Paul Doherty: Crown in Darkness

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.