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.
NINE
The next morning the Prior brought a letter for Corbett; a simple note which said that Benstede had been attacked by unknown assailants the previous morning, that he was safe but advised Corbett to be most cautious. Corbett quietly vowed he would. He washed, dressed and took Ranulf down to the refectory for bread, cheese, a little ripe fruit and some watered wine. Afterwards, he ensured the men who had accompanied him to Scotland were well before sending Ranulf off to wash their clothes and busy himself about the abbey.
Corbett returned to his cell, carefully bolted the door and drew from a large leather pouch, parchment, pumice-stone, inkhorn, quill pens, a long thin razor-edged knife and a wad of red sealing-wax. He unrolled the parchment, scrubbed it with the pumice-stone and gently blew the fragments away, dipped his quill into the unclasped inkhorn and began to draft a letter to Burnell. It took hours and it was not until the late afternoon that he began the final copy.
'Hugh Corbett, clerk to Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Chancellor, greetings. I have continued to stay at the Abbey of Holy Rood involved in the matter assigned to me. Let me first say that rumour and gossip abound, many shadows but so far very little substance. Common report now believes that Alexander III, King of Scotland, accidentally fell to his death from Kinghorn Ness on 18th March 1286. The King had convened a special meeting of the Council to discuss the imprisonment of a Galloway baron in England. The meeting was attended by the principal barons, both lay and ecclesiastic, of the kingdom. The King came in, sullen and withdrawn, but his mood changed rapidly. The business of the Council was soon dealt with and merged into general feasting when the King surprised everyone by announcing he intended to join the Queen at Kinghorn. Many remonstrated with him for a howling storm was raging outside, it was night and the journey was a dangerous one. The King brushed this opposition aside and left, taking two body squires with him, Patrick Seton and Thomas Erceldoun. They rode to Queensferry and persuaded the master boatman, against his better judgement, to ferry them across the Firth of Forth to Inverkeithing. They arrived safely and were met by the royal purveyor from Kinghorn (also called Alexander) who had brought horses down to the beach for the royal party; these included the King's favourite, a white mare called Tamesin which he had left at Kinghorn for the Queen's own use. The purveyor also attempted to reason with the King but to no avail. His Grace rode off. One of the grooms, Seton (a reputed lover of the King), knew the paths well and, in the darkness, somehow got far in advance of the King and so reached Kinghorn Manor. Erceldoun fared much worse. He could not control his horse which finally bolted so he and the royal purveyor stayed drinking in Inverkeithing. Meanwhile, King Alexander reached the top of Kinghorn Ness where both rider and horse toppled over the cliff to their deaths.