe. 'What with your letters and Sir James's men, who undoubtedly await me beyond the abbey, I shall be safe.' Corbett clasped the Prior's hands, said his farewells and soon he, a relieved Ranulf and two lay brothers from the abbey, were clear of Edinburgh riding south-east for the border with England. Behind him, fanned out in a line like a long shadow were Sir James Selkirk's men, despatched to ensure the troublesome English clerk left Scotland for good.

Corbett travelled through the Lammermuir Hills, now in their full summer glory. Oak trees, pines and beeches covered the hillsides and escarpments, whose flanks were scored and gouged by narrow, fish-filled streams. Corbett was content, at peace now he was leaving the dark intrigue of Edinburgh. He was conscious of the soldiers shadowing him but they kept their distance. Corbett travelled light and therefore fast. At night they sheltered under trees or in the byres and barns of solitary farms and shepherd-holdings. Four days after they left Edinburgh, their horses passed the dark mass of Berwick and splashed across the Tweed into England.

Beneath the huge, Norman keep of Norham Castle, built on a great crag above the river, Corbett said farewell to the lay brothers and made his way up the craggy promontory into the fortress. The Constable, a grizzled, wiry-haired soldier, was waiting for him in the outer bailey, with others wearing the livery of the Chancellor standing around him. 'Master Corbett, clerk to the King's Bench?' the man barked. 'The same,' Corbett replied, dismounting from his horse. 'The Chancellor is here?' 'Yes,' the Constable replied. 'He is waiting. Please follow me!' Corbett told Ranulf to make himself comfortable and followed the soldier up into the great keep.

Burnell, plump and wheezing, his soft, flabby hands constantly mopping his completely bald head, met him at the door of the castle's solar and, thanking the Constable, personally escorted Corbett into the gaunt, deserted room. It was a bleak granite, timber-roofed chamber dominated by a stone-built fireplace and long, oval-shaped windows. The furniture was scanty; a long oak table, heavy chairs like church benches and great iron-bound chests. There was a tray with a jug of wine and simple pewter cups on the table. Burnell filled two of them and beckoned to Corbett. 'Come, Hugh, it is good to see you. We will sit in the window-seat and catch the breezes. An ideal place from which you can watch both England and Scotland. You received my letters? I received yours,' he added, not waiting for a reply. Corbett sat and, at the Chancellor's invitation, told his master everything. He did not omit any details, he was not fooled by the fat, flabby bishop who sat alongside him, his razor-sharp mind would not miss anything. The Bishop, slurping his wine, let the clerk speak, interrupting now and again with the occasional terse question or comment. Outside, a linnet sang while it wheeled in its own splendour against the gold, sun-filled sky. Corbett stopped talking, watched it for a while and then quietly concluded. 'There is no more. So now, why was I sent there?' Burnell cleared his throat. 'First,' he replied, 'have no worries about Benstede. I know Bishop Wishart and I believe Benstede will never be allowed to leave Scotland alive. As for the Scots, I doubt very much whether you will ever set foot in their country again, while I will conceal your activities from His Grace. After all,' and Burnell smiled sourly, 'I have as much to lose as you, that is why I took such care to intercept any letters Benstede sent south for the King.'

