Paul Doherty: Crown in Darkness

The clerk heard voices raised in French and knew that Lady Yolande was protesting loudly at having to meet him. Nevertheless, de Craon's diplomatic skills prevailed and the Lady Yolande, a beautiful figure swathed in costly furs, came on deck and haughtily beckoned Corbett to her side. Corbett smiled wanly at Selkirk, nodded his thanks and walked over to join her. The arrogant princess refused to talk in English and Corbett had to use all his skill in French to conduct a conversation whilst ensuring he did not give offence. 'My Lady,' he began. 'I have simply one question to ask of you and, before you answer, I must inform you that I know full well the delicate details of your personal relationship with the late King.' He watched the woman's eyes widen in surprise. 'I assure you,' Corbett added hastily, 'simply one question.' 'Continue!' she commented tersely. 'Ask me the question! Let us have the matter done with!' 'On the night the King died,' Corbett replied, 'a message came saying that the King, would arrive at Kinghorn. So you expected the King?' Yolande nodded, watching Corbett closely. 'Well,' Corbett continued, 'the King did not arrive but Patrick Seton, the body-squire did. Surely you were concerned that your husband did not follow him? You must have thought that there had been an accident? And, if so, why did you not send Seton back to search for his master or send members of your own household to look for him?' 'Quite simply,' the French princess answered, 'Seton arrived at Kinghorn. I never liked him and I knew he hated me. I dismissed him as quickly as I could and later found that he had gone to drink himself into a drunken stupor. As for the King,' she edged closer to Corbett so only he could hear, her sweet cloying perfume catching his nostrils, until he almost thought that she was going to kiss him. 'As for the King,' the Princess hissed. 'I detested him. I hated his drunken ways, his many mistresses, his hard, scarred body. I could not have cared if he had been lying out on those wild moors bleeding to death. Do you understand me, English Clerk? I could not care! I was not concerned! Now, go!' Corbett, surprised by the venom and malicious hatred in the woman's eyes, hurriedly stepped away and watched as Yolande swirled off to her cabin. Corbett looked back across the galley to where Selkirk and de Craon were standing near the far ship rail. 'You have finished, Master Corbett?' de Craon called out sweedy, as if he was almost sorry at the reception the English clerk had received. 'I have finished, but I do have questions for you, Monsieur de Graon.' 'Then ask your damned questions,' de Craon snarled. 'For God's sake, ask them and let us go!' Corbett walked across and was grateful when Selkirk diplomatically moved out of earshot. 'Your questions, Monsieur?' de Craon tartly observed. 'They are ready?' 'Yes,' Corbett blundy replied. 'Did the late King ever discuss his marriage with you?' 'What business is it of yours?' de Craon heatedly replied. 'The talks between a French envoy and a Scottish monarch are hardly a matter for an envoy of King Edward of England!' Corbett sensed he would make little progress if de Craon continued in this vein; he walked over to where a small, wooden crucifix was nailed to the mast and put his hand on it. 'I swear,' Corbett said emphatically, 'that my intention is not to spy for the English King. I swear this by the cross. I also swear that what I do is done with the full knowledge of Bishop Wishart!' Corbett crossed back to the envoy. 'Monsieur de Craon,' he urged. 'I speak the truth. I realise the Lady Yolande is a noblewoman and that you were instrumental in arranging her marriage to the late King. However, I also know that the marriage, because of the Lady Yolande, was never consummated.'

The French envoy started, ready to play the outraged courtier, but Corbett's steady gaze quietened him. He shuffled his feet and pursed his lips, trying to conceal his embarrassment and surprise at this dangerous, clever English clerk. De Craon shrugged and smiled, secredy wishing he had killed this man and vowing he would, the next time an opportunity presented itself. On his part, Corbett shrewdly watched the Frenchman and knew he was correct and so moved to close the trap.

'Did you discuss the Lady Yolande with King Alexander at the Council meeting the evening before he died?' 'Hardly, in the company of others!' 'Whom did the King talk to?' 'The Lord Bruce, Bishop Wishart, his esquires. Seton and Erceldoun, Benstede,' the last name was spat out. 'But you did spend the previous day with the King?' 'Yes,' answered de Craon surlily. Corbett now closed the trap, trying hard to control his excitement. 'Was it then you discussed a possible marriage with Lady Margaret, sister of Philip IV of France?' De Craon drew himself up. 'Sir!' he exclaimed. 'You go too far. It is none of your business! The Lady Margaret is a princess of the blood. You are not fit…' He broke off suddenly, stared at Corbett and smiled coldly. 'That was good, Monsieur,' he muttered. 'Very clever. You are a good clerk, Monsieur Corbett.' He walked away, across the deck. 'Too good for this world, Monsieur! Au revoir.' 'I am sure we will meet again,' murmured Corbett but the Frenchman was out of earshot, shouting at his retainers and crew to make ready.

Without further ado Corbett, Selkirk and their small party returned to their own vessel. The galley pulled away, its oars dipping as it made its way down, following the tide out into the open sea. Their return to Leith on the "Saint Andrew" was just as uncomfortable as the journey out and Corbett was only too pleased to feel the firm ground of the quayside beneath him. Selkirk, however, was impatient to return. They collected their horses from the stables and were soon pounding their way back up the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to the Abbey of Holy Rood. Selkirk promised to leave his customary token force and Corbett, grateful for Selkirk's intervention and assistance on the French galley, began to thank the rather taciturn Scottish knight. 'Don't thank me,' Sir James replied. 'The sooner this business is done, Master Clerk, the sooner you are gone and that will make me very happy!' Corbett could only nod and turned to lead his horse from the abbey gates, when Selkirk called out, 'Mind you, Corbett, for an English clerk, you have some good qualities, and that is praise indeed from a Scotsman!' Corbett grinned his acknowledgement and continued into the abbey, pleased that the journey was done and the information he had received sohelpful.

The Prior joined him in his small chamber, his sandalled feet beating like a tambour along the stone corridor, his grey gown billowing around him. 'Your sea journey was profitable?' the Prior observed. 'Did de Craon assist you?' Corbett smiled. 'De Craon's an excitable man,' he replied, 'and a bit of a fool. I tricked him, but I had to, I remember once seeing a mosaic, a Roman mosaic. Have you seen one?' The Prior shook his head. 'Well,' Corbett continued, 'it was beautiful. A woman's face, dark and mysterious with long, flowing black hair. The craftsman had created this vision with small, coloured stones, and some of them had come loose. I spent an entire day putting them back, watching that face, hundreds of years old, come to life.' He sighed. 'But painting and sculpture are not your interests. Surely, you are more concerned with herbs, drugs and poison?' He watched the Prior's sallow face flush. 'I am sorry, Father,' Corbett grinned. 'I wanted to shock you. I am like the painter of that mosaic, the small pieces are falling into place and I need your help. Tell me, is there any herb which will make you see images and, at the same time, sharpen your memory?' He then outlined to the Prior his experience in Ettrick Forest when he visited the Pictish village. The Prior, solemn-faced, heard him out. 'There are,' he replied, 'certain plants which cut, distilled and treated, can turn a man's mind and raise phantasms in his soul; the deadly nightshade, the purple foxglove, above all the flowers of Hecate, Queen of the Night, the black hellebore. Buttered almonds, or even the chewed leaves of the laurel. All of these can excite the mind, bring back lost memories.' He looked sharply at Corbett, his tired, clever eyes searching the English clerk's face. 'But you mentioned poisons, Hugh,' he added calmly, 'and all the plants I have mentioned could kill a man, choke out his life like a breeze snuffs out a candle.'