by Pat McIntosh
‘Which two? Are they contiguous? What’s built on them? You mentioned a good income, but what’s the figure?’ Sempill rolled his eyes. ‘John, you wouldny accept a tract of land for yoursel without checking all these things, you can hardly object if I make certain for the boy.’
‘Indeed not, Maister Gil.’ Lady Magdalen gestured to the man still standing against the wall, and he came forward with his bag of documents. She ignored the rolled parchments, dipped into the bag and selected a folded docket with several seals dangling from it in their little pouches, and then another, and leaned forward to hand these to Canon Cunningham. ‘Here’s the titles, sir. I’ve no knowledge o the Drygate, but they both go into some detail about the boundaries.’
Gil moved to look over his uncle’s shoulder as the older man replaced his spectacles and spread out the first parchment. There was no plan, but as Mistress Boyd had said a wordy description of the boundaries made it clear which toft was discussed and what was built on it.
‘Clerk’s Land. A common boundary to the west with the toft belonging to the altar of the Holy Rood,’ said Canon Cunningham reflectively. ‘That would be – aye, I can place it, a good property, should bring in a substantial rent, Gilbert. Four, no three houses and two workshops built on it. A generous offer.’
‘It’s that, all right,’ said Sempill resentfully. ‘And all good craftsmen, disobliging though they—’ He bit off what he was about to say.
‘And the other?’ Gil said. They must really want rid of any claim wee John might have, he thought. His uncle lifted the other docket and began unfolding it.
‘Is there more o that buttered ale, Lowrence?’ demanded Dame Isabella. ‘As for you, Gilbert, come here beside me and tell me o your sister Isobel. Who is it she’s to wed, anyhow? And what about your own wife? How have ye no bairns yet? Have you no bedded her?’
‘Maister Gilbert is occupied about his pupil’s interests, godmother,’ said Mistress Boyd in her quiet voice.
‘I was lady-in-waiting to the late queen, I think I take precedence over a harper’s bastard,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, and thumped her stick on the floor again. ‘Gilbert! Do as I bid you!’
Gil straightened up and eyed the old woman, trying again to conceal his dislike.
‘I will, madam,’ he acknowledged, ‘as soon as you explain to me why you are so urgent that we accept the property with the bawdy-house built on it.’
There were several reactions in the room. Maistre Pierre’s eyebrows went up; Philip Sempill and both the Livingstone men were startled, some of the servants hid smiles. Sempill himself scowled, his wife looked down in what seemed like a modest woman’s response, and Dame Isabella gave a bark of laughter.
‘I tellt you Gelis Muirhead’s laddie would never miss that!’ She leaned forward and prodded Sempill in the thigh with the stick. ‘But you would aye ken better than your elders.’
‘Is that the new house?’ said Maister Livingstone with interest. ‘The lassies all has strange foreign names to go by, Cleone and the like, and it’s all painted inside, quite remarkable, wi pictures. Or so they say,’ he added, going scarlet as he found everyone looking at him. ‘You’d think Long Mina’s place would ha been enough for a town the size of Glasgow.’
‘That’s the house,’ agreed Dame Isabella, with another bark. Gil, who had heard much the same from one or two of his friends among the songmen, kept silent.
‘You were aware of it,’ Canon Cunningham stated.
‘Aye, we were aware of it,’ said Sempill belligerently. ‘What’s amiss? It’s only been there six month or so. It brings in a good rent, it’s no trouble. What’s your objection?’
‘Just how good is the rent?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘It’s no a tenant everyone would welcome,’ said the Official. ‘Gilbert is the boy’s tutor, and has his reputation to consider, as a man of law in this burgh and as the Archbishop’s man.’
Dame Isabella snorted. ‘I could tell ye a tale or two o Robert Blacader, Archbishop or no. Why should a harper’s brat turn up its nose at what an archbishop doesny mind?’
If you have to ask, thought Gil, little point in trying to explain. He looked down at his uncle, who was tracing the description of the boundaries with a long forefinger, and then at Sempill’s wife.
‘The house called the Mermaiden,’ he said. ‘A pleasure-garden, a kaleyard, stables, other offices. It’s quite a property, madam. Are you certain you want to offer it to the boy, with or without the sitting tenant?’
Magdalen Boyd raised her head to look him in the eye.
