Crown in Darkness

FIVE

The next morning Corbett slept late, deaf to the sound of the abbey bells, and the normal bustle of the monks as they went about their various activities. He was awakened just before noon by the Master of Novices who announced that a message had come from John Benstede asking for Corbett to present himself at the castle immediately. Corbett hurriedly dressed, refused the kind offer of a horse but accepted the services of a guide to take him through Edinburgh to the castle. They set off through the drizzling rain, climbing the steep path up the rock which the monks said was popularly known as Arthur's Seat. Edinburgh was totally different from London; a royal burgh, it was built according to some sort of plan: long narrow streets with timbered and stone houses on either side, some joined together, others separated by narrow runnels or alleyways which led to a small garden or croft behind each tenement. There were shops, simple open-fronted affairs, booths and numerous ale-houses. Corbett thought London was dirty but Edinburgh was filthy; rubbish, the remains of meals, broken chamberpots, even corpses of dead animals littered the streets.

The noise was intense with carts trundling across the rutted tracks or wynds as Corbett's guide described them. Business was brisk, shopkeepers even running out to grab

Corbett by the arm and offer a pie, a piece of cloth, fresh fish from the Firth, almonds, nuts and raisins brought in from the nearby port of Leith. Corbett could hardly understand their accent and was thankful for the stout staff his guide carried and so expertly used to make their way through the milling crowd. They passed the ancient church of St. Giles, and crossed a wide open grassy space which the guide called the Lawnmarket, the vast expanse generally used for markets or fairs. It was also the execution ground and the decomposing bodies of four criminals twirled from the makeshift gibbet.

They continued on, up the steep incline and into the castle. Inside, the scene was one of frenetic confusion, servants scurrying around, shouting and gesticulating, carts laden with provisions struggling to either get in or leave. Horses rearing and neighing, as ostlers and stable-boys tried to calm them down and lead them away. Men-at-arms, wearing the royal livery of Scotland, attempted to impose some form of order but the situation was not improved by a horde of courtiers standing around also issuing their instructions to a vast army of retainers all wearing different liveries. Corbett turned to his guide to ask what was happening but found the man had had enough sense and discretion to depart as quickly as possible. Corbett grabbed a groom who was trying to lead a horse to the stables at the far end of the bailey but the fool could not understand him and Corbett simply drew a blank look, followed by a shrug and muttered curses.

