struggled to his feet and stared around the hall where the rest of the sleepers there were slowly rising to their feet, some nursing sore heads, others bawling for wine and food. He turned to the young man who had woken him. 'In God's teeth!' he snapped. 'Who are you?' 'Thomas Erceldoun,' the young man replied. 'Master MacAirth said that you wished to talk to me.' He gestured to the nearest table. 'I have brought you some ale and rye bread.' Corbett nodded his thanks, rubbed the back of his neck to ease the stiffness, and sat down. 'You were with the late King on the night he died?' Erceldoun swallowed nervously. 'Aye,' he replied. 'I was with the King. I've told my story many times.' The young man paused to gather his breath and Corbett, still only half awake, felt pity for this young man whose life and energy were now narrowed to justify his conduct on one night out of thousands. Corbett rubbed his eyes wearily, yawned and then saw the hurt in Erceldoun's eyes. 'I am sorry for disturbing you,' Erceldoun blurted out. 'But the physician who works in the royal household said that you wanted to see me immediately. I was afraid I might miss you. I…' 'Nonsense,' Corbett interrupted kindly. 'There is no need for excuses.' He sipped the cup of the cold watered ale. 'Please tell me what happened on that wild, tragic night?'
Erceldoun immediately rushed into his story, how the King decided at the banquet to return to Kinghorn and summoned both Seton and himself to ride with him. Both had remonstrated with the King when he withdrew to his private chambers in the castle to dress for the journey. 'He was very excited,' Erceldoun explained. 'He said he must leave that night and taunted us as cowards. So we went. We rode north to the ferry and, God knows how, got across the Forth. The royal purveyor was waiting with fresh mounts; the King's white horse, Tamesin, was already saddled, and his Grace left immediately with Seton. I had, as you know, trouble with my horse as soon as I left the beach!' Corbett thought of the drunken purveyor. 'Did the purveyor also attempt to restrain the King?' he asked. Erceldoun nodded. 'Yes, but the King would have none of it.' 'Did the King check his saddle and girth straps?' 'No,' Erceldoun replied. 'The King and Seton left immediately. My horse was skittish, I could not settle him. Why?' he asked hopefully. 'Do you think that Tamesin was not properly saddled?' 'Perhaps,' Corbett lied for he knew that if it was not, the accident could well have occurred earlier. 'And Seton?' Corbett continued. 'What happened to him?' 'He arrived at Kinghorn,' Erceldoun wearily replied. 'Then came back here late the following day after the King's death became public. He just withdrew to his room; the more he was questioned the more witless he seemed, muttering about shadows on Kinghorn Ness.' 'He was devoted to the King?' Erceldoun looked sharply at Corbett. 'Of course,' he almost snapped. 'As was I. But others say different,' he added bitterly. 'They allege that we deserted the King because we were afraid. They forget about our journey across the Firth!' 'How did Seton die?' 'I do not know,' Erceldoun answered. 'Perhaps of a broken heart. He ate little and would not speak. He was found dead in his chamber and was given a hasty funeral.' 'There was no mark of violence on his body?' Corbett cautiously asked. Erceldoun narrowed his eyes. 'I, too, thought of that but, no, I inspected the corpse.' 'Then perhaps poison was administered?' 'No,' Erceldoun emphatically replied. 'He ate little and it was I who brought him food. Visitors sent or brought him small gifts.' 'Who?' Corbett asked. 'Members of the Council. Especially after Bishop Wishart visited him and announced that Seton was not guilty of any involvement in the King's death.' 'So there was suspicion?' Corbett enquired. Erceldoun swallowed and looked round nervously. 'King Alexander,' he whispered nervously, 'was a man of strong appetites. Seton was a valet of his chamber. There were rumours that, that…' 'That the King used Seton?' Corbett interjected. Erceldoun nodded. 'The King had been a widower for ten years,' he continued. 'Seton was jealous and hurt at the King's passion for Queen Yolande. But he would never have harmed the King. Anyway,' he concluded morosely, 'it was established that he arrived in Kinghorn at the expected time.' 'So, despite the King riding a better horse, Seton was in front?' Corbett asked. 'Of course. Seton knew the terrain better. I suspect the King found it difficult and, for a while, lost his way in the dark. Seton would have gone ahead believing the King would not be far behind. We always travelled like that; Seton's task was to ensure that there were no obstacles.' Erceldoun paused. 'It was my task to follow at the rear!' 'Such things do happen,' Corbett soothingly replied. 'But tell me. Who else visited Seton?' 'Everyone,' Erceldoun muttered. 'Bishop Wishart, the Lord Bruce, members of the court. The French envoy and, of course, Master Benstede. He sent Seton a bowl of almonds and raisins and a present of velvet gloves.' 'Did Seton eat the food?' 'A little,' Erceldoun said. 'As with everything, I ate the rest.' 'Then why the presents?' 'Oh,' Erceldoun bitterly commented, 'before the King's death, Seton was a popular man. Anyone who wished to see the King would often approach Seton. Benstede was not the only one to send gifts.' Erceldoun looked round at the servants who were now busy, slowly clearing the cold, congealed messes left by the previous night's banquet. Officers and marshals of the royal household were shouting orders. Dogs, noisily barking, wandered in from the courtyard and were busy sniffing amongst the rubbish. Erceldoun rose and looked down at Corbett. 'I must go,' he said. 'There are duties to be carried out.' He nodded at Corbett and walked out of the hall.
