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Paul Doherty: Crown in Darkness

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Paul Doherty Crown in Darkness

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Wishart secretly mourned Alexander. He had not liked the man. The dead King had been a lecher who lusted after other men's wives, daughters, sisters, like a dog on heat. Nevertheless, Alexander had been strong. Now he was gone, suddenly and mysteriously. Wishart stirred restlessly. Should he examine that problem? God knows there were many who wanted Alexander dead. The Bruces, the Comyns. The men whose women had been his mistresses. They all had their motives. Wishart narrowed his eyes and looked into the candlelight. There had been rumours, warnings about Alexander's death long before it happened. In this castle, months before the tragedy, there had been a banquet. Alexander was there surrounded by his mistresses and friends, drinking and eating. Wishart had been away but he had heard the stories later, how Alexander had suddenly looked down the hall, dropping his cup and going pale with fright. "What is it my Lord?" courtiers had asked. Alexander shook his head, and, raising his hand, pointed down into the darkness. "I see a man," he replied softly. "A monk. A man in a shroud. Can't you see him?" "No, my Lord," came the reply. Alexander had continued to stare, completely sober now, at the apparition only he could see. "He is warning me about my death," Alexander announced quietly, "Violent and soon to happen!" The alleged vision had spoiled the banquet, depressed the King for weeks afterwards, before his natural good-humour and boisterous spirits dismissed it as a phantasm of too much drink.

Wishart bit his lip. He did not trust in visions. He did not believe God had the time to interfere in the petty affairs of men. Was it some trick of the light? Or had someone planted the idea in Alexander's mind? There were other mysterious happenings. The prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, or Thomas of Learmouth, the self-proclaimed seer, who claimed he had dreams of Alexander's death, constantly warning the King of this in four-line doggerel verse. Wishart grunted. One day his inquisitors would take Master Learmouth and put him to the question. Was he a prophet? Or a man who meddled in the black arts? Whatever, his prophecies about Alexander's death had been proven brutally correct.

Wishart felt as if he was standing at a crossroads with two paths leading into the darkness. On the left, the problem of solving the King's death, of finding the murderer. On the right, the even more pressing problem of who was to succeed Alexander. The barons had sworn to uphold the cause of his granddaughter in Norway, but could a three-year-old girl rule Scotland? Or would it be someone else? Perhaps if he followed one path, he would find a place where they came together? Perhaps Alexander was not murdered, perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps the result of jealousy, some man sickened and tired of the king seducing or pursuing a woman. Yet, there could be other reasons. Did one of the claimants to the throne arrange the murder?

Wishart had considered Edward of England but then dismissed him. Edward was in France. There was no sign of his meddling in Scottish affairs, apart from sending his envoy, Benstede, and that inquisitive clerk, Corbett, across the border. Benstede had been there before Alexander died and Corbett, so Wishart's spies told him, was not sent by the King but the Chancellor of England, that wily old fox, Robert Burnell. Wishart had Corbett watched carefully but all the, reports indicated that Corbett had not been officially despatched by Edward. Wishart quietly wondered what was happening in the English court. Perhaps there was a division? Nevertheless, the bishop was firmly assured that, as yet, the English posed no threat.

Wishart rose and crossed the darkened chamber to secure one of the wooden shutters. He turned and warmed his hands over a small charcoal brazier. The French, he thought, were a different matter; their envoy, de Craon, was already in Scotland, plotting and conspiring with that bitch of a widow-queen. Wishart rubbed his hands together, cracking his knuckles as he tried to control his anger. He had never liked Queen Yolande with her haughty airs and fastidious manner, locking herself up at Kinghorn Manor and keeping away from the King. Alexander was, allegedly, infatuated with her but there was something wrong. She was supposed to be pregnant and perhaps Scotland might still get its heir but would it be a male prince and who would protect him over the coming years? Wishart sighed deeply. Then, of course, there were the Bruces, Lord Bruce who should be preparing himself for death instead of being involved in politics as if he were some young courtier intent on rising as fast and as far as he could.

Wishart thought back to what he had heard about that fateful night at the banquet. Bruce had been there, so had the English and French envoys. De Craon had looked upset. Benstede, impassive, had left early, while Bruce scarcely bothered to disguise the murder in his eyes whenever he caught the King's glance. The King had been so glum on his arrival and then, suddenly, almost out of character even for him, his mood had changed to one of enjoyment, drinking deeply, boasting that he would be with the Queen before the night was out, then off riding into that terrible storm to his death on the top of Kinghorn Cliff. Was someone there waiting for him, Wishart thought? No. No one at the banquet could possibly have crossed the Firth of Forth in such weather with such speed and he knew from his own spies that only the King had crossed the Forth that night. Deep in his heart Wishart believed the King had been murdered but he did not know how, or why, or by whom. The old bishop stirred restlessly as the wind howled in savage gusts against the castle and, although they had never met, he would have agreed with Corbett: Satan was abroad, his evil gathering like pus in an open wound.

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.

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