The French envoy started, ready to play the outraged courtier, but Corbett's steady gaze quietened him. He shuffled his feet and pursed his lips, trying to conceal his embarrassment and surprise at this dangerous, clever English clerk. De Craon shrugged and smiled, secredy wishing he had killed this man and vowing he would, the next time an opportunity presented itself. On his part, Corbett shrewdly watched the Frenchman and knew he was correct and so moved to close the trap.
'Did you discuss the Lady Yolande with King Alexander at the Council meeting the evening before he died?' 'Hardly, in the company of others!' 'Whom did the King talk to?' 'The Lord Bruce, Bishop Wishart, his esquires. Seton and Erceldoun, Benstede,' the last name was spat out. 'But you did spend the previous day with the King?' 'Yes,' answered de Craon surlily. Corbett now closed the trap, trying hard to control his excitement. 'Was it then you discussed a possible marriage with Lady Margaret, sister of Philip IV of France?' De Craon drew himself up. 'Sir!' he exclaimed. 'You go too far. It is none of your business! The Lady Margaret is a princess of the blood. You are not fit…' He broke off suddenly, stared at Corbett and smiled coldly. 'That was good, Monsieur,' he muttered. 'Very clever. You are a good clerk, Monsieur Corbett.' He walked away, across the deck. 'Too good for this world, Monsieur! Au revoir.' 'I am sure we will meet again,' murmured Corbett but the Frenchman was out of earshot, shouting at his retainers and crew to make ready.
Without further ado Corbett, Selkirk and their small party returned to their own vessel. The galley pulled away, its oars dipping as it made its way down, following the tide out into the open sea. Their return to Leith on the 'Saint Andrew' was just as uncomfortable as the journey out and Corbett was only too pleased to feel the firm ground of the quayside beneath him. Selkirk, however, was impatient to return. They collected their horses from the stables and were soon pounding their way back up the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to the Abbey of Holy Rood. Selkirk promised to leave his customary token force and Corbett, grateful for Selkirk's intervention and assistance on the French galley, began to thank the rather taciturn Scottish knight. 'Don't thank me,' Sir James replied. 'The sooner this business is done, Master Clerk, the sooner you are gone and that will make me very happy!' Corbett could only nod and turned to lead his horse from the abbey gates, when Selkirk called out, 'Mind you, Corbett, for an English clerk, you have some good qualities, and that is praise indeed from a Scotsman!' Corbett grinned his acknowledgement and continued into the abbey, pleased that the journey was done and the information he had received sohelpful.
The Prior joined him in his small chamber, his sandalled feet beating like a tambour along the stone corridor, his grey gown billowing around him. 'Your sea journey was profitable?' the Prior observed. 'Did de Craon assist you?' Corbett smiled. 'De Craon's an excitable man,' he replied, 'and a bit of a fool. I tricked him, but I had to, I remember once seeing a mosaic, a Roman mosaic. Have you seen one?' The Prior shook his head. 'Well,' Corbett continued, 'it was beautiful. A woman's face, dark and mysterious with long, flowing black hair. The craftsman had created this vision with small, coloured stones, and some of them had come loose. I spent an entire day putting them back, watching that face, hundreds of years old, come to life.' He sighed. 'But painting and sculpture are not your interests. Surely, you are more concerned with herbs, drugs and poison?' He watched the Prior's sallow face flush. 'I am sorry, Father,' Corbett grinned. 'I wanted to shock you. I am like the painter of that mosaic, the small pieces are falling into place and I need your help. Tell me, is there any herb which will make you see images and, at the same time, sharpen your memory?' He then outlined to the Prior his experience in Ettrick Forest when he visited the Pictish village. The Prior, solemn-faced, heard him out. 'There are,' he replied, 'certain plants which cut, distilled and treated, can turn a man's mind and raise phantasms in his soul; the deadly nightshade, the purple foxglove, above all the flowers of Hecate, Queen of the Night, the black hellebore. Buttered almonds, or even the chewed leaves of the laurel. All of these can excite the mind, bring back lost memories.' He looked sharply at Corbett, his tired, clever eyes searching the English clerk's face. 'But you mentioned poisons, Hugh,' he added calmly, 'and all the plants I have mentioned could kill a man, choke out his life like a breeze snuffs out a candle.'
