Crown in Darkness

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