by Paul Doherty
‘Dunedin was my prisoner,’ Ap Ythel said slowly, staring hard at Seton. ‘He was my responsibility. I captured him.’
‘He was held for ransom,’ Sterling taunted. ‘And of course you get nothing for a dead man.’
‘It was more than that,’ Ap Ythel declared. ‘I liked Dunedin; he was a merry soul and you know that. He was homesick. I will be honest, there were times when I wished he could just leave and rejoin his beloveds in Scotland.’
‘He slipped, didn’t he?’ Sterling asked. ‘He stumbled on those steep steps in the White Tower and died of his injuries.’ He pointed at Ap Ythel. ‘Are you one of those who claim he was pushed? If so, by whom, and why? Where is the evidence for such an allegation?’
Corbett stared at the Welsh captain of archers, who glanced swiftly at him, winked and looked away.
‘And you?’ Corbett decided to return to the business in hand. ‘Dunedin is dead and so is Roskell. What do you three hope to do?’
‘Scotland fights England,’ Seton declared, ‘but Scotland is divided. Your old king and his captains may have been bloodthirsty and ruthless but Robert the Bruce and his coven are no different. Let me give you an example. You have heard about Douglas’s larder? In March 1306 James Douglas attacked an English force whilst they were in St Bride’s church for the Palm Sunday celebrations. Douglas appeared in disguise as a common thresher, garbed in a threadbare shirt with a flail over his shoulders. He was joined by members of his cohort and attacked the English in a furious, bloody affray. They killed twenty men and took ten prisoners. Afterwards Douglas feasted, eating and drinking to his heart’s content. Then he collected what plunder he could, piling up the wheat, malt and flour seized from the bins and broaching the heavy wine casks, soaking everything. Finally he took the ten prisoners and beheaded them over the pile of food, creating what is now called Douglas’s larder.’
‘That’s the Scotland we now wish to enter.’ Sterling spoke up, staring down the nave to ensure Mallet still guarded the door. ‘Yes, we were taken prisoner by the old king’s troops. However, we are not Bruce’s men but the faithful and loyal retainers of Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, foully slain by Bruce before the high altar in the friary church at Dumfries on the tenth of February 1306—’
‘Others say different,’ Corbett interrupted.
‘Others weren’t there; we were,’ Seton rasped.
‘What?’
‘Oh yes.’ Seton wiped his mouth with his fingers. ‘I’m sure you have heard Bruce’s version, but the truth is very different. When Red Comyn met Bruce before the high altar of that friary church in Dumfries, Bruce demanded from our lord complete support for his claim to the Scottish throne. Comyn refused to even consider it.’
‘He had a claim himself, didn’t he?’ Corbett asked.
‘He certainly did. Comyn was one of those who pleaded with the old king to confirm his right to succeed to the Crown. Now our lord had come unarmed to that meeting. Bruce, however, was secretly buckled for battle, as were his retainers, hidden deep in the shadows of that ancient church.’
‘Where were you?’ Ap Ythel demanded.
‘Our master had left us in the sacristy. There was a grille on the door that gave us a view onto the sanctuary. Bruce learnt about this and turned the key on the outside. We could only hammer on the door as Bruce, aided by his henchmen, stabbed our master to death. Afterwards they fled. Eventually we escaped, but there was nothing we could do so we went into hiding. However, after Comyn’s death, the old king’s troops flooded the locality. They controlled every road, trackway and highland pass. We were captured, and despite our pleas that Bruce was our blood enemy, we were dispatched south to the Tower.’
‘We pleaded our cause.’ Sterling took up the story. ‘We begged for an opportunity to put our case before the old king. However, the self-proclaimed Hammer of the Scots would not listen, and neither would his son and heir until my lord of Gaveston heard our plea. We reached a compact, a secret understanding that we would be taken north as hostages but allowed to escape and make our own way across the border. Anything else would be too dangerous.’
‘Of course,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘Bruce would love to seize followers of Red Comyn, especially men who knew the truth about their master’s murder.’
‘I swear before the Blessed Sacrament here in Alnwick’s chapel that what we have just said is God’s own truth. If we were handed over to Bruce we would hardly survive a day. We need only your help to be free of this place, to be well supplied with purveyance, weapons, coin and horses. We intend to go to a Scottish church and proclaim the truth on the Gospels before witnesses, then invoke the blood feud against Bruce and kill him in just vindication of our master’s brutal murder.’
