They landed at Inverkeithing and made their way up the cliffs, the summer sun warming their backs, past Aberdour onto Kinghorn Ness, Corbett showing them the place King Alexander III allegedly fell, before going down the path to the royal manor. They found the place in uproar: the courtyard was full of carts piled high with trunks, chests and bundles of clothing. Servants hurried around, to the shrieked orders of officials, and they had to tend to their own horses in the now emptying stables. Corbett told his companions to wait while he searched for the purveyor, Alexander. He found him in a corner of the hall, already half-drunk. He stared Wearily at Corbett, his slack mouth half-open. 'Whish, it is Corbett, the English clerk,' he muttered. 'Any more questions?' Corbett smiled tactfully and sat down opposite him. 'Yes,' he replied. 'As a matter of fact I have. Why all the commotion? What is happening?' 'Happening?' Alexander said. 'The Queen is leaving, that's what is happening. The French ships are at sea. They'll be at Leith in a matter of days and then she'll be gone.' He belched loudly. 'Good riddance, I say. Pregnant! She was no more pregnant than I am!' 'Then why did she claim to be?' Corbett enquired. The purveyor wiped his mouth with the dirty hem of his sleeve. 'I don't know. A woman's condition, I've heard it's happened before or,' he leaned across and slyly tapped the side of his pocked red nose, 'maybe it was the French! 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped. 'Ah,' Alexander replied. 'Maybe the French told her to act pregnant and so lengthen her stay in Scotland!' 'Why should they want that?' Alexander stared at a point above Corbett's head. 'I don't know,' he muttered. 'It's just a thought. That's all!' Corbett paused. 'Tell me?' he asked. 'Did the French envoy arrive here that morning, the day the King died?' Alexander shook his head. 'Are you sure?' Corbett persisted. 'Sometime early in the day?' 'No,' Alexander answered emphatically. The only visitor was the messenger who arrived about that time and left a message that the King would be coming to Kinghorn later that day!' 'You are sure?' 'I am certain. The only visitor who came to Kinghorn was Benstede, who came the day before.' 'What did he want?' Corbett snapped. 'How should I know?' the purveyor crossly replied. 'He came with that strange quiet creature, stayed with the Queen for a while and then left.' 'Did the King come to Kinghorn frequently?' 'At first, yes, and he often summoned the Queen to meet him across the Forth, but in the weeks before he died, his visits became less frequent. A man of impetuous passion,' the purveyor drunkenly concluded. 'Is it possible for me to see the Queen now?' Corbett asked. Alexander shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'She will not see anybody today. Perhaps tomorrow,' he looked speculatively at Corbett. 'Perhaps, for a consideration, I might be able to arrange something.' Corbett slipped a silver coin across the table. 'I would be grateful for that.' He nodded at Alexander, rose and returned to Ranulf.
They were able to pay to stay in a small chamber of the manor and bought their meals at the kitchen and buttery. Corbett was worried as the silver Burnell had furnished him with was nearly gone. He had some more coins stitched into his broad leather pouched belt as well as his own money, but he did not wish to use that. When he returned to London it would take months of arguing with some scrupulous clerk of the Exchequer to get it reimbursed. Corbett only hoped the Queen would see him soon. She did not. The next day, and the day after, his requests for an audience met with a blunt refusal and the clerk had to stay and hope for the best. He met Agnes, the brazen lady-in-waiting, whom he had met on his last visit to Kinghorn. She flirted outrageously, promising that she would secure an interview for him with the Queen but she always seemed to fail. Corbett became tired of her constant witticisms and sly innuendoes so she transferred her attention to Ranulf, who was overjoyed to see the tedium of staying in a manor on the Scottish coast so pleasantly broken. They became constant companions and Corbett often found them playing cat's-cradle in some corner or window embrasure.
For his part, Corbett could only fret and decided to draw up a memorandum on what he had learnt so far:
– Why did Benstede visit the Queen?
– Why did the French envoy take a ferry across the Forth but never arrive at Kinghorn?
– Who delivered the message at Kinghorn gate, a letter to the Queen saying the King could be arriving that evening and telling her to instruct the purveyor to have horses at Inverkeithing, particularly his favourite, the white Tamesin? More mysterious, why was such a message delivered hours before the King actually decided to leave for Kinghorn.
– Most importantly, what did Alexander learn at that Council meeting which changed his attitude, sending him on a journey in very dangerous conditions to court a queen he could scarcely be bothered with a few weeks before?
– Why, when the King did not arrive at Kinghorn, did Queen Yolande not send out a search-party? What was the real reason behind Queen Yolande's false pregnancy?
Corbett studied the list wearily. He was making no real progress. Perhaps, he decided, it was time to leave and report his failure to Burnell. He tried once more to see the Queen but her fat, pompous chamberlain rudely announced that Lady Yolande was leaving Scotland and had no wish to discuss anything with anyone. Corbett dejectedly decided to stay a little longer in Kinghorn and then leave. Meanwhile, he asked Ranulf to learn what he could from his new-found paramour though, privately, he believed nothing would come of that. Two more days passed, the Queen sent no invitation so Corbett angrily ordered Ranulf to pack. His servant protested but Corbett was adamant so the young man prepared to leave. Ranulf muttered indignantly against his strange master who dragged him across this wild country so different from the narrow streets of London and so utterly tedious as well. Now, when he had found a pot of honey, Corbett was hurrying him away. Ranulf thought of the Lady Agnes and moaned; she had proved a fiery lover from the time he had first flung her on her back and lifted her lace-trimmed skirts. After that she needed no invitation and, when he was lying exhausted beside her, she would send him into loud peals of laughter with her spicy, tart wit and skill at mimicry, particularly of that rather stuffy English clerk, Hugh Corbett. Ranulf sighed, he would never understand his master. He slowly packed, made sure his companions did likewise and bade an affectionate farewell to Lady Agnes. A week after they arrived at Kinghorn, they were on the road back to Inverkeithing.
Ranulf tried to engage his master in conversation but Corbett was too depressed to respond. 'The Lady Yolande was not worth visiting,' Ranulf said reassuringly. 'Lady Agnes told me, laughing at a virgin pretending to be pregnant!' Corbett stopped his horse and turned to the startled Ranulf. 'You what?' he roared. 'She said what?' Ranulf repeated what he had said. 'Is that correct?' 'Of course,' Ranulf replied bleakly. 'Those were her very words. Why?' 'Never mind.' Corbett dug into his leather pouch. 'Take these gold coins and go, beg your lady to join us at Inverkeithing. If she will not accept the gold, then tell her I will be back with a warrant for her arrest. Now go!' He turned to one of Burnell's messengers. 'Lend him your horse, you can walk.' Corbett continued into Inverkeithing and went straight to the ale-house where he had told Ranulf to meet him. The clerk could scarcely control his excitement, the dull image which had formed in his mind was beginning to take flesh. The shadows were disappearing, something of substance was there. He hired a greasy table and sat, impatiently, waiting for Ranulf to arrive. When he did, with a flustered Lady Agnes in tow, Corbett abruptly told him to leave and asked Agnes to sit on the crude bench opposite him. He poured her a cup of the best wine the dingy house could offer, and leaned forward. 'Lady Agnes, what did you mean by referring to Queen Yolande as a virgin pretending to be pregnant?' The woman's high colour deepened and she fumbled with the cup of wine. 'It was a jest,' she protested. 'A funny story to amuse Ranulf.' 'No, Agnes,' Corbett snapped. 'Do you remember when I met Lady Yolande? She told me she was pregnant or, as she put it, "enceinte". You laughed then. So tell me, or I will arrange for others to take over the questioning.'