Crown in Darkness

next except it was one of those chances, the movement of fortune's wheel, or the sudden intervention of God's saving grace. But a trumpet brayed out and Corbett, turning to look, felt the dagger whip by his cheek and clash against the pillar. The clerk, startled, looked round, but could see no obvious assailant in the milling crowd around him. He stooped and picked up the cruel dagger which had nearly split his throat. It was possibly one of hundreds carried and used in this hall for eating. Corbett let it drop as the trumpets brayed again and royal serjeants-at-arms, staves in their hands, moved into the hall and began to impose order. Tables and benches were put right, the unconscious bodies revived and the two young men who had started the fray were led bloodied and dishevelled from the hall.
    The banquet recommenced but the fray had dampened and soured the atmosphere. Corbett took his seat, trying to ignore de Craon who was grinning as if he had suddenly found something amusing. Benstede, who returned looking untidy with streaks of dirt on his face, muttered that he had been manhandled, probably by the French, and was intent on leaving as soon as possible. Other guests now rose to leave and the two English envoys got up and began to move amongst the different groups. Aaron, Benstede's body-servant, appeared as if from nowhere and both he and his master moved away as Corbett turned to see the French leave, de Craon still smirking. Benstede had told Corbett he need not return to the Abbey but could bed down in the hall with the other retainers and he gratefully accepted the offer. He felt tired, slightly drunk and frightened; if an assassin was hunting him then the dark runnels of Edinburgh at night would only provide fresh opportunities. Corbett was looking for a suitable place as the crowd began to disperse when Benstede returned, accompanied by a thin, stooping figure with watery eyes, a drinker's red nose and a wispy beard. The newcomer was ostentatiously dressed in robes slashed with yellow taffeta and bound by a gold cord very similar to one used by Benstede, although the latter had a row of knots in his to prevent it slipping down over the loops on his gown. 'Master Corbett,' Benstede said. 'May I introduce the great master of medicine and royal physician, Duncan MacAirth.' Corbett looked at the old drunken face and knew Benstede was being sardonic. MacAirth would be a charlatan like many of his kind, concealing his ignorance behind an arrogant poise, strange concoctions, astrology and horoscopes. Yet he bowed in respect; Benstede left with a wink and a perfunctory nod, telling Corbett he hoped to see him again. Corbett led MacAirth to the nearest table, cleared a space and gestured to him to sit. 'Master MacAirth,' he said, pouring two cups of wine. 'I am grateful for your attention in this matter. I understand you dressed the late King's body for burial. I wondered…' 'No wonder, Corbett,' MacAirth almost screeched in reply, seizing the proffered cup and slurping noisily from it. 'No wonder. The King was found by a patrol of mounted Serjeants sent out by the guid Bishop Wishart. He was found on the rocks beneath Kinghorn Ness; his horse, his favourite white mare called Tamesin was near by. Both horse and rider had their necks broken. The King's corpse, together with the saddle and bridle, was brought back here to the castle.' 'Were there other injuries?' Corbett enquired. 'Of course,' MacAirth retorted, blowing stale wine fumes into Corbett's face. 'The King's legs were broken, there were injuries from head to toe. You must realise that the King not only fell from a great height but the sea pounded his body to and fro against the rocks.' He lowered his voice. 'The face was a mass of shredded flesh. Almost unrecognisable.' 'You are sure it was the King?' MacAirth stared back, a strange look in his drink-sodden face. 'Aye, it was the King.' He laughed, a sharp neighing sound. 'Mind you, Alexander would have liked that. He loved disguises and masques.' He sighed. 'But this game has gone on too long. No, Corbett, Alexander died from a fall from a cliff. His corpse was boiled, the flesh separated from the bones, stuffed with spices and sealed in a lead coffin and taken to Jedburgh Abbey to be amongst his ancestors.' 'When was the funeral?' Corbett snapped. MacAirth squinted down at the wine-stained table and muttered to himself. 'The King died on the 18th March and the burial took place eleven days later on