‘You are sure of that?’ Ap Ythel asked. ‘Others argue a different story about Red Comyn’s death. How your lord plotted Bruce’s murder and that Bruce only escaped due to his own quick wits and the loyalty and courage of his entourage.’
‘Do they now?’ Seton taunted. ‘And what do you, a Welshman, know about Scottish affairs?’
‘Very little apparently,’ Ap Ythel replied casually. ‘Except that other stories have also taken root about your lord’s death. How Comyn persecuted Bruce and brought him into disrepute with the old king, who began to turn on him, so much so that Bruce became deeply fearful for his life. Bruce’s followers maintain that their lord had no choice but to kill Comyn, assert his claim and move into full rebellion.’
‘You asked a question, Welshman,’ Seton declared. ‘Are we sure of our case. Yes, we certainly are. Sir Hugh, your king and my lord Gaveston wanted to inform you about all this,’ he shrugged, ‘but we begged that the matter remain secret until we reached here.’
Corbett nodded, staring across at these two men locked in their own world of blood and vengeance. ‘I see why you wanted it kept secret,’ he murmured. ‘You needed to create and sustain the impression that you were nothing more than prisoners being transported to the Scottish march. We were to show you no concession, no flicker of friendship, not a crumb of compassion, and you are certainly facing danger. After all, your comrade Roskell was poisoned.’
‘Bruce has his spies everywhere. It’s possible there is one in your company, Sir Hugh. That is the world we live in.’
‘And that other mysterious death?’ Ap Ythel demanded.
‘Dunedin’s?’ Seton replied.
‘Yes, Matthew Dunedin,’ Corbett agreed. ‘I understand he was one of Bruce’s clerks.’
‘Matthew was a scribe,’ Seton replied. ‘A man of the Chancery, buckled for war but not a real soldier. He was a captive who just wanted to go home. We tried to draw him into conversation, but he kept to himself. If we attempted to discuss Bruce, or indeed anyone else, he became taciturn, pining for the manor he owned in a glen close to Loch Lomond. The only person he really spoke to was Roskell; both were very pious men who believed they were living in the Last of Days. In their eyes, the war in Scotland was the precursor of the Day of the Great Slaughter foretold by the prophet Daniel and repeated in other apocalyptic writings. They truly believed that the heavens would soon dissolve in fire and Christ would come again. They loved to search the texts to justify their view. Dunedin would often go into the chapel of St John in the White Tower to read the scriptures or borrow a psalter.’
‘How did he die?’ Corbett demanded.
Seton rubbed his weather-beaten face. ‘Matthew did like his wine. He had a passion, a weakness for the richest and heaviest of Bordeaux. Sir Hugh, you know the White Tower? It soars to the sky and the steps inside are very steep. Matthew slipped.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I can say.’
‘Could it have been murder?’
‘For heaven’s sake, why?’ Sterling snarled. ‘Matthew was nothing more than a homesick Scottish clerk who had been unfortunate enough to be captured. He drank too much wine and fell.’
Corbett was not fully convinced but he decided to let the matter go.
‘And Roskell?’
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br /> ‘Sir Hugh, we know nothing of his death: the how, the who or the why. Roskell was a quiet, placid man.’ Seton crossed himself. ‘He was deeply religious, fearful of death, always talking about preparing his soul. He has now gone to God, and we must go to Scotland.’
‘I suppose that anonymous memorandum, the one about learning the truth concerning Red Comyn’s death,’ Corbett smiled, ‘must have been the invention of my lord Gaveston.’
‘I suspect it was,’ Seton replied. ‘Sir Hugh, will you help us?’
‘We shall certainly do our best,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s a relief to know we are not going to meet and negotiate with the Scots. Indeed, the less they and anyone else know, the better. We will supply you with weapons, clothing, some food and a few silver coins. We will also have to wait for the best opportunity to arrange your escape. Once we have done that, we will have achieved everything our royal master requires.’
‘In which case . . .’ Seton and Sterling rose, clasped hands with Corbett and his two companions, then left, hurrying down the nave. Mallet opened the door and they were gone.
