where are we? The village! The forest! Where are we?' Corbett asked in puzzlement. 'We left them,' Thomas said. 'That was yesterday. You slept the whole night. This morning I put you on your horse and we left.' Corbett nodded, rose and moved away; he emptied his bladder and went to a nearby stream to bathe his hands and face in the cold clear water. They tended to their horses and ate the flat, tasteless biscuits Thomas had brought with him before beginning their ride back. Corbett, remembering all he had seen the previous night, was more wary of Thomas: the evil he had experienced in that hut was nothing to take lightly. What had he learnt, he asked himself? There was something, petty but significant. He knew the red lion represented the House of Bruce but the blood? Was Bruce a regicide? Had he killed Alexander to get to the throne? Corbett turned to the silent Thomas. 'You saw the lion?' he asked. The poet nodded. 'I did,' he replied; 'and the cascading blood.' He looked sharply at Corbett. 'That does not make Bruce an assassin.' Thomas continued, 'You saw matters as they will be, not as they are. I saw other things after you fainted.' 'What things?' The poet closed his eyes and recited.
Of Bruce's side a son shall come,
From Carrick's bower to Scotland's throne:
The Red Lion beareth he.
The foe shall wear the Lion down
A score of years but three.
Till red of England blood shall run
Burn of Bannock to the sea.
'What does that mean?' Corbett testily asked. Thomas smiled. 'I do not know, but the red lion is not the Lord Bruce nor indeed his son, the Earl of Carrick but actually refers to Carrick's son, Bruce's grandson, a boy of twelve,' Thomas sniffed as if to say, 'Make of it what you wish.'
They continued their journey, their conversation desultory as if each was aware of the tension which now separated them. They stopped at Melrose and arrived in Earlston the following morning. Corbett was pleased to see Ranulf, now bored with the simple delights of the countryside and just as eager as his master to leave and have done with it. Corbett courteously thanked his hosts and, gently brushing aside their invitations, insisted on leaving at once. They departed the same day, Corbett eager and anxious to be back in Edinburgh. He had learnt something valuable, though he still could not isolate it in his mind. The problem of the prophecies was solved albeit in a way he had scarce expected. After three days hard riding, Corbett and his party reached Edinburgh in the middle of a sudden summer thunderstorm which drenched them to the skin. Ranulf was sullen and angry at the pace Corbett set, forgetting his pleasure at travelling again in constant moans about his aching back and saddle-sore thighs. The lay brother was quiet, contenting himself with the dry comment that he had done enough penance to wipe a thousand years of purgatory from the debt his soul owed God.
They were all pleased to enter the great gates of Holy Rood Abbey though Corbett sensed there was something wrong. A groom came out to take their horses and, when he saw Corbett, immediately ran off leaving all three of them standing in the pouring rain. He returned with the Prior and a young, red-haired man dressed in half-armour. The Prior's long face was white with anxiety. He nodded at Ranulf and the lay brother then turned to Corbett. 'I'm sorry, Hugh,' he said almost in a half-whisper, 'your servant can stay with us but you must accompany this knight.' He turned and gestured to his companion. 'This is Sir James Selkirk. He has been with us since yesterday. He comes from Bishop Wishart with a warrant for your arrest.' 'On what charge?' Corbett snapped. The Prior looked fearful and swallowed nervously before speaking. 'On treason and murder! Oh, Hugh,' he said. 'I do not doubt your innocence but you must go and clear your name.' Corbett nodded, too confused and tired to ask for details. It must be a mistake, he thought, and then remembered he was a lowly English clerk in a foreign land. He remembered the Lawnmarket, the black, stark gibbets, the criminal being pulled there and tried hard to control his shivering. In good, fluent English tinged with a broad Scots accent, Selkirk told him to mount his horse. Once he did, the man bound Corbett's hands tightly to the saddlebow and, passing the rope under the horse's belly, also secured his ankles. More men, about six, appeared; their horses were led out and saddled. Corbett could only shout at Ranulf to stay and do nothing before Selkirk took him at a canter out of the abbey.
