TWELVE
The journey was quick and bruising; Selkirk led them through the town, up the craggy rock and across the wooden drawbridge into Edinburgh Castle. Corbett, aching, soaking wet and nauseous from his rough ride was pulled off his horse and bundled along the side of the donjon keep. He tried protesting to Selkirk, who simply struck him across the mouth and pushed him through the metal-studded door. Corbett slipped and tripped as he was pushed down a flight of steep narrow steps which ran under the keep. It was dark and dank, the walls glistening with streaks of green water. When Corbett reached the bottom, a gaoler in dirty leather jerkin, leggings and boots, greeted him with a world-weary look and removed his cloak, belt and dagger. In broad Scots he asked Selkirk for his authority, the soldier flourished a piece of parchment and told him to hurry. The man sighed and, choosing a key from a ring which hung round his fat waist, waddled down a narrow, dimly-lit passage past a number of cells. He stopped by one, unlocked it and gestured to Corbett to enter. Selkirk pushed him in and made him squat on a stone ledge while he cut free his bound hands only to fasten gyves to his wrists and ankles; attached by chains to the wall; these allowed Corbett to move but quickly chafed his wrists and ankles. Selkirk stood, looked down at
Corbett and patted him on the head. 'There, Master English Clerk,' he jibed. 'Now, try and travel around Scotland!' He gave a mock bow, laughed and left the cell. The gaoler followed, locking the door behind him.
Corbett just sat staring at the wet walls: the cell was narrow and fetid, a grating high in the wall gave a little air and light. In the far corner was a bundle of wet straw which he assumed was the bed. He rose but found his chains would not let him even reach it, so he slumped on the ledge and wondered how long he would be detained. Treason and murder were the charges but what was his treachery and whom had he allegedly murdered? The grating above grew dark and Corbett began to shiver, he was still soaking wet from his journey and was now cold and hungry. The gaoler returned hours later with a cup of brackish water, a bowl of badly-cooked meat and hard, stale bread. Corbett devoured it hungrily while the gaoler watched impassively but, when Corbett tried to ask him a question, slapped him in the mouth, grabbed the bowl and waddled out of the cell. Corbett tried to sleep but could not and sat trembling, trying to compose his thoughts but it was useless, he could not calm himself. He heard a scrabbling at the foot of his cell door and two small dark shadows blocked the faint line of light as they squirmed under and scurried across the cell floor. More rats entered and Corbett lashed out with his legs, blind to the sharp gyves knifing into his ankles. The rats fled and Corbett fell back on the ledge, chest heaving, sobbing with anger and fear, his eyes fixed on the grating, praying for dawn.
It grew light, then the sun's rays pierced the cell. The gaoler returned and left a stoup of water. Corbett drank it, sitting in his own filth, eyes fixed on the grating, already dreading the night. He calmed himself, trying to understand why he was imprisoned and who was responsible. He comforted himself with the fleeting thought that at least he had met Sir James Selkirk, who had found Alexander Ill's corpse, and wryly concluded he would question him if the opportunity presented itself. Corbett concentrated on the mystery surrounding King Alexander's death but the visions he had seen in the Pictish village returned to haunt him. He slept for a while and was roughly awakened as the door was flung open and Selkirk entered. He loosened the gyves, dragged Corbett to his feet and bundled him through the door, along the passage and up the steps into the pure, clear air. Corbett turned to Selkirk. 'Where am I going?' he remonstrated. 'We are taking you, English, to see Bishop Wishart.' Corbett shook his head. 'I want my cloak, my dagger and belt,' he said. 'Hot food and some wine.' Selkirk grinned. 'You're a traitor,' he replied. 'You're a prisoner. You make no demands!' Corbett was tired and no longer cared. 'I am an accredited English envoy,' he bluffed. 'I demand my belongings and some victuals.' Selkirk nodded. 'Fine,' he muttered. 'It makes no difference. Come.' He led Corbett into the kitchens, a cook brought him ale and a dish of meat and vegetables. When he had eaten, Selkirk returned and tossed his possessions at him; Corbett gathered them up and followed Selkirk up rows of steps and into a small, darkened chamber.
