Crown in Darkness

NINETEEN

In Edinburgh Castle John Benstede, clerk and special emissary from Edward of England, was also drawing his affairs to a close. His baggage and trunks with their secret compartments for letters, memoranda, bills and items of business had been taken downstairs by Aaron and strapped on sumpter ponies waiting in the courtyard. Benstede looked round the cold stone-wall chamber. He had left nothing and was secretly pleased to be going. He had already visited Bishop Wishart to thank him for his hospitality and had been slightly surprised by the Bishop's effusive warmth. He was too friendly, thought Benstede, and wondered if the Bishop knew anything about Corbett's revelations.

Benstede slumped on to the straw-filled bed and, not for the first time, quietly cursed the inquisitive English clerk. He had heard about Corbett, a secretive, ambitious, ruthless man though, Benstede concluded, one with a conscience. Such a man should not be allowed to play a part in public affairs. There was a time for conscience but this did not apply to the important matters between kings and countries. Surely, Benstede thought, would it matter if a few men died so that peace could be maintained? And the good order Edward had established in England be spread as in Roman times throughout the entire land?

Benstede worshipped Edward. He saw the English king as a living reincarnation of all that was good and proper in a knight and in a king. Benstede had read the Arthurian romances spread by the minstrels and troubadours of France and England and considered that if they were true, then Edward was Arthur come again. The English king had brought peace and good order to Wales, built roads, stimulated trade, healed the wounds of civil war and, through his use of Parliaments, brought the whole kingdom and entire community of the realm into one coherent organisation. Benstede loved order and hated chaos. Everything had its place, everything should be ordered. Benstede was a doctor and had seen the ravages of sickness in the human body. As Saint Augustine said, "The kingdom was the body and there were diseases ever ready to break out, the pus and the evil humours spreading through every limb causing infection and bringing everything to nothing".

Scotland under the wrong king could be a bubo or growth on England. Time and again Edward had confided to Benstede his dreams about not only restoring the empire of Henry of Angevin but expanding it. Northern France was to be conquered, Wales and Ireland annexed and Scotland subjugated. The empire of the mysterious Arthur was to be re-established in harmonious union under one ruler. Edward paid particular attention to Scotland, pointing out that the northern kingdom was the greatest threat to his realm. A hostile Scotland could bring war and devastation to England's northern shires with their long exposed borders and vulnerable coastlines. In 1278 Edward tried to force Alexander to concede that the English king was his overlord. Alexander refused and publicly insulted Edward, who never forgave or forgot such a gesture. Nevertheless, the English king was patient. He had worked too hard to lose Scotland, sacrificing his own dear sister to gain it only to see his nephews, Alexander's sons, die in mysterious circumstances. Edward-had often wondered, in Benstede's company, if the boys had actually been killed by the French or factions hostile to England. Nonetheless, Edward was satisfied that the Scottish king was childless for if he died without an heir Edward would advance his claims by arranging a marriage between his own baby son and Margaret, the Maid of Norway, and so the English king's writ would run from Cornwall to the northernmost tip of Scodand. There would be no more raids, no more wars along the northern march, no danger of a foreign king or prince using Scodand as a postern-gate into England.

