Crown in Darkness

TWO

The day after Corbett finished his letter to Burnell, he felt refreshed enough to begin his search for some answers to the questions he had raised in it. He used his time to recuperate, chatting to the monks in the monastery, visiting their small library and scriptorium where some of the monks, exempt from the offices of Terce, Sext and None, worked throughout the day so they could use the poor daylight to their best advantage. Corbett loved libraries, the smell of parchment, vellum and leather, the ordered shelves and total commitment to study. He felt at ease sitting at a small desk surrounded by the paraphernalia so beloved of any industrious clerk: inkhorns; finely honed quills, thin cutting knives and small grey stones of pumice for smoothing the white scrubbed parchment. Corbett chattered to the monks, he could not understand their native tongue but many were fluent in Latin or French. They informed Corbett of the divisions in their country, the difference between the Highlands held by the ancient Celts and the South Lowlands dominated by the Anglo-Norman families such as the Bruces, Comyns, Stewarts and Lennoxes, very similar in their ways to the great families of England who served the great King Edward I. Indeed, as the Prior, a tall, austere man with a dry, sardonic sense of humour, pointed out, many of the monks in birth, education and tradition were really no different from Corbett. The clerk could only agree and soon felt at home in Holy Rood, offering to help the brothers in their scriptorium, exchanging ideas and constantly praising what he saw.

Corbett was tactful enough never to draw comparisons or appear to criticise. Privately, he was more than aware of the deep differences between the two countries. There was more wealth in England and so greater sophistication, whether it be in the use and treatment of parchment or the building of castles and churches. He remembered the soaring purity of Westminster Abbey with its pointed arches, trellised stonework, large windows and coloured glass and realised the contrast as he looked at the primitive rather dark simplicity of the Abbey of Holy Rood with its stout round columns, small, deep splayed windows and dog-tooth stone carving above a simple square nave and chancel. Nevertheless, there was an energy and openness about the monks which cut through Corbett's jaded outlook and soft sophistication. Moreover, the monks like those in England, loved to talk, chatter and discuss. The Abbey kept its own chronicle and it was easy for Corbett to turn the conversation to the recent happenings in Scotland and so glean useful information, even though it was based on the gossip of a monastic library. The monks informed him about the court, the current scandals and, more especially, that the young French princess, widow of Alexander III, was still residing at Kinghorn Manor. Corbett decided to visit her and the Prior offered a guide. Corbett gratefully declined this though he did accept a thick serge cloak with a capuchon or hood for, though it was May, the weather was still cold and, wrapped in this, Corbett left the monastery on the most docile cob he had ever ridden. The clerk used a crudely-drawn map sketched out by one of the monks to guide his horse from the craggy plateau of Edinburgh down onto the road to the ferry at Dalmeny. The same route, Corbett reflected, Alexander had taken that fateful night some two months earlier. Now, the weather was calmer; a clear jewel-blue sky across which puffs of white clouds were sent scudding by a stiff breeze. In the distance, Corbett saw the glint of sunlight on the waters of the Forth and, around him, a late spring was making itself felt in the clumps of wild white flowers, soft green grass and the constant chatter of song-birds.

Corbett turned his long, tired face to the sky and for a moment understood the sheer joy and beauty of Francis of Assisi's "Canticle to the Sun". Then he came to where the rutted track he was following crossed another and saw the three branched gallows, each with its blackening, bird-pecked burden. His mood swung in violent contrast and Corbett felt despair, a terrifying sense of the world's sin, a deep malevolence in the affairs of men. "And the serpent entered Eden" Corbett muttered to himself and goaded his horse over the track, across the flimsiest of bridges and up into the village of Dalmeny. It was really more of a hamlet, a collection of long houses built with timber, wattle and daub on cobbled footings while thatched roofs covered both living-quarters and byre. These were scattered round a large green where gaunt cattle cropped hungrily at the sparse spring grass. Half-naked babies played in the dust, watched over by a group of red-haired, green-eyed women. They simply stared at Corbett before continuing their conversations in a fast, guttural dialect. Corbett passed on, down a steep hill which gave him a splendid view of the Forth and the small ferry-port below him. The monks had described the route carefully, adding that the ferry-port was often called

Queen's Ferry, being the route used by Saint Margaret, the English Queen of the great King Malcolm Conmore, whenever she crossed the Forth.

