Crown in Darkness

EIGHT

For the second time that day, Gorbett was shaken awake, an insistent voice calling his name. He opened his eyes and started as he recognised the white anxious face, staring green eyes and tousled hair of his servant, Ranulf, whom he had last seen in the infirmary of Tynemouth Priory. Gorbett shook himself awake. 'Ranulf! When did you arrive?' 'About an hour ago,' Ranulf replied, 'with my horse and a pack mule. I remembered your instruction to join you at the Abbey of Holy Rood. I have spent most of the day just finding my way here from the castle.' He looked Corbett up and down. 'Where have you been? You're covered in mud!' 'A long story,' Corbett testily replied. 'I will tell you later. For the time being, find the Prior and tell him that I am back and arrange for some hot water to be brought here.' Ranulf swiftly departed. His master, he thought, was as strange as ever, close, careful, even secretive and still intent on cleanliness. He wondered what had brought Corbett north; he had tried to find out all the way to Tynemouth but Corbett remained taciturn, so Ranulf became sullen. He owed his life to Corbett who had saved him from a choking death at Tyburn, yet Corbett was still mysterious; working constantly, his only pleasure being the flute, some manuscript or sitting quietly over a cup of wine brooding about life. Ranulf had cursed his departure from London away from the young wife of a London mercer. He felt a tightness in his groin and muttered foul oaths: she was a fine lady with her laces and bows and arrogant looks but, between the sheets, a different matter, soft and pleading, turning and twisting beneath him. Ranulf sighed heavily, a long way from this dour monastery and his secretive master.

Corbett was, in fact, very pleased to see Ranulf again. He would not admit it but he felt secure with Ranulf who would guard his back. Corbett was completely mystified by his servant's energy and zest for life and passionate attachment to any woman who arched an eyebrow at him. But Ranulf was here and while Corbett bathed and changed his clothing, he wondered how Ranulf could protect him from the secret assassins now stalking him. The attack in the forest was attempted murder and he now drew the same conclusion about the dagger thrown at him the previous day.

Corbett spent the rest of the evening analysing what he knew and had learnt but soon realised that he had been drawn into a maze of marshy morass and the more he probed, the more puzzled he became. He did not talk to Ranulf about the problem but listened with half an ear to the young man's description of his stay at Tynemouth as he wondered what to do next. Corbett felt inclined to draw up a report for Burnell. This would at least enumerate the problems he now faced, and acquaint the Chancellor about his complete lack of progress. He finally decided against this. So far he had only spoken to minor figures of the tragedy which befell Alexander III at Kinghorn. Benstede and de Craon could give little information. Perhaps the great ones of the land knew something different and should be approached. Moreover, Corbett realised that if de Craon knew he was asking questions it was only a matter of time before the Council of Guardians intervened and either put a stop to his activities or expelled him from the country. He therefore had to work quickly and collect some information to take back to Burnell in London.

After Compline, the last service of the day, Corbett approached the Prior and asked him where he could meet Robert Bruce. The Prior, no man's fool, stared hard at Corbett and shook his head in warning. 'Be very careful, Master Clerk. I suspect what you are involved in. I have heard vague rumours, comments, court gossip. These are troubled times and you have decided to fish in very dangerous and deep waters.' Corbett shrugged. 'I have no choice,' he replied. 'Each of us has his tasks, I have mine. I do not know what you have heard and I will not ask. I do no man any harm and perhaps may achieve a great good. That is why I wish to see the Lord Bruce.' The Prior sighed. 'Normally the Bruces are in their mountain castle across the country on the River Clyde but, because of the late King's death, Bruce stays near Edinburgh. After all,' the Prior continued sardonically, 'he has no desire to see the cake taken while his back is turned. Rumour has it that he has taken up residence in the port of Leith, near enough to Edinburgh but, should matters go wrong, the best place for his departure by land or sea. Nevertheless, I will check to see if this is correct and inform you tomorrow.'

The next morning when the bells of the abbey tolled for Prime, the first prayer of the monastic day, Corbett was up, dressed and gently kicked a sleepy, grunting Ranulf awake. They joined the long silent line of monks filing into the church. Corbett sang the psalms with them, feeling a great deal of the tension within him dissipate with the monotonous, harmonious chant. Ranulf sat slumped in the bench beside him, groaning and muttering at his master. after the service was over, they broke their fast in the small whitewashed refectory before approaching the Prior who confirmed his speculation of the previous evening that the Lord Bruce and his entourage had taken up residence in the port of Leith. Corbett and Ranulf immediately took their leave and were through the abbey gates travelling north to Leith just as the sun rose. They made fair progress. Corbett felt refreshed though still wary, pleased that the previous day's rainclouds had now disappeared and hoping that the Lord Bruce was still in Leith and would grant him an audience. They skirted the city, threading their way through the still-silent streets and, following the Prior's careful directions, soon found themselves on the broad beaten approach to the port of Leith. This was busy with carts and pack-horses making their way into Edinburgh, bringing in the products from both port and countryside to be sold at the markets. Wagon-loads of fish, fruit, salted meat, English wool and Flemish velvets, each wagon jostling for a place on the rutted track. The drivers, flushed and cursing, each trying to be the first into the city and to have their wares ready for sale before the city came to life.

