by Pat McIntosh
‘Mind her, Erchie! She’s got a knife!’
‘And where’s my two groats? Where are they? Eh?’
‘Alys?’ Gil said sharply into the turmoil.
‘No to mention you’ve run her aground!’
‘Gerrit!’ Nicol’s voice. ‘Par là! Attrape-elle!’
Gerrit lurched past him over the side of the boat, splashed into the night, surely not walking on the – it must be a sandbank, Gil surmised, drawing his dagger, and followed, ducked past a whirling cudgel and plunged after the big Dutchman. There was certainly someone out there, hurrying through the shallows towards the lights of the town. Gerrit, more used than he to moving through the tide, was gaining on him and on the running figure, then with a flurry of splashes the big man pounced.
‘Waar komms du, ma fille?’ he said. ‘Votr’ mari ist hier.’
‘Alys!’ said Gil again.
‘Gil!’ Her voice was tight with fear. ‘Oh, Gil!’
By the time they got back aboard the Nikolaas in the greying dawn, one thing was clear to Gil: if and when he got his wife to bed, she was unlikely to turn her back on him as she had done the last few nights. She clung to him as they waded back towards the boats, her teeth chattering with delayed shock; she seemed almost dazed with relief, and when he bent to kiss her she shivered and pressed her body against his as if to assure herself he was really there.
‘I thought I might not see you again,’ she said.
‘So did I.’ As they moved her wet skirts dragged through the water, which was surely deeper. ‘Is that another gown ruined?’
‘And the shoes.’
‘Komm, p’tits pigeons,’ called Gerrit ahead of them. ‘Later for that. Mine schout drifts, wir mussen –’ He abandoned the attempt to explain further and shouted abuse at his men in Low Dutch. Two of them splashed after the escaping boat. In the lantern-light Nicol Renfrew and his wife, a number of Dumbarton shoremen, the remainder of the mariners from the Sankt Nikolaas, were shouting at one another. Two Dumbarton men held Nicol by the elbows, his nose dripping darkly, Stockfish Tam confronting him from a handspan away with repeated demands for his two groats and the money to make good any damage from the grounding. Grace, also in the clutch of a couple of boatmen, was dishevelled and half-weeping, but when she caught sight of Alys she seemed to relax slightly.
‘What here?’ demanded Gerrit over the noise. ‘What passes?’
Stockfish Tam turned and reiterated his claim. Gerrit heard him, looked at the heap of baggage, kicked Cuth-bert’s planks where the boat lay on the sand, and nodded.
‘Two groat,’ he said to Nicol.
‘I’d ha given him his money long since,’ said Nicol, ‘only that these fellows willny let go my arms.’
‘And the baggage into mine schout,’ continued the big Dutchman, ‘before water deepens. Hoy there – Martin, Tonius, bring here the schout! Klaas, Custumar Renton t’attend.’
‘The custumar? I suppose I’ve you to thank for that, maister lawyer,’ said Nicol sourly. He handed some coins to Stockfish Tam, who inspected them in the lantern-light, abruptly ceased his complaints and stood aside for the Sankt Nikolaas men to transfer the boxes and bundles to their own boat. Thus lightened, Cuthbert was easily pushed off the sand into the deepening channel. The tide must have turned some time since, Gil understood, as water swirled round his calves.
‘You!’ Gerrit grasped the arm of one of the shoremen, and indicated Gil and Alys. ‘You take these two Sankt Nikolaas, ja? Is goed.’ He gestured to the men who still held Nicol. ‘And you, leave Klaas and vrouw in mine schout. We see to all now.’
Sitting in the bow of yet another small boat, Alys clamped to his side, Gil contrived not to tell the boatman what was going on, while he thanked him for turning out at low tide.
‘Aye, well,’ said the man, hauling on the oars in a leisurely way. ‘Tam’s no a bad sort, even if he is fro Glasgow. We’d no go out all on the mud for just anyone, ye ken.’
‘Mud?’ said Gil. ‘I thought it was sand.’
‘Sand where Cuthbert ran aground,’ agreed the boatman. ‘Sand halfway to shore fro that. But it’s mud a’most all else. Swallow you to the knees, it will, and hold you till you drown on the next tide.’
Alys drew a horrified breath and tightened her grip of his free hand. Gil registered the risks they had taken, then put the information resolutely aside as the little boat bumped against Sankt Nikolaas’s round flank, and concentrated instead on helping his wife on to the rope ladder, holding it taut and steady for her to climb. She reached the top, and he heard her speak gratefully to someone helping her over the side; as he began to ascend he heard feet rush on the deck, a flurry of movement, a cry from Alys and another from Luke.
‘Mistress! What –?’
‘Nicol!’ That was Syme. Gil scrambled up as fast as he might, the ladder swinging across the planks, and reached the top as Nicol Renfrew giggled and said:
‘Now, ye’ll all just stand back, away from me and where I can see you. And if that’s you, Gil Cunningham, you’ll come no nearer than the rail, or your wee wife finds out how sharp my dagger is.’
