Crown in Darkness

storm lasted all day. I only took the King!' 'But somebody must have?' Corbett asked testily. 'Aye. Maybe they did,' the ferrymaster replied. 'But it was not me!' 'Who then?' The ferrymaster grinned. 'Taggart. Perhaps. But he is dead. Isn't he?' Corbett turned angrily on his heel, collected the cob and wearily made his way back to the Abbey of Holy Rood.
    Corbett did not go through Edinburgh but took the same route as he had earlier followed, skirting the city, plodding his way through marsh and bog till he reached the clean, white sanctity of the Abbey. The Prior welcomed him sardonically but Corbett could see the monks were genuinely pleased to see him back. For the first time for a long while, Corbett felt wanted and warmed to these simple yet sophisticated men so bound up in their own routine of prayer, work and study that they regarded any visitor as a visible sign of God's grace. They questioned him about his journey, about Kinghorn and Queen Yolande, until the Prior intervened, pointing out that their visitor needed to relax.
    Corbett bathed in the guest-house's one and only tub before dressing and going down to the buttery for ale and a bowl of bread and fish boiled in milk. He then went to the library. It was now dusk but the old librarian had the sconce torches lit and gave Corbett what he had requested, a candle and a battered copy of the "Sic et Non', the brilliant satire on scholastic theology by the Parisian scholar, Abelard, who had lost his family as well as his testicles for ridiculing the theologians and then compounding his sin by falling in love with a woman. Corbett loved the brilliant logic delivered so tongue-in-cheek that only those who wished to take offence would be affronted. He read it carefully, the lucid language and poetry of argument clearing and settling his mind. Darkness fell. The librarian, fearful of fire, gently shooed Corbett out so the clerk went down to stroll in the monastery's small herb garden while he rigorously analysed all he had learnt in his journey to Kinghorn. Corbett walked and argued with himself until the bells tolling for Compline brought him into the Abbey church with its lofty roof, pointed arches and round drum-like columns. He went up the nave and into the square chancel where the monks were gathered, seated in benches on each side. The main cantor rose and began the prayer, warning the brothers that Satan roamed the world like a starving lion looking for victims he could devour. Corbett, gently dreaming at the end of a bench, could well believe it and wondered if this time Satan would search him out.

FOUR
    Satan did walk Scotland and no more so than in the chambers and corridors of Edinburgh Castle. King Alexander was dead. His body now lay rotting under the cold grey slabs of an abbey, his strong rule was gone and, throughout the castle, nobles gathering for the council plotted and intrigued. Friendships died, new alliances were made and old ones betrayed as the powerful barons, courtiers and important officials scented the power, influence and wealth now available for the throne was empty with no real heir-apparent. Alexander had kept them leashed, curbed and checked, but now the leading nobles were almost drunk with a feeling of power and freedom.
    In his own chamber, the Lord Bruce showed these feelings but he was a practical man who simply believed power should be grasped and wielded. He sat, a wine cup clenched firmly in his hands, as he stared through a window into the gathering darkness. The King was dead. Thank God he was, Bruce thought! Adulterer! Lecher! A good warrior but the Bruces had as much claim to Alexander's throne as he had, and now the throne was empty. Bruce stirred and wrapped his cloak firmly about him. There would be confusion, Bruce thought, and out of this a strong ruler would need to emerge. A man fit to rule with an iron hand, to hold down the wild men of the North, the seafarers of the isles and the wealthy Norman barons in the south. Bruce was glad Alexander was dead. He felt guilty at the thoughts which flooded into his mind. He would need to confess them, be shrived, for even to think about the King's death was treason. For a short while, Bruce's mind wondered what measure of guilt he bore, for had he not wished the King's death? Almost danced with joy as the royal corpse was brought back from Kinghorn? He should hide such thoughts for they could well call Alexander back from Hell to exact his vengeance.
    In other chambers