Edward hoped this would happen but Alexander and the interfering, conniving King Phillip of France proved they wished to change all this. English spies in Scodand reported an increase in envoys from Paris and the English were horrified to learn that Philip had managed to persuade Alexander to marry the spoilt bitch Yolande. Edward, fearing the worst, immediately despatched Benstede to Scodand to see what might happen. At first, Benstede believed he could do nothing but simply watch and report to his master: he had considered a secret alliance between Edward and the Bruce faction but realised that, ambitious as the Bruces were, they would never plot against the Scottish king just to hand the crown to Edward. Consequendy, Benstede diverted his attention to Alexander III and his new queen and hardly believed his good fortune to discover that relations between the king and his new bride were far from harmonious. Benstede would have let matters stay like that, or even secretively encouraged the Scottish King's break from his wife, helping him to obtain a decree of divorce from the Pope on grounds of non-consummation. That would have taken years. The Pope was in the hands of the French and would not quickly allow an annulment which would certainly insult the French court. Yet, once again, Alexander had moved quickly and secretively. Urged on by the devious and sinister de Craon, Alexander, so Benstede discovered, not only intended to divorce Yolande but immediately marry Margaret, the sister of Philip IV, and so move Scotland completely under French influence. The papacy, far from delaying the annulment would, under French pressure, actually hasten it through in a matter of months. Of course, Benstede was angry and the red-faced, boisterous Alexander had often teased Edward's envoy with malicious relish, baiting and taunting him with the prospects of a French prince sitting on the ancient throne of Scone. 'What then?' he had once jibed at Benstede. 'How does this fit in with your master's grand design? Never again, Master Benstede,' he shouted, 'will an English king demand from a Scottish monarch fealty for his own kingdom. Do you understand that? If you do, tell your master. Never, I repeat, never!' It was after such an interview that Benstede had decided Alexander must die, for what the Scottish king intended would plunge most of Europe into a bitter war and Edward would see his dreams fade. 'No,' Benstede whispered to himself, 'Alexander deserved to die.' The English envoy smiled to himself. It had all been so easy. The humble approach to an attentive ear, the quiet careful planning. A visit to Kinghorn, then back to Edinburgh to inform the King that his proud, pouting wife was aflame with desire for him. Other preparations were made. He had used that boatman, Taggart, to transport supplies across to caves on the other side of the Forth whilst Aaron had gone deeper into the countryside and purchased horses to stable there.

After that, everything had gone to plan, even the storm was in his favour. Once Alexander attended the Council meeting, Benstede gave him the false message from his wife and promptly journeyed across the Forth to join Aaron, who had delivered a letter at Kinghorn, saying the King was to be there later that night and ordering the purveyor to bring the King's favourite horse down to the ferry. Together, he and Aaron had placed thin ropes across the cliff-top path and the King on his white horse showed up clear as any target against the night sky. The ruse had been most effective. Benstede had seen English troops in Wales use similar methods in the narrow, Welsh valleys to bring down enemy horsemen or trip the unwary messenger. Of course, the two squires had posed problems. Seton's sharp eyes must have noticed or seen something. What, Benstede never established. So, he too, had to die and Erceldoun with him. Everything was in order, that is, until Corbett arrived. Benstede ground his teeth: clever, cunning Corbett with his soft, narrow, studious face and innocent questions. Benstede could hardly believe that the fellow had had the tenacity and intelligence to see through his schemes and unravel them.

At first, Corbett's revelations had made Benstede panic but then his cool, logical mind began to analyse events. Whom could Corbett tell? Burnell? He was the King's minister and would do what the King required. The Scots? But who would be displeased at Alexander's sudden demise? Bruce, hungry for the throne, or Wishart who was never liked or trusted by the dead King? And how could Corbett prove it? 'He has nothing,' Benstede murmured to himself. 'Nothing at all. All shadows and no substance. Some smoke but no fire.'

Benstede pursed his lips in satisfaction and rose to his feet at the clamour from the courtyard below. He looked through the narrow, arrow-slit window and saw Aaron patiently waiting, holding the reins of the two sumpter ponies and horses which would take them back to Carlisle where he would use his warrants to commandeer a fast ship to France. He would tell Edward everything that had happened. He knew the King would surely understand. Benstede noticed the noise which had disturbed him came from two boys playing with wooden swords outside the stables. One, a black-haired urchin, the other he recognised as the Earl of Carrick's grandson, young Robert Bruce. He watched the tousled, red-haired boy feint and parry like some dancer as he wielded his wooden sword and drove with shouts and jeers his poor opponent into a heap of horse-dung piled high in the courtyard corner. Benstede, happy and content with the world, shouted, 'Well done! Well done, boy!' dug into his purse and sent a silver coin twinkling down into the courtyard. The boy pushed his hair back, squinted up at the castle window and slowly walked over to where the silver coin had fallen, picked it up and tossed it to his defeated companion. He did not even acknowledge Benstede's gift but sauntered arrogantly away. 'The proud young cock!' Benstede muttered to himself. 'He and his family with their aspirations and dreams of the crown and royalty!' Benstede grinned, satisfied that Bruce's dreams would never be realised and, taking one last look round the room, carefully made his way down the winding stone staircase.

