Crown in Darkness

not!' Corbett replied and brushed him aside. The chapel lay at the back of the castle on the very summit of the great rock escarpment of Edinburgh. Corbett, followed by a panting, quietly cursing Ranulf, strode through the narrow, stone-vaulted castle corridors and up flights of stairs to the chapel. It was an ancient place, built by the saintly Queen Margaret, wife to Malcolm Conmore, the slayer of the tyrant Macbeth. It was also one of the smallest royal chapels Corbett had seen. Built of dark-grey stone, it must have only measured six yards long and four yards wide and consisted of a timber-roofed nave and a simply carved stone-vaulted apse, the two being separated by an archway. Under this knelt Bishop Wishart, praying before the bare wooden altar. He rose and turned as Corbett walked up the nave. 'Master Corbett, you could not wait?' he said softly. 'No, my Lord, I have waited long enough. The matter is finished.' Corbett turned as Ranulf, followed by Selkirk, entered the chapel. 'I would like to talk to you alone, my Lord.' The Bishop nodded at Sir James, who glared at Corbett but left, followed by a bemused Ranulf.
    Wishart gestured to a bench alongside the far wall of the nave and they sat there, while Corbett summarised his conversation with Benstede, omitting any details he thought appropriate. The Bishop heard him out, concealing his surprise at this English clerk's stamina and logical brilliance. Corbett finished and Wishart rubbed his stubbled chin carefully, thinking out the consequences of what the clerk had told him. He pursed his lips and sighed. 'Benstede,' he admitted, 'did kill the late King but all the evidence you have mentioned could not be produced in court. It is a mixture of coincidence and careful calculation. Even if it was,' Wishart continued, 'it would cause uproar, threaten an already delicately-held peace.' He paused and stared fixedly at Corbett. 'Of course, I have not mentioned the reaction of your own master, King Edward of England. I accept that Benstede may have acted on his own initiative but I have my suspicions. If this matter were brought into the public eye, you would scarce receive the thanks of a grateful monarch. You could not return to England and you would not be welcome to stay here!' 'And Benstede?' Corbett interrupted bitterly. 'The regicide, the slayer of the Lord's anointed, not to mention the murderer of four men whose blood cries out for justice and vengeance.' 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I shall repay,' the Bishop replied soothingly, pleased to put the clerk down. 'Well, payment is long overdue!' Corbett tartly replied. The Bishop shifted uneasily on the hard wooden bench. 'It's not Benstede,' he snapped, 'who is dangerous. It's you, Master Corbett, with your search for the facts, your ability to ferret out the truth. The truth often hurts. It does no good, this turning over of stones. And why?' Wishart asked. 'What business is it of yours?' 'I do not know,' Corbett replied. 'I was given orders and I carried them out. Perhaps one day I will know the reason why!' 'But not here!' replied Wishart firmly. 'You will be gone, within forty-eight hours, you and all your retinue must be out of Edinburgh and journeying south to the border. If you are not, you will be arrested for treason!'
    Corbett stood, his face now flushed with anger. 'You, especially, my Lord, want me gone. You know that I know the truth!' He almost jabbed a finger in the Bishop's face. 'You knew that the King was murdered. How? Why? And by whom? Perhaps not, but you still did nothing. Every time you looked at me you remembered your own guilt!' Wishart stood up and walked to the steps of the chancel, trying to control his temper. 'Yes,' he replied angrily. 'I knew but I had no proof, no evidence; even now I can do nothing! Nothing at all! Go now, Master Clerk!'
    Corbett bowed and muttered something. 'What was that, Clerk?' Wishart snapped. 'A quotation from the Psalms, my Lord, "Put not your trust in Princes".' The Bishop sighed. 'Come back, Master Clerk! Come back! Look!' the Bishop edged closer to Corbett. 'I can do nothing. I hold Scotland from the brink of civil war. The King is dead, murdered, but he is dead. Yet,' he added bitterly, 'if a king of Scotland can suffer an accident then so can an English envoy. Rest assured, Benstede and his servant will never leave Scotland alive!' Wishart extended his hands as if in a blessing. 'What more can I do?' he said softly. 'Except give you an