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 refilled his goblet. 'Your Lordship,' he snapped. 'You arrested me, imprisoned me, all without charge. I am clerk to the King's Bench of the royal court of England. I am also an accredited envoy of the English Chancellor.' Wishart smiled. 'Master Corbett,' he replied. 'I do not care if you are the King of England's brother. By what right do you travel round this realm questioning Scotsmen about the death of their sovereign? Who gave you that authority?' Corbett had dreaded this question, always knowing it would be asked. He shrugged to conceal his alarm. 'I am an envoy,' he answered. 'It is my task to collect information. Your envoys do the same in England.' Wishart smirked and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. 'You think our late King was murdered?' he asked. 'Yes, I do,' Corbett replied quickly. 'Yes, I believe he was murdered. I could lie, I could bluff, but what I told you is the truth. I know he was murdered but by whom or how, I could not say.' Wishart nodded and Corbett instinctively felt the strain lessen. 'Master Corbett,' the Bishop began. 'I believe His Grace was murdered and I really don't care!' He waved an admonitory finger at Corbett. 'Don't misunderstand me. Alexander was not the best of men, certainly not the ideal Christian knight but, as a king, he ruled Scotland well. He kept her free of foreign alliances, foreign wars, foreign involvement.' Wishart's voice became impassioned. 'The only thing I care for, Englishman, more than my family and my church, is Scotland. Alexander served her well but failed her by not producing an heir when he married that French hussy.' 'Queen Yolande is pregnant,' Corbett interrupted, intrigued by the Bishop's attitude. 'Queen Yolande,' Wishart emphasised, 'is not pregnant. That has been established; she will return to France and so dash any hope of a permanent alliance." 'But the Queen was pregnant?' Wishart shook his head. 'No. It was what the doctors call a false pregnancy, probably brought on by her husband's sudden death, feelings of guilt. God knows what!' 'And this alliance?' Corbett queried. Wishart smiled. 'You did not know? Alexander was intrigued by the new French King Philip and his schemes for Europe. Yolande de Dreux was the first step in sealing a new alliance with France.' Wishart shrugged. 'It was a secret. One I did not like but Alexander was headstrong. He never forgave your King for insulting him.' 'When?' asked Corbett, genuinely bewildered. 'In 1278,' Wishart replied. 'At Westminster when your King was crowned. Edward I righdy asked Alexander to do fealty for lands he held in England and Alexander agreed but then the English asked Alexander to do homage for Scotland. Our King refused, justly claiming he held his throne direct of God. Alexander never forgave Edward the insult.' 'I did not know this,' murmured Corbett. 'But you said you, too, believed King Alexander III was murdered!' 'No,' Wishart replied carefully. 'I said he might have been. His violent death was only a matter of course given the way he lived. But, if he was murdered, the important thing is not who did it but why. If it was a personal vendetta.' The Bishop paused and shrugged. 'But if it was a political act then it affects Scotland and excites my interest.' 'Your Lordship does not seem to care,' Corbett interjected. 'His Lordship,' Wishart replied, 'cares very much. But what can I do? Ask for a full, public investigation? And what happens if it turned out to be the Lord Bruce – eh? What then, Master Clerk? Civil War? No, that is not the way.' 'So,' Corbett added. 'You are interested in what I find. So, why the prison and,' Corbett turned to Selkirk, 'the ministrations of this thing!'