TWELVE
The journey was quick and bruising; Selkirk led them through the town, up the craggy rock and across the wooden drawbridge into Edinburgh Castle. Corbett, aching, soaking wet and nauseous from his rough ride was pulled off his horse and bundled along the side of the donjon keep. He tried protesting to Selkirk, who simply struck him across the mouth and pushed him through the metal-studded door. Corbett slipped and tripped as he was pushed down a flight of steep narrow steps which ran under the keep. It was dark and dank, the walls glistening with streaks of green water. When Corbett reached the bottom, a gaoler in dirty leather jerkin, leggings and boots, greeted him with a world-weary look and removed his cloak, belt and dagger. In broad Scots he asked Selkirk for his authority, the soldier flourished a piece of parchment and told him to hurry. The man sighed and, choosing a key from a ring which hung round his fat waist, waddled down a narrow, dimly-lit passage past a number of cells. He stopped by one, unlocked it and gestured to Corbett to enter. Selkirk pushed him in and made him squat on a stone ledge while he cut free his bound hands only to fasten gyves to his wrists and ankles; attached by chains to the wall; these allowed Corbett to move but quickly chafed his wrists and ankles. Selkirk stood, looked down at
Corbett and patted him on the head. 'There, Master English Clerk,' he jibed. 'Now, try and travel around Scotland!' He gave a mock bow, laughed and left the cell. The gaoler followed, locking the door behind him.
Corbett just sat staring at the wet walls: the cell was narrow and fetid, a grating high in the wall gave a little air and light. In the far corner was a bundle of wet straw which he assumed was the bed. He rose but found his chains would not let him even reach it, so he slumped on the ledge and wondered how long he would be detained. Treason and murder were the charges but what was his treachery and whom had he allegedly murdered? The grating above grew dark and Corbett began to shiver, he was still soaking wet from his journey and was now cold and hungry. The gaoler returned hours later with a cup of brackish water, a bowl of badly-cooked meat and hard, stale bread. Corbett devoured it hungrily while the gaoler watched impassively but, when Corbett tried to ask him a question, slapped him in the mouth, grabbed the bowl and waddled out of the cell. Corbett tried to sleep but could not and sat trembling, trying to compose his thoughts but it was useless, he could not calm himself. He heard a scrabbling at the foot of his cell door and two small dark shadows blocked the faint line of light as they squirmed under and scurried across the cell floor. More rats entered and Corbett lashed out with his legs, blind to the sharp gyves knifing into his ankles. The rats fled and Corbett fell back on the ledge, chest heaving, sobbing with anger and fear, his eyes fixed on the grating, praying for dawn.
It grew light, then the sun's rays pierced the cell. The gaoler returned and left a stoup of water. Corbett drank it, sitting in his own filth, eyes fixed on the grating, already dreading the night. He calmed himself, trying to understand why he was imprisoned and who was responsible. He comforted himself with the fleeting thought that at least he had met Sir James Selkirk, who had found Alexander Ill's corpse, and wryly concluded he would question him if the opportunity presented itself. Corbett concentrated on the mystery surrounding King Alexander's death but the visions he had seen in the Pictish village returned to haunt him. He slept for a while and was roughly awakened as the door was flung open and Selkirk entered. He loosened the gyves, dragged Corbett to his feet and bundled him through the door, along the passage and up the steps into the pure, clear air. Corbett turned to Selkirk. 'Where am I going?' he remonstrated. 'We are taking you, English, to see Bishop Wishart.' Corbett shook his head. 'I want my cloak, my dagger and belt,' he said. 'Hot food and some wine.' Selkirk grinned. 'You're a traitor,' he replied. 'You're a prisoner. You make no demands!' Corbett was tired and no longer cared. 'I am an accredited English envoy,' he bluffed. 'I demand my belongings and some victuals.' Selkirk nodded. 'Fine,' he muttered. 'It makes no difference. Come.' He led Corbett into the kitchens, a cook brought him ale and a dish of meat and vegetables. When he had eaten, Selkirk returned and tossed his possessions at him; Corbett gathered them up and followed Selkirk up rows of steps and into a small, darkened chamber.
At the far end, in a pool of light thrown by sconce-torches and a cluster of candles, sat a small, balding figure swathed in robes whom Corbett recognised as Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow. He looked up as Corbett entered. 'Come in, Master Clerk,' he called, throwing down the manuscript he had been studying. 'Come, Sir James, a stool for our guest!' Corbett sat while the Bishop poured him a cup of mulled, spiced wine; Selkirk sat alongside him, lounging in a chair. The Bishop began to tidy up the parchment rolls in front of him so Corbett, tired of the farce, rose and