‘I am quite certain,’ she said. ‘I don’t go back on my word.’
‘I’ll swear to it and all,’ said Sempill. ‘The brat can have both the properties, so long as his keepers accept that he’s no my heir any longer. Name me any relics you please, I’ll swear.’
‘John.’ His wife turned to him. He glanced at her, went red, and muttered some apology. Gil registered this exchange and set it aside to consider later.
‘We need time to think about your proposal,’ he said. ‘The harper ought to be present, and Pierre and I should consult—’
‘They’ve naught to do wi it!’ said Sempill. ‘It was you that signed the last time as the brat’s tutor, you’ll do this time!’
‘I am agreed wi my nephew,’ said the Official, lifting his tablets. He found a suitable leaf, and began to smooth out the previous notes in the wax with the blunt end of his stylus. ‘This is no simple conveyancing matter, John, the conditions you set need a bit thought. At the least,’ he paused, deciphering a word in the document, ‘the boy’s well-wishers have to inspect the properties.’
‘We could do that now,’ suggested Philip Sempill.
‘They’re exactly as it says there!’ said his cousin indignantly. ‘I’m no trying to—’
‘John.’
‘Maidie drives an honest bargain,’ said Dame Isabella as Sempill fell silent. ‘You’ve no need to worry. So how long will you want to think it over, Gilbert? Will you sort it afore your sister’s marriage, d’ye think?’
Gil met her gaze again. The black beads glittered at him, and he said politely,
‘Oh, sooner than that, madam. Give me two days.’
‘Right,’ began Sempill.
‘But before we depart,’ Gil pursued, ‘maybe you’d let me have a sight of the documents for the two properties you’re planning to gift your goddaughters, madam.’
Maister Alexander Livingstone straightened up, paying attention at that.
‘Aye,’ said Dame Isabella after a moment. ‘No such a bad notion. Attie, you scatterwit, bring me those documents again. And a course there’s the other matter and all,’ she added, delving in the bag as her goddaughter had done and passing two wads of parchment across. Beside her Lowrie fidgeted, clearly embarrassed.
‘Two mile from Carluke,’ Canon Cunningham read, unfolding one docket. ‘Banks of the Clyde – oh, aye, I ken the property. A generous gift, madam.’ He removed his spectacles to peer at Dame Isabella. ‘My niece is fortunate in her godmother.’
‘Aye, but she hasn’t got the land yet,’ the old woman pointed out. ‘It’s that or the other. I’ve yet to make up my mind.’
‘The house of Ballencleroch, together wi the whole Clachan of Campsie.’ Gil had reached the description of the boundaries on the second document. ‘Stretching up the Campsie Burn to the edge of the muirland.’
‘What?’ Sempill straightened up sharply, and his back-stool tilted on its carved legs. He caught himself before all went flying, and stared from Gil to his wife. ‘Up the Campsie Burn? I thought that was yours already! You said – your man said—’
‘No, John. That was never mine.’
‘What’s this?’ demanded Dame Isabella. ‘Aye, Ballen-cleroch’s mine. What ails ye, John?’
He frowned at her, chewing his lip, and clearly trying to recall something.
‘I thought it was Maidie’s,’ he repeated.
‘Balgrochan is mine, t
hat lies next to it, east along Strathblane,’ said hs wife gently.
‘Balgrochan,’ Sempill repeated. ‘No Ballencleroch?’
‘I gied Balgrochan to Maidie when you were wedded,’ pronounced Dame Isabella in her harsh deep voice. ‘As you ken well, you light-fingered hempie. I’ll get a word wi you later, John Sempill.’
‘Aye, we will, madam,’ he retorted, scowling at her.
‘When did you come by Ballencleroch, madam?’ asked Maister Livingstone. Dame Isabella did not look at him.
‘Thomas gave it me outright,’ she stated. ‘As a marriage-gift.’
‘Well, he shouldny ha done that,’ said Maister Livingstone. He reached into his sleeve to produce a fat wad of parchment, unfolded it, and leaned forward to hand it to Canon Cunningham. ‘I have the title here, handed me by my brother Archie. It never belonged to Thomas.’
‘What?’ John Sempill leapt to his feet. This time his back-stool clattered to the floor behind him, but he ignored it, lunging forward to snatch at the document. Canon Cunningham held it out of his reach, and Dame Isabella prodded him again with her stick.