The cob gingerly picked its way down along the loose shale track and approached the thatched, wattle-daubed long hut which stood near a crudely-built jetty. The ferrymaster was waiting for custom; a big, bald, brawny fellow with a weather-beaten face and a perpetual toothless smile. He was a sailor who understood English and promptly agreed to ferry Corbett across the Forth, adding a few coins to the price for looking after his horse and saddle. Soon, they were making their way across the water; Corbett sat in the stern while the fellow heaved and panted as he worked the oars. Corbett nonchalantly asked if he had taken the late King across; the ferryman nodded, turned and spat into the water. 'Could you tell me what happened?' Corbett asked. His companion grunted, turned and spat again, so Corbett laid a gold piece on the board before him and the man grinned. 'It was a raw night,' he said, relaxing the oars and letting the skiff dance on the gentle swell. 'A strong easterly wind had been raging for days, driving the water up the Forth. I was in my house, tucked in with my woman when there came a pounding on the door. I saw from the window that it was two squires, wearing the royal livery, wet and bedraggled, who bawled that His Grace, the King of Scotland, demanded passage. I opened the door and they entered. The King behind them. I knew it was he, large-framed, red-haired, with the eyes and nose of an eagle. I had seen him many times cross the Forth.' The ferryman stopped, smiled slyly and went to pick up the coin, so Corbett drew the long dagger from beneath his cloak. The ferryman shrugged, laughed and continued. 'I went down on my knees but the King bellowed at me to get up and prepare my skiff. I tried to reason with him but the King asked if I was afraid of dying. I replied I was, though more than prepared to die with him.' 'What did the King do?' Corbett asked. The ferryman grimaced. 'Roared with laughter and tossed me a purse of coins. So I got the skiff ready.' 'Was the King drunk?' Corbett asked quietly. 'No,' the fellow replied. 'He had been drinking deep but he was not in his cups.' 'Then what?' 'I took him and his two squires across. Landed them, waited till morning and then returned.' 'Why wait till morning?' Corbett asked. 'Because of the storm,' the ferryman replied caustically. 'One ferryman died that night, Simon Taggart,' he pointed back to the shore we had left. 'His body was found in the shallows. Quite drowned. His widow says that he, too, tried to cross the Forth that night but died.' He turned and spat over the side. 'Poor bastard! He should have known better!' 'So, someone else crossed that night?' Corbett asked. The ferryman shrugged. 'Not necessarily, Simon could have been trying to transport goods. Anyway, many people die in the Forth.' 'When you got over,' Corbett insisted. 'Did you see or hear anything untoward?' 'Like what?' the ferryman snapped back. 'Why, should there have been? No,' he continued, 'as soon as we entered the shallows, the King, followed by his squires, jumped out and waded ashore. There was someone waiting. I heard voices, the neighing and movement of horses. Then he was gone. When I beached the boat there was only the royal purveyor standing, soaking wet on the beach, loudly cursing the King's mad escapades.' 'Then what?' Corbett interrupted again. 'Then nothing,' the ferryman replied. 'The purveyor disappeared into the darkness, I made my boat secure and went to sleep in a hut.' 'That is all?' 'That is all,' he replied firmly and, grabbing the oars, began to pull for the distant shore.

Corbett just slumped in the stern, trying to ignore the rocking of the boat by concentrating on what he had just learnt. Eventually they beached, and the ferrymaster told Corbett where to hire a horse in the nearby village of Inverkeithing. An expensive business, for it was really a rough-hooved garron no bigger than a mule and Corbett felt ridiculous riding it with his feet a few inches from the ground. Nevertheless, the animal was sure-footed. A great advantage as Corbett began to climb up the cliffs which swooped above him. When Corbett reached the clifftop path, he looked round and realised why Alexander had taken that route; with the sea on his right the King had a sure guide along the coast, much preferable to moving inland and be lost in the wild moorlands which stretched from the cliff tops to the far horizon. Quite an easy matter on a dark, storm-ridden night. Corbett looked up at the sky, guessed it must now be afternoon, and let his cob pick its way along while he made sure he kept well away from the cliff edge. He passed the village of Aberdour, where the cliff edge began to climb and Corbett realised he was approaching Kinghorn Ness, the scene of King Alexander's death. It was warm now but, as Corbett felt the strong wind on his face and heard the sea pounding below him, he wondered what would bring any sane man along such a dangerous route at the dead of night and in the teeth of a furious storm.

Eventually, he reached the top. The cliff path was narrow; on one side a lurching drop, on the other a low clump of thick thorn bushes. Corbett dismounted, hobbled his pony, and looked around: the cliff path was now shale-strewn and at its peak before falling abruptly downwards to what he could faintly detect as the royal, fortified manor of Kinghorn. A horse could easily slip and so send its rider hurtling down to where black rocks rose hungrily from sea-washed, silver-white sands. Corbett went on his knees, crouching like a dog as he approached the cliff edge. He ran his fingers along the ledge, feeling the stout weeds which grew along the rocky rim. They were hard, tough, clinging rancorously to life. Except one, half pulled out at its root, the thinning frayed strands of a rope still tied to it. Corbett scrambled back, rose and went to the thorn bushes; there had been someone in amongst them. He could see the crushed, bent branches where the person had squatted. Nevertheless, he knew that the same damage could have been done by any of the curious drawn to this spot by Alexander's death or by the rope, used when they finally raised Alexander's body from the rocks.