The grey light on one side, the lantern-light on the other, showed him a chilling scene. Gerrit, his mate, his mariners stood by the far rail; Syme and the custumars had apparently just emerged from the cabin, and Grace stood in the midst of the waist. All were staring at a point by the mainmast, where Nicol Renfrew held Alys in a close embrace, her black linen hood crooked, the dawn striking pale on the blade of his dagger against her throat.
‘Nicol!’ said Grace. ‘What good does this do? We’re on board now, we sail in an hour or two, why are you –’
‘He’s here to stop us,’ Nicol said. ‘He’s here to take one of us for poisoning Frankie. Is that no right, Maister Cunningham?’
‘Poison?’ repeated the custumar. ‘Is there poison in your baggage, maister? Is that what you’re exporting?’
‘No, my loon, he canny do that,’ said Grace, ‘for Frankie took a heart attack, that’s certain.’
‘Is it?’ said Nicol mockingly. ‘And who caused that?’
‘Not me, Nicol,’ she said, a desperate note in her voice, ‘and not you, surely?’
‘What passes here?’ demanded Gerrit. ‘Klaas, was maks u?’
Alys stared at Gil in the growing light, and swallowed hard.
‘Your father had drops for his heart already,’ she said carefully to Nicol without turning her head. ‘You knew he had them.’
Gil unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth and said, in a voice he scarcely recognized, ‘Nicol, did you poison your father?’
‘I never gave him anything he’d not prescribed himself,’ Nicol said.
‘That’s not what I asked you,’ Gil said. ‘Mistress Grace, did you poison Frankie Renfrew?’
‘I did not,’ she said. ‘I swear by my hope of salvation, I did not.’
There was a pause. Nicol turned to look at his wife. Gil tensed to jump forward, but Alys made a small movement of her hand. Stay back.
‘Grace? Is that true?’
‘I’ve just sworn it, my loon,’ she said.
Nicol’s gaze swung back to Gil. ‘D’you believe her?’
‘Do you?’
‘A course I do. No, wee lass, you’ll not trick me like that,’ he added to Alys, adjusting his grip on her arm. Over by the other rail the mate had begun stealthily moving backwards away from the group. ‘Gerrit, tell Hans I can see him. I’ve still got a blade to this bonnie wee wifie’s throat, and I’ll use it if he gets too close. A course I believe Grace,’ he continued, as if he had not interrupted himself, ‘I ken fine when to believe her.’
‘And I you, Nicol,’ said Grace. ‘Give him his answer. You didny poison Frankie either.’
Nicol looked at Gil again, smiling happily. ‘Then we needny ha come away like this,’ he said.
‘This is all nonsense,’ said Maister Renton suddenly. ‘What’s the trouble, anyway? I’ve still to prove these pac
kages and write you out a docket for whatever port you’re headed for, and I’ve more to do the day than stand here fasting, waiting for you to tell us why you’re –’
‘Get on and prove them, then,’ said Nicol. He drew Alys to one side, and nodded at the heap of boxes. ‘There you are, and plenty folk to help you. Grace, you have the keys, haven’t you no?’
‘But what is it about?’ Gil demanded. ‘You’ve never said, man. Why are you threatening my wife? Why did you steal her away down the river in the first place? She’s no wish to go wi you, and you’ve a wife of your own.’
‘She’s too clever,’ said Nicol. The hand holding the dagger shook a little, and a bead of something dark sprang on Alys’s neck. ‘Too clever by half. She’d worked it all out, afore ever we left Glasgow, and told it all to Grace, the bits Grace didny tell her, all the way down the Clyde.’ At the words Grace looked over her shoulder from where she bent to the stack of boxes. She and Alys exchanged a long look, but Nicol went on, ‘Frankie Renfrew brought about his own death, and I believe that, but I’m none so sure you do, Gil Cunningham.’
‘You believe your wife,’ said Gil. ‘I’ll believe mine, Nicol, if you’ll let her speak. Alys?’
The knife eased away from her white skin, and the dark bead trickled down towards the band of her shift. She met Gil’s eye and said shakily, ‘Grace is guilty only of making something someone else used. She has told me all. And we never did think Nicol guilty of – guilty of –’
‘You see?’ said Syme from the cabin doorway. ‘Nicol, man, this is madness. Let Mistress Mason go and we can all get home to –’
There was a bloodcurdling yell, and Grace and the custumar both cried out as something large hurtled out of the dull sky and swung down on Nicol. He went headlong, dragging Alys with him, but before they reached the planks Gil was there, flinging himself on top of him, kneeling on his wrist, snatching at the knife.
They struggled briefly, then Nicol seemed to give up. Gil dragged the other man to his feet, gave him into the grasp of two sturdy mariners, and looked about him. Syme was just helping Alys to rise, and beyond her, the large object which had appeared so timeously was –
Was Luke, surrounded by coils of rope, also picking himself up and blowing on his palms.
Two steps took Gil to Alys, to clamp her against his side, feeling he could never let go of her again. ‘Well done,’ he said to the boy. ‘Very well done, Luke. What did you do, anyway?’