The English clerk stood rooted to the ground, wondering whether to stay or leave, when a hand gently touched his shoulder and he turned to see John Benstede, his kind face wrinkled in an apologetic smile. 'Master Clerk,' he said quietly. 'It was good of you to arrive so promptly. Come, let us leave this chaos.' Corbett followed him across the yard as the English envoy made his way carefully through the throng and up a flight of steep stairs into the main keep of the castle. Up another row of stairs and Corbett followed Benstede into a small, grim chamber with a bed of straw in the corner, a trestle table, a badly-lit brazier and a few rough stools for comfort. Benstede sighed and gestured to Corbett to sit down while he slumped, head on hand, on a stool near the table. 'What is the matter?1 Corbett asked. 'Why the summons and why the confusion?' 'The Council of Guardians,' Benstede replied wearily, 'has called a meeting of the Great Council. We are not summoned to that but to the great banquet afterwards. The Chancellor, Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, has instructed all foreign envoys to attend this feast.' He poured a cup of watered wine for Corbett and then joined him, sipping carefully while studying the English clerk. 'You have been busy, Master Corbett?' he enquired. 'Yes,' Corbett replied tactfully. 'I have been trying to elicit what is happening in Scotland. Both our King and the Chancellor,' he lied, 'will be grateful for any information.' 'And have you discovered anything?' 'No,' Corbett lied again. 'Alexander III is dead, killed when his horse went over Kinghorn Ness. I have presented the Chancellor's condolences to his widow and now I must stay until I receive fresh instructions.' 'You are interested in Alexander Ill's death?' Benstede persisted. 'Do you think there was foul play?' 'I think,' Corbett replied carefully, 'that the King's death was mysterious and worthy of study.' Benstede pursed his lips and let out a long sigh. 'Be careful, Master Clerk,' he said. 'The Scots are in no mood to have foreigners, or Sassenachs as they call us, interfering in their affairs, but by all means keep yourself conversant with what is happening. Our Sovereign Lord King,' he commented sardonically, 'is always ready to listen to gossip from foreign courts.' Corbett decided to ignore the sarcastic tone and refused to be drawn. He stared at his companion's round cherubic face and twinkling blue eyes and knew that Benstede was only trying to draw him into conversation. 'What is the council meeting about?' he asked. Benstede got up and crossed to the bed in the far corner. He lifted the straw mattress and pulled out a small leather pouch which Corbett recognised as being in common use by clerks in the Chancery or envoys on their travels. Benstede inspected and then broke the seal and handed a small roll of vellum to Corbett. 'Read this,' he said. 'A draft copy of my report to the King. It describes the situation in Scotland as I see it and contains nothing confidential!' He grinned sideways at Corbett. 'At least, nothing yet! Go ahead! Read it!' Corbett unrolled the letter and ignored the usual introductory courtesies – "John Benstede to his Grace, etc. etc. The news from the Scottish court is this. His Grace, King Alexander III, was killed when he plunged from Kinghorn Ness on the night of the 18th March. It is commonly rumoured that the King was on his way to stay with his new wife, Queen Yolande, at a nearby manor. A great grief has fallen upon the kingdom and there is deep apprehension for the future. As your Grace knows, Alexander was married to your Grace's late lamented sister, Margaret. The issue of that marriage, the Princes Alexander and David, are dead. The only surviving issue is a granddaughter, Margaret, commonly called the Maid of Norway, offspring of Eric II of Norway, who married Alexander Ill's only surviving daughter. Margaret is a girl of only three years and is not of suitable age to take over this kingdom. Nevertheless, at Scone on the 5th February 1284, Alexander made all the estates of Scotland bind themselves by oath to acknowledge the Maid of Norway as his heir, failing any children Alexander might have in the future. Envoys have already been sent to the Norwegian court to apprise King Eric of the circumstances and to beg him to send the Maid back to Scotland as soon as possible.

"The situation, however, is still perilous. No woman has ever before become the ruler of Scotland and there are mutterings about the old Celtic tradition that when a king died the closest male relative took over the reins of power. This is now happening in Scotland and the kingdom is beginning to veer to one or the other of the two powerful families with such claims to the throne. These are the Comyns and the Bruces who can both reckon amongst their members males of the royal blood, for each claim the throne by descent from David, Earl of Huntingdon, great-uncle of Alexander III and grandson of a former king. There has always been bad blood between these families but now they are like two stiff-legged hunting-hounds who circle each other with hackles raised and teeth bared, carefully eyeing each other, ready to launch into war if any move is made by their rival. The only force which separates them is the Church, the one single coherent organisation in this country which binds like mortar the different races and degrees of this nation. Two of the leading churchmen, Bishops Wishart of Glasgow and Fraser of St. Andrews, have once more summoned to Scone the Prelates, Abbots, Priors, Earls, Barons and all good men of the country to renew their fealty to the new queen over the water, the Maid of Norway. All swore, on pain of excommunication and eternal damnation, to protect and uphold the peace of the land. Their Lordships, the Bishops, have achieved their ends, setting up a regency to represent the whole Community of the Realm consisting of the Earls of Buchan and Fife, Sir James Stewart and John Comyn and, of course, the two

Bishops themselves. Three of these so called Guardians are responsible for Scotland north of the Forth and the other three, particularly Wishart, wield authority south of this line. Men accept things as they are, though they would prefer things as they should be. Despite the Council of Guardians the different lords are levying troops and fortifying castles, preparing for war if peace fails. Your Grace, the King, has personal knowledge of the Bruces. All three of them, grandfather, father and son, all called Robert, never fail to remind people that they have royal blood in their veins and a strong claim to the Scottish throne. In 1238, as your Grace may know, when there was no apparent successor to the throne the then Scottish king called his magnates together and, in their presence and with their consent, designated the House of Bruce as his heir-presumptive. This promise proved illusory when a proper heir appeared. Nonetheless, the House of Bruce, for a brief while, tasted royalty and many claim it only whetted their appetite.

