bereft of lashes. Corbett remembered he had heard of this type of man, an "Albus", an all-white man or albino. He tried to conceal his astonishment but Sir Thomas was almost laughing at him. 'Come, Hugh, say you are surprised. Most people are. I am odd? Different?' His voice was clear, low and pleasing.
Corbett grinned back; a Welshman had once told him that each person has an aura' about him, be it good or evil, which goes out to other people. If this was so then Sir Thomas exuded friendship and goodwill. 'What matter the face or head,' he quoted, 'it is the heart which counts!' 'You like poetry, Master Corbett?' 'I enjoy it when I can.' Good,' Sir Thomas replied. 'We knew you were coming,' he added for effect, and laughed at Ranulf s gaping face. 'No gift of prophecy,' he jabbed a finger upwards. 'I saw you from the top of the tower. Come. Food is ready!' They entered the cool, dark tower, across stone-vaulted floors and climbed up a narrow twisting staircase into the hall. A sombre stone chamber, its walls were adorned with green velvet drapes while a polished table with benches on either side stood in the middle of the rush-strewn floor. At the far end was a narrow door which, Thomas announced, led into the kitchen. A small, dark, smiling woman appeared through it. Thomas put his arm round her shoulders and introduced his wife Bethoe, who gently murmured her welcome. She bade them sit and brought a tray of wine, cups, and a bowl of sugared wafers. They ate, talking about the journey and the gossip of the court until Thomas asked Bethoe to show Ranulf and the lay brother to their quarters. Once they were gone, he turned to Corbett and stared fixedly with his terrible, haunting eyes. 'Well, Master Corbett? What does an English clerk want with me?' Corbett set his goblet down before replying. 'His Grace, Alexander III. He died, as you know, from a fall on Kinghorn Ness. You prophesied his death.' Thomas nodded. 'How did you know?' Corbett asked. 'I saw it,' Thomas replied, touching his forehead lightly with his fingers. 'I saw pictures. Images, when I looked into the water.' 'What water?' Corbett snapped. 'The small, dark people,' Thomas smiled. 'Some people call them fairies, goblins. The Romans called them the "Picti" or Picts, the "Painted People".' He grinned, his teeth white and even. 'The stories are true. I lived with them, not for nine years, but for a while. They are outcasts. So am I, and we share the same gift of glimpsing the future.'
Corbett sighed and shook his head in disbelief. Thomas turned and pointed to a fly crawling on the end of the table. 'Look at the fly; all he can feel, all he can see is the table. Can he be blamed for believing that the only things which exist are himself and the table? So it is with us, Master Corbett. We only believe what we can see and touch!' 'I have heard a similar philosophy enunciated by the schoolmen,' Corbett rejoined, 'but, seeing into the future?' Thomas rose and beckoned Corbett over to one of the arrow-slit windows and pointed down to the winding River Lauder. 'Look, Master Corbett, from here we can see all the river in our view, but if we were in a boat on that river, what would we see? A little in front, a little to the rear and the banks on either side. So it is with time. It is simply a matter of where you stand!'
Corbett turned away and picked up the goblet, tasting the full red flavour of Bordeaux. 'So, where do you stand to get a glimpse of the future, to see the death of kings?' 'Sometimes I just know,' sighed 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
Corbett grinned back; a Welshman had once told him that each person has an aura' about him, be it good or evil, which goes out to other people. If this was so then Sir Thomas exuded friendship and goodwill. 'What matter the face or head,' he quoted, 'it is the heart which counts!' 'You like poetry, Master Corbett?' 'I enjoy it when I can.' Good,' Sir Thomas replied. 'We knew you were coming,' he added for effect, and laughed at Ranulf s gaping face. 'No gift of prophecy,' he jabbed a finger upwards. 'I saw you from the top of the tower. Come. Food is ready!' They entered the cool, dark tower, across stone-vaulted floors and climbed up a narrow twisting staircase into the hall. A sombre stone chamber, its walls were adorned with green velvet drapes while a polished table with benches on either side stood in the middle of the rush-strewn floor. At the far end was a narrow door which, Thomas announced, led into the kitchen. A small, dark, smiling woman appeared through it. Thomas put his arm round her shoulders and introduced his wife Bethoe, who gently murmured her welcome. She bade them sit and brought a tray of wine, cups, and a bowl of sugared wafers. They ate, talking about the journey and the gossip of the court until Thomas asked Bethoe to show Ranulf and the lay brother to their quarters. Once they were gone, he turned to Corbett and stared fixedly with his terrible, haunting eyes. 'Well, Master Corbett? What does an English clerk want with me?' Corbett set his goblet down before replying. 'His Grace, Alexander III. He died, as you know, from a fall on Kinghorn Ness. You prophesied his death.' Thomas nodded. 'How did you know?' Corbett asked. 'I saw it,' Thomas replied, touching his forehead lightly with his fingers. 'I saw pictures. Images, when I looked into the water.' 'What water?' Corbett snapped. 'The small, dark people,' Thomas smiled. 'Some people call them fairies, goblins. The Romans called them the "Picti" or Picts, the "Painted People".' He grinned, his teeth white and even. 'The stories are true. I lived with them, not for nine years, but for a while. They are outcasts. So am I, and we share the same gift of glimpsing the future.'
Corbett sighed and shook his head in disbelief. Thomas turned and pointed to a fly crawling on the end of the table. 'Look at the fly; all he can feel, all he can see is the table. Can he be blamed for believing that the only things which exist are himself and the table? So it is with us, Master Corbett. We only believe what we can see and touch!' 'I have heard a similar philosophy enunciated by the schoolmen,' Corbett rejoined, 'but, seeing into the future?' Thomas rose and beckoned Corbett over to one of the arrow-slit windows and pointed down to the winding River Lauder. 'Look, Master Corbett, from here we can see all the river in our view, but if we were in a boat on that river, what would we see? A little in front, a little to the rear and the banks on either side. So it is with time. It is simply a matter of where you stand!'
Corbett turned away and picked up the goblet, tasting the full red flavour of Bordeaux. 'So, where do you stand to get a glimpse of the future, to see the death of kings?' 'Sometimes I just know,' sighed 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
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