The north of England had been a new experience to Corbett who had served in Edward's armies in France and Wales, but Scotland was something different. Quieter, more lonely, beautiful yet menacing. He had observed it carefully as he travelled into Edinburgh. Vast forests of pine, dark and forbidding, where boar and wolf ruled; wide wastes of lonely, haunting moor, bogs, mountains and lakes covered the land. In England, the old Roman highways, sometimes much broken but their foundations still solid, spread out from London to form the main routes for travel. In Scotland, apart from the King's Highway. the Via Regis, there were few roads, only beaten tracks. Corbett had found it difficult to reach the royal burgh of Edinburgh and. when he did, bitterly wondered if it had been worth the effort ...
Bessie's mother was bristling with indignation, but there was, underneath it, all-encompassing fear. News of Lord Hastings's horrific execution for plotting the protector's downfall had unnerved her. Clearly Richard of Gloucester was capable of anything. And now he had come to Westminster Sanctuary demanding an audience.
'What can I do but see him?' she said to Bessie as she checked her image in the looking glass. 'If I do not, he will break the sanctuary of the church, breach the walls, and come in by force.'
But Bessie had heard the other side of her mother's logic. Afraid of the Duke of Gloucester as she was, she trusted him in one important respect. She believed that Richard would do anything to place his brother's son on the English throne. And was that not what she herself wanted above all?
Bessie had begged her mother to allow her to be present at the audience, and appraising her eldest daughter quickly and finding the eighteen-year-old as much of an ally as she was likely to find, the queen had agreed.
'Let him come in,' announced the queen dowager.
And in he came.
What's everybody staring at?
All right, so you've never seen an Arab before. Is that any reason to stare? My hair's not green. My skin's not blue. It might be darker than yours, but dark skin is quite normal in my country. So I'm short. So what? I'm not that short. I'm tall enough to see over my own knees. Anyone would think I had a giant candle snuffer growing out of my forehead.
Look at that fellow there, gawking away. Face like a gob of spittle, and he's staring at me! Why don't you get yourself a mirror, Spitface, if you really want something to stare at?
A one-armed child makes a rude gesture. Runs away as I poke out a viciously threatening tongue. No backbone, the little coward.
'Pagan.' Roland's voice is cold and stern. (Doesn't want his squire eroding the dignity of his arrival.) 'Please behave yourself.'
'It's not my fault. What's wrong with them? They don't seem very pleased to see you.'
'It's been a long time, Pagan. Six years. They may not remember who I am.'
