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great-uncle of Alexander III and grandson of a former king. There has always been bad blood between these families but now they are like two stiff-legged hunting-hounds who circle each other with hackles raised and teeth bared, carefully eyeing each other, ready to launch into war if any move is made by their rival. The only force which separates them is the Church, the one single coherent organisation in this country which binds like mortar the different races and degrees of this nation. Two of the leading churchmen, Bishops Wishart of Glasgow and Fraser of St. Andrews, have once more summoned to Scone the Prelates, Abbots, Priors, Earls, Barons and all good men of the country to renew their fealty to the new queen over the water, the Maid of Norway. All swore, on pain of excommunication and eternal damnation, to protect and uphold the peace of the land. Their Lordships, the Bishops, have achieved their ends, setting up a regency to represent the whole Community of the Realm consisting of the Earls of Buchan and Fife, Sir James Stewart and John Comyn and, of course, the two
    Bishops themselves. Three of these so called Guardians are responsible for Scotland north of the Forth and the other three, particularly Wishart, wield authority south of this line. Men accept things as they are, though they would prefer things as they should be. Despite the Council of Guardians the different lords are levying troops and fortifying castles, preparing for war if peace fails. Your Grace, the King, has personal knowledge of the Bruces. All three of them, grandfather, father and son, all called Robert, never fail to remind people that they have royal blood in their veins and a strong claim to the Scottish throne. In 1238, as your Grace may know, when there was no apparent successor to the throne the then Scottish king called his magnates together and, in their presence and with their consent, designated the House of Bruce as his heir-presumptive. This promise proved illusory when a proper heir appeared. Nonetheless, the House of Bruce, for a brief while, tasted royalty and many claim it only whetted their appetite.
    "As matters stand now, the kingdom is quiet, but I will keep your Grace informed of what events occur. We are acceptable to the Scottish court, being friends of all and allies to none. We are pleased to greet the arrival of Hugh Corbett, Clerk to the Chancery, despatched north by your Chancellor. His presence at the court will be a definite aid to our mission. God save your grace. Written at Edinburgh -May 1286."
    Corbett studied the document and passed it back to Benstede. 'A fair analysis,' he commented, 'on the situation of Scotland. Do you think there will be war?' Benstede shook his head. 'No, not yet. Alexander kept his kingdom strong. It would take months, perhaps a year, for such strength to seep away. A great deal depends upon the arrival of the Maid from Norway and who secures her hand in marriage. When,' he nodded slowly, 'there could be war.' Their conversation then drifted on to other desultory matters. Corbett spoke about his early life, his wars in Wales and work at the Chancery. Benstede, the only son of a worthy Sussex farmer, told of his vocation to the priesthood, his interest in medicine and his rapid promotion in the royal service. Corbett caught the reference to medicine. 'You mean?' he asked, 'that you trained in the College of Medicine?' 'Yes,' Benstede replied. 'At one time I thought my vocation was to be a surgeon or doctor. I studied for a time in Paris, Padua and Salerno.' Benstede looked intently at Corbett. 'That is why I asked earlier if you were interested in the death of King Alexander. I myself questioned the royal physician who dressed the body for burial at Jedburgh Abbey, Duncan MacAirth. It was he who told me about the injuries the King received. He is here in the casde. Perhaps I can introduce him to you.' 'Does he keep some secret about the King's death?' Corbett asked. Benstede paused.