Crown in Darkness

difficult to cope with the broad flow of Scottish his questions provoked. They drew a small crowd of bystanders who, finding they were English, began to mutter and curse. Corbett realised that this was Leith, a Scottish port, whose ships were often in conflict with English vessels. He had forgotten this unofficial war and damned his own foolhardiness at not taking the matter into account.
    At last they decided to withdraw from the square and were on the point of departure when they were suddenly surrounded by a group of tough-looking soldiers, helmeted and armed. Their leader grabbed the bridle of Corbett's horse and asked him a question he could not understand. The man repeated it, this time in atrocious French. Corbett nodded. Yes, he announced, he was an English clerk. He bore greetings from the Chancellor of England to the Lord Bruce and sought an audience with him. The man's wolfish face broke into a grin, displaying a set of decay-blackened teeth. 'Oh well,' he replied in French. 'If an English clerk wants to see the Lord Bruce, then that can be arranged.' He slipped a hand beneath Corbett's cloak and deftly drew out the clerk's knife which he stuck into his own sturdy leather-studded belt, and almost dragged the horse across the market-place. The rest of his party brought up the rear, baiting and goading Ranulf, who gave as good as he got with a stream of obscene English oaths. They left the marketplace for a maze of streets and eventually came to a large stone two-storeyed house with a timbered roof, its exquisite carved eaves jutting out over a small courtyard beneath. Both Corbett and Ranulf were dragged unceremoniously off their horses and pushed through the main door of the house and down a passageway which led into the main room or hall.
    Corbett realised it must be some wealthy merchant's dwelling which Bruce had either commandeered or rented. It was clean, there were carpets on the floor, a tapestry on the far end wall with spring green boughs around the room to give a pleasant odour. There was even a fireplace set in the wall and, seated at the head of a long polished table, was the Lord Bruce. He was eating a mess of pottage and taking deep gulps of wine from a large ornamental cup.
    He did not bother to look up when Corbett and Ranulf were ushered in but made a gesture for them to sit on the bench alongside the table while he continued noisily with his meal. At last he finished, gave a loud belch and wiped his greasy fingers and mouth on the hem of his ermine-lined cloak. The guard who had brought them went up beside the chair, knelt and spoke quietly to Bruce in a language Corbett could not understand and guessed that it was probably Gaelic, a language totally alien to him. He felt afraid, for Bruce, despite having passed the biblical age of three score years and ten, had a reputation as a ferocious warrior. A man of vaulting ambitions with the talents to match, passionately devoted to his house and ambitious for his favourite grandson, the twelve-year-old Robert, making no secret now that Alexander III was dead that the House of Bruce had the best claim to the Scottish throne. His appearance only enhanced his reputation, a leonine head, steel-grey hair, sharp, shrewd eyes. A cruel predatory face. No fool. A man who did not care about the consequences of his actions.
    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.