At the far end, in a pool of light thrown by sconce-torches and a cluster of candles, sat a small, balding figure swathed in robes whom Corbett recognised as Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow. He looked up as Corbett entered. 'Come in, Master Clerk,' he called, throwing down the manuscript he had been studying. 'Come, Sir James, a stool for our guest!' Corbett sat while the Bishop poured him a cup of mulled, spiced wine; Selkirk sat alongside him, lounging in a chair. The Bishop began to tidy up the parchment rolls in front of him so Corbett, tired of the farce, rose and refilled his goblet. 'Your Lordship,' he snapped. 'You arrested me, imprisoned me, all without charge. I am clerk to the King's Bench of the royal court of England. I am also an accredited envoy of the English Chancellor.' Wishart smiled. 'Master Corbett,' he replied. 'I do not care if you are the King of England's brother. By what right do you travel round this realm questioning Scotsmen about the death of their sovereign? Who gave you that authority?' Corbett had dreaded this question, always knowing it would be asked. He shrugged to conceal his alarm. 'I am an envoy,' he answered. 'It is my task to collect information. Your envoys do the same in England.' Wishart smirked and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. 'You think our late King was murdered?' he asked. 'Yes, I do,' Corbett replied quickly. 'Yes, I believe he was murdered. I could lie, I could bluff, but what I told you is the truth. I know he was murdered but by whom or how, I could not say.' Wishart nodded and Corbett instinctively felt the strain lessen. 'Master Corbett,' the Bishop began. 'I believe His Grace was murdered and I really don't care!' He waved an admonitory finger at Corbett. 'Don't misunderstand me. Alexander was not the best of men, certainly not the ideal Christian knight but, as a king, he ruled Scotland well. He kept her free of foreign alliances, foreign wars, foreign involvement.' Wishart's voice became impassioned. 'The only thing I care for, Englishman, more than my family and my church, is Scotland. Alexander served her well but failed her by not producing an heir when he married that French hussy.' 'Queen Yolande is pregnant,' Corbett interrupted, intrigued by the Bishop's attitude. 'Queen Yolande,' Wishart emphasised, 'is not pregnant. That has been established; she will return to France and so dash any hope of a permanent alliance." 'But the Queen was pregnant?' Wishart shook his head. 'No. It was what the doctors call a false pregnancy, probably brought on by her husband's sudden death, feelings of guilt. God knows what!' 'And this alliance?' Corbett queried. Wishart smiled. 'You did not know? Alexander was intrigued by the new French King Philip and his schemes for Europe. Yolande de Dreux was the first step in sealing a new alliance with France.' Wishart shrugged. 'It was a secret. One I did not like but Alexander was headstrong. He never forgave your King for insulting him.' 'When?' asked Corbett, genuinely bewildered. 'In 1278,' Wishart replied. 'At Westminster when your King was crowned. Edward I righdy asked Alexander to do fealty for lands he held in England and Alexander agreed but then the English asked Alexander to do homage for Scotland. Our King refused, justly claiming he held his throne direct of God. Alexander never forgave Edward the insult.' 'I did not know this,' murmured Corbett. 'But you said you, too, believed King Alexander III was murdered!' 'No,' Wishart replied carefully. 'I said he might have been. His violent death was only a matter of course given the way he lived. But, if he was murdered, the important thing is not who did it but why. If it was a personal vendetta.' The Bishop paused and shrugged. 'But if it was a political act then it affects Scotland and excites my interest.' 'Your Lordship does not seem to care,' Corbett interjected. 'His Lordship,' Wishart replied, 'cares very much. But what can I do? Ask for a full, public investigation? And what happens if it turned out to be the Lord Bruce – eh? What then, Master Clerk? Civil War? No, that is not the way.' 'So,' Corbett added. 'You are interested in what I find. So, why the prison and,' Corbett turned to Selkirk, 'the ministrations of this thing!'