‘Well, well.’ Corbett paused as the door reopened and a figure, robe flapping, hurried into the church. Brother Adrian almost ran up the nave, blundering into the sanctuary.
‘What is happening?’ The monk paused, gasping for breath. ‘I saw the Scottish rebels leave. Is everything well here?’
‘All is well.’ Corbett rose and clasped him on the shoulder. ‘By the way, Brother Adrian, how long have you served here?’
‘I joined Lord Henry’s household two years ago, when he bought Alnwick from the Bishop of Durham.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was at Tynemouth Priory. I am happy at Alnwick. I will support Lord Henry against the usurper, the assassin King Hob.’
‘You mean Bruce?’
‘Naturally. I will have nothing to do with that man.’ Brother Adrian became quite animated as they left the sanctuary.
A sound made Corbett pause. He was sure the main door had opened and closed just as quickly. He strained his eyes. The entrance porch was shadow-filled; one of these seemed to move.
‘Justice!’ a voice called. Corbett could not decide whether it was man or woman. Was it some joke, a trick?
‘Justice and retribution!’ the voice repeated.
‘Down!’ Corbett screamed, cursing his own inaction. ‘Down now!’ He half turned, gesturing at Ranulf and Ap Ythel, who dropped to their knees. He grabbed a startled Adrian and pulled him down. A crossbow bolt whirled above their heads to clatter in the sanctuary beyond. Corbett drew his dagger. Brother Adrian tried to crawl forward. Corbett, dropping the knife, forced the monk to lie down and stay still. Another barbed bolt cut through the air, to crack and splinter against the coarse wooden rood screen behind them. Somewhere a bell began to toll, its pealing growing more strident as it declared that some other danger was fast emerging.
‘Stay!’ Corbett urged his companions. He peered down the nave and saw the main door open and close. He crawled towards the entrance porch, where he felt the cold breeze seeping beneath the door. He glimpsed a small hand-held crossbow and a squat leather quiver lying on the floor; their attacker had apparently left these and fled. He could tell at first glance that they were probably from the castle armoury, one of those weapons commonly left in guardrooms or tower stairwells. He lifted his head. The tocsin was now constant in its pealing.
‘Our attacker has fled,’ he called out, getting to his feet.
‘In God’s name!’ Brother Adrian exclaimed. ‘Who was that? Why such an attack? And the bells, is the castle under assault?’
Corbett gestured at the others to follow as he hurriedly left. People were streaming across the bailey towards the outer barbican. He realised how easy it would be for their assailant to mingle amongst these or slip down one of the many narrow runnels that cut between the buildings. A man-at-arms explained that the alarm had been raised because something had happened to the prisoners in the wall cages. The bell kept clanging. Corbett, Ranulf and Ap Ythel, Brother Adrian hurrying before them, joined the crowd gathering at the foot of the steps leading up to the parapet that spanned the main barbican. The autumn sun was beginning to set, the first tinges of a cold darkness making themselves felt. Corbett suppressed a shiver as he watched two corpses being carried down in sheets from the parapet walk. He glimpsed their discoloured, twisted faces, the popping eyes, the creamy scum around the liverish lips. He turned to Brother Adrian and Cacoignes, who had pushed their way through.
‘Take the corpses to the chapel,’ he ordered before climbing the steps to join Lord Henry and Constable Thurston.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Percy gestured down at the corpses, ‘you have seen them? Murdered, poisoned! God knows this will bring a torrent of troubles upon us.’
‘We need to inspect the cages,’ Corbett said. ‘Secure whatever food and drink they were given.’
Lord Henry grunted his agreement, shouting at his men-at-arms along the parapet to assist. Corbett dug into his purse and gave two volunteers each a coin. The soldiers climbed onto the fighting platform and eased themselves over the crenellations, slipping down into the cages. Corbett urged them to search most carefully and bring out any food or drink. Both soldiers eventually emerged clutching the small waterskins given to each prisoner as well as the remains of the coarse rye loaves.
Corbett summoned Ap Ythel and instructed him to mix the bread and water into a bowl. A rat was to be trapped and caged, its appetite whetted before it was let loose on the bowl and its contents. He then had words with Lord Henry, asking him to convene a meeting as soon as possible. Percy agreed. Corbett whispered to Ranulf to learn as much as he could from the chatter and gossip around the castle, adding that he would return to his chamber in the Abbot’s Tower.