‘Sit down and behave, John,’ she ordered him. ‘Eckie, what are ye about? It’s mine, I tell ye, Thomas and me signed the papers. They’re there, David, under the other.’
‘Aye. indeed. Here are two sets of titles to the land,’ Canon Cunningham said, looking disapprovingly from one document to the other, ‘with quite different names on them, conveyed in different hands, and at dates four year apart. This is highly irregular.’
‘Thomas should never have alienated the land,’ said Maister Livingstone firmly, sitting back. ‘It’s a part of the heritable portion, held from the Earl of Lennox and his forebears these fifty year. It went to my faither and now to Archie. Thomas never had a say in it.’
‘You said you’d already—’ Sempill began, glaring at Dame Isabella. Lowrie had quietly assisted Lady Magdalen to set his backstool on its legs; now she thanked him with a smile, put a hand on her husband’s wrist and drew him back to sit again.
‘We need to look at this again, that much is clear,’ she said. ‘Canon Cunningham, I’m right sorry that we’ve taken up your time wi such a guddle. We’ll away now and—’
‘We’ll do nothing of the sort!’ Dame Isabella’s stick thumped again. ‘I tell ye it’s mine, Eckie, and I’ll hear no different! As for you, you great fool,’ she added, baring her large white teeth at Sempill, ‘we’ll need to sort out which of Maidie’s properties it is you’ve been neglecting.’
‘At the very least, Isabella,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘your possession is questionable and the matter must be replait till it can be studied carefully. No, your good-daughter is right, we can make no decision the day.’
‘Can you look into it, sir?’ asked Lady Magdalen.
‘There’s no need of looking into it!’ declared the old woman.
‘I’d be grateful,’ began Maister Livingstone.
Canon Cunningham shook his head.
‘I haveny the time,’ he said. ‘I’ve a caseload this week would try a team of oxen. This was the only—’ His voice trailed off as he looked at Gil, one eyebrow raised.
‘But what about the other matter?’ demanded Sempill.
‘I’ll take it on,’ Gil said to his uncle, with resignation. ‘If you think it proper, sir. But it will take me longer than the two days I promised you,’ he added, turning to Dame Isabella. ‘I’ll need to talk to a few folk, and I have work o my own to see to.’
‘You’re all in a league against me!’ she declared, thumping the stick again. ‘I’m an old woman, and I—’ She broke off, clutching at her massive chest. One of the waiting-women exclaimed and hurried forward to bend over her anxiously, patting the plump red cheeks, then pulling at her own skirts to reach her purse.
‘Oh, madam! Oh, where have I put your drops? Forveleth, do you have them?’ She tugged at the purse-strings, rummaged in the laden depths without result. The other woman dragged her dark gaze from Maistre Pierre and came forward quietly, producing a tiny flask which Annot unstopped and waved under her stricken mistress’s nose. ‘There, now, no need to go upsetting yourself.’
‘It aye upsets me,’ croaked Dame Isabella, with less than her usual force, ‘when folk crosses me. Don’t let them cross me, Annot.’
‘How your woman’s to prevent it,’ said Sempill angrily, ‘is more than I can see. You’ve crossed the rest of us the day, madam, and I’ll see you—’
‘John.’
‘And I want a word wi you, Sempill,’ added Dame Isabella, suddenly regaining vigour. ‘There’s a matter needs discussion. You’ll attend me this afternoon, or I’ll ken the reason.’
Canon Cunningham glanced over his shoulder at the March sunshine.
‘I must away,’ he said, without visible regret. ‘Richie will have two sets of witnesses and their men of law waiting for me. I’ll leave it in your hands then, Gilbert.’
Chapter Two
‘What is your kinsman about, making such an offer?’ asked Maistre Pierre, and hitched the collar of his big cloak higher. ‘Confound this wind. It would bite through plate mail.’
‘I’ve no notion,’ admitted Philip Sempill, closing the gate of his town house behind them. ‘If John was acting alone I’d assume he was up to no great good, but Maidie Boyd is a different matter. She’ll deal honestly.’
‘If I hadn’t recognized the house, she would never have pointed it out to me,’ Gil observed.
‘Caveat emptor,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘She is not obliged to do so, after all.’
