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.