Satisfied, Corbett unhobbled his horse, mounted and carefully descended the steep cliff path to Kinghorn. The monks had called it a fortress, the ferryman a palace. The reality was a fortified manor-house, a stone tower with a two-storey stone building surrounded by wooden outbuildings and protected by a huge, long wall and a deep ditch. Corbett approached the main gate and was immediately warned off by the quarrel of a crossbow thudding into the ground before him. He stopped abruptly, dismounted and held his hands up, shouting that he came in peace to pay his respects and those of the Lord Chancellor of England to the royal widow, Queen Yolande. Corbett doubted if the guard even understood, let alone heard him. After a short while, a figure appeared on the parapet above the main gate and waved him across the narrow bridge spanning the moat. The main gate opened sufficiently wide to let him pass and once inside Corbett found the usual clamour and bustle of any castle bailey except for the unusual presence of so many well-armed soldiers all wearing the livery of a white lion rampant, the royal insignia of Scotland. A captain in half-armour, a steel bascinet on his head, inspected Corbett's warrants, removed his dagger and listened attentively while the clerk introduced himself. The captain nodded and marched off, brusquely beckoning Corbett to follow him across the dirt-strewn yard, kicking out at dogs and almost trampling the chickens which scrabbled hungrily for food. They passed open kitchens, stables and a forge with their blackened, perspiring servants, entered the main building and climbed steep stone stairs. At the top the guard captain tapped lightly on a steel-studded door. A soft voice called "Entrez!" and Corbett was shown into a small though luxurious chamber with velvet buckram drapes on the walls, soft herb-strewn rushes on the floor with small, scented braziers placed around the walls. In the centre of the room was a woman sitting regally in a beautiful carved wooden chair, studying a piece of parchment in her lap. A group of ladies sat a fair distance away beneath the room's one and only window, ostensibly embroidering a piece of tapestry stretched across a stand.

The captain went down on one knee and muttered an introduction in atrocious French. The woman in the chair looked up, stared at him and then Corbett. Queen Yolande was beautiful with a small oval face, her skin was a tawny gold, her nose small, the eyes large and darkened. Only her mouth, pert and rather pouting, marred the effect for she looked arrogant and rather spoilt. Her dress was black silk though Corbett noticed that it emphasised rather than hid her plump breasts and narrow waist, and the white fox-fur on the cuffs of her gown drew attention to her fine wrists and long, white, bejewelled fingers. She chattered to the captain in French, dismissed him and beckoned Corbett to a small stool in front of her. Corbett felt slightly ridiculous and heard subdued laughter from one of her ladies, a rather overblown red-head, likewise in black, who was in the centre of the group involved with the tapestry.

The laughter was silenced by an imperious glance from Queen Yolande before she turned to question Corbett in French. He courteously replied, tactfully lying about his arrival in Scotland and explaining that he came with the personal condolences of the Lord Chancellor of England. Queen Yolande heard him out though she appeared to be only half listening. Gently, Corbett turned the conversation to the death of her husband. 'It is a pity, my Lady,' Corbett commented politely, 'that His Grace should have attempted that journey on such a wild night!' He bowed graciously towards her. 'I realise you are still in mourning and the subject is most painful to you, but the thought did occur to me as I made the same journey today.' The royal widow simply shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'His Grace was always impetuous!' she almost snapped. 'He should not have travelled in such rough weather. I could scarcely believe the message he sent earlier that day saying he would come!' 'His Grace told you that he was coming that night?' Corbett tentatively asked. 'When did he send such a message?' 'What business is it of yours?' Yolande snapped back, staring hard at Corbett. 'A messenger delivered a letter later that day. I don't know who brought it! I only remember because I immediately burnt it in exasperation!' Corbett smiled understandingly and gently diverted the conversation to other matters. He had asked enough questions and was sufficiently startled by Yolande to conceal his feelings behind the mask of diplomacy. He felt uneasy. Yolande was a royal widow; in a sense, her husband's passion for her had caused his death; yet Yolande seemed to resent, even hate her dead husband. Was this the woman, Corbett wondered, who had drawn King Alexander III of Scotland to gamble his life for her? Corbett could not pinpoint or express his reasons for the conclusions he drew but he felt the unease, something insubstantial, like a perfume emanating from this spoilt beautiful woman.

Corbett allowed the now desultory conversation to continue before discreedy interrupting. 'Madam, my master and His Grace, King Edward, will be delighted with the news that you are "enceinte". A small consolation at this time of great sorrow…' Yolande almost smirked as she gently patted her stomach. 'I do not care for your King, Master Corbett, but, yes, I do care for a possible future King of Scotland!' Corbett heard a snort of laughter from the red-headed lady-in-waiting, but ignored it. Queen Yolande did not. She spun round, glared at the woman and turned back to extend her hand to Corbett as a sign that the audience was over. Corbett bent, kissed the Queen's cool white hand and withdrew, ignoring the brazen look of the lady-in-waiting who had brought his interview to such a sudden end.