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
