Crown in Darkness

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