by Pat McIntosh
‘No doubt. And there’s aye pieces of rope hidden in her chamber. Quite well hidden, it seems, but you’d need to be right fly to hide something from Marriott.’
‘Well,’ said Gil. ‘That is interesting, Maggie.’
‘You mean it’s likely true?’
‘It fits with another piece of information.’
‘Oh, aye?’ she said hopefully.
‘Sempill used his knife on Bess Stewart.’ He could not bear to detail the scars on that slender white back, but suddenly remembered the visible mark. ‘He had scarred her jaw, remember? And cut off the lobe of her ear.’
‘So maybe she’d not play his wee games, so he found one that would,’ she speculated.
`I think you may be right,’ he agreed. “Thank you, Maggie. That’s very useful.’ He got abruptly to his feet. ‘I’m for my bed. And so should you, if you’re to make the old man’s porridge before Sext. Can I have a candle?’
‘In the box yonder. You see why I didn’t like to say in front of the maister?’
‘What’s different about me?’ he asked, in some amusement. She eyed him in the firelight.
‘You’ve been longer in the world,’ she said. ‘He’s been a priest, and one that won’t take his promises lightly, for near forty year. He can still be shocked, though you’d not think it.’
`I will be a priest; said Gil, experiencing the familiar knotting in his stomach. Maggie nodded, still eyeing him.
‘And what sort of a priest you’ll make there’s no knowing. You’ll find it hard going, Maister Gil. You were aye one that was hungry as soon as the larder door was barred.’
She watched as he bent to light his candle from the fire’s glow, and then said, ‘Euphemia Campbell killed your good-sister.’
‘She what?’ Gil straightened up, staring at her in the dim light. William’s slow breathing checked, and resumed.
‘Oh, not herself, not herself, but it was her doing.’
‘This is my brother Hughie’s wife we’re talking about?’ Gil searched his memory. ‘Sybilla, wasn’t it? Sybilla …’
‘Napier,’ Maggie supplied. ‘Aye.’
‘I thought she died in childbed, poor soul. My mother wrote me at Paris.’
‘Aye, she died of their first bairn.’ Maggie crossed herself. ‘But that woman had been sniffing round your brother more than six months - and you know what Hughie was like.’
‘I know what Hughie was like,’ Gil agreed ruefully. ‘Euphemia would be just to his liking. And Sybilla took it ill out, did she?’
‘She moped and dwined, poor wee mommet,’ said Maggie, staring into the fire. ‘Your mother tried, and I tried, but nothing we said could bring him to his senses. And when it came her crying-time, he was from home.’ She paused, seeing something Gil could not.
‘Go on,’ he prompted.
‘Och, it’s five year since. The woman Campbell was married on a Murray at the time, though that never stopped her. When your father sent after Hughie, the man had to go to Stirling for him, and he wasn’t to be found at his own lodgings. They’d to get him out of Euphemia Campbell’s bed to tell him his wife and son were dead, and her barely sixteen.’
‘Oh, Hughie!’ said Gil in exasperation. ‘He never could get it right, could he?’
‘Likely he’s paying for it in Purgatory now,’ said Maggie, crossing herself again with the bundle of wool. ‘The maister’s never heard this either, Maister Gil.’
‘No,’ he said, staring at the dark window. He thought of Euphemia wrestling with Hugh by candlelight, and was aware of several conflicting emotions, including distaste and what he recognized with shame as a prurient curiosity. ‘No, I can see that.’
The hall was dark and silent. Gil crossed it slowly, and on a sudden impulse turned aside and ducked behind the curtain into the window-space which his uncle used as a tiny oratory. He set his own candle beside the two silver candlesticks on the shelf which served as an altar, and knelt, fixing his gaze on the small Annunciation scene propped behind them. Gabriel, wings and draperies blowing in a great wind, held out a stem of lilies to Mary, who turned, startled, from her reading desk. Through the painted window between them could be seen the towers of St Mungo’s.
Out in the house he could hear the quiet sounds of Maggie shutting up the kitchen and shaking out her bed before the fire. Boards creaked. A distant dog barked and was answered.
