SIX
The banquet was really a frantic blur to Corbett. The long hall was caparisoned with cloths of Paris, cosdy arras, and ablaze with torches burning fiercely in their countless sconces along the walls. At the far end, on a dais, was a long table crowded with fierce-looking men dressed in costly ermine and sable-edged cloaks, though, from where he stood, Corbett could see the glint of armour many of them wore beneath their robes. Even so, the Council of Guardians were intent on keeping the peace; weapons were forbidden and royal serjeants-at-arms were placed in groups in the shadowy recesses of the hall. Beneath the great silver-encrusted salt bowl were long rows of tables crowded with the retainers, clerks and officials of the great lords. The noise was intense, constant chatter, voices raised in argument, an air of expectancy, even tension, as everyone pretended to be involved in what was happening around them but secretly watched the great ones at the high table.
Benstede swept through the hall and tactfully presented himself before this array of the most powerful magnates in Scotland. He also introduced Corbett who felt many of the lords were too busy to acknowledge him though he noticed Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, a wizened little man with a face as brown and as wrinkled as a shrivelled walnut, studying him intently beneath heavy-lidded eyes. There was another, a giant with steel-grey hair, piercing blue eyes and a cruel mouth. Benstede later named him as Lord Robert, the leader of the Bruce faction. He too studied Corbett intently before reverting to stare fiercely down the hall.
Benstede and Corbett then sat at the edge of a table directly beneath the great dais just as a chorus of trumpets brayed. Bishop Wishart mumbled grace and the feasting began. A group of musicians with flute, rebec and drum attempted to make music but they were easily drowned by the roar of conversation as the courses were served. Corbett had heard that the Scots were a crude race but their cooks could have held their own with the best in Europe. Each guest had a trencher or plate of hard stale bread which served as a dish for a series of rich foods served by harassed, sweating boys who had to feed countless mouths and, at the same time, avoid the secretly lecherous hands of certain of the guests. There was brawn, a meat boiled with sugar and cloves, thickened with cinnamon and ginger and garnished with boar ribs. Fresh pork embellished with egg-yolk, pine cones, raisins, saffron and pepper and baked in pastry; fish tarts; roasted lampreys; mutton, plover, curlew, snipe and pheasant. Wine was splashed from jug to cup and then often drained in one loud gulp. Corbett ate sparingly as he always did. The sight of one of the boys rubbing a festering ear, while carrying food, also diminished his appetite. He sipped gently at the wine, exchanging pleasantries with Benstede, who led the conversation into the intricacies of Scottish policies. 'Look around, Corbett; this hall is full of men who would love to cut each other's throats. Alexander held them fast in a strong mailed fist. God knows what will happen now! 'What do you think?' Corbett asked. 'It's what I dread,' Benstede replied. 'Under the wrong king this tide of violence might swirl and sweep south across the border.' Corbett quietly agreed, remembering the deserted countryside he had passed through on his way to Scotland. Wide expanses of undefended countryside vulnerable to sudden attack for pillage or even conquest. Benstede leaned across the table to talk further but, aware of the growing interest of neighbours, stared knowingly at Corbett and lapsed into silence. The conversation ebbed and swirled about them. Corbett could scarcely understand some of the accents and contented himself with gazing around. Another group of men across the aisle on the opposite table were equally detached, and one of them was staring at Benstede's back with such venom that Corbett became alarmed. He leaned over the table and grasped Benstede's arm. 'The group behind you!' he whispered. 'The group behind me,' Benstede dourly interrupted, 'are French envoys with their leader, Armand de Craon. A small, dark, intense man with a beard and drooping moustache, who is probably looking at me as if he would like to put daggers in my back?' Corbett nodded. 'Good!' Benstede smiled. 'I sat deliberately with my back to him. De Craon can never resist an insult.' 'Why is he here?' Corbett asked. 'The same as us,' Benstede retorted. 'To watch the situation and report back to that stone-faced hypocritical bastard, Philip IV of France. Of course, there are other reasons.' Benstede looked round and leaned conspiratorially across the table. 'De Craon must be wondering what we are discussing. His master, Philip IV of France, would dearly love two things now Scotland has lost a strong king. First, to seek an alliance with the Scots and so divert our Liege Lord's justifiable pursuit of his claims over English lands in France. Secondly,' Benstede ran his finger round the rim of his wine cup. 'Secondly,
Philip hopes Edward will lay claim to Scotland and so become immersed in a tangled and lengthy war.' 'And will he?' Corbett asked innocently. Benstede grimaced. 'No!' he replied. 'Edward of England will only eat what he can digest!'
Corbett nodded and was going to pursue the matter further when suddenly a commotion at the far end of the table drew all eyes and silenced the clamour in the hall. Two young men, their sallow faces flushed with wine, were standing, knives in hand, each waiting for the other to lunge or parry. Corbett thought it was mere drunken bravado when one of them lunged across the table and uproar ensued as food, cups and flagons of wine and ale were sent sprawling. Guests rose from their seats, men pushing and shoving each other. Knives were drawn and it looked as if many ancient, long-held grudges were to be settled. Corbett pushed through the crowd to get away and stood with his back to a pillar. He never really understood what happened 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 the 29th March.' 'Was not that rather hasty?' Corbett asked. MacAirth grimaced and drew shapes on the table with the spilled wine. 'No,' he replied. 'The King was not a pretty sight. The sea had soaked his corpse; even with the spices, it was hard to keep him presentable.' 'Did the Queen come to inspect the corpse?' 'No.' the reply was curt. 'She has never moved from Kinghorn. Why,' he asked, trying to focus his bleary eyes on Corbett, 'Why do you ask all these questions?' 'Curiosity,' Corbett replied soothingly. 'Simple curiosity, Master MacAirth. But tell me, Master Physician, for I see you are an astute man, what happened to the two squires, the valets of the chamber, who accompanied the King?' 'It's strange you mention that,' MacAirth muttered. 'Patrick Seton evidently rode too far ahead of the King and actually reached Kinghorn. When the King was found dead he returned here to the castle and closeted himself in his room.' MacAirth heaved a sigh. 'He was questioned and visited by everyone, including Master Benstede, the French envoy, Bruce, Comyn, Wishart, but he seemed witless. Even I could do nothing. He simply sat muttering to himself.' 'What?' Corbett asked. 'Nothing of importance, he just mumbled about shadows, shadows on the Kinghorn Ness. Can you make sense of that?' 'No,' Corbett replied. 'But the second squire? What of him?' MacAirth yawned and rose. 'I must retire,' he snapped. 'Your questions exhaust me. The second squire, Thomas Erceldoun, is still here. He, too, has been questioned but he is not the most intelligent of men, or the best of horse-riders. His mount threw him and he stayed on the beach, witnesses swear to that. I am afraid he's the laughing-stock of the court, despised by most and pitied by the few who listen to his constant pleas of innocence. I must away. I will send Erceldoun to you tomorrow. You are staying at the casde tonight?' Corbett nodded. 'Yes, here in the hall,' he replied. 'I do thank you for your courtesy, Master MacAirth.' The physician nodded and curtly bade Corbett farewell. The clerk rose, stretched and looked around the deserted hall now darkening as the torches spluttered out. He chose a place between two snoring servants and laid down to sleep, oblivious to the figure watching him from the shadows.