"As matters stand now, the kingdom is quiet, but I will keep your Grace informed of what events occur. We are acceptable to the Scottish court, being friends of all and allies to none. We are pleased to greet the arrival of Hugh Corbett, Clerk to the Chancery, despatched north by your Chancellor. His presence at the court will be a definite aid to our mission. God save your grace. Written at Edinburgh -May 1286."

Corbett studied the document and passed it back to Benstede. 'A fair analysis,' he commented, 'on the situation of Scotland. Do you think there will be war?' Benstede shook his head. 'No, not yet. Alexander kept his kingdom strong. It would take months, perhaps a year, for such strength to seep away. A great deal depends upon the arrival of the Maid from Norway and who secures her hand in marriage. When,' he nodded slowly, 'there could be war.' Their conversation then drifted on to other desultory matters. Corbett spoke about his early life, his wars in Wales and work at the Chancery. Benstede, the only son of a worthy Sussex farmer, told of his vocation to the priesthood, his interest in medicine and his rapid promotion in the royal service. Corbett caught the reference to medicine. 'You mean?' he asked, 'that you trained in the College of Medicine?' 'Yes,' Benstede replied. 'At one time I thought my vocation was to be a surgeon or doctor. I studied for a time in Paris, Padua and Salerno.' Benstede looked intently at Corbett. 'That is why I asked earlier if you were interested in the death of King Alexander. I myself questioned the royal physician who dressed the body for burial at Jedburgh Abbey, Duncan MacAirth. It was he who told me about the injuries the King received. He is here in the casde. Perhaps I can introduce him to you.' 'Does he keep some secret about the King's death?' Corbett asked. Benstede paused. 'No,' he replied. 'Alexander died from a broken neck due to a fall from his horse. Never mind the stupid prophecies and their curses! Alexander's first wife died, his two sons died; the way he drank to forget it all and his mad rides at night to satisfy any lust, it was only a matter of time before such an accident occurred.' 'So, Alexander's death came as no surprise to his subjects?' 'What do you mean?' Benstede replied sharply. 'I mean,' Corbett began slowly, 'the House of Comyn and that of Bruce must, er -,' the English clerk paused, searching for the right words, 'must not be displeased,' he continued, 'to be provided with an occasion to advance their respective claims to the Scottish throne.' 'Be careful what you say, Corbett!' Benstede replied. 'The Comyns hardly came to court and though Bruce was close to Alexander, the late King never bothered to consider their claims to his throne. Yet,' he concluded slowly, 'there are those who now watch Bruce carefully. He wants the crown, Master Corbett, as any other man wants eternal life. But, be careful in what you say or do. The Bruces are violent and would not take kindly to what you are hinting!' Corbett was nodding in agreement when a knock at the door interrupted them and a short, dumpy figure entered. Corbett was immediately repelled. The man had a bland, vacuous face, protruding green eyes and lank, brown, greasy hair. He made signs with his hands and fingers and Corbett watched fascinated as Benstede replied using identical gestures. The man looked at Corbett and Benstede turned. 'My apologies, Master Clerk. May I introduce Aaron, a convert from another faith, a deaf mute, who can only communicate in sign language. He is my body-servant, since my student days in Italy. He has come to tell us that the feast is about to begin and we must go down immediately.' Corbett nodded and followed both the envoy and his strange companion out of the room and down to the main hall of the castle.