Trust Hughie, he thought. The oldest, the handsome one, the admired big brother with Edward in his shadow. Gil had spent his childhood trying to catch up, but by the time he could shoot with the little bow both Hugh and Edward had been given crossbows, by the time he could ride his pony they were on horseback.
Everything came easily to Hughie, and he took it for granted, even the admiration of his siblings. Likely he thought he could make it up with his wife when he got the chance. But the chance was taken from him, and he had lost something else taken for granted, something other people - something Gil would give his right hand for.
There, it was out in the open.
Please, God, give me strength, he prayed. Blessed Mother of God, give me strength. Sweet St Giles, pray for me, that I may be free of my doubts.
The decision had been taken imperceptibly, over the slow months. At the beginning, shocked by grief, without land or future, he had been willing enough to do from day to day what David Cunningham directed. He had never got up one morning and said, Yes, I will be a priest. It had simply, gradually, become obvious as the sensible thing to do, and at length he and his uncle had both come to take it for granted. But now - now that it was so close - with the vows and injunctions which he took so seriously …
Never to hold a bairn like that and know it was one’s own.
Does any man know that? asked a cynical portion of his mind.
A man married to a good woman can be reasonably sure, he answered himself. Unbidden, the image of Alys with the child on her hip rose before him.
And what about her? The mason must find her a husband. He would look for a good match for her, but Sybilla Napier’s family had accepted his brother Hugh, and presumably Bess Stewart’s kin had thought John Sempill a good match. Would Alys go to a man who would abuse her like that? Or one who would sell her books?
Coherent prayer on his own behalf was beyond him, but he bowed his head and petitioned every saint he thought appropriate for Alys. When he ran out of requests he simply knelt, emptying his mind, concentrating on the wind which blew Gabriel’s painted garments.
After a while he became aware that, although nothing had changed, he felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted. Unlocking his stiffened limbs, he rose and took up the remnant of his candle, and made his way to the attic and sleep.
‘Do you think the harper will accept Sempill’s offer?’ enquired David Cunningham, stirring almond butter into his porridge.
‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘I think it is more a matter of whether Ealasaidh will accept.’
‘It seems as if the bairn may well be a person of sub stance in his own right, even without being declared John Sempill’s heir.’
‘Aye, and sorting that out might prove illuminating. Have you ever been to Rothesay, sir?’
‘I have not. You take a boat from Dumbarton, likely, you could ask the harper’s sister. Eat your porridge, Gilbert. You think you need to go to Rothesay?’
‘We are not doing well on the direct trail. Davie’s elusive lass is the only witness, and the tracks are confused.’ Gil stared out of the window at the house over the way, where nobody appeared to be stirring. ‘But before I can answer the question of cui bono with certainty I need to talk to the man who drew up the dispositions.’
‘That would be Alexander Stewart. He was in Inveraray but I heard recently he has now settled in Rothesay, which is certainly easier to get to. I can give you a letter for him. I will give you a docket for the Treasurer here as well. St Mungo’s should pay for the journey.’
‘And I am curious about Bess’s first husband,’ Gil
said. ‘He was a Bute man, so I suppose their marriage would have taken place in Rothesay.’
‘Likely so. I would have heard, otherwise. When will you go? Not today, surely. It is Friday.’
‘So it is!’ said Gil, dismayed. With the holiday on Tuesday, my reckoning’s out. How long does the journey take?’
‘Four or five hours to Dumbarton by horse, I should think. Another five with a good wind after that, or several days’ waiting if the wind is wrong.’
‘Better if we leave in the morning, then, rather than this afternoon. Maister Mason goes too, I will need to speak to him.’
‘And what’s for today?’ said the Official, scraping his bowl. ‘This other lass that’s dead?’
‘I must be careful,’ said Gil, ‘not to offend the serjeant. But, yes, if he won’t ask questions, I must.’
As Gil reached the Wyndhead, Maistre Pierre in his working clothes emerged from the High Street, followed by his men.
‘Good morning, maister lawyer! I have thought, no one will put to sea on a Friday, so we will get a day’s work done and travel tomorrow. I cannot pay these sloungers to play at football any longer.’