The English clerk watched him go and realised that he, too, must return to the abbey. There was so much he had learnt, so many facts, so many happenings. His legs and back ached, he needed the quiet, clean, pure atmosphere of the monastery to settle his mind and probe all he had learnt. He gathered his cloak and entered the bailey, a calmer place than the previous day. He drew water from the well, splashed his hands and face and left the castle, a lonely, weary figure totally ignored by every one. Outside he stopped and realised that he would have to make his own way back. He remembered the dagger thrown during the banquet and decided it would be safer to return through the crowded town than venture into the marshy wooded countryside. He knew the way vaguely from the journey the night before and the careful directions given to him by the Prior.
Corbett trudged down the beaten, muddy track; the sky was overcast and a light rain began to fall. A passing cart rolled by splattering him with mud and Corbett quietly cursed Burnell for sending him here. He reached the town and entered the Lawnmarket; there was a crowd gathered watching some wretch being dragged by horses across the open space to a waiting scaffold. The man, bound hand and foot, was pinioned to a sheet of hard-boiled leather, which the two horses pulled across the mud: the man screamed as the hard ground battered his naked back, while he had to endure the taunts and filth hurled by the onlookers, the strictures of the city officials and the droning monotony of the praying priest. Corbett did not stay but pushed through the throng of people and walked on. He kept to the centre of the street away from the rubbish which littered the entrances and walks of the miserable timbered houses. The shops and stalls were open for business: a cart bearing a ragged, crudely-drawn banner was used as a stage by a troupe of actors shouting words that Corbett could not understand. Shopkeepers bawled and yelled at him. 'Hot sheeps' feet!' 'Ribs of beef!' Greasy hands clawed at his arms but he pushed them off. The smell of fresh bread from a bakery made him hungry but he did not stop.
Corbett was tired, depressed: the passing sights caught his eye: a dog, one leg shorter than the rest, sniffing at the bloated body of a rat: a cat running by, his mouth stuffed with baby mice, a beggar, white-eyed and sore- ridden, shrieking at young boys who were pissing over him. Corbett remembered the teachings of Augustine, 'Sin is the breakdown of all relationships'. If that was so, Corbett thought, then sin was all around him. Here in these dirty streets, a lonely English clerk: his wife and child dead, years gone: the only woman he had ever loved since, a convicted murderer and traitor, consumed by fire at Smithfield in London. Now, here alone amidst strangers who sought his death. He thought of Ranulf, his body-servant, and wished he was here, not sick with the fever, miles away in some English monastery.
He passed the church of St. Giles, turned into another winding street and almost walked into the two figures standing there. Corbett muttered an apology and stepped to one side. One of the men moved to block his path. 'Comme зa va, Monsieur?' 'Qu'est ce que ce?' Corbett spontaneously replied, then repeated, 'What is the matter? I don't speak French. Get out of my way!' 'No, Monsieur,' the man replied in perfect English. 'You are in our way. Come! We wish to talk to you.' 'Go and be hanged!' Corbett muttered and tried to go on. 'Monsieur. There are two of us and two more behind you. We mean you no harm.' The Frenchman turned and beckoned with his hand. 'Come, Monsieur. We will not keep you. We will not harm you. Come!' Corbett looked at the two well-fed, thick-set men, and, hearing a slight sound behind him, knew there were more. 'I come,' he grimaced. The men led him down an alleyway, stinking from dog urine and heaps of excrement. They stopped outside a small house, single-storeyed, one window beneath its dripping, soggy thatch roof, and a battered ale-stake jutting out from beneath the eaves.
There was one dank, damp room inside with an earth-beaten floor, two small trestle tables and a collection of rough stools fashioned out of old barrels. It was deserted except for a group sitting round one table being served ale by the frightened proprietor. A slattern, evidently his wife, looked on fearfully. A group of children, their dirty faces streaked with tears, clung to her tattered gown and stared round-eyed at the group of men who had commandeered the room and were now talking quickly in an alien language. Corbett immediately recognised de Craon, who rose as he entered, gave a half-mocking bow and waved him to a stool. 'It was good of you to come, Master Clerk,' he said in perfect English with only a trace of a French accent. 'I understand that you have been very
