closeted at Kinghorn, claiming she is pregnant? She knew her husband was coming that evening but, when he failed to arrive, did not even bother to send out any search-party to look for him.
Patrick Seton, the King's squire and body-servant. He loved Alexander the King as a man loves a woman. He was jealous of Yolande and was the only person with the King when he died. I do wonder if the King's mad gallop through a storm-blown night finally unhinged his mind and so he caused the King's death and later died of a broken heart? I cannot understand why, after arriving at Kinghorn, he refused to wait up for his royal master and did not go looking for the King. Did he know his master was already dead?
The French, too, gained great advantage from the death of Alexander. Their new king, Philip IV, is devoting all his energies and resources to building up alliances in Europe. Alexander, God knows for what reason, always spurned them; now he is gone, Philip can weave fresh webs, gain an ally with a knife at England's back. Perhaps he also hoped, and still does, that our Liege Lord, King Edward, will be drawn into Scottish affairs and so divert resources England might have used in protecting her possessions in Gascony.
There is our sly, secretive Father in Christ, Bishop Wishart. A close adviser of the dead King, he now wields power because of that King's death. Why was he (and it must have been him) so quick in sending off horsemen early on the morning of 19th March to check on the King's safety? Did he already know something was wrong? Unfortunately I cannot question him or, as yet, the men he sent who actually discovered the King's corpse.
Of course, and I hesitate to broach the matter, the English may have arranged Alexander Ill's death but to what advantage? There are other and better suspects. Edward is involved in France and I can see no profit for him in the death of an ally.
Other problems obscure the issue; whoever killed Alexander must surely have got to the ferry first, crossed the Firth of Forth, knew the route the King was to take, carried out their plan and got away, hoping the King's companions would not discover this. And done all this in the blackness of night? The Good God knows I would dismiss the matter as fanciful and accept that the Scottish King died of an accidental fall from his horse except for what I found, those little shreds clinging to a thorn bush on Kinghorn Ness crying out 'Murder' to the world. Even if there is an answer for these, other questions still remain beating like blood about my head. They can only be resolved at great danger to myself and so I beg you, my Lord, to order my withdrawal from this country for Satan walks here. It is a bubbling pot and soon it will boil and spill over, scalding and burning all who are near it. My life and that of Benstede are under threat from God knows whom, for people believe we are here on a secret mission connected with the succession to the Scottish throne. I beg you to keep this in mind. God save you. Written on 18th June 1286 at the Abbey of Holy Rood.'
Corbett sat and studied the letter he had written.
Darkness fell and he put the report away while he lay on his bed and considered its contents. There must be, he thought, some key, some crack in this mystery he could use to achieve an answer. He remembered the old adage from his studies, 'If a problem exists then a logical solution must also exist. It is only a matter of time before you find it'. If you find it, Corbett added bitterly to himself. He felt he was involved in some royal masque, a diversion, a play where he was one of the mummers, blundering around in the dark to the silent laughter of an audience who always stayed in the shadows. Hasty rides at midnight along windswept cliffs, a King falling into darkness, prophecies of doom. Corbett reconsidered the prophecies. Surely, if he could find this source then he might find a lot more? If the prophecies were innocent, then who was responsible and, more importantly, who ensured other people knew about them? Corbett tried to think back, unravelling the skein of information he had gathered. Someone had named the Prophet? Someone called Thomas? Thomas the Rhymer – Thomas of Learmouth. Corbett swung his legs off the bed and, with a tinder, lit the room's three large candles, took out Burnell's letter and sealed it. He decided it would go as it was written while he proceeded with other matters.