Burnell stood up to ease the cramp from his body and walked slowly to and fro while Corbett sat and watched him. 'I sent you to Scotland,' Burnell began, 'without the King's authority and under my own commission because I do not want a war between England and Scotland. Both countries are at peace, both enjoy and profit from the calm. Edward our King has always thought different. He is a conqueror, Corbett; he has smashed the Welsh, killed their chieftains and turned their kingdoms into English shires dominated by his grey, heavy castles. He has always wanted to do the same with Scotland. First, he married his sister, Margaret, to Alexander III with the prospect that one of his nephews would sit on the Scottish throne,' Burnell paused before going on. 'Then, Margaret and the two boys died. Our King accepted that, though he tried unsuccessfully to wrest homage for Scotland from Alexander III. He wished to establish the principle of English supremacy over Scotland for that would come in useful if a nephew succeeded to the Scottish throne or if there was an uncertain succession. Anyway,' the Bishop continued wearily, 'Alexander, heirless, becomes the amorous bachelor. Our sovereign lord is quite content with that but then matters change. A new French King, Philip IV, ascends the throne with dreams grander than Edward's. Have you ever heard any of his lawyers speak or read their memoranda?' Corbett shook his head. 'They make fascinating reading,' the Bishop said meditatively and rejoined Corbett in the window-seat before continuing. 'They see Philip as a new Charlemagne and this alarms Edward. More so when Philip opens secret negotiations with Alexander and produces the beautiful Yolande for a wife. Now, it could be Philip's kinsman on the Scottish throne, so Edward sends the humble Benstede as his envoy to Scotland, not with precise orders, may I hasten to add, to kill Alexander. Oh no! Just verbal instructions "to do all within his power to block and impede the French alliance".' 'And Alexander is killed?' 'Yes,' Burnell replied. 'Then I became suspicious. If Alexander's death was an accident or a murder by someone else then so it is, but,' Burnell's voice rose, 'if it could be laid at Benstede's door then I know, whatever he may say, Edward's real long-term plans for Scotland!' 'But King Edward,' interrupted Corbett, 'has been most quiet in this matter!' 'Publicly,' Burnell replied, 'yes. Privately, no. I do think Edward's detachment from what is happening in Scotland is a mask. He did not murder Alexander but must be pleased that the Scottish King lies dead for it fulfils his own secret plans to annex the kingdom.

Burnell paused and looked hard at Corbett. 'I now know, because of your visit to Scotland, that Edward sent Benstede there as part of his grand design to annex that kingdom by peaceful means if necessary, but, if that fails, then by war.' 'But Edward has been in France?' queried Corbett, 'deeply involved in Gascony affairs.' 'He is,' Burnell smiled, 'but I do know from my spies in the Exchequer that the royal treasury clerks have despatched an interest-free loan of two hundred pounds sterling to Eric, King of Norway.' 'You mean?' Corbett exclaimed. 'Oh! There is more,' continued Burnell. 'Edward has also sent secret envoys to Rome asking for a papal dispensation for his two-year-old son to marry within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity. The bride has already been chosen for there are English envoys now in Norway attempting to secure the hand of the Princess Margaret in marriage for Edward's own son. So, you see, Master Corbett, the King has been most active in this Scottish matter. By fair means or foul, he intends to get his son on the Scottish throne!' 'Yet,' Corbett replied, 'if the Prince Edward does marry Margaret, it would mean a peaceful conclusion to the affair.' Burnell almost snorted in derision. 'For the love of the Sweet God and all his sons!' the Chancellor exclaimed. 'You have been in Scotland, Hugh. You have seen Wishart, the Bruce, the Scottish lords. Do you really think they will allow an English prince to wear the Scottish crown? Do you think Bruce will give it up like some nun who enters the convent and renounces all wealth? There is more. The Princess Margaret is only two, the same age as Edward's son. The Scottish court know it will be years before either succeeds to the throne and who would be their guardian?' Burnell smiled. 'No less a person than our sovereign dread lord, Edward of England, and he would not allow the grass to grow under his feet. English castles built. Scottish strongholds garrisoned with English troops. English barons, churchmen and clerks in positions of responsibility. No,' Burnell concluded. 'I have thought the matter out. The murder of Alexander III will only lead to the death of the Princess Margaret and the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands, of English and Scots and in the end we will lose.' Corbett sat and thought about the visions he had seen in the Pictish village and the prophetic words of Thomas of Learmouth. 'Well,' Burnell said, rising to his feet. 'You did well, Hugh, the matter is now in my hands. You are to return immediately to London and resume your duties. I shall see you before you leave.'

The old Bishop, muttering to himself, shuffled out of the door. Corbett remained, looking out of the window. The sun had gone, a strong wind had arisen. He looked across the Tweed and saw the dark stormclouds gathering above Scotland. Images passed through his mind. Alexander III, King of Scotland, black against the night sky as he fell to his lonely death. Wishart, foxy eyes, the power and the fury of the Lord Bruce. Then, once again, the lines of Thomas of Learmouth passed through his mind and he knew the prophecy was right. The green hills below him would run with blood before the murder of Alexander III, the death of the Lord's anointed, was expunged from the face of the earth. His death would need atonement before his crown moved out of the gathering darkness.