Crown in Darkness

Thomas. 'But Alexander's death, I saw it in the water, in the reflecting bowl.' 'I don't understand. What did you see?' Corbett asked with puzzlement. 'The King and a horse falling clear against the night sky,' Thomas replied. 'That is all?' Corbett asked. 'That is all! Why, should there be more,' asked Thomas. 'But,' protested Corbett, 'you predicted the actual day.' 'No, I did not,' Thomas retorted. 'I openly told the King that the Day of Judgement was near. It was only after the event that people ascribed an actual day.' Thomas looked quizzically at Corbett. 'You believe that the King was murdered, don't you?' The clerk nodded. 'Yes,' he admitted ruefully. 'I believe he was murdered, but how and why and by whom I do not know! Perhaps you can tell me that!' Thomas laughed softly. 'No, I only see pictures, images, not their many causes or what follows because of it. But,' he continued seriously, 'I do see danger for you and I also feel sorry, as you have come a long way for nothing.' He crossed over to Corbett and put a hand on his shoulder. 'You must find the truth, Master Corbett. Yes, I told the King of imminent danger but, given the way he charged round his kingdom in the dead of night, even the court fool could have warned him just as accurately.' Thomas turned and looked out of the window. 'Because you have come so far, Hugh, tomorrow I will take you to see the Painted Men, the little people, the fairies, goblins, Picts, or whatever you wish to call them.' Thomas looked at Corbett. 'You will come?' Corbett nodded. 'Good!' Thomas exclaimed and clapped his hands. 'Then let us eat!'
    Late the next morning Corbett and Thomas left Earlston and struck south-west for the great Forest of Ettrick. Ranulf and the lay brother were left behind as Thomas explained that the Picti were secretive people, hostile to those races who had pushed them from their lands and so did not take kindly to strangers. As they rode, Thomas told Corbett more about the Picti, how they had once ruled Scotland, even launching raids across the great Roman wall to the south to pillage and plunder Rome's colonies. 'Their culture,' Thomas explained, 'is ancient. They came out of the darkness and worshipped it, calling the earth their Mother-God. They built their great fortresses on high places, rings of rocks enclosing courts and small timbered housing.'
    Corbett and Thomas were now riding across open meadowland and the poet pointed to three hills, black and stark against the summer-blue sky. 'The Eldon Hills,' he pointed out. 'Where the Picts had their own fort. It was there I first met them, a small hunting-party. I tended the wounds of one of their men and they took me back with them into the great Forest of Ettrick.' Thomas smiled.
    'Because of that, the superstitious say I met the fairies and went to live with them for nine years. Very few people,' he concluded, 'have seen the Picts and because of their colouring, size and silent ways, it is easy to understand why folk call them pixies, goblins or elves.' Corbett listened, fascinated by the legends about these secret people. He had heard similar stories amongst the Welsh and told Thomas about them. The conversation then turned to the legends of King Arthur and Thomas discussed the epic poem he was writing, "Sir Tristram", asking Corbett to tell him all he knew about Wales.

ELEVEN
    They spent that evening at the Cistercian monastery of Melrose and continued their journey the following morning. The countryside became more deserted, farmsteads and villages more sparse as they approached the green mass of trees on the far horizon which Corbett knew must be the great Forest of Ettrick. They drew near the trees and Corbett felt he was entering a different world. At first it was cool and beautiful, the sun's rays piercing the trees and shimmering on the gorse and heather like light through the coloured glass of a cathedral window. Then it became darker, the trees denser, thicker, hemming them in on all sides as Thomas guided their horses along some secret path known only to him. The birdsong, so clear at the edge of the forest, was now quiet. Small creatures moved and stirred amongst the undergrowth, the snapping of twigs and mysterious rustling noises sounding all the more ominous in the green cold silence of the forest. A boar, tusked and red-eyed, suddenly burst from the undergrowth and Corbett jumped in fear as it blundered its way amongst the trees. Still, they went further, even Thomas was