The horses were saddled and he and the silent Aaron were soon clattering across the drawbridge. A solitary knight was waiting for them and Benstede recognised Sir James Selkirk, Wishart's man and the captain of that prelate's household. 'Why, Sir James,' Benstede remarked. 'Have you come to see us off? Or do you bear messages from your master?' Selkirk slowly shook his head. 'Certainly not, Master John. I am simply making my way back into the castle, though I understand from His Grace, Bishop Wishart, that you are leaving Scotland today!' 'Well, not today,' Benstede jovially replied. 'It will take us at least three days hard riding to reach the border. You must be glad that we are going.' 'Visitors from England,' Selkirk quietly replied, 'are always welcome. Your countryman, Master Hugh Corbett, is already on his way. I bid you adieu!' Benstede nodded, dug the spurs into his horse, and clattered on his journey.

They bypassed Edinburgh and were soon into the soft countryside, making their way south-west to the border and security of Carlisle Castle. A beautiful summer's day, the strong sun's rays striking like a blade through the canopy of trees as the countryside slept in the summer haze. Towards evening they found themselves still in open country so Benstede decided that they must camp and indicated a copse of trees in the far distance. 'We will stay there,' he told his silent companion. 'We will eat, sleep and continue our journey tomorrow.' Benstede repeated what he had said with deft, smooth signals of his fingers and Aaron nodded. They approached the copse and followed the path as it narrowed into a hollow, splashing through the reedy shallows of a small stream and disturbing the blue dragonflies which hung there still enjoying the warmth of the dying sun. Benstede went further on, stopped and looked round for a suitable place to camp.

Satisfied with the day's journey, Benstede lifted the wineskin from his saddle and, pulling back the stopper, raised it up so its sweet contents splattered into his parched mouth. A crossbow bolt thudded into his exposed chest. Benstede lowered the wineskin slowly and coughed in surprise as both wine and blood dribbled from his mouth. He turned and looked for Aaron but his silent companion was already dead, a second crossbow bolt taking him full in the throat. Benstede slumped like a drunken dreamer from his saddle, the wineskin falling from his hand and the red wine spluttering in circles on the ground as it mixed with the blood pouring from both his mouth and chest. A bird whistled overhead and the dying man almost answered it with the bubbles breaking in his own throat. The smell of crushed grass tickled his nostrils as Benstede wondered what was happening to him. 'Corbett!' he thought. 'Corbett was responsible.' He had made, Benstede reflected in his dying moments, the most serious mistake of his life. He had trusted Corbett. He thought Corbett knew the rules. Nevertheless, Benstede comforted himself, he had done what he had to do. His agents in the Norwegian court in Oslo already had their instructions. It would all be well in the end. He felt the blood rise like a gorge in his throat as the darkness came quietly crashing round him.

In the shadows of the trees Sir James Selkirk carefully put down the huge crossbow he carried and, drawing his sword, walked soundlessly over to the prostrate figures. Aaron was dead, slumped like some sleeping child, face down on the earth. Benstede lay on his back, hands outstretched, lips still silendy moving as his eyes glazed over. Selkirk stood and watched him die. 'You see, Master Benstede,' he murmured softly. 'I was right! You are leaving Scotland today!'

Selkirk looked around. He had followed both riders ever since they had left Edinburgh Castle. It had been easy. They had suspected nothing and so expected nothing. The knight had thought he would have to wait longer, but when he realised his quarry intended to sleep out in the open in a lonely Scotish wood, then he knew that such an opportunity could not be resisted. Selkirk walked silendy back through the wood until he came to a small clearing hidden by a canopy of trees. The ground was soggy and easy to break up and, quickly digging a shallow grave, he dragged the bodies of both men into it. He also dug a small hole for the saddles and other baggage after he had rummaged through them for anything of value for himself or his master. The unsaddled horses and ponies were then pricked in the haunches and sent cantering into the gathering darkness. Selkirk was confident that they would find their way back to some farmstead or village where the local peasants would hardly believe their good fortune. Satisfied that all was done, Selkirk collected his own horse and made his way back to Edinburgh. Already he knew his master would be preparing the draft letter to Edward of England sadly answering Edward's expected enquiry on the "whereabouts of his envoy". After all, such accidents, as Wishart would caustically comment, were common occurrences in Scotland.