Corbett rode quietly between them, keeping a wary eye on Ranulf who, after staring round-eyed at everything, began to mimic the strange accents, and drew dark looks from a number of passers-by. Corbett urged him to keep quiet and was more than relieved when they entered the narrow, winding, rutted streets of Leith and made their way to the small market square. Here Corbett began to question any respectable citizen on the whereabouts of the Lord Bruce's household and described to Ranulf the insignia of Bruce's retinue in the hope that his sharp-eyed servant might discover.someone wearing this livery. Neither seemed able to elicit any information. Many of the townsfolk could not understand them and Ranulf, particularly, found it difficult to cope with the broad flow of Scottish his questions provoked. They drew a small crowd of bystanders who, finding they were English, began to mutter and curse. Corbett realised that this was Leith, a Scottish port, whose ships were often in conflict with English vessels. He had forgotten this unofficial war and damned his own foolhardiness at not taking the matter into account.

At last they decided to withdraw from the square and were on the point of departure when they were suddenly surrounded by a group of tough-looking soldiers, helmeted and armed. Their leader grabbed the bridle of Corbett's horse and asked him a question he could not understand. The man repeated it, this time in atrocious French. Corbett nodded. Yes, he announced, he was an English clerk. He bore greetings from the Chancellor of England to the Lord Bruce and sought an audience with him. The man's wolfish face broke into a grin, displaying a set of decay-blackened teeth. 'Oh well,' he replied in French. 'If an English clerk wants to see the Lord Bruce, then that can be arranged.' He slipped a hand beneath Corbett's cloak and deftly drew out the clerk's knife which he stuck into his own sturdy leather-studded belt, and almost dragged the horse across the market-place. The rest of his party brought up the rear, baiting and goading Ranulf, who gave as good as he got with a stream of obscene English oaths. They left the marketplace for a maze of streets and eventually came to a large stone two-storeyed house with a timbered roof, its exquisite carved eaves jutting out over a small courtyard beneath. Both Corbett and Ranulf were dragged unceremoniously off their horses and pushed through the main door of the house and down a passageway which led into the main room or hall.

Corbett realised it must be some wealthy merchant's dwelling which Bruce had either commandeered or rented. It was clean, there were carpets on the floor, a tapestry on the far end wall with spring green boughs around the room to give a pleasant odour. There was even a fireplace set in the wall and, seated at the head of a long polished table, was the Lord Bruce. He was eating a mess of pottage and taking deep gulps of wine from a large ornamental cup.

He did not bother to look up when Corbett and Ranulf were ushered in but made a gesture for them to sit on the bench alongside the table while he continued noisily with his meal. At last he finished, gave a loud belch and wiped his greasy fingers and mouth on the hem of his ermine-lined cloak. The guard who had brought them went up beside the chair, knelt and spoke quietly to Bruce in a language Corbett could not understand and guessed that it was probably Gaelic, a language totally alien to him. He felt afraid, for Bruce, despite having passed the biblical age of three score years and ten, had a reputation as a ferocious warrior. A man of vaulting ambitions with the talents to match, passionately devoted to his house and ambitious for his favourite grandson, the twelve-year-old Robert, making no secret now that Alexander III was dead that the House of Bruce had the best claim to the Scottish throne. His appearance only enhanced his reputation, a leonine head, steel-grey hair, sharp, shrewd eyes. A cruel predatory face. No fool. A man who did not care about the consequences of his actions.

The soldier eventually stopped talking. Bruce nodded and gestured at him to withdraw and turned to Corbett. 'So, Master English Clerk,' he spoke slowly. 'You wish to see me? Why?' Bruce peered closer. 'I saw you the other evening,' he said. 'At the banquet in the castle. You were with that cold-eyed English envoy, Benstede, were you not?' Corbett nodded and opened his mouth to speak but Bruce brushed him aside with a peremptory wave of his hand. 'I do not like people coming to see me unannounced,' he explained. 'I am not some petty chieftain with time on his hands to exchange chatter and gossip. Moreover, I don't trust English clerks who go around asking questions as if Scotland was another English shire. So I will ask you once again, Master Clerk, what are you doing here?' 'My Lord,' Corbett began nervously, 'may I present the compliments and affectionate greetings of my master, Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England and Bishop of Bath and Wells.' 'Nonsense,' Bruce barked in reply. 'I knew Burnell when I was in England. I did not like him then and he did not like me. The passing of the years has done little to improve the situation. So, Master Clerk, what now?'