‘Then I will go and get a word with the harper,’ said Gil, nodding to the grinning men. ‘Will you stay at St Mungo’s all morning?’
‘Indeed not. Once Wattie knows what is doing he will work better without the maister breathing down his neck. I meet you at Blackfriars? After Terce?’
Gil agreed to this, and the mason marched purposefully off along the flank of the Bishop’s castle, heading for the gate into St Mungo’s yard. Gil turned and made his way down the hill, past the houses of the Chanonry, past thatched cottages and the ale-house from which Ealasaidh had been thrown out. The street became busier as he descended, with people going out for work, taking down the shutters on the burgh’s scattered shops, beginning the day’s round of housework.
At the mouth of the wynd that gave on to Blackfriars kirkyard he paused. He ought, he felt, to go and inspect the scene of Bridle’s death as soon as he might. Then again, it had probably been well trampled when she was found. He stood for a moment, considering, then shrugged and turned to walk on, and a voice called across the street, ‘Maister Cunningham! A word with you, maister!’
The odd-eyed lutenist, Balthasar of Liege, crossed to him, avoiding a gathering of kerchiefed women who to judge by their gestures were discussing the death of Bridie Miller.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said as he reached Gil, and made a flourishing bow in the French manner. Gil, amused, responded in the same style, and the huddled women stared at them both.
‘Shall we walk on?’ suggested the lutenist.
‘I am bound for the Fishergait,’ Gil said, falling into step beside him.
‘To call on Angus and his sister?’ Gil nodded. ‘You’ll be a bit early. I went round there after things broke up yesterday, and we made rather a night of it. Harry was there - you saw him at the funeral maybe - and a couple more singers that knew Bess. The neighbours were not very pleased with us.’ Quick gestures suggested a displeased neighbour at a window. ‘We sank a lot of eau-de-vie between us, and the Mclans had the lion’s share. They’ll neither of them be fit to talk before Nones, I would estimate.’
‘Thank you for the advice.’
‘That wasn’t why I stopped you.’ Balthasar halted, to look Gil earnestly in the face. ‘Something came back to me I thought you might find important.’
‘Oh?’ said Gil encouragingly.
‘And when I heard of this new killing down in the town it seemed even more important.’
‘Go on,’ said Gil, well used to the kind of detail which witnesses thought important.
‘You mind I said I’d met Bess on the way up the High Street on May Day evening? Well, when I saw her, I’d just come out of an ale-house, and across the street there’s a vennel, and in the vennel there’s a couple playing Maygames, if you follow me. His hand down her neck, and so on, and a lot of giggling. I was just thinking the fellow was well dressed to be tousling a servant-lass in an alley when I heard Bess coming up the hill, talking away in Ersche.’
‘Yes?’ said Gil.
‘Well, the fine fellow opposite heard her too, and he reacted. Grabs his lass by the hand, looking alarmed, and tiptoes away along the alley with his back to the street. He didn’t want Bess Stewart to see him.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to see him,’ Gil suggested.
‘There were others abroad who didn’t worry him. He’d thrown me a wink already. The point is, I saw him at the burial.’
‘Ah. Who?’
. ‘One of the two who came in with the husband. Not the cousin, the other one. The very decorative one.’ He struck a brief pose, quite unmistakable.
‘James Campbell of Glenstriven,’ said Gil, grinning.
‘Aye, that would be the name. I knew him when I saw him, but it took till this morning to fit it together and think, That’s odd.’
‘Was he avoiding Bess, or the gallowglass with her, do you think?’
‘Ah …’ The musician paused, casting his mind back. ‘No way to be. sure, of course, but I think it was Bess’s voice he heard first, that caused him to hide. I take your point, maister. But now here’s another girl dead, and the word is that she knew too much about Bess’s death. I just wondered if this fellow with the bad conscience was connected . in some way.’
‘It is certainly possible,’ Gil said cautiously. ‘Thank you. This may prove to be valuable.’