Selkirk stiffened with anger and made to rise but Wishart waved a hand at him. 'Yes, Corbett, I am very interested in what you find. Sir James and the prison cell were simply a warning not to go too far, not to presume too much on our present weakness.' 'And the charge of murder?' Corbett asked quiedy. 'Oh,' the Bishop smiled. 'Thomas Erceldoun, the squire you so closely questioned on the night of our banquet. He was found garrotted in the church of St. Giles some seven days ago.' The Bishop stifled a yawn. 'He was a strong young man and I doubt if you could have murdered him. Anyway, we do know that on the day he was murdered you were some distance away from Edinburgh, but it was a good pretext to arrest and detain you should you attempt to complain to your masters in London!' Corbett sat and thought. Erceldoun was dead, that was significant, but he was too engrossed in what Wishart was saying to study the matter now. He was exhausted and wished to sleep. 'So,' he said wearily. 'What do you want from me?' 'Nothing yet,' Wishart replied. 'Except that I will not detain you in prison or expel you from Scodand, on one condition. You will tell me if you find it was murder and give me the name of the murderer. In return,' the Bishop straightened in his chair. 'I will give you every assistance. Sir James Selkirk,' he bowed at the knight beside Corbett, 'will assist you whenever you ask. What do you say, English Clerk?' Corbett tried to gather his wits. If he did not agree it would mean the end of his mission. If he accepted, then all it would mean was sharing some of his conclusions with Wishart. Corbett nodded. 'I accept your Lordship's offer but you must answer some questions first.' Wishart looked surprised but agreed. 'Certainly what questions?' 'You were at the Council meeting the night the King died?' Wishart nodded. 'Did you notice anything untoward? I do know the King's mood changed abruptly from one of moroseness to one of joy. Do you know why?' Wishart shook his head. 'No, I too noted the King's change in mood but dismissed it for King Alexander was an excitable, changeable man. The Council meeting was called for petty reasons. I believe Seton was responsible but your own Benstede can answer for that, he and Seton seemed close friends. All I remember is that the King and de Craon were talking excitedly together and that de Craon seemed pleased. The rest you must know.'
Corbett stared at Wishart. He wanted to get away to think clearly. He knew why Wishart had him imprisoned then brought him here cold and tired: he hoped to ensnare him. Corbett suddenly grasped that the Bishop, like others, really believed he was here for other reasons and hoped to trap him into an admission. If not, then keep him busy searching for the murderer of Alexander III. Well, Corbett shrugged, he would continue in his task and then return to England. The succession to the Scottish throne was not his concern. Yet, there were still questions. 'In the days before his death,' he asked, 'did the King do anything out of character?' Wishart thought for a while and shook his head. 'No,' he replied. 'He was morose, ill-tempered. He was preparing to send his confessor, a Franciscan, Father John, to Rome on a certain private, personal mission which he did not discuss with me or the Council.' Corbett detected the air of injured pride in this priest who liked to know everything. 'Was Father John sent?' 'No,' Wishart replied. 'In fact, just before the King left for Kinghorn, he instructed me to order Father John not to go but stay at the castle till he returned. That is all.' Corbett rubbed his eyes wearily, feigning to be more exhausted than he really was. 'My Lord,' he said weakly. 'I really must sleep.' 'You are welcome to stay here,' Wishart replied. 'No. No. I must return to the Abbey. I would appreciate the protection of Sir James. Unfortunate accidents can happen to the unwary traveller.' 'True! True!' the Bishop exclaimed. 'It is dangerous to be imprudent. Sir James, if you would?' Selkirk nodded his consent and Corbett hurriedly took his leave of the Bishop.
The journey back was a silent if an uneventful one. After waking the guestmaster by tolling the abbey gate bell, Corbett was greeted by an anxious Prior and a solicitous Ranulf. He refused to answer their questions but calmed their anxieties, dismissing Sir James as if he was a page-boy with a gentle tap on his cheek. During the next two days Corbett stayed in his cell, recuperating from the journey and forced imprisonment. He did not discuss his ordeal with Ranulf or the Prior, although he told them time and again that all was well and let them order his life, content to drift, think and reflect. He spent his time putting down on odd scraps of vellum his different thoughts on what he had learnt over the past few weeks. A pattern was emerging though it was vague and very ill-defined.
On the third evening after his return from the castle, he suddenly announced that he was going back to Kinghorn. Ranulf groaned in protest but Corbett, fully recovered, insisted that his servant pack and make the necessary preparations. He also instructed the two remaining messengers whom Burnell had sent with them, to accompany him fully-armed. He bought provisions from the abbey kitchen and informed the Prior that they would be away for at least two days. The Prior asked the reason for his journey. 'Confidentially,' said Corbett, 'I must see the Queen before she returns to France.' 'But she is enceinte!' the monk exclaimed. 'She cannot return!' 'If she was pregnant,' Corbett cryptically replied, 'she would not be allowed to leave.' The Prior simply shook his head in puzzlement and walked away.