‘How did John come to wed her? Was it you promoted the match, Philip?’ Gil asked, setting off down Rottenrow towards the Wyndhead.
‘It was,’ the other man agreed, falling into step beside him.
Gil turned to catch his eye.
‘So that was your revenge,’ he said, grinning. ‘And a good one, too.’
‘Revenge?’ Philip repeated, his expression innocent. ‘I proposed a match I thought would suit my kinsman, is all.’
‘But why the whorehouse?’ persisted Maistre Pierre. ‘I should have thought, if it brings in so good a rent, they would sooner hold onto it.’
‘I think Maidie’s embarrassed by it,’ said Philip.
‘I’m flattered,’ said Gil obliquely.
They made their way down the slope of Rottenrow and into the busy Drygate, walking fast in the chill wind. Here the sound of hammers, of shuttle and loom, of wood and metal tools, was all round them. Glass-workers, wax-pourers, metalworkers of many kinds, embroiderers and makers of images, occupied the smaller buildings on the back-lands, practising all the amazing variety of trades which supported the life of a cathedral church. Further down the Drygate itself, past the narrow wynd which led to the tennis-court, a row of shops such as those of the burgh stationer and Forrest the apothecary gave way to houses of stone and then of wood. There were fewer passers-by, and the slope levelled out. Gil stopped beside a gable-end of wattle and daub, looking along the muddy alley which led past the house door.
‘That’s the toft belongs to Holy Rood altar there,’ he said, gesturing at the building they had just passed, ‘so this and the next one are the ones that concern us. This must be Clerk’s Land, where we have three houses and two workshops—’ He craned from the end of the alleyway, counting. ‘There are more buildings than that, we’d need a closer look. What do you think, Philip?’
‘There is a hammerman in this nearest shop,’ observed Maistre Pierre over Philip’s agreement. ‘Smallwares, I think,’ he added, listening to the metallic beating. ‘Perhaps a pewterer. And there is a lorimer yonder, to judge by the leather scraps on the midden.’
‘We can check that later,’ said Gil. ‘For now, I’d be well in favour of accepting this toft on John’s behalf, subject to closer inspection. Would you agree?’
‘Oh, certainly.’ His father-in-law braced himself. ‘Now do we visit this bawdy-house? They will be disappointed when they find we are not custome
rs.’
‘It’s the paintings that interest me,’ said Philip, grinning. ‘Eckie told me more about them.’
The house fronting the street on the next toft was rather more impressive, a wooden-clad structure of three storeys whose doorframe and the beams of the overhanging upper floors were carved and painted with foliage and flowers. The street door bore an incised and brightly-coloured image of a mermaid, well-known symbol of sexual licence.
‘Well, that should attract the passing trade,’ said Gil, surveying this. ‘Was it done for the madam? Did she change the name of the house when she moved in here?’
‘I’ve no a notion,’ said Philip.
Gil rattled the ring up and down its twisted pin. The shutter nearest the door swung open and a maidservant in a headdress of good linen leaned out, gave them one swift assessing glance, and said,
‘We’re closed another hour or more, maisters.’
‘I’d like a word with your mistress on a matter of business,’ Gil said. The woman studied them again, and nodded.
‘Come away in. I’ll fetch the mistress down to ye.’ She drew her head back in and appeared shortly at the door. ‘Come up out the cold and be seated. Madam willny be long.’
She was a pudding-faced woman of forty or so, confident and discreet in her bearing, clad like an upper servant in a gown of good cloth with its skirts pinned up over a checked kirtle. She led them up a newel stair to a wide, brightly painted hall, set padded backstools for them by the warm hearth, and vanished up a further stair. There were footsteps overhead, and women’s quiet voices and laughter. Someone began tuning a lute. Gil, who had been in Long Mina’s establishment once or twice on legal business, recognized that this house was in a different category.
‘I fear we cannot afford their prices,’ said Maistre Pierre, echoing his thought. ‘They must ask enough to recover the cost of these walls.’
‘It was never a local man painted this,’ said Philip, turning about to stare. ‘It’s been someone that studied overseas, surely.’
‘In High Germany,’ said Maistre Pierre confidently. ‘I have seen a St Barbara from Cologne with just such waving gold hair.’ He went over to look closely at a lady clad in nothing but the hair, depicted in a niche of greenery in the company of an armed man. ‘Also that helm is German work.’