‘Glad to be of use to somebody,’ said Balthasar offhandedly. ‘If you’ll forgive me, I have to go and see about some lute-strings. I’m due in Kilmarnock tomorrow.’ He performed another grand flourish, to which Gil replied, and strode jauntily off in the direction of the Tolbooth.
Well! thought Gil, staring after him. That rearranges matters slightly. He turned and walked slowly up the hill, deep in thought. James Campbell had come into St Mungo’s late, just ahead of the gallowglass who reported Bess’s arrival. He had certainly been in the market yesterday morning, talking to a girl with a basket. (A basket of what?) He carried a narrow Italian dagger.
‘But what reason?’ he said aloud. ‘Why should he -?’
His own voice startled him. Looking about him, he was astonished to find himself in the courtyard of the mason’s house. As he took this in, the house door opened, and Alys appeared, smiling broadly.
‘Maister Cunningham! My father is gone out, but there is good news. Come in, come in and hear it.’
‘What news is that?’
She stood aside for him to enter.
‘Davie has wakened. Just a short while ago. He is weak, and he can remember nothing - but he is awake and in his right mind.’
‘Christ and his saints be thanked!’
‘But yes, I was just going to do that when I saw you in the yard. Kittock is feeding him. I am sorry - I know it can’t help you, since he doesn’t remember - but I can’t stop smiling.’
‘You are so fond of the boy?’
‘He is a good laddie,’ she agreed, ‘and we are all fond of him. Come and sit down, and Catherine shall bring you bread and ale while I see if he is still awake and able to speak to you.’
‘I have only just broken my fast,’ Gil pointed out.
The smile became apologetic. ‘Catherine will insist. Sit here, Maister Cunningham. I won’t be long.’
He went over to the window, rather than sit in her father’s great chair, wondering at himself. If she had not opened the door, what would he have done? It could have been very embarrassing. Bad enough hanging about on street corners like any servant laddie, hoping for a glimpse of … Even if it paid off and you got a word with the lass, it was certainly something Uncle David would call undignified.
‘Eh, bonjour, maistre le notaire,’ said a gruff voice at his elbow. He turned to find the small woman in black studying him. Seen close up, her liver-spotted hands and wrinkled nutcracker face reminded him of nothing so much as a mummified
saint he had seen once in a small church north of Paris. Behind her a servant-girl carried a tray with a jug and two little glasses. ‘You are admiring our garden, no?’
‘I am indeed,’ he said, seizing gratefully on this topic. ‘Who works it? Is it the demoiselle?’
‘She orders it. It is not so good as the one we had in Paris, but it is pleasant to look at.’ She sat down, straightbacked, and waved him to another stool. ‘You will take our elderflower wine, maistre? This is also Alys’s work. She can bake and brew with the best.’
The wine was light and delicate in flavour. Gil drank her health, and took a marchpane sucket from the tray when it was offered, saying, ‘Had you a large garden in Paris?’
‘Sufficiently large.’ She sipped elderflower wine. ‘And you, maistre? Does your family own land for a garden?’
‘My uncle has a very agreeable garden in Rottenrow,’ he answered.
‘And your parents? But perhaps they are no longer alive.’
‘My mother lives. She has a charming garden to stroll in, and a good kail-yard.’
She lifted her little glass of wine again, turning it gracefully by the foot in her twisted fingers.
‘You visit her, one hopes? She is not far from Glasgow?’
‘Of course. Her home is near Lanark, not thirty miles away,’ he supplied, recognizing the style and purpose of the questions. She must be more governess than nurse, if she took it upon herself to inspect her charge’s acquaintance like this. Her hair, which appeared to be still black, was dragged back into a cap like a flowerpot and covered by a fine black linen veil through which the embroidery showed; her neck and bosom were concealed by a snowy linen chin-cloth. The style was old-fashioned; he remembered his grandmother in something similar. It was certainly not that of a peasant or even, he reflected, a woman of the tradespeople. Her French, despite her want of teeth, was clear, elegant, but not that of Paris.
‘One hopes she does not lack,’ she was saying now. ‘The lot of a widow is not easy.’
‘Bishop Muirhead was her cousin, and her remaining kin will not see her reduced to begging.’ It felt like the bidding round in a game of Tarocco.
