The French envoy started, ready to play the outraged courtier, but Corbett's steady gaze quietened him. He shuffled his feet and pursed his lips, trying to conceal his embarrassment and surprise at this dangerous, clever English clerk. De Craon shrugged and smiled, secredy wishing he had killed this man and vowing he would, the next time an opportunity presented itself. On his part, Corbett shrewdly watched the Frenchman and knew he was correct and so moved to close the trap.
'Did you discuss the Lady Yolande with King Alexander at the Council meeting the evening before he died?' 'Hardly, in the company of others!' 'Whom did the King talk to?' 'The Lord Bruce, Bishop Wishart, his esquires. Seton and Erceldoun, Benstede,' the last name was spat out. 'But you did spend the previous day with the King?' 'Yes,' answered de Craon surlily. Corbett now closed the trap, trying hard to control his excitement. 'Was it then you discussed a possible marriage with Lady Margaret, sister of Philip IV of France?' De Craon drew himself up. 'Sir!' he exclaimed. 'You go too far. It is none of your business! The Lady Margaret is a princess of the blood. You are not fit…' He broke off suddenly, stared at Corbett and smiled coldly. 'That was good, Monsieur,' he muttered. 'Very clever. You are a good clerk, Monsieur Corbett.' He walked away, across the deck. 'Too good for this world, Monsieur! Au revoir.' 'I am sure we will meet again,' murmured Corbett but the Frenchman was out of earshot, shouting at his retainers and crew to make ready.
Without further ado Corbett, Selkirk and their small party returned to their own vessel. The galley pulled away, its oars dipping as it made its way down, following the tide out into the open sea. Their return to Leith on the "Saint Andrew" was just as uncomfortable as the journey out and Corbett was only too pleased to feel the firm ground of the quayside beneath him. Selkirk, however, was impatient to return. They collected their horses from the stables and were soon pounding their way back up the cobbled streets of Edinburgh to the Abbey of Holy Rood. Selkirk promised to leave his customary token force and Corbett, grateful for Selkirk's intervention and assistance on the French galley, began to thank the rather taciturn Scottish knight. 'Don't thank me,' Sir James replied. 'The sooner this business is done, Master Clerk, the sooner you are gone and that will make me very happy!' Corbett could only nod and turned to lead his horse from the abbey gates, when Selkirk called out, 'Mind you, Corbett, for an English clerk, you have some good qualities, and that is praise indeed from a Scotsman!' Corbett grinned his acknowledgement and continued into the abbey, pleased that the journey was done and the information he had received sohelpful.
The Prior joined him in his small chamber, his sandalled feet beating like a tambour along the stone corridor, his grey gown billowing around him. 'Your sea journey was profitable?' the Prior observed. 'Did de Craon assist you?' Corbett smiled. 'De Craon's an excitable man,' he replied, 'and a bit of a fool. I tricked him, but I had to, I remember once seeing a mosaic, a Roman mosaic. Have you seen one?' The Prior shook his head. 'Well,' Corbett continued, 'it was beautiful. A woman's face, dark and mysterious with long, flowing black hair. The craftsman had created this vision with small, coloured stones, and some of them had come loose. I spent an entire day putting them back, watching that face, hundreds of years old, come to life.' He sighed. 'But painting and sculpture are not your interests. Surely, you are more concerned with herbs, drugs and poison?' He watched the Prior's sallow face flush. 'I am sorry, Father,' Corbett grinned. 'I wanted to shock you. I am like the painter of that mosaic, the small pieces are falling into place and I need your help. Tell me, is there any herb which will make you see images and, at the same time, sharpen your memory?' He then outlined to the Prior his experience in Ettrick Forest when he visited the Pictish village. The Prior, solemn-faced, heard him out. 'There are,' he replied, 'certain plants which cut, distilled and treated, can turn a man's mind and raise phantasms in his soul; the deadly nightshade, the purple foxglove, above all the flowers of Hecate, Queen of the Night, the black hellebore. Buttered almonds, or even the chewed leaves of the laurel. All of these can excite the mind, bring back lost memories.' He looked sharply at Corbett, his tired, clever eyes searching the English clerk's face. 'But you mentioned poisons, Hugh,' he added calmly, 'and all the plants I have mentioned could kill a man, choke out his life like a breeze snuffs out a candle.'
Corbett leaned forward and described what he had seen. The Prior questioned him closely and Corbett answered as accurately as he could. The Prior stopped speaking, thought and offered his conclusion. Corbett smiled slowly, the last stone was in place, the picture was complete and, in his mind's eye, he saw full and clear the face of the murderer of Erceldoun, Seton, the young man in his own retinue, the boatman and, above all, the regicide, the slayer of the Lord's anointed, King Alexander III of Scotland. Corbett asked the Prior one last favour, one more task, the monk agreed and slipped quietly out of the room.