Corbett smiled. 'I see I cannot bluff you, my Lord. The truth is that I was sent to Scotland to find out what happened, is happening and might happen.' He looked hard at Bruce, summoning up enough false honesty to cover his lies. 'You must realise that, my Lord. You have served with King Edward, you know his mind.' 'Yes,' Bruce replied. 'I know his crafty mind. He is a lion in war but a panther in fickleness and inconstancy, changing his word and promise, cloaking himself in pleasant speech. When cornered he promises whatever you wish but, as soon as he escapes, he forgets his promise. The treachery and falsehood he uses to advance his cause he calls prudence, and the path by which he attains his ends, however crooked, he calls straight, whatever he says is lawful.' Bruce stopped, his chest heaving angrily, to wipe the spittle from his mouth. Corbett just sat quiet. Bruce glared at him. 'Have you ever heard this, Master Clerk?' and he immediately launched into poetry, quoting an old Scottish prophecy about England:

Edward of England has leopards three Let Scots keep all in sight, While two in front, their smile you see, The one to the rear can fight.

Corbett smiled wanly. Bruce was now in a foul temper and very dangerous. 'I am sure the verse has some truth in it, my Lord,' he replied. 'But what can I say? Alexander III of Scotland has left us as an heir a three-year-old Norwegian princess. In England,' Corbett hurried on, 'we are still confused about the late King's death.' 'Nonsense,' Bruce replied. 'The late King was notorious for his mad rides at dusk to tumble any girl above the age of twelve.' 'In England, sir,' Corbett replied tartly, 'they say he was drunk, but you were at the Council that evening. As you are the leading peer of the realm, surely you know the truth!' 'Aye, I was there!' Bruce answered. 'The King was not drunk.' 'Perhaps the King was upset by the business of the Council?' Corbett persisted with his questioning. 'Nothing!' Bruce barked. 'Nothing of import. I wondered why it was called, just to discuss some Galloway baron imprisoned in England. There were petitions drafted for his release. Only the Good Christ knows why we met for that. The King arrived sullen but then something happened. I don't know what but suddenly he was like a child with a new toy. He was merry, drank deeply and said he was off to Kinghorn. And so he went. Why do you ask that? Benstede was there. He must have told you.' Bruce stopped and pursed his lips. 'Mind you, Benstede left much earlier. So perhaps he was not aware of the King's departure.' 'Were the French envoys there, my Lord?'

'Yes, de Craon, fawning and pleasant, urging the King to go to Kinghorn "pour l'amour". The stupid bastard! Of course, he denied it all later. So, Master Clerk, our King is dead and whom will your King support?' 'His Grace, King Edward,' Corbett replied slowly, 'will respect the wishes of the community of Scotland.' 'A pity,' Bruce murmured so quietly that Corbett could hardly hear him. 'I always thought that if Alexander died without an heir, Edward would support the house of Bruce!' He stopped speaking and gazed hard at Corbett and then continued quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself. 'I fought in the Holy Land for the Cross, and in England for Edward against the rebels; I have founded monasteries, supported Holy Mother Church so God would exalt my family. I watched Alexander whore, drink, lecher and toady to your Edward and I knew that I was a better man. In 1238 Alexander Ill's father promised me the crown but then he married again and begat Alexander, the third of that name, and the cup was dashed from my lips. Then Alexander became king, with no living heir and married his French paramour, lusting after her, proclaiming he would beget an heir. Well,' Bruce suddenly stopped, recollecting where he was and to whom he was speaking. He stared dully at Corbett. 'Get out, Master Corbett!' he waved his hand. 'Go! Go now!' Corbett nudged the gawking Ranulf, rose, bowed and, followed by Brace's retainers, swept out of the room.

The retinue accompanied Corbett and Ranulf out of Leith and on to the now darkening track to Edinburgh.They exchanged insults with Ranulf and then turned back. Corbett heaved a sigh of relief, told Ranulf to keep his questions to himself and, head down, rode quietly along turning over in his mind what Bruce had told him. An angry, embittered man, Corbett concluded, who had no love for King Alexander. Indeed, he had good cause to benefit from his death, yet, Corbett reasoned, he was only one among many.

It was dark when they reached the outskirts of Edinburgh. Corbett relaxed, the thoroughfare was busy as carts, traders and farmers trudged home. Suddenly there was a commotion, confusion and curses as an empty cart overturned, the horse plunging and rearing in its traces with no sign of the driver. Corbett and Ranulf, riding abreast, stopped and gazed at the chaos. Two figures who had been walking ahead of them, suddenly turned and came sauntering back. Corbett saw them and straightened in his saddle. There was something wrong. He caught a glimpse of steel. He grabbed the reins of Ranulf s garron, and kicked his own into a canter. The two men were knocked aside as Corbett swung round the overturned wagon and broke into a gallop, clinging to his horse and hoping it would keep its feet on the rough rutted track. As soon as they were amongst the shuttered houses of Edinburgh, Corbett slowed down and turned to grin at the pale, terrified face of Ranulf. 'Don't ask me who they were,' he said. 'I don't know. They may have even been friendly but I remembered the old saying, "On a dark lonely road, one never meets a friend".' Ranulf nodded and promptly vomited, leaning over his horse's head as his stomach gave vent to its sudden fear. Corbett smiled; a few minutes later he wished he hadn't, for he too was sick and was still trembling when they safely reached the abbey gates.