‘He has climbed the mast, all in the dark,’ Gerrit said admiringly. ‘We make you a mariner, ja?’
‘I sclimmed up all their scaffolding,’ said Luke. ‘Then there was a block I saw I could ride down on and get his attention, so I just did. I couldny call out to you first, maister,’ he said earnestly, ‘for he’d ha heard me and all.’
‘Maister Mason will hear of this,’ Gil said, and clapped the boy on the shoulder with his free hand. ‘And I thought you were afraid of boats.’
‘Oh, aye, boats,’ agreed Luke, ‘but scaffolding is just scaffolding.’
‘Let me understand,’ said Maistre Pierre.
It was next day, after dinner, and he had joined them on the settle by the fire, one arm around Alys, his hand gripping Gil’s shoulder, as if he could not yet believe they were both safe unless he was touching them. The dog, still slightly offended that they had gone out without him, was sprawled on the hearth. Opposite them, Catherine sat with her beads, bright dark eyes watching them all under her black linen veil.
They had given the household an explanation of sorts when they reached Glasgow the evening before, weary and damp despite the hospitality of Renton and his wife, who had provided food, rest, a fire to dry their clothes. Not that Gil and Alys had rested much, either then or when they fell into their own bed; matters between them were certainly mended, though Gil did not entirely understand why or how.
‘This whole case has been all back to front,’ he said after a moment.
‘How so?’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘Well – Gibson died, poor fellow, and set us asking questions. We asked so many that by this third death, which I think was the one intended all along, we already had most of the answers. Not that it helped much. And yet what happened to Gibson was an accident.’
‘Intended?’ repeated Maistre Pierre. ‘This woman concocted a deadly poison which killed two people without her intention –’
‘So she swore to me,’ said Alys. ‘I do believe her.’
‘You think it was intended to kill the third? But you said she also swore she had not killed her good-father. So what was her intention? Simply to see how the poison was made?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Alys, as she had already said to Gil. He was certain the turn of phrase was carefully chosen. ‘But she did not use it. Nor did Nicol.’
‘I suppose each was protecting the other,’ remarked Catherine, ‘which is very commendable in a married couple.’
‘Why did she change her mind?’ demanded Maistre Pierre.
‘She said it was a heart attack,’ said Alys, and shivered. ‘She – she witnessed it. I think she is guilty of that at least.’
‘What, of causing a heart attack?’ Gil turned his head to look at her, startled by the idea.
‘No. Of watching it and doing nothing to help. His drops might have – might have –’
‘Might have made things worse,’ said Gil.
‘You are talking in riddles,’ complained Maistre Pierre, but Catherine was nodding, and Alys was staring at him, her eyes wide.
‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ she breathed. ‘Of course! And he never – he never –’
‘He never swore he did not kill his father,’ Gil agreed. ‘Though he first told me it was none of his doing, the morning of the quest.’
‘And we let him go,’ she said.
‘Still riddles!’
‘I suspect Nicol has been tampering with his father’s drops,’ said Gil. ‘It’s only a guess,’ he admitted, ‘but it would fit. They didn’t seem to be helping him much lately. I asked Adam about it this morning. There are things one could add to the mix, obviously, but even putting in too much of something that’s already in the compound could be effective, and he hinted as much, you recall, Alys.’
‘And we let him go,’ she said again.
‘It would be impossible to prove, even if I could persuade the Provost that it hadn’t been a simple heart attack.’
‘If his wife suspected it,’ Maistre Pierre was considering the idea, ‘it would explain why she was so quick to clear Frankie’s chamber and wash him.’
Alys shivered again. What was troubling her? Gil wondered. Was she simply tired?
‘It was her idea to come to Glasgow, she told me,’ she said. ‘How she must regret it.’
‘You think justice has not been served?’ said Maistre Pierre, watching Gil’s expression.
‘Justice has not been served,’ he agreed.
‘No, surely,’ said Alys, ‘it is the law which has not been served. Justice has been done, I think.’
‘I think you correct, ma mie,’ said Catherine. ‘The poor lady. She has much to regret.’
‘No, that sounds too philosophical for my taste,’ said her father. He gripped Gil’s shoulder tightly, released it, and got to his feet. ‘I must get to work. I have accounts to see to for the quarter day. Not to mention some reward to consider for Luke, since I can hardly offer him my daughter’s hand. I leave you to your philosophy.’
Author’s note
Ever since it became a kingdom, Scotland has had two native languages, Gaelic (which in the fifteenth century was called Ersche) and Scots, both of which you will find used in the Gil Cunningham books. I have translated the Gaelic where needful, and those who have trouble with the Scots could consult the online Dictionary of the Scots Language, to be found at http://www.dsl.ac.uk/dsl/
Also by Pat McIntosh
The Harper’s Quine
The Nicholas Feast
The Merchant’s Mark
&
nbsp; St Mungo’s Robin
The Rough Collier
The Stolen Voice
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
Copyright © Pat McIntosh, 2010
The right of Pat McIntosh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN : 978–1–84901–865–4
