FOURTEEN
After recrossing the Forth, Corbett joined his party. Their journey back began uneventfully. They crossed Dalmeny bridge and were in open countryside when the attackers struck. Five or six men, horsed, masked and well-armed, burst from a clump of trees and bore down on them. Corbett grabbed the crossbow, already loaded, which swung from his saddlebow and brought it up, aimed and sent the quarrel deep into the chest of the leading rider. Then the rest were amongst them, slashing with short-sword, mace and club. Ranulf and his companions drew their swords and cut, thrust and screamed at their assailants. Corbett whirled his big Welsh dagger, dug his spurs in and, shouting at the rest to follow him, broke through and galloped from the trees where the ambush had taken place. It was a tactic Corbett had seen used in Wales, cavalry never stopping to confront an enemy but breaking away, eluding the trap. Corbett saw two of the assailants go down screaming, clutching red spouting wounds and hoped the rest would be too chastened to follow, surprised by the fierce resistance they had encountered.
After a while, Corbett called a halt; his horse was half-blown and he realised there was no sign of any pursuit. He was unscathed but almost sick with fear.
Ranulf had bruises and cuts on his hands, arms and legs but one of the others, a young man, had received a terrible slash across his stomach and Corbett knew the fellow would be dead very soon. The blood poured out from the gash while he groaned and begged for water. Corbett gave it to him, knowing it might hasten his end. They took him from his horse, and laid him tenderly on the ground; Ranulf stood watch while they waited quietly for the man to die. He did, on a frothy gurgle of blood. Corbett said the "Miserere" and "Requiem" realising he did not even know the man's name. Someone's brother, baby son, or lover he thought and now he was gone: Corbett looked down at the corpse and felt the futility of the death. He ordered a cloak to be draped and tied round the body which was then slung over a horse and they continued on their way to the Abbey of Holy Rood. They reached it late at night, Corbett fearful of every shadow and ill to the point of nausea with exhaustion and tension. He brushed the sleepy Prior's enquiries aside, asked him to take care of the body, promising he would meet any expense. Then he and Ranulf trudged wearily off to bed.
Next morning they attended the Requiem Mass for their dead colleague who had been dressed by the monks for burial and now lay in a new pine coffin in front of the sanctuary steps of the abbey church. The Prior, resplendent in black and gold vestments, stood arms outstretched, and intoned the Introit: 'Requiem aeternam. Dona ei Domine. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.' Corbett rubbed his eyes wearily and wondered when he would rest from this interminable business, who the attackers of yesterday were and, more importantly, who had paid them? The choir intoned the sequence, the beautiful poem of Thomas di Celano, "Dies Irae, Dies Illa":
O, day of wrath, O day of mourning
See fulfilled the Prophet's warning,
Heaven and Earth in ashes burning.
Corbett caught phrases, "See from Heaven the Judge descendeth" and, turning to look at the coffin, vowed that the young man awaiting burial would not have to wait until Judgement Day for justice.
After the burial, Corbett sent the equally frightened Ranulf off to the castle, reassuring him that all would be well and authorising him to seek an audience with Bishop Wishart. He was to ask the good bishop to grant Corbett an interview and to have the late King's confessor present as well. Corbett added that he would appreciate an armed escort to the castle and so required the company of Sir James Selkirk and others of his ilk. Late in the afternoon, Ranulf returned with Sir James and a small convoy of cavalry and, without further ado, Corbett saddled a horse and rode back with them to the castle. Sir James attempted to exchange light bantering talk, asking Corbett if he wanted to experience his hospitality once again. When Corbett replied that Sir James's hospitality was equal to his manners, the knight lapsed into a sullen silence.
At the castle, Corbett was immediately taken to the Bishop's chamber. Wishart was waiting for him, sitting behind his long, polished table almost as if he had not moved since Corbett saw him last. Beside the Bishop was a tall, thin, ascetic man, wearing the black and brown garb of a Franciscan monk who Corbett immediately assumed was Father John.
'Come in, English Clerk,' the Bishop beckoned Corbett and Ranulf to the bench before his table. 'Tell us why the impetuous command? What is the urgency?' 'My Lord,' Corbett replied, not bothering to sit down, 'I would like to ask Father John, and I presume this is he, why His Grace, the late King, was sending him to Rome?' The monk licked his lips and looked sideways at the Bishop. 'My Lord,' he muttered. 'I cannot, I was told "sub sigillo", under the seal of confession. I cannot tell anyone. Not even the Holy Father can command me to do that!'
The Bishop pursed his lips, nodded and looked expectantly at Corbett. 'Father,' Corbett replied. 'I know canon law and I also know that it rests on the justice of God. I do not wish you to violate your oath of secrecy or your conscience but,' and he turned to look eagerly at the Bishop, 'with His Lordship's permission, I would like to take you aside and quietly ask you one question? If I am wrong, you may say nothing, and I vow I will not ask you again.' The Bishop turned to the Franciscan who swallowed nervously and nodded his assent. The Bishop looked at Corbett with raised eyebrows and gestured to him to proceed. Ranulf watched his master and the friar go over to the far side of the room. Corbett whispered a few words and the friar looked up sharply and nodded. 'Sic habes,' he said, quoting the Latin tag. 'You have it!' Corbett smiled and walked back to sit down on the stool while Father John bowed to Wishart and silently left the room.
The Bishop stared quizzically at Corbett. 'What was it he said to you?' he asked. 'For the time being, my Lord, I prefer to stay silent on the matter. But tell me, my Lord, the circumstances of Erceldoun's death?' The Bishop fumbled amongst the pieces of parchment which littered his table and, leaning over the table, threw one scroll into Corbett's lap. 'The Coroner's report. You may read it.' Corbett studied the scrawled report of Matthew Relston, Coroner, "taken in June 1286 on the body of Thomas Erceldoun found in the chancel of St. Giles Church on the evening of 26th June by parishioners of the said church. His body bore no sign of violence except for a weal around his neck. An investigation into the events leading up to his death revealed that Erceldoun had told people he was going down to St. Giles Church to meet a priest. Who the latter was is difficult to establish. The verdict is that Erceldoun was murdered by person or persons unknown".