Corbett rose, wrapped his cloak about him and walked slowly round the bare, bleak room. Burnell had summoned him to Westminster at the end of March and blundy announced that, because of the sudden and mysterious death of King Alexander III of Scotland, Corbett was to travel to Edinburgh and ascertain the true cause of the Scottish King's death. Corbett had cursed, cried, pleaded and begged, but Burnell was adamant. The Chancellor had sat impervious behind his great desk and quietly ticked off on his white, plump, bejewelled fingers, the reasons he had chosen him; Corbett was a trained Chancery clerk, an expert in legal affairs, young enough (was he not in his thirty-sixth year?) to withstand the rigours of a journey. Corbett had war experience, fighting for King Edward in Wales and, Burnell added quietly, Corbett had already, shown that he could be entrusted with secret business and confidential matters. Corbett had reluctantly agreed and so Burnell handed over letters of introduction for the Scottish court and to Benstede, Edward's special envoy to Edinburgh.
Corbett stopped pacing round the room, slumped on to the stool and crouched over the small, red-hot brazier to warm his chilled fingers. Then had come the strange part for Burnell had made it quite clear that Corbett was his special emissary, not the King's. He was to report only to the Chancellor, and certainly not to the King or Benstede. No one was to know why Corbett was really in Scodand. He was to write direct to Burnell and only use as envoys the members of the escort who accompanied him into Scotland. Corbett had asked the reason why but Burnell had brusquely dismissed him.