The abbey bells rang for vespers but Corbett waited till he heard the monks returning from the chapel, before going down to join Ranulf in the whitewashed refectory. A plain meal of bread, soup and watered wine was served while one of the brothers read from the Scriptures. Corbett sat impatiendy throughout, his only consolation being the amusement he derived from Ranulf s face as he ate his simple food amidst such sanctified surroundings. Once the meal was over and the thanksgiving intoned, Corbett whispered to Ranulf to return to their chamber while he sought an interview with the Prior. The latter readily agreed, inviting Corbett to walk with him in the silent, shadowy cloisters, taking advantage of the first soft breezes of early summer. For a while they strolled in silence before Corbett began to ask the Prior about his vocation to the monastic life, enjoying the sardonic replies and surprised to find that the Prior was both a distant kinsman to Robert Bruce and a keen herbalist, interested in medicine, with a passion for concocting simples, potions and cures. Corbett gently led the conversation on to the late King and was surprised at the outburst he drew. 'A good, strong ruler,' the Prior commented, 'but as a man, well…' his voice trailed off, leaving the silence to be broken only by the sound of his sandalled feet pattering against the slabstones. 'What do you mean?' Corbett asked. 'I mean,' the Prior heatedly retorted, 'he was a lecher, who forsook his duties. For ten, eleven years he was a widower with every opportunity to marry and beget a son. Instead, he pursues his lusts, marries late and then dies in pursuit of that lust, leaving Scotland without an heir.' Corbett noted that the bitter anger deep within the Prior was about to well over and tactfully he remained silent. 'Even here,' the Prior continued, 'in the Abbey of the Holy Rood, he pursued his lusts! A young noblewoman, a widow on a journey to her late husband's grave, but the King came and saw her. He pursued her, showering her with gifts, jewels and precious cloths. Then he seduced her, not in his castle or one of his manors but here in open defiance of his vows and ours. I remonstrated with him but he just laughed in my face.' The Prior paused. 'A fitting end,' he commented. 'God save him and pity him. I should have attended that Council meeting you know?' he added more lightly, 'but I was busy, I sent my excuses. Who knows, perhaps I could have prevailed with him.' He lapsed into silence and
Corbett, stealing a sideways glance, noted, even in the shadowy moonlight, how tense and bitter the Prior had become. 'Father,' Corbett cautiously asked, 'you say the King almost brought about his own death?' The Prior pursed his lips and nodded. 'Then,' Corbett continued, 'did others think that? I mean, would this be the source of the many prophecies that some evil would befall the King?' The Prior shrugged and continued to walk, his hand leaning gendy on Corbett's arm. 'Yes,' he answered. 'People did think the King acted rashly but there were other prophecies, not just pious speculation. These were uttered by that strange creature, Thomas the Rhymer, or Thomas of Learmouth.' 'Why strange?' 'In both appearance and ways. He is for ever issuing his four-line stanzas predicting the future for individuals or even entire families. A strange man with a mysterious past. There are rumours that he disappeared for nine years in Elfland!' 'Could I meet him?' Corbett asked brusquely. 'Is it possible?' The Prior turned and smiled thinly. 'I wondered why you wanted to speak to me. Thomas is a minor laird; he holds land near Earlston in Roxburghshire. I know him, I have even protected him on a number of occasions against scurrilous attacks by fellow priests.' He stopped and put a hand on Corbett's shoulder. 'I will write to him and see what I can do, but be careful, Hugh, be very careful!'
TEN
The next morning, the Prior, true to his word, immediately sent off a courier to Thomas of Learmouth whilst Corbett despatched one of his retinue with his letter to Burnell. Corbett had been accompanied north by four messengers – chosen by the Chancellor from his own household. They had stayed in the abbey kicking their heels and helping with administrative tasks to pay their way; now, one of them was only too happy to take the letter and ride south with Corbett's instructions ringing in his ears. After that Corbett just had to wait, pleased to rest and stay in the monastery where he felt secure and safe. He studied the draft of the report he had sent to Burnell and re-examined it, going over time and again all he had learnt since his arrival in Scotland. The more he analysed the events surrounding King Alexander's death, the more certain he became it was murder. But by whom? And how? Corbett felt hemmed in by the sheer frustration of the task assigned him. He gave Ranulf a brief description of what had happened but his servant, with a keen sense of survival, immediately tried to link events to the men who had attempted to attack them on the road from Leith. Ranulf believed the French were responsible; Corbett at first agreed, but then queried why they had waited so long and privately concluded that the attackers were from Lord Bruce's retinue.
The days passed, the monks celebrated the Feast of Midsummer, the beheading of St. John the Baptist. Corbett attended the solemn High Mass in the Abbey church watching the celebrants in their blood-red and gold robes moving like figures in a dream amidst the constant plumes of fragrant incense. The melodious chant of the monks