Corbett leaned forward and described what he had seen. The Prior questioned him closely and Corbett answered as accurately as he could. The Prior stopped speaking, thought and offered his conclusion. Corbett smiled slowly, the last stone was in place, the picture was complete and, in his mind's eye, he saw full and clear the face of the murderer of Erceldoun, Seton, the young man in his own retinue, the boatman and, above all, the regicide, the slayer of the Lord's anointed, King Alexander III of Scotland. Corbett asked the Prior one last favour, one more task, the monk agreed and slipped quietly out of the room.
SEVENTEEN
Corbett was at the dawn Mass the next day. He knelt and watched the priest offer the white body of Christ, the host and chalice lifted high, asking the Lamb of God to take away the sins of the world. Corbett took the sacrament, wishing to draw on its strength to combat the evil he would encounter that day. After Mass, he sent a last envoy south with a verbal message to be delivered to no one except the Chancellor of England, Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells. The Chancellor, Corbett insisted, would be at Tynemouth Priory. If he was not, then the messenger was to wait until he arrived. Corbett then gave certain instructions to the Prior and Selkirk's armed escort, still on guard outside the abbey gates, and went back to his small cell.
Just before noon he heard voices in the passageway outside, leather boots rapping on the paved stones. There was a knock and Benstede walked in, smiling affably as he patted Corbett on the shoulder and stared around the bleak cell. 'Well,' Benstede said as soon as he had settled himself comfortably. 'You asked to see me?' Corbett nodded. 'I have found out who murdered King Alexander III, and how, but not the reason why.' For the first time since he had met him, Corbett saw genuine fear and shock in Benstede's face. The colour drained from his cheeks, the eyes lost their quizzical humorous look, his mouth sagged open. 'Who is it?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Why, Master Benstede,' Corbett replied. 'You know who it is. You are the murderer of Alexander III!' For a long while Benstede just sat and stared at Corbett. 'You cannot possibly…' he began and then gulped. 'You have no proof. You are simply putting the blame on me, when it should be laid at the door of de Craon and his group of assassins.' Corbett watched Benstede's hand edge closer to the knife he kept in his belt. 'Master Benstede!' he snapped. 'I suggest that you keep your hand well away from your dagger and attempt no violence, cry out or try to summon assistance from that evil shadow who goes everywhere with you. He is probably as guilty as you are of at least four murders in Scotland. Yes,' Corbett continued. 'You are correct on a number of matters. The proof I have is tenuous and even if I caught you red-handed, I doubt if any Scottish court would dare try you. I am simply telling you because I believe I should, justice demands it. It is also in your interest to sit and listen quietly to what I am going to say.' Corbett rose and walked about the cell as he talked. 'In 1278,' he began, 'Alexander III attended the coronation of our Sovereign Lord, King Edward of England. He was asked to pay homage for his lands in England, to which he quickly agreed but stoutly refused to perform fealty for the realm of Scotland, claiming he held that direct of God. Our Master the King has, in the last fourteen years, developed the vision of his rule, the like of which has never been seen in this country since the days of the Roman Empire. He lays claim to vast lands in France. He has conquered Wales, crushed opposition at home, has designs on Ireland and, as he proved at his coronation, has similar plans for the kingdom of Scotland. I am not saying,' Corbett added hastily, 'that our Sovereign Lord was involved in, or even ordered, the death of King Alexander, but you, Master Benstede, are his faithful servant. You know his mind, his secret desires and wishes,' Corbett said. 'You are very similar to the knights who murdered Thomas а Becket at Canterbury. They did that of their own accord. Henry Angevin did not order them but Becket's death was the secret desire of his sou!.' Corbett paused to gulp some wine before continuing. 'I believe Edward sent you to Scotland to see what you could accomplish in advancing his claims. After all, Alexander's heirs were all dead, his English wife was ten years in her grave and the King himself was advancing in years. If Alexander died without an heir then it would certainly give our King the necessary room to manoeuvre. However, Alexander changed all this. He began secret negotiations with the French and then compounded his sin by marrying a young French princess. For Edward this was serious: Alexander was married. He could well live a good score years and beget healthy sons to succeed him. Moreover, these sons would be half French and for the first time ever the Capetian monarchy would have client kings on Edward's own doorstep. I suspect that Alexander hoped for closer ties with France and these were the subject of his long detailed and secret discussions with de Craon. So you decided to act. Alexander was notorious for the complete disregard he had of his own life and limb, charging around Scotland in all weathers and despite all hazards. It would be easy for an accident to befall such a monarch, especially as he was a king who, after a long and successful reign, had little reason to fear enemies and so his