Once there, he locked and bolted the door, pulled the shutters over the window and laid out his chancery materials. For a while he sat listening to the sounds outside the tower. The clatter of armour was now constant; Lord Henry was determined to prepare Alnwick for an imminent assault. Once Darel learnt about the violent deaths of Richolda and Hockley, the robber baron would undoubtedly unleash his fury against the castle and all who sheltered there. Corbett was tempted to go down and view the corpses immediately, but he felt it best to let matters settle before he began any inquisition. There was no hurry. They would be safe in the castle chapel. The church had only one entrance; Ranulf would seal this with the royal insignia whilst Ap Ythel would set up a guard to keep careful watch.
Corbett dipped his quill pen in the bluish-green ink and began to list what he regarded as pertinent and relevant. Item: the king was correct: Lord Henry intended to make Alnwick a mighty fortress that would eventually dominate the Scottish march. The building work within the castle proved that, especially the inner bailey, which was being turned into a fortress in its own right. The Percys would undoubtedly stamp their authority on the northern shires, so much so that there was a real danger that the Lord of Alnwick might become king of the north. Moreover, Lord Henry had sided with those powerful barons who opposed the king and now controlled the Royal Council through their ordinances. Thankfully the northern lord was still on the fringe of such mischief. Perhaps he could be bribed, cajoled or threatened to withdraw his support of the other great nobles and become a stalwart adherent of the king’s party.
Item: Edward the king faced a veritable storm of troubles. The barons had demanded that Gaveston be exiled. Edward had been forced to agree, and his favourite was to depart the kingdom for Ireland or any sanctuary he could find, protected from those who hated him. But how could he leave unharmed? Both the king and Gaveston were deeply fearful that he might be ambushed and caught before he reached safety. All the ports were watched, the captains of ships could be bribed, and of course war cogs could be dispatched in pursuit of the fleeing favourite. One thing was regarded as a truth. If Gaveston was captured, the great lords would show no mercy but immediately carry out summary execu
tion. They claimed that the favourite had been tried and found guilty: it was either exile or death. Corbett had been charged on his solemn oath to make sure Gaveston passed safely from the kingdom to foreign parts, but how, when and where had yet to be decided. ‘A most dangerous enterprise,’ he murmured to himself. ‘And why do I busy myself with it?’
He leaned back in the chair. The answer, in truth, as he had confessed to the Lady Maeve, was that he felt sorry for Edward and Gaveston. Despite their arrogant stupidity, Corbett liked both men. The king had proved to be a most loving and loyal husband to his young French queen Isabella, but that was Edward! If he was your friend, he would always stand by you. In this he was quite different from his redoubtable father, a great and terrible king who would sacrifice anyone, kith or kin, on the altar of expediency, as Corbett had found to his own cost. In addition, Corbett had taken the most solemn oath some years ago that he would watch, protect and assist the old king’s heir. He could recall many occasions when Edward had grasped him by hand, arm or shoulder and reminded him of his promises, his vows.
For his part Corbett had tried to influence the king, begging him not to alienate his flamboyant heir, but the last years of Edward’s reign had been fraught with deepening tension between royal father and son. Time and again from his manor at Leighton Corbett had written to the king advising him to seek peace with both his son and Scotland; that he was embarking on a long, dark path from which there would be no return.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of memories. Now was not the time to go down the dust-filled gallery of the years. He picked up his quill pen and continued writing.
Item: despite Corbett’s total support, Edward and Gaveston had not been as forthright and honest as they should have been. Alexander Seton and his party were not hostages but prisoners of the old king’s Scottish wars. According to the evidence, they were in fact bitterly opposed to Bruce, and had invoked the blood feud because of Red Comyn’s brutal murder in that Dumfries church some five years ago. Corbett had been publicly instructed to take the prisoners north and await an approach from Bruce through intermediaries. Of course that would never happen. His orders had now been radically changed. Seton and his companions were to be released so that they could carry out their planned assassination of the Scottish war leader. They were to be provided with money, food, weapons and horses. How Corbett was to arrange that was yet to be decided.
